CHAPTER IX
HE WHOM THE CAP FITS--
Several minutes had elapsed between the two unexpected visits. Duringthose minutes a somewhat acrimonious discussion broke out in thedining-room. Bates went to reassure his wife, and Hart sauntered backfrom the kitchen. He was received by Furneaux and Grant more in sorrowthan in anger, a pose on their part which he blandly disregarded. Hehelped himself to the remains of the decanter of port.
"The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, bysuch evidence as is available, who Owd Ben is, or was," he said. "Ipresume, since he had attained local celebrity as a ghost, he has passedover, as the spiritists say."
"Sit down!" cried Furneaux savagely.
Hart sat down, and began filling that portentous pipe.
"You fellows merely ran into each other outside, I take it," he said,apparently by way of a chatty remark. "The crack of the pistol-shot andthe supposed resurrection of Owd Ben threw Mrs. Bates temporarily off herbalance, so I helped in reviving her. Between such a cook and such aghost, who would hesitate?"
When Furneaux was really irritated, he swore in French.
_"Nom d'un bon petit homme gris!"_ he almost squealed, "why did you whipout that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, everything! Have youno sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is big enough tohold brains, not soap-bubbles."
"Did your French father marry a Jap?" inquired Hart, with suddeninterest.
"And now you're insulting my mother," yelped the detective.
"Not I. You know nothing about the finest race of little women in theworld, or you would not even imagine such rubbish."
"But why, why, didn't you tell me that you saw someone outside?"
"You wouldn't have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had toshoot quick."
"Why shoot at all?"
"Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. Whatself-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?"
"This was no ghost. You shot the man's hat off."
"Then what the blazes are you growling at? Had I, in blood-curdlingwhisper, told you that once again there was a face at the window, youwould have scoffed at me. The ill-looking scamp caught my eye after hisfirst glance at Grant. He was mizzling when I fired. You would have satthere and argued about hypnosis, with our worthy author's skilledsupport. And there would have been no hat! I do an admirable bit of trickshooting, yet I am only reviled for my dexterity. Really, CharlesFrancois!"
"Ah! You remember, at last," and the detective smiled sourly.
"_Parfaitement_! as they say in Paris, where you and I met once, though'twas in a crowd. But _I_ didn't steal the blessed pearl. I believe itwas that blatant patriot, Domengo Suarez."
"You've got _some_ brains, then. Why not use them? Don't you see what afix we three would have found ourselves in had you shot the man?"
"But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would findme guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have nodoubt but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted hisrepresentative. He'd be bound to confess it."
Furneaux was cooling down.
"You've shaken my confidence," he said. "Unless I have your promise thatyou will never do such a thing again while in my company, I shall ban youfrom this inquiry with bell, book, and candle."
"Very well. It's a bargain. Now let us ponder Exhibit A."
He stretched a long arm over the table, and took the hat.
"Put it on!" commanded the detective.
Hart did so, and scowled frightfully. Furneaux bent forward and squinted.
"Notice the line of those bullet-holes," he said to Grant.
"Any man wearing that hat must have had his scalp ploughed up," saidGrant instantly.
"Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?"
"It was perched on top of a wig," drawled Hart.
Furneaux was slightly disappointed--there was no denying it. Being a vainlittle person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as this.
"Yes," he admitted, "and what's the corollary?"
"That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, adaring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristicsof Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of thathairy goblin."
"Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?" said the detective testily.
"Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description."
"Her husband can tell us the story," put in Grant. "I'll fetch him."
He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time.
"Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect," said Hart.
"If it's that Robinson--" growled Furneaux vexedly, hastening toforestall Minnie.
But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered theroom, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a verynatural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a strangerfixed on her.
"I don't quite know why I'm here," she said, with a nervous laugh,addressing Grant directly. "You will think I am always gazing in thedirection of The Hollies, but my room commands this house so fully that Icannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes ago I heardwhat I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw your windowthrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle was showing inthe smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire what had happened.You'll pardon me, I'm sure."
"Say you don't, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for you,"pleaded Hart.
"Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart," smiled Grant. "Won't you sitdown? We have an exciting story for you."
"Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out."
Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that sheshould take the proffered chair.
"Sorry to interrupt," broke in Furneaux. "Did you meet P.C. Robinson!"
"No."
"You came by way of the bridge?"
"There is no other way, unless one makes a detour by Bush Walk."
The detective whirled round on Grant.
"What room is over this one?"
"Minnie's."
"She's in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn't comeupstairs while I'm absent. You three keep on talking."
"Thanks," said Hart.
Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly.
"Mr. Grant has often spoken of you," she said. "You talk, andwe'll listen."
"Not so, divinity," came the retort. "I may be a parrot, but I don't wantmy neck wrung when you've gone."
"Don't encourage him, Doris," said Grant, "or you'll be here tillmidnight."
"If that's the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to me,"laughed Hart.
Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. Thecasement window was open--he had noted that fact while in the garden. Hepeeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indianon the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peercautiously through the small window. The detective's blood ran cold. Whatif Hart discovered yet another ghost?
"Robinson--go home!" he said, in sepulchral tones.
The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror.He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben.
"Go home!" hissed Furneaux, leaning out.
Then the other looked up.
"Oh, it's you, sir!" he gasped, sighing with relief.
"Man, you've had the closest shave of your life! There's a fellow belowthere who shoots at sight."
"But I'm on duty, sir."
"You'll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!"
"I--"
"Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don't do as I bid you. And thatwould be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has aparticularly smart man in Steynholme."
"Very well, sir, if _you're_ satisfied, I _must_ be."
And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear ofthe supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced.
Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into areal good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazingspell-bound at the felt hat.
"Now, young lady, you're coming with me," he said, grinning amiably. "TheSussex constabulary is quelled for the hour."
"But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!" said Doris, and it was notablethat even Hart remained silent.
The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question.
"I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society," wenton the girl. "It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played aburlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold fromwalking about without shoes or stockings."
"Don't tell me any more," was Furneaux's surprising comment. "I'll do therest. But let me remark, Miss Martin, that I experienced greatdifficulty, not so long ago, in persuading friend Grant that you were theonly important witness this case has provided thus far. Playing in aburlesque, were you? We've been similarly engaged to-night. The farcemust stop now. It makes way for grim tragedy. Not one word of to-night'sevents to anyone, please.... Are you ready?"
Doris stood up. Hart thrust the negro's head at the detective.
"Fouche," he said, "do you honestly mean slinging your hook withoutmaking any inquiry as to Owd Ben?"
"Oh, the ghost!" said Doris eagerly. "The Bateses would think of him, ofcourse. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house aboutthe time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be an agentof the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter quarreled withhim and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing to his age, Ibelieve, and was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. At last he wasreleased, being then a very old man, and he came straight here andstrangled his daughter. It is quite a terrible story. He was found deadby her side. Then people remembered that she had spoken of someonescaring her by looking in through that small window some nightspreviously. Naturally, a ghost was soon manufactured. I really wonder whythe man who rebuilt and renamed the place in the middle of last centurydidn't have the window removed altogether."
"Glad I began the work of demolition tonight," said Hart, and, for once,his tone was serious.
"Why did you never tell me that scrap of history, Doris?" inquired Grant.
"You liked the place so much that father and I agreed not to mar yourenthusiasm by recalling an unpleasant legend," she said frankly. "Notthat what I've related isn't true. The record appears in a SussexMiscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven o'clock!"
The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the writtennotes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, forsome reason, was aware that the detective repressed an obvious referenceto the last occasion on which the girl had heard that same clockannounce the hour.
Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off immediately.
When they were gone, Hart stared fixedly at an empty decanter.
"My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of manyvirtues and few vices," he mused aloud.
Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his cronyporing over the book which, singularly enough, figured prominently oneach occasion when the specter-producing window was markedly inevidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded cheerfully at adust-laden bottle.
"What is there in 'The Talisman' which needed so much research?" heasked.
"Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott," was the answer.
"Are these they?" And Hart read:
One thing is certain in our Northern land;Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,Give each precedence to their possessor,Envy, that follows on such eminence,As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck's trace,Shall pull them down each one.
"Yes," said Grant.
"Love isn't mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You're in luck, myboy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Geewhizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. Whatis a lyme-hound?"
"'Lyme,' or 'leam,' is the old-time word for 'leash.'"
"Good!" said Hart. "That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinnerevery day, Jack. He's a tonic!"
Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany Doristo the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the broadvillage street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he tappedher on the shoulder and said pleasantly:
"Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don't worry. The tanglewill right itself in time."
"Poor Mr. Grant is suffering," she ventured to murmur.
"And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I'll wait heretill you are behind a locked door."
"No one in Steynholme will hurt me," she said.
"You never can tell. I'm not taking any chances to-night, however."
So Doris sped swiftly up the hill. Arrived at her house, she waved a handto the detective, who flourished his straw hat in response. A fine Junenight in England is never really dark, so the two could not only see eachother but, when Doris disappeared, Furneaux, turning sharply on his heel,was able to make out the sudden straightening of a pucker in the blind ofa ground-floor room in P.C. Robinson's abode.
The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window.Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
"As if you didn't know," laughed Furneaux.
Robinson turned a key, and looked out.
"Oh, it's you, sir?" he cried.
"You'll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme," said thedetective. "May I come in? No, don't show a light here. Let's chat in theback kitchen."
"I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir," began Robinsonapologetically. "It's laid in the kitchen. On'y bread and cheese an' aglass of beer. Will you join me?"
"With pleasure, if I hadn't stuffed myself at Grant's place. Nice fellow,Grant. Pity you and he don't seem to get on together. Of course, wepolicemen cannot allow friendship to interfere with duty, but, betweenyou and me, Robinson--strictly in confidence--Grant had no more to dowith the actual murder of Miss Melhuish than either of us two."
Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in hisown easy-chair.
"The 'actual murder,' you said, sir?" he repeated.
"Yes. It was his presence at The Hollies which brought an infatuatedwoman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant istelling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to breakbread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I'll change my mind, andtake a snack of your bread and cheese."
The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the impliedtribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that hissomewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective'slittle finger.
"Right you are, sir," he cried cheerily. "But, if Mr. Grant didn't killMiss Melhuish, who did!"
"In all probability, the man who wore that hat," chirped Furneaux, takinga nondescript bundle from a coat pocket, and throwing it on the table.
Robinson started. This June night was full of weird surprises. Heset down a jug of beer with a bang--his intent being to fill twoglasses already in position, from which circumstance even the leastobservant visitor might deduce a Mrs. Robinson, _en neglige_,hastily flown upstairs.
He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb.
"By gum!" he muttered. "Are these bullet-holes?"
"They are."
"An' is this what someone fired at?"
"Yes."
"But how in thunder--"
He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had beenwatching the only recognized road to Grant's house all the evening.
"Quite so
!" chortled Furneaux, with admirable misunderstanding. "You'requick on the trigger, Robinson--almost as quick as that friend of Grant'swho arrived by the 5.30 from London. You perceive at once that noordinary head could have worn that hat without having its hair combed bythe same bullet. It was stuck on to a thick wig. Now, tell me the man, orwoman, in Steynholme, who wears a wig and a hat like that, and you and Iwill guess who killed Miss Melhuish."
Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg wasbeing pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printedpage. Chewing, much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese, hemumbled in solemn, broken tones:
"Think--Robinson. Don't--answer--offhand. Has--anybody--ever worn--suchthings--in a play?"
Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were.
"By gum!" he cried again. "Fred Elkin--in a charity performancelast winter."
Furneaux choked with excitement.
"A horsey-looking chap, on to-day's jury," he gurgled.
"That's him!"
"The scoundrel!"
"No wonder he looked ill."
"No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes illdeeds done!"
"But, sir--"
Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur "Fred Elkin!" in adazed way.
"Have a drink," said Furneaux sympathetically. "I'll wet my whistle,too. Only half a glass, please. Now, we mustn't jump to conclusions.This Elkin looks a villain, but may not be one. That is to say, hisvillainy may be confined to dealings in nags. But you see, Robinson,what a queer turn this affair is taking. We must get rid of preconceivednotions. Superintendent Fowler and you and I will go into this matterthoroughly to-morrow. Meanwhile, breathe not a syllable to a livingsoul. If I were you, I'd let Mr. Grant understand that we regard him asrather outside the scope of our inquiry. This beer is very good for acountry village. You know a good thing when you see it, I expect. Pity Idon't smoke, or I'd join you in a pipe. I must get a move on, now, orthat fat landlord will be locking me out. Good night! Yes. I'll takethe hat. _Good_ night!"
While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat.
"One small bit of my brain is evidently a hereditary bequest from agood-natured ass!" he communed. "Here am I, Furneaux, plagued beyondendurance by a first-class murder case, and I must go and busy myselfwith the love affair of a postmaster's daughter and a feather-headednovelist!"
When Tomlin admitted him to the Hare and Hounds, he buttonholed thelandlord, who, at that hour, was usually somewhat obfuscated.
"Sir," said the detective gravely, "I am told that you Steynholme folkindulge occasionally in such frivolities as amateur theatricals?"
"Once in a way, sir. Once in a way. Afore I lock up the bar, will you--"
"Not to-night. I've mixed port and beer already, and I'm only a littlefellow. Now you, Mr. Tomlin, can mix anything, I fancy?"
"I've tried a few combinations in me time, sir."
"But, about these theatrical performances--is there any scenery,costumes, 'props' as actors call them?"
"Yes, sir. They're stored in the loft over the club-room--the room wherethe inquest wur held."
"What, _here_?"
Furneaux's shrill cry scared Mr. Tomlin.
"Y-yes, sir," he stuttered.
"Is that my candle?" said the detective tragically. "I'm tired, deadbeat. To-night, Mr. Tomlin, you are privileged to see the temporary wreckof a noble mind. God wot, 'tis a harrowing spectacle."
Furneaux skipped nimbly upstairs. Tomlin proceeded to lock up.
"It's good for trade," he mumbled, "but I'll be glad when these 'ereLunnon gents clears out. They worry me, they do. Fair gemme a turn, 'edid. A tec', indeed! He's nothin' but a play-hactor hisself!"