The Hand in the Dark
Captain Stanhill. "To lose his wife in such terrible circumstances after
three months' marriage must have been a cruel blow."
"It was the worse in his case because he has always been nervous and
highly strung from childhood--partly, I think, as the result of his
infirmity. He has a deformed foot. His present illness seems to be a
complete overthrow of the nervous system. I have been with him the
greater part of the night. He has been highly delirious, but he is a
little quieter now."
Merrington pricked up his ears at this last remark. After his fruitless
investigations of the morning he was inclined to think that the clue to
the murder lay in the past--it might be in some former folly or secret
intrigue of the young wife's single days. The question was, in that
case, whether the husband was likely to have any knowledge of his wife's
secret. If he had, he might, in his delirium, babble something which
would provide a clue to trace the murderer. It was a poor chance, but
the poorest chance was worth trying in such a baffling case.
"I should like to have a look at your patient," he said to Dr. Holmes.
"It would be impossible to question him in his present state," replied
the doctor stiffly.
"I do not wish to question him. I merely wish to look at him."
"In that case you may see him. He is quite unconscious, and recognizes
nobody. I will take you to his room, if you wish."
The little doctor bustled along the corridor, and turned into a passage
traversing the right wing of the moat-house. About half way down it he
paused before a door, which he opened softly, and motioned to the other
two to enter.
It was a single bedroom, panelled in oak, which was dark with age, with
one small window; but it had the advantage of being as far away as
possible from the upstairs bedroom in the left wing where Phil's wife
lay murdered. A small fire burnt in the grate, a china bowl of autumn
flowers bloomed on a table near the bedside, and a capable looking nurse
was preparing a draught by the window. She glanced at the three men as
they entered, but went on with her occupation.
The sick man lay on his back, breathing heavily. His black hair framed a
face which was ghastly in its whiteness, and his upturned eyes, barely
visible beneath the half-closed lids, seemed fixed and motionless.
"Any change, nurse?" the doctor asked.
"No change, sir."
But even as she spoke Phil's face changed in a manner which was
wonderful in its suddenness. His features became contorted, as though a
sword had been thrust through his vitals, and he struggled upright in
his bed, with one shaking hand outstretched. His eyes, glaring with
delirium, roved restlessly over the faces of the men at the foot of the
bed.
"She's dead, I tell you! Violet's dead.... Have they found him? Ah,
who's that?"
Once again he uttered his young wife's name, and fell back on the
pillow, motionless as before, but with one arm athwart his face, as
though to cover his eyes.
"I shall be glad if you will leave the room," said the little doctor
gravely. "Your presence excites him." He hurried round to the bedside
and bent over his patient.
CHAPTER IX
"Have you formed any theory of the murder yet?"
It was the evening of the same day, and Superintendent Merrington and
Captain Stanhill were once more in the moat-house library. It was
Captain Stanhill who asked the question, as he stood warming his little
legs in front of a crackling fire of oak logs which had just been
lighted in the gloomy depths of the big fireplace. Although it was early
in autumn, the evening air was chill.
Superintendent Merrington was walking up and down the room with rapid
strides, occasionally glancing with some impatience at the clock which
ticked with cheerful indifference on the mantelpiece. He was about to
return to London, but was waiting for the return of Detective Caldew and
Sergeant Lumbe. Caldew had cycled to Chidelham to see the Weynes, and
Lumbe had been sent to investigate a telephoned report of a suspicious
stranger seen at a hamlet called Tibblestone, some miles away.
Merrington's face wore a gloomy and dissatisfied expression. He had
spent the afternoon in a whirlwind of energy in which he had done many
things. He had explored the moat-house from top to bottom, squeezing his
vast bulk into every obscure corner of the rambling old place. He had
rowed round the moat in a small boat, scrutinizing the outside wall for
footmarks. He had mustered the male servants, and superintended an
organized beat of the grounds, the woods, and the neighbouring heights.
He had interviewed the village station-master to ascertain if any
stranger had arrived at Heredith the previous day, and had made similar
inquiries by telephone at the adjoining stations. He had inspected the
horses and vehicles at the village inn to see if they showed marks of
recent usage, and he had peremptorily interrogated everybody he came
across to find out whether any one unknown in the district had been seen
skulking about the neighbourhood.
Merrington lacked the subtle and penetrative brain of a really great
detective, but he possessed energy, initiative, and observation. These
qualities had stood him in good stead before, but in this case they had
brought nothing to light. The mystery and meaning of the terrible murder
of the previous night were no nearer solution than when he had arrived
to take up the case, ten hours before.
The most baffling aspect of the crime to him was the apparent lack of
motive and the absence of any clue. In most murders there are generally
some presumptive clues to guide those called upon to investigate the
crime--such things as finger-prints or footprints, a previous threat or
admission, an overheard conversation, a chance word, or a compromising
letter. Such clues may not prove much in themselves, but they serve as
finger-posts. Even the time, which in some cases of murder offers a
valuable help to solution, in this case tended to shield the murderer.
It seemed as though the murderer had chosen an unusual time and unusual
conditions to shield his identity more thoroughly and make discovery
impossible.
The case was full of sinister possibilities and perplexities. It bore
the stamp of deep premeditation and calculated skill. As the crime was
apparently motiveless, it was certain that the motive was deep and
carefully hidden. The only definite conclusion that Merrington had
reached was that the murderer would have to be sought further afield,
probably in London, where the dead girl had lived all her life. There
seemed not the slightest reason to suspect anybody in the neighbourhood,
as she was a stranger to the district, and knew nobody in it except Mrs.
Weyne, who lived some miles away. It was unfortunate that her husband,
who was the only person able to give any information about her earlier
life, was too ill to be questioned.
On hearing Captain Stanhill's question, Merrington paused abruptly in
his impatient pacing of the carpet, and glanced at him covertly from his
deep-set little eyes. If he had consulted his own feelings he would have
told the Chief Constable that it was not the time to air theories about
the crime. But in his present position it behoved him to walk warily and
not make an enemy of his colleague. If there was to be an outburst of
public indignation because the murderer in this case had not been
immediately discovered and brought to justice, it would be just as well
if the county police shared the burden of responsibility. Merrington
realized that he could best make Captain Stanhill feel his
responsibility by taking him fully into his confidence. He was aware
that he had practically ignored the Chief Constable in the course of the
day's investigations, and it was desirable to remove any feeling that
treatment may have caused. Superintendent Merrington had the greatest
contempt for the county police, but there were times when it was
judicious to dissemble that feeling. The present moment was one of them.
Captain Stanhill, on his part, cherished no animosity against his
companion for his cavalier treatment of him. He realized his own
inexperience in crime detection, and had been quite willing that
Superintendent Merrington should take the lead in the investigations,
which he had assisted to the best of his ability. He thought Merrington
rather an unpleasant type, but he was overawed by his great reputation
as a detective, and impressed by his energy and massive self-confidence.
The Chief Constable had not asserted his own official position, because
he was aware that he was unable to give competent help in such a
baffling case. He was, above all things, anxious that the murderer of
Violet Heredith should be captured and brought to justice as speedily as
possible, and he had no thought of his personal dignity so long as that
end was achieved.
The abstract ideal of human justice is supposed to be based on the
threefold aims of punishment, prevention, and reformation, but the heart
of the average man, when confronted by grevious wrong, is swayed by no
higher impulse than immediate retribution on the wrongdoer. Captain
Stanhill was an average man, and his feelings, harrowed by the spectacle
of the bleeding corpse of the young wife, and the pitiful condition to
which her murder had reduced her young husband, clamoured for
retribution, swift, complete, and implacable, on the being who had
committed this horrible crime. And he hoped that the famous detective
would be able to assure him that his desire was likely to have a speedy
attainment. That was why he asked Merrington whether he had formed any
theory about the crime.
"It would be too much to say that I have formed a theory," replied
Merrington, in response to Captain Stanhill's question. "It is necessary
to have clues for the formation of a theory, and in this case we are
faced with a complete absence of clues."
"Do you not think that the trinket found by Detective Caldew in Mrs.
Heredith's bedroom has some bearing on the murder?" said Captain
Stanhill.
"I attach no importance to it. There were a number of persons in the
bedroom after the murder was committed, and any of them might have
dropped the ornament. Or it may have been lost there days before by a
servant, and escaped notice."
"But it was picked up again during Caldew's absence from the room. Do
you not regard that as suspicious? Detective Caldew, when he was
relating the incident to us this morning, seemed to think that the
trinket belonged to the murderer, who took the risk of returning to the
room to recover it for fear it might form a clue leading to discovery."
"Caldew reads too much into his discovery," replied Merrington, with an
indulgent smile. "Like all young detectives, he is inclined to attach
undue importance to small points. As I told him, I cannot imagine a
murderer taking such a desperate risk as to return to the spot where he
had killed his victim, in order to search for a trinket he had dropped.
Caldew may have concealed the brooch so effectually in the thick folds
of the velvet carpet that he could not find it again when he looked for
it on his return to the room. That explanation strikes me as probable as
his own theory of a mysterious midnight intruder returning to search for
it while he was out of the room. The trinket may have some connection
with the crime, or it may not, but as I have not seen it I prefer to
leave it out of my calculation altogether. This case is going to be
difficult enough to solve without chasing chimeras. But to return to
your question. Although I have not actually formed a theory, my
preliminary investigations of the circumstances have led me to arrive at
certain conclusions and to exclude possibilities I was at first inclined