The Hand in the Dark
moat-house and the great lady of the county since Lady Heredith died.
But when Mr. Philip brought his young wife down from London that was all
changed. The young lady soon let her see that she wasn't going to be
ruled by her, and didn't care for her or her ways. They do say it was a
great trial to Miss Heredith, though she tried not to let anybody know
it."
"Where did you learn this?" Caldew asked abruptly.
"Lord, Tom, how short you pick me up! Milly Saker, who's parlourmaid at
the moat-house, told me in the strictest confidence, because she knew I
wouldn't tell anybody. And I wouldn't tell anybody but you, Tom. She
told me from the very first that she didn't think the two ladies would
get on together. They were so different, Milly said, and she was certain
Miss Heredith didn't think the young lady good enough to marry into the
Heredith family."
"Did she tell you if they had ever quarrelled?"
"I asked her that, and she said no. Miss Heredith is always the lady,
and she wouldn't lower herself by quarrelling with anybody, least of all
with anybody she did not consider as good a lady as herself. But Milly
says she was sorely tried at times. Milly thought it would end up in her
leaving the moat-house and marrying her old sweetheart, Mr. Musard,
who's just returned from his foreign travels. Perhaps you've seen him."
"Yes, I've seen him," said Caldew. "So he is her old sweetheart, is he?"
"So folk used to say," returned Mrs. Lumbe. "I remember there was some
talk of a match between them when I was a girl, but nothing came of it.
It's my opinion that Miss Heredith must have refused him then because of
his wild days, and he took to his travels to cure his broken heart. But
they still think a lot of each other, as is plain for everybody to see,
and go out for walks together arm in arm. So perhaps it will all come
right in the end."
With this comfortable doctrine of life, based on her perusal of female
romances, Mrs. Lumbe got up from her seat to clear the table.
"I trust it will," said her brother, but his remark had nothing to do
with the triumph of true love in the last chapter.
He left the room to get his bicycle to ride to Chidelham.
CHAPTER XI
On his way to Chidelham, Caldew again pondered over the murder, and for
the first time seriously asked himself whether Miss Heredith could have
committed the crime. He had glanced at that possibility before, and had
practically dismissed it on the score of lack of motive, but his
sister's story of the differences between Miss Heredith and her nephew's
wife supplied that deficiency in a startling degree. In reviewing the
whole of the circumstances by the light of the information his sister
had given him, it now seemed to him that Miss Heredith fitted into the
crime in a remarkable way.
The most important fact leading to that inference was that she alone, of
all the inmates of the moat-house the previous night, was out of the
dining-room when the murder was committed. That supposition took no
cognizance of the servants, but Caldew had all along eliminated the
servants in his consideration of the crime. In the next place, it
supplied an explanation for the disappearance of the bar brooch from the
bedroom. In all likelihood the butler had first acquainted his mistress
with his discovery of the unlocked staircase door, and she, realizing
where she had dropped her brooch, had seized upon the opportunity to
request Musard to call the detective downstairs and tell him about the
door. In his absence she returned to the bedroom for the brooch.
This theory seemed plausible enough at first blush, but as Caldew
examined it closely several objections arose in his mind. The hidden
motive of the crime, as innocently laid bare by his sister, was strong,
but was it strong enough to impel a woman like Miss Heredith, with the
rigid principles of her birth, breeding, and caste, and a woman,
moreover, who had spent her life in good works, to commit such an
atrocious murder? Caldew considered this point long and thoughtfully.
With his keener imagination he differed from Merrington by relying to
some extent on external impressions, and he could not shake off his
first impression of Miss Heredith as a woman of exceptionally good type.
He had to admit to himself that her graciousness and dignity were not
the qualities usually associated with a murderer. Religion, hypocrisy,
smugness, plausibility; these were the commonest counterfeit qualities
of criminals; not dignity, worth, and pride.
There was, of course, the possibility that Miss Heredith, grown
imperious with her long unquestioned sway at the moat-house, had
quarrelled with the young wife, and committed the murder in a sudden
gust of passion. The most unlikely murders had been committed under the
sway of impulse. Caldew recalled that Miss Heredith had been the last
person to see the murdered woman alive, and nobody except herself knew
what had occurred at that interview. It might be that the young wife had
said something to her which rankled so deeply that she conceived the
idea of murdering her.
Caldew, on reaching this stage of his reasoning, shook his head
doubtfully. He had to admit to himself that such a theory did not ring
true. If Miss Heredith had been maddened by some insult at the
afternoon's interview, she was far more likely to have killed Mrs.
Heredith immediately than have waited until dinner-time. And, if she had
committed the murder, why had she gone about it in the manner likeliest
to lead to discovery, openly leaving her guests a few minutes before,
and allowing herself to be seen afterwards descending the staircase?
Even the veriest neophyte in crime usually displayed some of the caution
of self-preservation.
But Caldew was too experienced in criminal investigation to reject a
theory merely because it was contrary to experience. There existed
presumptions for suspicion of Miss Heredith which at least warranted
further inquiry. And, thinking over these presumptions, he arrived at
the additional conclusion that the theory of her guilt could also be
made to account for the puzzle of the open window in Mrs. Heredith's
bedroom. Caldew believed that the open window had some bearing on the
crime. His first impression had been that the murderer had entered and
escaped by that means. The Virginia creeper to which Weyling had
directed attention that morning had strengthened that belief, in spite
of Merrington's opinion that the plant would not bear a man's weight.
But now it seemed to him that Miss Heredith might have opened the window
for the purpose of throwing the revolver into the moat so that it should
not be found. He determined to investigate that possibility as soon as
he returned to the moat-house.
He reached his destination only to learn that Mr. and Mrs. Weyne had
motored over to the moat-house to pay their condolences to the family.
He remounted his bicycle and rode back as fast as he could, chagrined to
think that he had wasted the best part of an afternoon in a fruitless
errand.
It was evening when he reached Heredith again, and rode through the
woods towards the moat-house. It looked deserted in the gathering
twilight. A fugitive gleam of departing sunshine fell on the bronze and
blood-red chrysanthemums in the circular beds, but the shadows were
lengthening across the lawn, and the mist from the green waters of the
moat was creeping up the stained red walls.
His ring at the front door was answered by the pretty parlourmaid who
had been dusting the hall before breakfast. He recognized in Milly Saker
a village playmate of nearly twenty years ago, and he recalled that it
was she who had told his sister of the difference which had existed
between Miss Heredith and her nephew's wife.
Milly greeted the detective with a coquettish smile of recognition.
"How are you?" she said. "You wouldn't look at me this morning. You
seemed as if you didn't want to recognize old friends."
Caldew's mind was too preoccupied to meet these rural pleasantries in
the same spirit.
"Is Miss Heredith in?" he asked, stepping into the hall.
"I shouldn't be here talking to you if she was," replied the girl
pertly. "She's gone to the village in the motorcar to meet Mr. Musard.
She's just got a telegram to say he's coming back."
"I thought he was going to France," said Caldew.
"Well, he's not. The telegram says he's not. So Miss Heredith's gone to
meet him by the evening train. Tufnell's out too. I don't know where
he's poked to, but I shan't cry my eyes out if he never comes back."
"Have Mr. and Mrs. Weyne been here?"
"Yes. They drove over in their car, and saw Miss Heredith and Sir
Philip. They weren't here very long."
"Where are Superintendent Merrington and Captain Stanhill?"
"In the library. They come in about an hour ago. The big gentleman has
to go back to London to-night--I heard him say so. A good riddance too.
He had all the servants in the library this morning, bullying them
dreadfully."
"What did he say to you?" asked Caldew, with a smile.
"Nothing," responded the girl promptly, "except what he said early this
morning, when he stopped me in the hall here, and put his great ugly
hand under my chin, and told me he'd have a talk with me by-and-by. But
he didn't get the chance, because I was over in the village all the
morning with my mother, who's been ill. But he gave all the other girls
such a time that they haven't done talking of it yet. Gwennie Harden,
who sleeps with me, says he must have thought one of us murdered Mrs.
Heredith, and the cook was so angry with the questions he asked her that
she was going to give a month's warning on the spot, but old Tufnell
talked her over, saying that it was only done in the way of duty, no
personal reflection being intended. Tufnell begged her pardon for what
she'd had to put up with, and the cook granted it, and there the matter
ended. But they do say that Mrs. Rath--that's the housekeeper--came out
of the library looking fit to drop. But Hazel Rath didn't go into the
library, although she stayed here last night, and has been with her
mother all day. Favouritism, I call it. Why should they put all us
servants through our facings, and leave her alone?"
The mention of Hazel Rath's name recalled to Caldew's mind the
information his sister had given him about the early association between
her and Philip Heredith. But the import of that statement, and the
significance of the piece of news Milly Saker had just given him, were
not made clear to him until later. At the moment his thoughts were fixed
on the idea of testing his new theory about the open window while Miss
Heredith was absent. As he turned away, he asked the girl where Sir
Philip was.
"He's sitting with Mr. Phil," was the reply.
"I suppose there is nobody upstairs in the left wing?" he added.
"Nobody but the corpse," responded Milly, with a slight shiver. "Miss
Heredith's had her bedroom shifted. Last night she slept downstairs, but
this morning she gave orders for the white bedroom in the right wing to
be prepared for her. I reckon she wants to get as far away from it as
possible, and I don't blame her."
Caldew proceeded upstairs, and entered the death-chamber in the silent
wing. On his way back from Chidelham he had picked up a round stone,
which he now took from his pocket, intending to throw it from the
window, and mark the spot where it fell into the moat. He opened the
window, and looked out across the garden. The distance to the moat was
much farther than he had imagined; so great, indeed, that his own shot
at the water fell short by several feet. It was impossible that Miss
Heredith could have accomplished such a remarkable feat as to hurl a
revolver across the intervening space between the window and the moat.