The Hand in the Dark
"Did you notice her actions?"
"I can't say as I did particular, except that she was walking in the
shadow, on the side nearest to the passage she come out of, and seemed
to be looking at the dining-room door."
"You are sure it was Hazel Rath?"
"Oh, it was her all right," replied Milly confidently. "I recognized
her, as well as the dress she was wearing."
"Was this before or after you saw Miss Heredith leave the dining-room?"
"About ten minutes afterwards."
"Did you mention to anybody that you saw her?"
"I did not," replied the girl, as if the matter were one of supreme
indifference to her.
"Why not?"
"I suppose Miss Rath is free to go where she pleases," said the girl
airily. "She's privileged. When she used to live here she had the run of
the house, just like one of the family. Tain't my business to question
her comings and goings."
"Oh, Miss Rath used to live here, did she? How long ago?"
"Till about two years ago, before she went to business."
"And how long did she live here?"
"It must have been a good seven years or more," said Milly, considering.
"She come here as a little girl when her mother come as housekeeper.
Miss Heredith took a great fancy to her, and she was made quite a pet of
the house, and did just what she liked. When she grew up she used to
help her mother, and do little things about the house. But she never
gave herself airs--I will say that."
"Very well. You may go now."
"Caldew," said Merrington quickly as the door closed behind the girl,
"go and find the housekeeper and send her in here. And then keep an eye
on her daughter, and do not let her out of your sight, until I send for
you. Then bring her in."
When Caldew left the room on his errand, Captain Stanhill turned to
Superintendent Merrington with a pained expression on his face.
"Do you suspect--" he commenced.
"I suspect nobody--and everybody," was the prompt reply. "My duty is to
find out the facts, and my business is now to ascertain why the
housekeeper lied to me about her daughter this morning. She was a fool
to try and trick me. There's something underneath all this which I'll
sift to the bottom before I leave."
There was a timid tap, and the door opened slowly, revealing the frail
black figure of the housekeeper standing hesitatingly on the threshold.
Her frightened eyes were directed to Merrington's truculent ones as
though impelled by a magnet.
"You--you wished to see me?" she stammered.
"Yes. Come in." Merrington curtly commanded. "Close that door, Lumbe.
Sit down, Mrs. Rath, I have a few questions to ask you."
The housekeeper took a seat, with her eyes still fixed on Merrington's
face. She looked ill and haggard, but the contour of her worn face, and
the outline of her slender figure suggested that she had once possessed
beauty and attraction. Merrington, staring at her hard, again had the
idea that he had seen her long ago in different conditions and
circumstances, but he could not recall where.
"Look here, Mrs. Rath," he commenced abruptly. "I want to know why you
lied to me this morning."
"I--I don't know what you mean. I didn't come here to be insulted." The
housekeeper uttered these words with a weak attempt at dignity, but her
lips went suddenly white.
"Don't put on any fine-lady airs with me, for they won't go down," said
Merrington, in a fierce, bullying tone. "You know what I mean very well.
You told me this morning, when I asked you, that you had sent in all the
servants to be examined. I have just discovered that you did not. There
was a girl, Milly Saker, whom I did not see. Why was that?"
It seemed to Captain Stanhill that the tension of the housekeeper's face
relaxed, and that a look of relief came into her eyes, as though the
question were different from the one she had expected.
"I did not tell you a lie," she replied, in a firmer tone. "I sent in
all the servants who were in the house at the time. Milly was not at
home."
"Where was she?"
"She went across to the village to see her mother, who is ill."
"With your permission, I presume?"
"Yes."
"Why did you permit her to go?"
"The girl's mother was very ill, and needed her daughter."
"You let her go, although I had told you I wanted to question all the
servants?"
"No, it was before you told me that I gave Milly permission to have the
morning off," responded Mrs. Rath quietly.
"Is that the true explanation?"
"Yes."
"Is it as true as your other statement?"
"What other statement?"
"The statement you made to me this morning when you assured me your
daughter had left this house to return to her employment at Stading?"
said Merrington, with a cruel smile. "That wasn't true, you know. How do
you describe that untruth? As a temporary aberration of memory, or
what?"
The housekeeper looked up with swift, startled eyes, and her thin hand
involuntarily clutched the edge of the table in front of her, but she
did not speak.
"You lied about that, you know," continued Merrington. "I've found out
your daughter has been in the house all day. Why did you tell me a lie?
Come, out with it!"
"You are too abrupt, Merrington," said Captain Stanhill, interposing
with unexpected firmness. "You have frightened her. Come, Mrs. Rath," he
said gently, "can you not give us some explanation as to why you misled
us this morning?"
"Because I didn't want my daughter to be drawn into this dreadful
thing," she exclaimed wildly. "I suppose it was very foolish of me," she
added, in a more composed voice, as though reassured by the kindly look
in Captain Stanhill's eyes, "but I really didn't think it mattered. My
daughter knew nothing about the murder and as she is highly strung I did
not want her to be upset."
"Where was your daughter last night when the murder was committed?"
asked Merrington.
"In my room."
"Did either of you hear the scream or the shot?"
"No, my rooms are a long way from the left wing, and we were sitting
with the door shut."
"Then when did you learn about the murder?"
"Very soon after it happened. One of the maidservants came and told me."
"And you say that your daughter was with you at the time, and had been
with you a considerable time before?"
"Yes."
"I think that will do, Mrs. Rath, I have given you every opportunity,
but you still persist in telling falsehoods. Your daughter was seen
walking up the hall last night in the direction of the left wing shortly
before the murder was committed. The person who saw her was the maid
Milly Saker. Was that the real reason why you gave Milly leave of
absence to visit her mother this morning--so that she should not tell us
what she knew?"
"It is not true," gasped the housekeeper. "My daughter was not out of my
rooms last night, I assure you that is the truth."
"I wouldn't believe you on your oath," retorted Merrington. "Lumbe, go
and tell Caldew to bring in the girl."
CHAPTER XIII
The girl who entered the room a moment later was tall and graceful, with
a yearning expression in her soft dark eyes, as though in search of a
happiness which had been denied her by Fate. Her appearance was one of
unusual refinement. She had not a trace of the coarsened blowzy look so
common in English country girls; there was nothing of rustic lumpishness
in her slim figure, and there was more than mere prettiness in her
exquisite small features, her thick dark hair, her clear white skin with
a tracery of blue veins in the temples. Her high-bridged nose and firm
chin suggested some force of character, but that suggestion was
counteracted by her wistful tender mouth, with drooping underlip. The
face, on the whole, was a paradoxical one, containing elements of
strength and weakness, and the eyes were the index to a strange
passionate nature.
She advanced into the room quietly, with a swift glance, immediately
veiled by drooped lids, at the faces of the police officials who were
awaiting her. When she reached the far end of the table at which they
were seated she stopped and stood with her hands clasped loosely in
front of her, as though waiting to be questioned.
"Please sit down, Miss Rath," said Captain Stanhill politely. "We wish
to ask you a few questions."
The girl seated herself in a chair some distance away from her mother,
and this time she surveyed the men before her with an air of
indifference which was obviously simulated.
But again she quickly dropped her eyes, for Merrington was staring at
her with a look of amazement, as though confronted with a familiar
presence whose identity he could not recall. He glanced from Hazel to
her mother, and his eyes fastened themselves fiercely on the housekeeper
with the satisfaction of a man who had solved an elusive puzzle.
"So we _have_ met before, Mrs. Rath," he said. "You are--"
"No, no! Please keep silent in front of my daughter," broke in the
housekeeper hurriedly.
"I was not mistaken. I remembered this woman's face this morning, but I
could not then recall where I had seen her before," pursued Merrington,
turning to Captain Stanhill and speaking with a sort of reflective
cruelty. "Her daughter's face supplies the clue. She is the image of her
mother as I remember her when she stood her trial at Old Bailey fifteen
years ago. She was tried for--"
"I beg of you not to say it!" Mrs. Rath started from her seat, and
looked wildly around as though seeking some avenue of escape from a
threatened disaster.
"Is it necessary to go into this, Merrington?" asked Captain Stanhill in
his mild tones, glancing from the excited woman to his colleague with
the troubled consciousness that he was assisting in a scene which was
distasteful to him.
"Of course it is necessary if we want to get at the truth of this case,"
retorted Merrington. "You needn't be concerned on Mrs. Rath's account,"
he went on, with a kind of savage, disdainful irony. "A woman who has
been tried as an accessory to murder is not likely to be squeamish. Her
name is not Rath. It is Theberton--Mary Theberton. She and her husband
were tried at Old Bailey fifteen years ago for the murder of a man named
Bridges. The trial made a great stir at the time. It was known as 'The
Death Signal Case'."
Caldew looked at the housekeeper with a new interest. He readily
recalled the notorious case mentioned by Merrington. Theberton was an
Essex miller, who, having discovered that his young wife was in the
habit of signalling his absence to Bridges by means of a candle placed
in her window, had compelled her to entice him to the cottage by the
signal, and was then supposed to have murdered him by throwing him into
the mill dam. But though Bridges was seen entering the cottage and was
not seen afterwards, the charge of murder failed because the detectives
were unable to find his body. Theberton protested his innocence; Mary
Theberton said her husband locked her in her room before admitting
Bridges, and she knew nothing of what took place between the two men.
There was much popular sympathy with her during the trial as the belief
gained ground that the relations between her and Bridges were innocent,
though indiscreet; the outcome of a craving for sympathy which had led
an unhappy young wife to confide her troubles to a former schoolfellow.
She was the daughter of an architect, and had been reared in refinement
and educated well, but she had been disowned by her father for marrying
beneath her. Her husband ill-used her, and her story was that she had
sought the assistance of an old schoolfellow in order to go to London to
earn a living for herself and her little daughter. When the trial was
over Theberton emigrated, and his wife disappeared, although there was
some talk of putting on foot a public subscription for her. This was the