The Hand in the Dark
end of "The Death Signal Case," for the mystery of the disappearance of
Bridges was never solved.
Caldew wondered by what strange turn of Fortune's wheel the woman before
him had come to be housekeeper at the moat-house. It was certain that
Miss Heredith knew nothing of the black page in her past, because Miss
Heredith, in spite of her kind heart and rigid church principles, was
the last person to appoint anybody with a tainted name to a position of
trust in her household. She was too proud of the family name to do such
a thing. The fact that the housekeeper had held the post so long without
discovery was proof of the ease with which identity could be safely
concealed from everything except chance. Although her nervous demeanour
suggested that she had been walking on a razor edge of perpetual
suspense in her quiet haven, ever dreading detection, it seemed to
Caldew that she might have gone undiscovered to her grave but for a
trick of Fate in selecting Superintendent Merrington to investigate the
moat-house murder. Fate, after its cruel fashion, had left her on her
razor edge for quite a long while before toppling her over, and Caldew
reflected that he had been made the instrument of her fall.
But what lay beyond the exposure of the housekeeper's identity? Why had
she deceived Merrington about her daughter's presence in the house? Was
it only the fear that Merrington would recognize her in her early
likeness to her daughter, or were her falsehoods intended to deceive the
detectives about Hazel's movements at the time of the murder? What would
the girl say? The situation was full of strange possibilities.
While these reflections were passing through Caldew's head there was
silence in the room, broken only by the clock on the mantelpiece ticking
loudly, with pert indifference to human affairs. Merrington, after
dragging the hidden and forgotten tragedy to light, remained quiet,
watchfully noting the effect on mother and daughter. The mother stood
without a word or gesture, her hand stiffened in arrested protest, like
a woman frozen into silence. The girl's look was directed towards her
mother with the fixity of gaze of a sleeper awakened in the horror of a
bad dream. At least in their stillness they were both in accord. Then
Hazel glanced wonderingly at the faces of the others in the room, with
the fatigued indifference of a returning consciousness seeking to regain
its bearings. This phase passed, and in the sudden wild burst of tears
which followed was the belated realization of the meaning of her
mother's exposure; the shame, the agony, the disgrace which it implied.
With a quick movement she rose from her seat, walked across to her
mother, and caught hold of her hand.
"Mother!" she said.
But her mother turned away from her, and, sinking in her chair, covered
her face in her hands with a shamed gesture, like a woman cast forth
naked in the light of day.
"Never mind your mother just now," said Merrington, as the girl bent
over as though to sooth her. "Please return to your seat and answer my
questions."
Hazel turned round at the sound of his voice, but stood where she was,
regarding him anxiously.
"You stayed here last night with your mother, I understand?" Merrington
continued.
"Yes."
"When did you arrive here?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Where from?"
"From Stading, by train. I had an afternoon off, and I came to see my
mother."
"How long is it since you visited her previously?"
"It must be about three months," said Hazel, after a short reflection.
"Do you always allow three months to elapse between your visits?"
"No." There was a trace of hesitation in the response.
"You used to come oftener?"
"Yes."
"How often?"
"Nearly every week." This time the hesitation before the reply was
plainly apparent.
"Why did you allow so long a time to elapse between this visit and the
last one when you had previously been in the habit of seeing your mother
nearly every week?"
Hazel again hesitated, as though at a loss for a reply.
"I have been so busy," she murmured at length.
"Is this your first visit to the moat-house since Mrs. Heredith came
here to live?"
"Yes." The response was so low as to be almost inaudible.
Caldew, who was the only person in the room with the deeper knowledge to
divine the drift of these questions, realized with something of a shock
that Merrington, with fewer facts to guide him, had reached his absolute
conclusion about the events of the last half-hour while he had wandered
perplexedly in a cloud of suspicions. The mental jump had been too great
for him, but Merrington had not hesitated to take it. Caldew waited
eagerly for the next question. It was some time in coming, and when it
did come it was not what Caldew expected. As though satisfied with the
previous answers he had received, Merrington branched off on another
track.
"How did you spend last night?" he asked abruptly.
"I do not understand you." There was the shadow of fear in the girl's
dark eyes as she answered.
"I will put it more plainly then. How did you occupy the time between
your arrival at the moat-house and bedtime?"
"I spent it with my mother in her rooms."
"Were you there all the time?"
It seemed to Caldew that the elder woman's attitude was that of a
listener. Though she still kept her face buried in her hands, her frame
slightly moved, as though she were listening to catch the reply.
"Yes." The word was spoken hurriedly, almost defiantly, but the girl's
eyes wavered and fell under Merrington's direct glance.
"May I take it, then, that you were in your mother's room at the time
Mrs. Heredith was murdered?"
This time Hazel did not reply audibly, but a faint movement of her head
indicated an affirmative.
"What would you say if your mother admits that you left her room before
the murder was committed, and that she did not see you until
afterwards?"
It was a clever trap, Caldew reluctantly conceded, this idea of playing
off the mother and daughter against each other, but one that he would
have hesitated to use. The effect was instantaneous. Before the girl
could frame her frightened lips in reply, her mother lifted her head
sharply.
"I didn't say so! Don't answer him, Hazel, don't tell him. Oh!" Too late
the wretched woman realized that she had betrayed her daughter, and she
sank into a stupefied silence.
"Your mother has let the cat out of the bag," said Merrington to the
girl, in a bantering tone. "Come, now," he added, changing swiftly into
his most truculent mood. "We may as well have the truth, first as last.
You were seen last night going up the hall in the direction of the left
wing just before the murder was committed. Do you admit it?"
"I do." The admission was made in a low but calm tone.
"Then your last answer was untrue. What were you doing in the hall at
that time?"
Hazel, staring straight in front of her, did not reply, but her quickly
moving breast betrayed her agitation.
"Did you hear me? I asked what were you doing in the hall last night."
"I shall not tell you."
"Did you go upstairs?"
"I shall not tell you."
These replies were given with a firm readiness which was in striking
contrast to her previous hesitation. She was like a person who had been
forced on to a dangerous path she feared to tread, and had summoned
fortitude to walk it bravely to the end.
"Of course you realize the position in which you place yourself by your
silence?" The quiet gravity with which Merrington put this question was,
similarly, in the strangest contrast to his former hectoring style. "It
is my duty to warn you that you are placing yourself in a grave
situation. Once more, will you answer my questions?"
"I will not." The answer was accompanied by a gesture which contained
something of the carelessness of despair.
"Then you must abide the consequences." He turned to Captain Stanhill
and Caldew. "It will be necessary to search the housekeeper's rooms.
Lumbe, you remain here and take charge of these two women. Do not allow
either of them to leave the room on any pretext. You had better keep the
door locked until we return."
He strode out of the room followed by Captain Stanhill and Caldew, to
the manifest trepidation of two maidservants outside, who had plainly no
business there. It was apparent that Milly Saker had been talking, and
that strange rumours were agitating the moat-house underworld.
"Where are the housekeeper's rooms?" said Merrington, abruptly accosting
one of the fluttered girls. "Come now, don't stand gaping at me like a
fool, but take us there directly."
The terrified girl went quickly ahead along a corridor leading from the
main hall. Turning down a narrower passage near the end she paused
outside a closed door and said:
"This is the housekeeper's room, sir."
"Stop a minute," said Merrington. "Does the housekeeper occupy only one
room?"
"No, sir, there are two. A sitting-room, with a bedroom opening off it."
"She has no other room in any other part of the house?"
"Oh, no, sir."
"That will do. You may go."
The maid needed no second bidding, but scuttled back towards the
corridor like a scared hen making for cover. Merrington flung open the
door in front of him and entered.
The room was well and simply furnished in the style of the house, but
the personal belongings and the bindings of some books suggested a mind
not out of harmony with the refinement of its surroundings. Merrington,
with a swift and comprehensive glance around him, began to upset the
neat arrangement and feminine order of the apartment with a thorough and
systematic search.
Caldew watched him for a moment, and then walked across to the door of
the inner room and entered it. The bedroom was large and airy, and the
appointments struck the note of dainty simplicity. Caldew was quick to
notice a girl's hat, with a veil attached, cast carelessly on the
toilet-table.
He made a circuit round the bed and approached the table to look at the
hat. A tight knot and a slight tear in the gossamer indicated that it
had been discarded very hastily, and Caldew wondered whether Hazel had
it on, waiting for an opportunity to slip away from the moat-house, when
he had knocked at the door to summon her to the library.
As he put the hat down his eye fell on a pincushion by the mirror, and
he gave a start of surprise. In the midst of hatpins at various angles
he saw the little brooch which had disappeared from the death-chamber.
The stone with the greenish reflection shone clearly against the blue
and gold shot-silk of the pincushion; the portion of the clasp which was
visible revealed the beginning of the scratched inscription of "Semper
Fidelis." The absence of any attempt to conceal the brooch was proof
that its owner was under the delusion that nobody had seen it lying in
the death-chamber. Caldew felt a thrill of professional vanity at the
success of his ruse.
His own name uttered in a peremptory shout from the next room caused him
to pick up the brooch and hasten thither. The first sight that met his
eye was the flushed triumphant face of Merrington bending over some
articles on the table. Caldew's view of the objects was obscured by
Captain Stanhill, who was also examining them, but he guessed by the
attitude of both men that a valuable find had been made. He advanced
eagerly to the table and saw, lying between them, a small revolver and a
handkerchief. The white cambric of the handkerchief was stained crimson
with blood.
The room was in great disorder. Superintendent Merrington, in the
impetuosity of his search, had reduced the previous order to chaos in
the course of a few minutes. Drawers had been opened and their contents
strewn about the floor, rugs and cushions had been flung into a corner