The Hand in the Dark
a sleepy policeman leaning against a lamp post. The sight of two
gentlemen on foot when all 'buses had stopped running for the night
raised fleeting hopes in the cabman's pessimistic breast, and changed
the flow of his narrative into a strident appeal for hire, based on the
plea, which he called on the policeman to support, that he hadn't turned
a wheel that night, and amplified with a profanity which only the
friendliest understanding with the policeman could have permitted him to
pour forth without fear of consequences.
He intimated his readiness to drive them anywhere between the _Angel_
on one side of London and the _Elephant_ on the other for three bob, or,
being a bit of a sport, would toss them to make it five bob or nothing.
The boundaries, he explained in a husky parenthesis, were fixed not so
much by his own refusal to travel farther afield as by his horse's
unwillingness to go into the blasted suburbs. As his importunities
passed unregarded he damned them both with the terrible earnestness of
his class, and rumbled back into his dislocated story with the languid
policeman.
Colwyn kept his car in a garage off the Bridge Street archway. Thither
they proceeded, and waited while the car was got ready for the roads by
a shock-headed man who broke the stillness of the night with prodigious
yawns, and then stood blinking like an owl as he leaned against the yard
gates watching the detective backing the car down the declivity of the
passage into Bridge Street. Before they had reached it, he banged the
gates behind him with another tremendous yawn, and went back to his
interrupted slumber in the interior of a limousine.
It was a fine night for motoring. There was a late moon, and the earlier
rain had laid the dust and left the roads in good condition. Colwyn
cautiously threaded the crooked tangle of narrow streets and sharp
corners between Blackfriars and Victoria, but as the narrow streets
opened into broader ways he increased the speed of his high-powered car,
and by the time London was left behind for the quiet meadows and
autumn-scented woods they were racing along the white country roads at a
pace which caused the roadside avenues of trees to slide past them like
twin files of soldiers on the double.
Mile after mile slipped away in silence. Beyond an occasional direction
of route by Phil there was no conversation between the two men in the
car. Phil sat back looking straight in front of him, apparently absorbed
in thought, and the car occupied Colwyn's attention. When they reached
the heights above Heredith, Phil pointed to the green flats beneath and
the old house in a shroud of mist.
"That is the moat-house," he said. "The carriage drive is from the
village side." And with that brief indication that they were nearing
their journey's end he once more settled back into silence.
Colwyn brought the car down from the rise into the sleeping village, and
a few minutes later he was driving up the winding carriage way between
the rows of drooping trees. On the other side of the woods the
moat-house came into view. The moonlight gleamed on the high-pitched red
roof, and drenched the garden in whiteness, but the mist which rose from
the waters of the moat swathed the walls of the house like a cerement.
The moon, crouching behind the umbrageous trees of the park, cast a
heavy shadow on the lawn, like a giant's hand menacing the home of
murder.
Late as the hour was, Tufnell was up awaiting their arrival, with a
light supper and wine set ready in a small room off the library. Phil
had telephoned from Colwyn's rooms to say that he was returning with the
detective, and the butler, as he helped them off with their coats, said
that rumours of a railway accident had reached the moat-house, causing
Miss Heredith much anxiety until she received the telephone message.
Colwyn and Phil sat down to supper, with the butler in assiduous
attendance. The meal was a slight and silent one. Phil kept a host's
courteous eye on his guest's needs, but showed no inclination for
conversation, and Colwyn was not the man to talk for talking's sake.
When they had finished Phil asked the butler which room Mr. Colwyn was
to occupy.
"Miss Heredith has had the room next to Sir Philip's prepared, sir."
"No doubt you are tired, Mr. Colwyn, and would like to retire," Phil
said.
"Thank you, I should. I travelled from Scotland last night, and had very
little sleep."
"In that case you will be glad to go to bed at once. I will show you to
your room," said the young man, rising from the table.
"Please do not bother," replied Colwyn, noting the worn air and white
face of the other. "You look done up yourself."
"Miss Heredith was anxious that you should retire as soon as you could,
sir, so as to get as much rest as possible after your journey," put in
the butler, with the officious solicitude of an old servant.
"Then I shall leave you in Tufnell's care," said Phil, holding out his
hand as he said good night.
He went out of the room, and Colwyn was left with the old butler.
"Is it your wish to retire now?" the latter inquired.
"I shall be glad to do so, if you will show me to my bedroom."
The butler bowed gravely, and escorted Colwyn upstairs to his bedroom.
"This is your room, sir. I hope you will be comfortable."
"I feel sure that I shall," replied Colwyn, with a glance round the
large handsome apartment.
"Your dressing-room opens off it, sir."
"Thank you. Good night."
"Good night, sir." The butler turned hesitatingly towards the door, as
though he wished for some excuse to linger, but could think of nothing
to justify such a course. He walked out of the room into the passage,
and then turned suddenly, the light through the open doorway falling on
his sharpened old features and watchful eyes.
"What is it? Do you wish to speak to me?" said Colwyn, with his pleasant
smile.
A look of perplexity and doubt passed over the butler's face as he
paused irresolutely in the doorway.
"I merely wished to ask, sir, if there is anything else I can get for
you before I go."
His face had resumed its wonted impassivity, and the words came
promptly, but Colwyn knew it was not the answer he had intended to make.
"I want nothing further," he said.
The butler bowed, and hurried away. Colwyn stood for a few moments
pondering over the incident. Then he went to bed and slept soundly.
He was awakened in the morning by the twittering of birds in the ivy
outside his window. The mist from the moat crept up the glasslike steam,
but through it he caught glimpses of a dappled autumn sky, and in the
distance a bright green hill, with a trail of white clouds floating over
the feathery trees on the summit. As he watched the rapid play of light
and shade on the hill, he wondered why the moat-house had been built on
the damp unwholesome flat lands instead of on the breezy height.
When he descended later, he found Tufnell awaiting him in the hall to
conduct him to the breakfast table. In the breakfast-room Sir Philip,
Miss Heredith, and Vincent Musard were assembled. The baronet greeted
Colwyn with his gentle unfailing courtesy, and Musard shook hands with
him heartily. The fact that Phil had brought him to the moat-house was
in itself sufficient to ensure a gracious reception from Miss Heredith,
but as soon as she saw Colwyn she felt impelled to like him on his own
account. It was not the repose and simplicity of his manners, or his
freedom from the professional airs of ostentatious notoriety which
attracted her, though these things had their weight with a woman like
Miss Heredith, by conveying the comforting assurance that her guest was
at least a gentleman. There was more than that. She was immediately
conscious of that charm of personality which drew the liking of most
people who came in contact with Colwyn. In the strong clear-cut face of
the great criminologist, there was the abiding quality of sympathy with
the sufferings which spring from human passions and the tragedy of life.
But, if his serenity of expression suggested that he had not allowed his
own disillusionment with life to embitter his outlook or narrow his
vision, his glance also suggested a clear penetration of human motives
which it would be unwise to try to blind. Miss Heredith instinctively
realized that Colwyn was one of those rare human beings who are to be
both feared and trusted.
"You will not see my nephew until later," she explained to him as they
sat down to breakfast. "He is far from strong yet, and he has had so
little sleep since his illness that I am always glad when he is able to
rest quietly. I looked in his room a few minutes ago and he was sleeping
soundly, so I darkened the room and left him to sleep on."
Colwyn expressed his sympathy. His quick intelligence, gauging his new
surroundings and the members of the household, had instantly divined the
sterling qualities, the oddities, and class prejudices which made up the
strong individuality of the mistress of the moat-house. He saw, for all
her dignified front, that she was suffering from a shock which had
shaken her to her inmost being, and he respected her for bearing herself
so bravely under it.
The breakfast progressed in the leisurely way of the English morning
meal. The tragedy which had darkened the peaceful life of the household
nearly a fortnight before was not mentioned. Colwyn appreciated the tact
of his hostess in keeping the conversation to conventional channels,
leaving it for him to introduce the object of his visit in his own time.
Only at the conclusion of the meal, as Miss Heredith was leaving the
apartment, did she tell him that she hoped he would let her know if
there was anything he required or wished her to do. He thanked her, and
said there was nothing just then. Later, it would be necessary for him
to go over the house, under her guidance, if she could spare the time.
She replied that she could do so after lunch if that would be suitable,
and went away. Sir Philip followed her, and Colwyn and Musard were left
alone.
"Shall we have a cigar in the garden?" said Musard. He wished to know
more of the man of whom he had heard so much by repute, and he believed
that tobacco promoted sociability. He also desired to find out whether
Colwyn's presence at the moat-house meant that Phil had succeeded in
impressing him with his own belief in the innocence of Hazel Rath.
Colwyn willingly agreed. He realized the difficulties of the task ahead
of him, and he welcomed the opportunity of hearing all he could about
the murder from somebody who knew all the circumstances. Phil's personal
knowledge of the facts did not extend beyond the point where he had
fallen unconscious in the bedroom, and a talk with Musard offered the
best available substitute for his own lack of first-hand impressions.
The garden basked in the warmth of a mellow autumn sunshine which had
dispersed the morning mist. In the air was the scent of late flowers and
the murmurs of bees; the bright eyes of blackbirds and robins peeped out
from the ornamental yews, and the peacocks trailed their plumes over the
sparkling emerald lawns. But Colwyn and Musard had no thought of the
beauty of the morning or the charm of the old-world garden as they paced
across the lawn. It was Musard who broached the subject which was
engrossing their minds.
"It was very good of you to come down here, Mr. Colwyn. Your visit is a
great relief to Miss Heredith."
"Does Miss Heredith share her nephew's belief in Miss Rath's innocence?"
"I would not go so far as to say that, though I think his own
earnestness has impressed her with the hope that some mistake has been
made. But her chief concern is her nephew's health, and she is anxious,
above all things, to remove his mental worry and unrest. The mere fact