The Hand in the Dark
return to the flat for the money I had left behind in my other clothes.
I was too late. When I reached Sherryman Street I saw two men watching
the flat from the garden of the square opposite, and I knew I would be
arrested if I went inside.
"What's the use of talking about what followed? I hadn't the ghost of a
show from the start. Do you think you know anything about London?
Believe me, you don't until you have been cast adrift in it with empty
pockets. It's a city of vampires and stony hearts, a seething inhuman
hell where you can wander till you drop and die without anyone giving a
pitying glance--much less a helping hand. Even a man's guardian angel
deserts him. It doesn't take a man very long to get to the gutter, to
fall lower and lower until there's nothing but the Thames Embankment or
the mortuary in front of him. I've had my eyes opened--I've talked to
some of these poor devils in this Christian city. But what's the good of
telling you this? I've been down to the gutter myself the last few days,
falling each day to lower depths, tramping hungry and footsore in the
midst of herds of respectable human brutes, slinking away from the eye
of every policeman, pawning clothes for the price of a verminous bed, to
lie awake all night knowing that I would be murdered by the
vulture-faced degenerates sleeping in the same hovel, if they had caught
a glimpse of the necklace.
"How many wild schemes have I planned in the night for raising money on
the necklace in the morning! Once I went into a pawnshop, but the
pawnbroker's eyes glittered when I spoke of pearls, and I got away as
quickly as I could. I suppose there was a reward, and he was on the look
out for me. One way and another I have been through hell. I feel like a
man in a fever. I was drenched through yesterday, and I've had no food
for twenty-four hours."
He ceased, and sat staring into vacancy as though he were again passing
through the horror of his wanderings. Then another fit of coughing
seized him, prolonged and violent. When it had subsided he looked at
Colwyn with bloodshot eyes.
"I feel pretty bad," he said weakly.
That fact had been apparent to the detective for some time past.
Nepcote's frequent fits of coughing and a peculiar nasal intensity of
utterance suggested symptoms of pneumonia. As Colwyn lifted the
telephone receiver to summon a doctor, the thought occurred to him that,
if the immediate problem of the disposal of Nepcote had been settled by
his illness, his inability to answer questions necessitated his own
return to the moat-house without delay. In any case, that course was
inevitable after what he had just heard. It was only at the place where
the murder had been committed that he could hope to judge between the
probabilities of Nepcote's strange story and Hazel Rath's confession. It
was there, unless he was very much mistaken, that the final solution of
the Heredith mystery must be sought.
CHAPTER XXVI
It was late afternoon when Colwyn reached Heredith the following day.
The brief English summer, dying under the intolerable doom of
evanescence for all things beautiful, presented the spectacle of
creeping decay in a hectic flare of russet and crimson, like a withered
woman striving to stave off the inevitable with pitiful dyes and rouge.
In this scene the moat-house was in perfect harmony, attuned by its own
decrepitude to the general dissolution of its surroundings. Its aspect
was a shuttered front of sightlessness, a brick and stone blindness to
the changes of the seasons and the futility of existence. The terraced
gardens had put on the death tints of autumn, but the house showed an
aged indifference to the tricks of enslaved nature at the bidding of
creation.
Colwyn's ring at the door was answered by Milly Saker, whose rustic
stare at the sight of him was followed by an equally broad grin of
recognition. She ushered him into the hall, and went in search of Miss
Heredith. In a moment or two Miss Heredith appeared. She looked worn and
ill, but she greeted Colwyn with a gracious smile and a firm handshake,
and took him to the library. Refreshments were brought in, and while
Colwyn sipped a glass of wine his hostess uttered the opening
conversational commonplaces of an English lady. Had he a pleasant
journey down? The roads were very good for motoring at that time of
year, and the country was looking beautiful. Many people thought it was
the best time for seeing the country. It was a fine autumn, but the
local farmers thought the signs pointed to a hard winter. Thus she
chatted, until the glass of sherry was finished. Then she lapsed into
silence, with a certain expectancy in her mild glance, as though waiting
for Colwyn to announce the object of his visit.
"I presume you have come down to see Phil?" she said, as Colwyn did not
speak. "Unfortunately he is not at home," she went on, answering her own
question in the feminine manner. "He has gone to Devon with Mr. Musard
for a few days. It was my idea. I wanted him taken out of himself. He is
moping terribly, and of course that is bad for him. I hope to persuade
him to go with Vincent for a complete change when this--this terrible
business is finished." Again her eye sought his.
"When do you expect them to return?"
"To-morrow night. Phil would not stay away longer. He has been expecting
to hear from you. Can you stay till then?"
"Quite easily. In fact, I came down prepared to stop for a day or so. I
have some further inquiries to make which will occupy me during that
time."
"Then of course you will stay with us, Mr. Colwyn."
"You are very kind, but I do not wish to trouble you. I have engaged a
room at the inn."
"It is no trouble. I will send down a man for your things. Phil would
not like you to stay at the inn--neither should I." Miss Heredith rose
as she spoke. "Please do whatever you wish, Mr. Colwyn. I quite
understand that you have work to do, and wish to be alone."
"Thank you. Then I shall stay."
Colwyn sat for a while after she had left him, forming his plans. He was
grateful to her for a tact which had not transgressed beyond the limits
of unspoken thought during their brief interview, but he was more
pleased with the fortuitous absence of Phil and Musard at that period of
his investigations. He welcomed the opportunity of working unquestioned,
because he was not prepared to disclose the statements of Nepcote and
Hazel Rath to any of the inmates of the moat-house until he had tested
the feasibility of both stories in the setting of the crime.
"It has all turned out very fortunately, so far," was the thought which
arose in his mind. "And now--to work."
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly four o'clock. His immediate plans
were a walk to Weydene, and another observation of the bedroom which
Mrs. Heredith had occupied in the left wing. He decided to leave his
investigation of the room until later so as to have the advantage of the
waning daylight in his walk across the fields.
When he returned to the moat-house it was dark, and on the stroke of the
dinner hour. That meal he took with Sir Philip and Miss Heredith in the
faded state of the big dining-room--three decorous figures at a brightly
lit oasis of snowy linen and silver, with the sober black of Tufnell in
the background. Sir Philip greeted Colwyn with his tired smile of
welcome. He seemed somewhat frailer, but quite animated as he pressed a
special claret on his guest and told him, like a child telling of a
promised treat, that he was dining out the following night. He insisted
on giving the wonderful news in detail. He had yielded to the
solicitations of an old friend--Lord Granger, the ambassador, who had
just returned to Granger Park after five years' absence from England,
and would take no denial. But it was Alethea's doing--she had arranged
it all.
"I'm going to put back the clock of Time," he said, with a feeble
chuckle. "Put the hands right back."
"I think it will do him good, don't you, Mr. Colwyn?" said Miss Heredith
with a wistful smile.
"I have no doubt of it," said Colwyn with an answering smile. "A meeting
with an old friend is always a good thing. Are you going with Sir
Philip?"
"Oh, yes. I wouldn't go without her," said the baronet, with the
helpless look of senility. "You're going, aren't you, Alethea?"
"Of course, Philip," was the gentle response.
This conversation, slight and desultory as it was, gave sufficient
indication to the detective of the heavy burden Miss Heredith was
bearing. The baronet could talk of nothing else during the remainder of
the dinner, and when the meal was finished he begged his guest to excuse
him as he wished to obtain a good night's rest to fortify him against
the excitement of the coming outing. With an apologetic smile at Colwyn
his sister followed him from the room.
The old butler busied himself at the sideboard as Colwyn remained seated
at the table sipping his wine. His movements were so deliberate as to
convey a suspicion that he was in no hurry to leave the room, and the
glances he shot at Colwyn whenever he moved out of the range of his
vision carried with them the additional suggestion that the detective
was the unconscious cause of his slowness. More than once, after these
backward glances, he opened his lips as though to speak, but did not do
so. It was Colwyn who broke the silence.
"Tufnell!" he said.
"Yes, sir?" The butler deposited a dish on the sideboard and stepped
quickly to the detective's chair.
"I want to ask you a question or two. It was you who found the back door
of the left wing unlocked on the night of the murder, was it not?"
The butler gravely bowed, but did not speak.
"What made you try the door? Did you suspect that it was unlocked?"
"No; it was just chance that caused me to turn the handle. I'm so used
to locking up the house at nights that I did it without thinking. I
certainly never expected to find it unlocked, and the key in the inside
of the door. That was quite a surprise to me. I have often wondered
since who could have unlocked it and left the key in the door."
"You told me last time I was here that this door is usually locked and
the key kept in the housekeeper's apartments. I suppose there is no
doubt about that?"
"Not the least, sir. The key is hanging there now with a lot of others.
Nobody ever thinks of using the door. That is why I was so astonished to
find it open that night."
"If the key was hanging with a number of others it might have been taken
some time before and not be missed?"
"That's just it, sir. It might not have been missed by now if I had not
discovered it that night."
"What time was it when you found it?"
"Shortly before six o'clock--getting dusk, but not dark."
"You are quite sure you locked the door after finding it open?"
"There can be no doubt of that, sir. The lock was stiff to turn, and I
tried the handle of the door to make sure that I had locked it
properly."
"Did you return the key to the housekeeper's apartments immediately?"
"I intended to return it after dinner, but I forgot all about it in the
excitement and confusion. It was still in my pocket when I informed Mr.
Musard about it."
"Here is another question, Tufnell, and I want you to think well before
answering it. Do you think it would have been possible for anybody to
enter the house and gain the left wing unobserved while the household
was at dinner that night?"
"I have asked myself that question several times since, sir--feeling a
certain amount of responsibility. It would have been difficult, because
the windows of the downstairs bedrooms of the left wing were all locked.
There was always the chance of some of the servants seeing anybody
crossing the hall on the way to the staircase, unless the--person