The Hand in the Dark
pence, which, by means of this trick, had established a false alibi for
the actual murderer by causing the report which had reached the
dining-room, and sent the inmates hastening upstairs to ascertain the
cause. The shot which had mortally wounded Mrs. Heredith must have been
fired before.
How long before? Obviously not very long. That would have been dangerous
to the murderer's plans. He had to consider two things. There was the
chance of somebody entering the room before the false charge exploded,
and the possibility that the coldness of the body of his victim might
arouse medical suspicions. Colwyn did not think that the criminal had
avoided killing Mrs. Heredith so as to ensure against that risk of
discovery. The infliction of a mortal wound which failed to cause
immediate death not only required a high degree of anatomical knowledge,
but left the door open to a dying confession which might have upset the
whole plan. Fate had helped the murderer to that extent.
But the murderer owed more than that to Fate. It was to that grim
goddess he was indebted for the last wonderful touch of actuality which
lifted the whole contrivance so superbly above the realm of artifice.
Suspicion was in the last degree unlikely in any case, but Hazel Rath's
entry and loud scream, just before the moment fixed for the explosion,
ensured complete success by adding a natural verisimilitude which might
have deceived the very Spirit of Truth. Colwyn esteemed himself
fortunate indeed in lighting on what he believed to be the facts. Who
could have imagined a situation in which whimsical Destiny had
ironically stooped down from her high place to dabble ignobly in a
murderer's ghastly plot?
The one point which perplexed Colwyn was the successful concealment of
the pistol on the night of the murder. That part of the plan was as
essential to the murderer as the false report, but it seemed strange
that the pistol had not been discovered when the room was searched. An
examination of the grate upstairs might reveal the reason.
Before leaving the gun-room Colwyn replaced one of the pistols and
restored the case as he had found it to its original position. He
carried away with him the pistol which had been used.
When he reached the upstairs bedroom he locked the door before
proceeding to examine the fireplace. It was immediately apparent to him
that the pistol had not been placed in the grate or beneath it. Either
place would have meant discovery when the room was searched. It was a
careful examination of the upper portion of the grate which suggested
the hiding-place. The weapon could have been safely hidden within the
broad iron flange running round the open damper of the grate.
The complete revelation of this portion of the murderer's design came to
Colwyn as he was passing his hand over the inner surface of this ledge.
It was a register grate, and the space at the back had not been filled
in. The murderer, when concealing the pistol at the top of the grate,
had only to balance it carefully on the flange, with the muzzle pointing
into the room, to ensure that the recoil from the report would cause the
weapon to fall into the deep hole between the back of the grate and the
chimney.
This additional proof of the murderer's perverted intelligence impressed
Colwyn as much as the mechanism for the false report. The pistol,
blindly recoiling and jumping behind the grate after the explosion of
the blank charge, was almost as effectually concealed as at the bottom
of the sea, and might have remained there for years without discovery.
Colwyn plunged his arm into the hole, but could not reach the bottom.
But the murderer had more in his mind than the effectual concealment of
the pistol, important though that was to him. The grate was an excellent
choice for two other reasons. It carried the slight vapour from the
tinder wick up the chimney, and the convex iron interior formed an
excellent sounding board which would enhance the sound of the report.
Truly the dark being who had planned it all had left nothing to chance.
He had foreseen everything. His handiwork bore the stamp of unholy
genius.
Who had done this thing? Who had sought, with such patient cunning, to
upset those evidential principles by which blind Justice gropes her
hesitating way to Truth? In concocting his masterpiece of malignant
ingenuity the murderer had worked alone. His only accomplice--apart from
the after-hand of Fate--was a piece of automatic mechanism which had
done his bidding secretly, and would never have betrayed him. It was
this ability to work alone, scheming and brooding in solitary
concentration until the whole of the horrible conception had been
perfected in every degree, which stamped the designer as a ferocious
criminal of unusual mould, remorseless as a tiger, with a neurasthenic
mind swayed by the unbridled savagery of natural impulse.
As Colwyn meditated over the murder, his original impression of the
guests assembled in the dining-room downstairs in a premeditated scene
set for its production came back to him with renewed force. The murderer
had taken his part in that scene as one of the unconscious audience,
dining and taking his share in the conversation, while his secret
consciousness was strained to an intense anticipation of the false
signal from his mechanical accomplice upstairs. Colwyn could picture him
joining in the mockery of meaningless phrases with dry lips, his ears
listening for every sound, his eyes covertly watching the crawling hands
of the clock. Then, when the crack had pealed forth, he had been able to
exchange suspense for action, and rush upstairs with the others,
confident in the feeling that, let suspicion point where it would, it
could not fall on him.
But the murderer had not foreseen the scream which preceded the shot.
How had he comported himself under the shock of that cry, which was
outside the region of his calculations? He had not time to reflect upon
its origin, to investigate its source. He had to steel his nerves to
face it because he dared not do otherwise. But its sudden effect on the
nerve centres of his brain, previously strained almost to the breaking
point, must have brought him to the verge of a subsequent collapse.
Colwyn believed he saw the end in sight. The presumptions, the facts,
and the motive all pointed to one figure as the murderer of Violet
Heredith. She had been killed from the dual motive of punishment in her
own case and vengeance on a greater offender than herself. The alibi had
been devised to ensure a tremendous revenge on the man by bringing him
to the gallows as her supposed murderer. That part of the plan had gone
astray, so the murderer, in the fanatical resolve of his latent fixed
idea, had recourse to a further expedient as daring and original as the
scheme which failed. The second instrument had been the means of his own
undoing.
But as he reached this final stage of his reasoning, Colwyn stopped
short in something like dismay. He had left a point of vital importance
out of his calculations. If the murderer was the man he thought, he was
downstairs in the dining-room at the time the false shot was fired. Then
whose hand had clutched Hazel Rath's throat in the murdered woman's
bedroom upstairs, just before the shot was fired?
Colwyn slowly paced up and down the room in the midnight silence,
conning all the facts over again in the light of this overlooked
incident.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The three dined together in the big dining-room almost in silence.
Musard and Philip Heredith had not returned until after six, and their
first knowledge of Colwyn's presence was by some oversight deferred
until they met at the dinner table. In the awkwardness of that surprise
they sat down to dine, and Musard's half-hearted efforts to start a
conversation met with little response from his companions. Colwyn was
preoccupied with his own thoughts, which apparently affected his
appetite, for he sent away dish after dish untouched. Phil hastened the
service of the meal considerably, as though he were anxious to get it
over as speedily as possible in order to hear what the detective had to
say. As soon as the dessert was on the table he turned to Colwyn eagerly
and asked him if he had any news.
"I have many things to say," was the response.
"In that case, shall we take our coffee into the smoking-room?"
suggested Musard with a slight glance at the hovering figure of the
butler.
"I prefer to remain here, if you do not mind," said Colwyn.
Musard shot a puzzled look at him, which the detective met with a clear
cold gaze which revealed nothing. There was another silent pause while
they waited for the butler to leave the room. But Tufnell was pouring
out coffee and handing cigars with the slow deliberation of a man
sufficiently old to have outlived any illusions about the value of time.
Philip Heredith lit a cigarette. Musard waved away the cigar-box and
produced a strong black cheroot from the crocodile-skin case. Colwyn
declined a cigar, and his coffee remained untasted in front of him.
"You can leave the room now, Tufnell," said Phil impatiently. "Do not
return until I ring. We do not wish to be disturbed."
Tufnell bowed and left the room. As he did so Colwyn pushed back his
chair and walked across to the window, where he stood for a few moments
looking out. A wan young moon gleamed through the black tapestry of the
avenue of trees, pointing white fingers at the house and plunging the
old garden into deep pools of shadow. The trees huddled in their rows,
whispering menacingly, and stretching half-stripped branches to the
silent sky.
Colwyn returned to the table and confronted the two men who were
awaiting him. He glanced from one to the other of their attentive faces,
and said abruptly:
"Hazel Rath is innocent."
"I was certain of it." Philip Heredith's hand came down emphatically on
the table in front of him as he made this declaration. "I knew it all
along," he added in additional emphasis.
"This is an amazing piece of news, Mr. Colwyn," said Musard, turning
earnestly to the detective. "Who, then--"
Colwyn made a detaining gesture.
"Wait," he said. "I cannot tell you that just yet." He turned to Phil,
whose dark eyes were fixed on his face. "It was you who asked me to try
and solve the mystery of your wife's death. It is to you that my
explanation is due. Shall I speak freely in Mr. Musard's presence, or
would you rather hear me alone?"
"I can go to the smoking-room," said Musard, rising as he spoke.
But Phil waved him to his seat again.
"No, no, Musard, stay where you are. There is no reason why you should
not hear what Mr. Colwyn has to say. Your advice may be needed," he
added as an afterthought.
"So be it," said Colwyn. "Then I had better commence by informing you
that Hazel Rath has broken her silence. She has made a statement to the
police, which, whilst affirming her innocence, does very little to clear
up the murder. Her story, briefly, is that she went up to the left wing
about half-past seven, noticed that Mrs. Heredith's room was in
darkness, and went in under the impression that she might be ill and in
need of assistance. She groped her way across the room to turn on the
light, and she had reached the head of the bed and was feeling for the
switch when a hand clutched her throat. She screamed wildly, and the
hand fell away. A moment afterwards the report of a shot filled the
room. She found the electric switch, and turned on the light. The first
thing she saw was a revolver--Nepcote's revolver--lying at her feet near
the head of the bed. Then her eyes turned to the bed, and she saw Mrs.
Heredith, bleeding from the mouth and nose. While she was attempting to
render her some assistance she heard footsteps on the stairs, and