I
ANTHONY was still in the garden. Anthony had found something. Clouds of pipe-smoke hung round his head in the hot, still air. Anthony was thinking.
He was alone. Boyd, indefatigable, had gone at once into the house, bent upon another orgy of shrewd questioning. This time his questions would have, in the light of what the study had told, a more definite bearing.
What Anthony had found were two sets, some eighteen inches apart, of four deep, round impressions of roughly the size of a sixpence. They were in the broad flower-bed which ran the whole length of the study wall and were directly beneath the sill of the most easterly of the three windows—the farther closed window, that is, from the open one through which it seemed that the murderer must have effected entrance to the study. The flower-bed, Anthony noticed, was unusually broad—so broad, in fact, that any person, unless he were a giant, wishing to climb into any of the three windows, would perforce tread, with one foot at least, among the flowers.
He stooped to examine his find. Whoever, in the absence of Mr Diggle the gardener, had so lavishly watered the flower-bed on the previous day received his blessing. Had the soil not been so moist, those holes would not have been there.
Anthony thought aloud: ‘Finger-holes. Just where my fingers would go if I was a good deal narrower across the shoulders and squatted here and tried to look into the room without bringing either of my feet on to the bed.’
He stepped deliberately on to the flower-bed and bent to examine the low sill of the window. There was a smudge on the rough stone. It might be a dried smear of earthy fingers. On the other hand, it might be almost anything else. But as he straightened his back a bluish-black gleam caught his eye.
He investigated, and found, hanging from a crevice in the rough edge of the sill, a woman’s hair. It was a long hair, and jet black.
‘That explains the closeness of those finger-marks,’ he muttered. ‘A woman in the case, eh? Now, why was she here, in front of the closed window? And was she here last night? Or this morning, quite innocent like? The odds are it was last night. One doesn’t crouch outside a Cabinet Minister’s window in daylight. Nor at all, unless one’s up to no good. No, I think you were here last night, my black beauty. “I love little pussy, her hair is so black, and if I don’t catch her she’ll never come back.” Now where did you come from, Blackie dear? And have you left any other cards? O, Shades of Doyle! What a game!’
He stepped back on to the path and knelt to examine the stone edging to the flower-bed. In the position she must have been in, the woman would most probably, he argued, have been on one knee and had the foot of the other leg pressed vertically against this edging.
She had; but Anthony was doubly surprised at what he found. For why, in this dry weather, should the mark of her foot be there at all? And, as it was there, why should it look like a fingerprint a hundred times enlarged?
He scratched his head. This was indeed a crazy business. Perhaps he was off the rails. Still, he’d better go on. This all might have something to do with the case.
More closely he examined this footprint that was like a fingerprint. Now he understood. The mark had remained because the peculiar sole of this peculiar shoe had been wet and earthy. There had been no rain for a week. Why was the shoe wet? And why—he looked carefully about—were there no other such marks on the flagstones of the path? Ah, yes; that would be because in ordinary walking or running the peculiar shoes did not press hard enough to leave anything but a wet patch which would quickly dry. Whereas, in pressing the sole of the foot against that edging to the flower-bed, much more force would have to be used to retain balance—sufficient force to squeeze wet clayish earth out in a pattern from that peculiar sole.
But what about the wetness? He hadn’t settled that. Suddenly his mind connected the peculiarity of that imprint with the idea of water. A rope-soled sandal. When used? Why, bathing. Here Anthony laughed aloud. ‘Sleuth, you surpass yourself!’ he murmured. ‘Minister murdered by Bathing Belle—only not at the seaside! Cock Robin’s murderer not Sparrow as at first believed, but one W. Wagtail! Gethryn, you’re fatuous. Take to crochet.’
He started for the verandah door. Half-way he stopped suddenly. He’d forgotten the river. But the idea was ridiculous. But, after all—well, he’d spend ten minutes on it, anyhow. Now, to begin—assuming that the woman had come out of the river and had wanted (strange creature!) to get back there—he would work out her most probable route and follow it. If within five minutes he found no more signs of her, he’d stop.
After a moment’s calculation he started off, going through the opening in the yew hedge, down the grass bank to his right and then crossing the rose garden at whose far side there began a pergola.
At the entrance to the pergola he found, caught round a thorny stem of the rose-creeper that fell from the first cross-piece of the archway, four long black hairs.
Anthony controlled his elation. These might not, he thought, be from the same head. But all the same it was encouraging. It fitted well. Running in the dark and a panic, she hadn’t ducked low enough. He could see her tearing to free her hair. Well, he’d get on. But really this mad idea about swimming women couldn’t be true.
From the other end of the pergola he emerged on to a lawn, its centre marked by a small but active fountain. A gravelled path, along which he remembered having walked up to the house, ran down at the right of the grass to the gate on the river-bank through which he had entered. He paused to consider the position; then decided that one making in a hurry for the gate would cut across the grass.
He found confirmation. Round the fountain’s inadequate basin was a circle of wet grass, its deep green in refreshing contrast to the faded colour of the rest. At the edge of the emerald oasis were two indistinct imprints of the sandal and its fellow, and two long smeared scars where the grass had been torn up to expose the soil beneath. Farther on, but still within the circle, were two deeper, round impressions; beyond them, just where the wet grass ended, was another long smear.
Anthony diagnosed a slip, a stagger, and a fall. Not looking for more signs—he had enough—he hurried on to the little gate. The other side of it, on the path which ran alongside the blustering pigmy of a river, he hesitated, looking about him. Again he felt doubt. Was it likely that anyone could swim the Marle at night? Most decidedly it was not. In the first place there was, only some three hundred and fifty yards or so downstream to his right, a perfectly good bridge which joined the two halves of the village of Marling. In the second place, the Marle, though here a bare twenty yards wide, seemed as uncomfortable a swim as could well be, even for a man. Always turbulent, it was at present actually dangerous, still swollen as it was by the months of heavy rain which had preceded this record-breaking August.
‘No!’ said Anthony aloud. ‘I’m mad, that’s what it is. But then those are bathing sandals. And didn’t I just now tell Boyd he was making a mistake in not treating this business like the goriest of ’tec tales?’
He stood looking over the river. If only he could fit any sort of reason—
One came to him. He laughed at it; but it intrigued him. It intrigued him vastly. There was a house, just one house, on the opposite bank. It was perhaps thirty yards higher up the stream than the gate by which he was standing.
Suppose someone from that house wanted to get to Abbotshall quickly, so quickly that they could not afford to travel the quarter-mile on each side of the river which crossing by the bridge would involve. Taking that as an hypothesis, he had a reason for this Captain Webb business. The theory was insane, of course, but why not let fancy lead him a while?
The very fact that the woman was so good a swimmer as she must be made it probable that she would be sufficiently water-wise to make use of, rather than battle helplessly against, the eight-mile-an-hour stream. Very well, then, before taking to the river, on her way back she would have run upstream along this bank to a point some way above the house she wished to return to on the opposite bank. Still laughing at himself, Anthony turned to his left and walked upstream, his eyes on the soft clay at the river’s edge. When he had passed by fifty yards the house on the other side, he found two sandal-marks. They were deep; the clay gave a perfect impression.
He was surprised but still unbelieving. Then, as he stood for a moment looking down into the dark water only a few inches below the level of his feet, a gleam of white caught his eye. Curious, he squatted, pulled up his sleeve and thrust his arm into the water, groping about the ledge which jutted out from the bank some inches below the surface. His fingers found what they sought. He rose to his feet and examined his catch.
A small canvas bathing-sandal. From its uppers dangled a broken piece of tape. The sole was of rope.
‘Benjamin,’ said Anthony to his pipe. ‘I’m right. And I’ve never been so surprised in my life. It looks to me, my lad, as if A. R. Gethryn may have been wrong and Brother Boyd right. Where’s my “insider” now?’
II
Anthony had crossed the river. Behind him lay Marling’s wooden bridge, before him the house which must shelter the swimming lady. In his hip-pocket rested the sandal, wrung free of some of its wetness and wrapped in a piece of newspaper found by the hedge.
He walked slowly, framing pretexts for gaining admission to the house. His thoughts were interrupted by a hail. He swung round to see Sir Arthur Digby-Coates coming at a fast walk from the direction of the bridge.
Sir Arthur arrived out of breath. ‘Hallo, my boy, hallo,’ he gasped. ‘What are you doing here? Calling on Lucia? Didn’t know you knew her. Mrs Lemesurier. That’s her house there. Just going there myself.’
‘I’ll walk along to the gate with you,’ said Anthony. He saw a possible invitation. He began to make talk. ‘I wasn’t going anywhere; just strolling. I wanted to get away from Abbotshall and think. After I left the study, I drifted through the garden and crossed the river without knowing I’d done it.’ Not even to Sir Arthur was he saying anything yet of his discoveries.
The elder man picked his remarks up eagerly. ‘You’ve hit on something to think about, then? That’s more than I’ve done, though I’ve been racking my brains since midnight. That detective fellow don’t seem much better off either.’
‘Oh, Boyd’s a very good man,’ Anthony said. ‘He generally gets somewhere.’
‘Well, I hope so.’ Sir Arthur sighed. ‘This is a terrible business, Gethryn. Terrible! I can’t talk much about it yet—poor old John. Did you know him at all?’
‘No. Shook hands with him once at some feed, that’s all.’
‘You’d have liked him, Gethryn, He—we’d best not talk about it. God! What an outcry there’ll be—is already, in fact.’
‘Yes,’ said Anthony. ‘A blow to England and a boon to Fleet Street. Look here, don’t let me keep you. I hope Mrs—Mrs Lemesurier appreciates the beauty of her house.’
‘Charming, isn’t it? Gleason built it, you know.’ He paused, and Anthony feared his bait unswallowed.
They had arrived at the gate to the garden. Over the hedge showed lawns, flowers, and the house. Anthony had not been merely diplomatic when he had praised its beauty. It was a building in the best modern manner and in its way as good to look upon as Abbotshall.
Anthony made as if to leave.
But Sir Arthur had swallowed the bait. ‘Look here, Gethryn,’ he said; ‘why not come in with me? The inside’s more worth seeing than the out. And I’d like you to meet Lucia and her sister. They’d be glad to see you too. They were expecting another to lunch besides me—young Deacon, John’s secretary. He wouldn’t come. He’s very busy, and being young, I suppose he feels it’d be a sin to enjoy himself in any way today. Silly, but I like him for it. He don’t know the necessity yet for doing anything to keep sane.’ He laid a hand on Anthony’s arm. ‘Do come along.’
Anthony allowed himself to be persuaded. They walked through the garden and then round the house to the front door. They were shown by a cool, delightful maid to a cool, delightful drawing-room.
Through the French-window, which opened on to the garden they had approached by, there burst a girl. Anthony noticed slim ankles, a slight figure, and a pretty enough face. But he was disappointed. The hair was of a deep reddish-gold.
Sir Arthur presented Mr Anthony Gethryn—he knew of Anthony’s dislike of the ‘Colonel’—to Miss Dora Masterson.
The girl turned to the man she knew. ‘But—but where’s Archie? Isn’t he coming, too?’
Sir Arthur’s face lost its conventional smile. ‘No, my dear. I’m afraid he’s not. He—he’s very busy.’ He hesitated. ‘You will have heard—about Mr Hoode?’
The girl caught her breath. ‘Yes. But only just now. You must think it awful of me not to have asked you at once; but—but I hardly believed it. It wasn’t in any of the papers we had this morning. And I’ve only just got up; I was so tired yesterday. Travers, the parlour-maid, told me. Loo doesn’t know yet. I think she’s got up—or only just; she stayed in bed this morning too.’ The girl grew agitated. ‘Why are you looking like that? Has—is Archie in—in trouble?’
Sir Arthur laughed, and then grew grave again. ‘Lord, no, child! It’s only that he’s busy. You see, there are detectives and—and things to see to. I’m rather a deserter, I suppose, but I thought I’d better come along and bring Mr Gethryn with me. He arrived this morning, very fortunately. He’s helping the police, being—well, a most useful person to have about.’ He paused. Anthony, to conceal his annoyance at this innocent betrayal, became engrossed in examination of a watercolour of some merit.
Sir Arthur continued: ‘It is a terrible tragedy, my dear—’
‘What! What is it?’ came a cry from the doorway behind them.
The voice would have been soft, golden, save for that harsh note of terror or hysteria.
Sir Arthur and the girl Dora whipped round. Anthony turned more slowly. What he saw he will never forget.
‘A woman tall and most superbly dark,’ he said to himself later. Tall she was, though not so tall as her carriage made her seem. And dark she was, but with the splendour of a flame: dark with something of a Latin darkness. Night-black hair dressed simply, almost severely, but with art; great eyes that seemed, though they were not, even darker than the hair; a scarlet, passionate mouth in which, for all its present grimness, Anthony could discern humour and a gracious sensuality; and a body which fulfilled the promise of the face. Anthony looked his fill.
Dora was beside her. ‘Loo darling! Lucia!’ she was saying. ‘It—it’s terrible, but—but it’s nothing to do with us. What’s upset you so? What’s the matter, darling?’
Sir Arthur came forward. Simply, straightforwardly, he told of Hoode’s death. ‘It’s an awful blow for me,’ he concluded, ‘but I wouldn’t have frightened you for worlds, Lucia.’
From where he stood discreetly in the background, Anthony saw a pale half-smile flit across her face. She was seated now, the young sister hovering solicitous about her, but he noted the tension of all the muscles that preceded that smile.
‘I—I don’t know what made me so—so foolish,’ she said. And this time her voice, that golden voice, was under control. Anthony was strangely moved.
She became suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger. Anthony was presented. The touch of her hand sent a thrill up his arm and thence through his body, a thrill which first sent the blood madly to his head and then left him pale. He kept his face from the light. He reproached himself for possessing, in his thirties, the sudden emotions of sixteen.
The two sisters withdrew. Lunch, they said, would be ready in five minutes.
Sir Arthur dropped into a chair and looked across at Anthony with raised eyebrows.
‘A little overwrought,’ said Anthony.
‘Yes. She can’t be well. Most unusual for Lucia to be anything but mistress of herself. Expect she was feeling cheap and then got scared by my sepulchral voice.’ He fell silent for a moment; then a smile broke across the tired sadness of his face. ‘Well, what impression has she made on you, Gethryn?’
‘My feelings,’ Anthony said, ‘are concerned with Mr Lemesurier. I wonder is he worthy of his luck?’
Sir Arthur smiled again. ‘You’ll have a job to find out, my boy. Jack Lemesurier’s been dead for four years.’
A gong announced lunch. At the foot of the stairs Mrs Lemesurier encountered her sister.
Dora was still solicitous. ‘Feeling better, Loo darling?’ she asked.
Lucia grasped her sister’s arm. ‘Dot, who—who was that man with Sir Arthur?’ Her voice rose. ‘Who is he? Dot, tell me!’
Dora looked up in amazement. ‘What is the matter, dear? I’ve never known you behave like this before.’
Lucia leant against the balusters. ‘I—I don’t know exactly. I—I’m not feeling well. And then this—this murder—’ Again she clutched at her sister’s arm.
‘Dot, you must tell me! They say Mr Hoode was killed last night. But how? Who—who shot him?’
The door of the drawing-room opened behind her. Anthony emerged. His poker-playing is still famous; not a sign did he give of having heard the last remark of his hostess.
But he admired her courage, the way she took command of herself, almost as much as her beauty.
III
If that lunch was a success it was due to Anthony Gethryn. Until he came to the rescue there was an alternation of small-talk and silence so uncomfortable as to destroy the savour of good food and better wine. Sir Arthur was sinking deep into the toils of sorrow—one could see it—Miss Masterton was anxious about her sister and her absent lover, and the hostess was plainly discomposed.
So Anthony took command. The situation suited him well enough. He talked without stint. Against their desire he interested them. It must be believed that he had what is known as ‘a way with him’. Soon he extorted questions—questions which he turned to discussion. From discussion to smiles was an easy step. Sir Arthur’s face lost some of its gloom. Dora frankly beamed.
Only the woman at the head of the table remained aloof. Anthony took covert glances at her. He could not help it. Her pallor made him uncomfortable. He blamed himself. He saw that she was keeping herself under an iron control, and fell to wondering, as he talked to the others, how much more beautiful she would be were this fear or anxiety lifted from her shoulders.
But she was beautiful? He stole another look, purely analytical. No, she was not: not, at least, if beauty were merely perfection of feature. The eyes were too far apart. The mouth was too big. No, she was better than beautiful. She was herself, and therefore—
Anthony reproved himself for the recurrence of these adolescent emotions. His thoughts took a grimmer turn. He thought of that sponge-like mess that had been a man’s head. It was time he got to work.
He slid into another story. The silence which fell was flattering. It was a good story. Whether it was true is no matter.
It was a tale of Constantinople, which Anthony knew as his listeners knew London. He had, it seemed, been there, almost penniless, in nineteen hundred and twelve. It was a tale of A Prosperous Merchant, A Secret Service Man, A Flower of the Harem, and A Globe-Trotter. Its ramifications were amusing, thrilling, pathetic, and it was at all times enthralling. Its conclusion was sad, for the Flower of the Harem was drowned. She could not swim the distance she had set herself. And the Secret Service Man went back to his Secret Service Duties.
Sir Arthur cleared his throat. Dora Masterson’s eyes held tears. At the head of the table her sister sat rigid, her white hands gripping the arms of her chair. Anthony noted her attitude with quickened pulse: she had shown no interest until the end of the story.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘she was a little fool to try it. Think of the distance. And the tide was strong. It’d be impossible even for an athletic Englishwoman.’ He is to be congratulated upon making so ridiculous a statement in so natural a tone.
‘Oh! Mr Gethryn, surely not,’ cried Dora excitedly. ‘Why Loo—’
A spurt of flame and a crash of breaking china interrupted her sentence. Mrs Lemesurier had overturned spirit-lamp and coffee-pot. Much damage had resulted to cups and saucers. The tablecloth was burning.
‘Not bad at all,’ thought Anthony, as he rose to help. ‘But you won’t get off quite so easily.’
Order was restored; fresh coffee made and drunk. The party moved to drawing-room and thence to garden.
Anthony lingered in the pleasant room before joining the others on the lawn.
At last he took a seat beside his hostess. The deckchairs were in the shade of one of the three great cedars.
‘A delightful room, your drawing-room, if I may say so.’ His tone was harmlessly affable.
The reply was icy. ‘I am glad it pleases you, Mr—Mr Gethryn.’
Anthony beamed. ‘Yes, charming, charming. It has an air, a grace only too rare nowadays. I admired that sideboard thing immensely; Chippendale, I think. And how the silver of those cups shows up the polish of the wood!’
With this speech he did not get the effect for which he had wished. Beyond a pulse in the white throat that leapt into startled throbbing, there was no sign of alarm. She remained silent.
Half his mind applauded her and reviled himself. But the other half, ruthless, urged him on. ‘Have another try; you must,’ it whispered. ‘Get to the bottom of this business. Don’t behave like a schoolboy!’
‘I’m afraid I was so interested that I had to examine those cups and their inscriptions,’ he murmured. ‘Very rude of me. But to have won all those! You must be a wonderful swimmer, Mrs Lemesurier.’
The little pulse in her throat beat heavily. ‘I have given it up—long ago,’ she said simply. Her eyes—those eyes—looked at him steadily.
Anthony spurred himself. ‘Of course,’ he said, smiling, ‘there’s no opportunity for pleasure swimming about here, is there? Except the Marle. And one would hardly tackle that for pleasure, what? The motive would have to be sterner than that.’
The blood surged to the pale face, and then as suddenly left it. Anthony was seized with remorse. His mind hunted wildly for words to ease the strain, but he could find none. The sandal in his pocket seemed to be scorching his flesh.
She rose slowly to her feet, crossed to where her sister sat with Sir Arthur some yards away, said something in a low voice, and walked slowly across the grass towards the house. Though Anthony could see that she only attained movement by a great effort of will, the grace of her carriage gave him a swift sensation—half pleasure, half pain—which was like a clutch at his throat. The clinging yellow gown she wore seemed a golden mist about her.
He turned to join the other two, deep in conversation. A little cry came to their ears. They swung round to see a limp body sink huddled to the gravel of the path before the windows of the drawing-room.
Anthony reached her side before the girl or the elder man had moved. As they came up, ‘Dead faint,’ he said. ‘Nothing to be frightened about, Miss Masterson. Shall I carry her in?’ He waved a hand towards the open French-windows.
‘Oh, please do.’ Dora picked nervously at her dress. ‘It—is only a faint, isn’t it?’
She was reassured. Anthony gathered the still body in his arms and bore it into the room.
He withdrew to the background while Sir Arthur and the girl ministered. Had he wished he could not have helped them. He had held Her in his arms. His heart hammered at his ribs. He felt—though he would not have acknowledged it—actually giddy. Only by an effort did he manage to mask his face with its usual impassivity. His one desire for the moment was to get away and think; to leave this house before he did more harm. Reason; thought; his sense of justice: all deserted him.
Sir Arthur stepped back from the couch. Colour had come back to the cheeks of the woman. The lids of the eyes had flickered. Sir Arthur turned.
Anthony touched him on the arm. ‘I think we’re superfluous, you know,’ he said.
The other nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ve told Dora I’d send for a doctor, but she doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary. Come on.’
They slipped from the room, and in two minutes were walking back along the river-bank towards the bridge.