When Vereker got into bed that night he tried in vain to fall asleep. At first his mind, running on the last topic discussed with Heather, busied itself with ghosts and haunted houses. If apparitions were actually what Heather called “tommy rot,” the persistence of human belief in them was almost miraculous. The old-world room in which he found himself with its carved oak central beam, black with age, its uneven, creaking floor, faded carpet and hangings, its faint smell of musty lavender, its intense silence so different from the noise of his London flat, even the feeble candle which had lighted him to bed were favourable for the growth of eerie musing and strange, unquiet dreams. In his mind’s eye, too, was the brief glimpse he had caught towards the close of his journey of Marston Manor in the bright moonlight, its chimneys and roofs just visible through the sombre belt of trees that almost completely screened it from the road. That such a peaceful, old-world seat should be the scene of a murder seemed at first incongruous; on second thoughts he realized that the haunts of ancient peace had generally been the haunts of ancient strife. The very architecture of such manors echoed the words, defence against assault, even if they had not primarily been built for such. As he mused, the very setting by some curious association of ideas seemed to throw a fantastic glamour over the crime that had so recently been committed there. The harsh brutality of the act softened under the romantic power of lapsed time; it seemed to be thrust back into the past, gathering from the mediaeval structure some essence of the long bygone, of the irrevocable, and losing the sharp horror of recency.
As he looked forward to his work on the morrow his excitement increased and he grew more wakeful. The virus of detection was beginning to work with its old feverishness in his blood. The feelings of lassitude and dejection which he had experienced of late were fast vanishing under the stimulus of the approaching hunt. For some time he tossed restlessly in spite of the enveloping comfort of the feather bed, his mind flitting with nervous alertness from one idea to another. Then he suddenly sat up, lit his candle and from the pocket of his jacket, thrown over the back of a chair beside his bed, produced a well-thumbed volume of Emerson. This was his habitual sleeping draught, a certain remedy for a feverish mood of wakefulness. He opened the book and began to read the lecture on literary ethics. The amazing perception, the inexhaustible flow of bright analogy, the astonishing sequence of associated ideas and apt imagery, the poetry and plasticity of expression at once caught him in their hypnotic web and tore him away from preoccupation in his own affairs. At length he yawned, closed his book, blew out the candle and his mind sweeping from the Emersonian empyrean sank softly to earth and restful slumber.
The bright morning sun pouring in at the open window wakened him. It had dispelled a soft autumn mist which covered the lush grass of the meadows in a silvery sheen of heavy dew. He glanced at his watch, jumped out of bed and almost immediately afterwards a knock sounded on his door announcing the deposit of a can of hot water. A quarter of an hour later he entered the small private room in which he had had a meal the previous night. He found to his surprise that Heather had already breakfasted and gone out. He had left a message for Vereker saying that he would be at Marston Manor at about eleven o’clock. Vereker ate a leisurely meal, glanced through the pages of the East Anglian Times, and was about to rise from the table when the landlord entered the room.
“Good morning, sir. Sleep well?” he asked pleasantly.
“Soundly. The room is an excellent one and the bed most comfortable.”
“Had sufficient breakfast, sir?”
“Made a splendid meal, thanks.”
The conversation lapsed into silence and the landlord was about to depart when Vereker asked, “What do you think of this business up at the Manor, Mr. Borham?”
“A shocking affair, sir; one hardly likes to speak about it.”
“I’ve always found a village inn a kind of central news exchange. You’ll have heard all that the village has to say about it?”
“Well, yes, sir. Customers will talk and I can’t help hearing what’s said. Not that I take all the yarns for gospel. Some men talk sense and others a lot of rubbish. There’s old Harry Weddup, the thatcher, for instance. If what he says was to be taken seriously, he’d get locked up in no time. A spell of silence might do him a heap of good, too.”
“Did Mr. Frank Cornell ever visit the inn?”
“Oh, yes, sir. If he happened to be staying up at the Manor, he never missed a day. A first-rate customer.”
“What sort of man was he?”
“Very pleasant young gentleman. Fond of drink and company and free with his money. I’ll miss him for one and so will some of my regulars. When he was in the mood it was drinks all round and it’s surprising how many customers would arrive when drinks were going free. The news travelled almost as quick as wireless.”
“Rather a rapid young man?” asked Vereker.
“I wouldn’t say that, sir. He was brisk, full of life and liked a joke. He was a great favourite with the young ladies, I’m told. You haven’t heard how he won first prize for Victoria plums at the flower show last year?”
“No.”
“Well, he put in his entry just like one of the villagers for the best dozen plums. Now Jim Pettitt has the best Victoria plum tree in the district and had won the prize last three years in succession. Got a notion that it was almost his by right. Mr. Frank beat him and Jim Pettitt lodged a complaint. Well, the young gent confessed to the committee he had stolen Into Pettitt’s garden one afternoon just before the show while Jim was at work and his wife over at Bury market. He pinched what he reckoned was the best dozen plums and beat the old man with his own fruit. He did it for a barney and then doubled the prize money to quieten old Jim down. Most of us knew beforehand what he was up to and I can tell you it was the best joke we’ve had in Marston for years. You’d think so, too, if you knew Jim Pettitt.”
The innkeeper’s long face burst into genial smiles at the memory. “He was a bit of a lad, I must say,” he added, “but he’d have settled down all right when he’d got married. Needed a woman who could boss him. That’s what he needed.”
“He was engaged to be married, I hear,” remarked Vereker.
“Yes, to a young lady from London. She was going on the stage, so they say. Not the kind I’d marry, but there—that’s all over now!”
“Of course there are as good women on the stage as off, Mr. Borham,” suggested Vereker.
“I daresay, sir, but we all expected he would marry his cousin, Miss Stella Cornell. They were very fond of one another, so everyone said, but perhaps they saw too much of one another.”
“Were they engaged?” asked Vereker.
“No, it never came to that, more’s the pity. Now, Miss Stella’s as good a young lady as ever trod ground. Not a child in the village but loves her and the help she has given to those who needed it badly will never be known. She is always doing something for the village—women’s institute, amateur theatricals, church work and all that. A great favourite with us all is Miss Stella. I don’t know what parson would do without her.”
“Whose daughter is she?”
“She’s the daughter of Mr. David Cornell, old John Cornell’s blind brother. Old Mr. John built his brother a bungalow in the Manor grounds and settled a comfortable little income on him, so they say. Mr. David’s wife’s dead and he lives there alone with his daughter.”
“I suppose she keeps house for him,” remarked Vereker.
“Yes. They have one maid, Mary Lister, daughter of Jack Lister, the Marston carrier. A very capable girl she is, too.”
“Has Mr. Cornell been blind from birth?”
“Oh, no, sir. He lost his sight in 1917 at the front during the war. I think he was in the canteen service or something of that sort. A German shell blew up the canteen and Mr. David went up with it. When he recovered consciousness he found he was blind. At first there was some hope he would get back his sight but he never did. I’ve never met the gentleman though I’ve often seen him walking through the village. By all accounts he’s as fine a man as anyone could wish to meet. He always says he wouldn’t have minded being wounded in the front line, but it was hard luck to get hit when hiding behind the canteen groceries.”
“What was he before the war?”
“He’d tried his hand at all sorts of things and was farming when the war broke out. He never could make things pay. Had no money sense. Lots of men have no money sense and if you haven’t got it you’re always in trouble. They say he always wanted to be a composer of music but never had the time to go in for it properly. Now he’s better off than ever he was and spends most of his time at his music. His daughter writes it all down for him. Some say it’s good and some say it ain’t got no toon in it.”
“What does the village think of Mrs. Cornell, John Cornell’s wife?”
“Everyone speaks well of her, sir, but she has never taken any interest in the village. Nobody knows much about her. Very reserved lady who keeps herself to herself.”
“I suppose there was some gossip over the exhumation of her husband’s body? It was an extraordinary event for Marston village.”
“A lot of nasty tittle-tattle among those who’re always ready to think bad of anyone. I must say the lady wasn’t wise to be seen so much about with young Doctor Redgrave. People will talk when a good-looking young married woman gets friendly with a handsome bachelor even if there’s nothing wrong behind the scenes. I was glad the gossips got a suck-in when nothing came out of the business. Some of them was real disappointed if I’m not mistaken. As for myself, I think Doctor Redgrave’s a straight man and mighty clever at his job. My missus always swears he saved her life when she nearly went under with the ’flu and pneumonia two years ago this winter. But all the ladies swear by him and good looks is a great help when you’re mixing up medicines,” smiled the innkeeper shrewdly.
At this point the voice of Mrs. Borham calling sharply from the tap-room for her husband brought the conversation to an abrupt end. Abner Borham excused himself and hurried away at a pace quite unusual for him for he almost ran, and Vereker rose and went up to his room. Glancing at his watch he found it was half-past nine. He had an hour to spare before meeting Heather at the Manor. Slipping on a rainproof coat, for the morning sky promised light showers, he left the inn and made his way leisurely towards his destination.
A quarter of an hour’s walk brought him to the wide entrance gates of the Manor. A small lodge and a diminutive garden flanked it on the side nearer the village. He was about to walk up the drive but as he had some time on hand, changed his mind and continued his way along the high road with the idea of getting a view of the house as he had seen it the previous night from the motor-coach. He came to the point from which he had caught that first romantic glimpse of Marston Manor in the moonlight and was surprised to see that almost the whole frontage of the building was visible by day from the highway and running at an angle to it so as to face the south. The morning was warm and sunny and in the wide sweep of meadow which divided the Manor from the road, black and white cattle grazed lazily or sought the shade of the magnificent forest oaks scattered at wide intervals about the parkland. Strolling along farther, Vereker came to a second entrance gate about half a mile distant from the first. He opened this gate, entered, and was proceeding up the drive when in an adjoining paddock there came to view a modern bungalow with white roughcast walls and a green-tiled roof.
“That’ll be Mr. David Cornell’s place,” he thought and wandered off the drive through a belt of rhododendrons to the hedge dividing the Manor grounds from the adjoining paddock. From the brief description of the man which he had elicited from the innkeeper, Vereker was already interested in Mr. David Cornell. The fact that he was a musician, an artist and ineffectual in business, unconsciously deepened this interest. All the arts spoke the language of beauty; music sang it. The tragedy of the man’s blindness, too, evoked in Vereker the sympathy which any human suffering at once evoked in him. Finding a gap in the dividing hedge, he forced his way through, entered the paddock, and walked slowly in the direction of the bungalow. As he approached there suddenly came to view a garden which was a sheer blaze of colour. Bordering a wide crazy pavement, the nasturtiums ran like a cordon of fire; through them, gladioli thrust their fountains of scarlet upwards and higher still in the floral sky dahlias burst like rockets in starry showers. As Vereker stood, his eyes delighted with this vivid mass of colouring, his quick ear caught the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned sharply and came face to face with a young woman of about twenty-six years of age who had evidently been making her way to the bungalow and was approaching him. Her face, which was pale and serious, at once broke into a pleasing smile.
“You look as if you’d lost your bearings. Can I help you?” she asked.
“No, thanks. I was making my way leisurely up to the Manor and noticing the bungalow came into the paddock to have a look at it. I hope I’m not trespassing,” replied Vereker, feeling that even the truth seemed to limp badly as an explanation of his curiosity.
“Oh, no, not at all,” she said affably. “I was just admiring the garden when you came up. I’m rather proud of it,” she continued. “The dahlias have been a great success. Of course, the year has been exceptionally fine.”
“You’re Miss Cornell, I presume?” asked Vereker.
“Quite correct. You seem to know all about us,” she remarked, her dark brows arching in a quizzical expression.
“I’m afraid it’s a newspaper correspondent’s privilege to be inquisitive—almost impertinent at times,” apologized Vereker.
“You’ve come about this horrible affair at my aunt’s place,” she said, a frown suddenly clouding her face. “I don’t envy you your job.”
“No, I daresay you don’t, but the matter’s quite an impersonal thing with me. I’m already very much interested. I certainly wouldn’t look at it in that light if I were intimately concerned.”
“No, I suppose not,” she remarked slowly as if her thoughts were not in her words. “Is there anybody you want particularly to see at the Manor?”
“Well, I’ve an appointment there with Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard at eleven o’clock,” replied Vereker, glancing at his watch.
“He has been up there all the morning. I’ve just been through the ordeal of what I believe is called a searching police interrogatory. It’s been quite an experience. I didn’t think famous detectives could be so affable. Wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove, I suppose,” she remarked thoughtfully as she tapped an elegant shoe with her light walking-stick.
“I hope you were on your guard,” suggested Vereker pleasantly.
“I was dreadfully nervous,” she replied with sudden seriousness. “I can’t explain why and I’m sure I should have broken down if the inspector hadn’t immediately put me at ease. The whole affair has upset us all terribly and I was—I was very fond of my cousin Frank.”
Her large dark eyes suddenly grew moist with imminent tears and to save the situation from further embarrassment she exclaimed, “But I mustn’t detain you. It’s nearly eleven o’clock.
With these words she passed on and Vereker, turning on his heel, extracted a loose cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
“First character in the tragedy in order of appearance,” he soliloquized and made his way back to the approach to Marston Manor.
He found Heather engaged in what he called “scratching around,” a phrase which came natural to him for he kept fowls and was deeply interested in everything connected with them.
“You stole a march on me this morning, Inspector,” remarked Vereker as he joined him.
“Gathering facts is so much slower than getting intuitions that I reckon we now start about fair,” replied Heather.
“Managed to gather any important ones?” asked Vereker.
They were standing together in the spacious rectangular entrance hall of the mansion at the foot of a wide staircase facing the front door.
“Come upstairs,” said Heather quietly, “and see what you make of things. I’m afraid this is going to be a difficult problem. There’s nothing much to lay hold of.”
They ascended about a dozen steps to what is generally called by house agents a “half-landing” with a wide window. On this half-landing, close to the window, was a pedestal flower-stand bearing a large pot from which dropped in an orange cascade a mass of wax-like begonia flowers. To the left as one turned to ascend the remaining steps to the first storey corridor, was a door.
“What room’s this?” asked Vereker casually and to his surprise the inspector approached him on tip-toe with a serious face.
“Music room,” he replied in an almost inaudible whisper. “It’s—it’s haunted! Contains pickled ghosts!”
Vereker, smiling at the inspector’s little joke, turned the handle of the door only to find that it was locked.
“Never mind that room for the moment. Do you see this?” asked the inspector pointing to an inverted flower-pot on the polished oak of the floor and to other pots on the steps of the second flight to the right of the door.
“Ah!” exclaimed Vereker, “you’ve made a discovery. Bloodstains, I suppose?”
“Yes, rather important. Have a good look at them.”
Vereker went down on his knees, produced a magnifying glass from his pocket, lifted a pot and examined the floor closely.
“How on earth did you twig them? They’re hardly visible to the naked eye,” he said.
Heather immediately flashed an electric torch on the floor.
“Is that better?” he asked.
“Excellent! I can see this one fairly clearly now,” replied Vereker.
“Just so. First instruction for beginners: when searching for dried bloodstains on polished floors or furniture use artificial light. The stains show up more clearly. But you’re keeping the important part of that clue to yourself, Mr. Vereker.”
“No. I was just going to ask you where the body was found.”
“On the landing at the top of this flight of steps. I’ll let you see the photographs that have been taken later.”
At this piece of information Vereker turned and was about to descend the first half-flight of steps.
“No, you needn’t go down,” said the inspector, “I’ve examined every inch of that first half-flight and there’s no further stain to be found.”
“None in the main hall?” asked Vereker.
“Not a drop. As far as I can see, he must have been holding his handkerchief to the wound for he certainly ascended the stairs after being shot.”
“You inferred that from the shape of the drops of blood on the steps; they splashed forward in the direction of his ascent.”
“Mr. Vereker, you’re becoming as orthodox as a policeman,” remarked Heather with a smile. “You’ll have to give up the amateur status and lose that popular halo you wear with such grace.”
“Now, now, Heather, you can’t hoodwink me. You’re just talking to side-track me. Here’s where my knowledge of psychology has you beaten. Confess now that you’re hiding the fact that the entrance hall floor was washed by one of the maids on the morning of the discovery of the murder, yes, and washed unfortunately before the police arrived and gave instructions that there must be no further cleaning of the house till further orders.”
“You’ve guessed right; it was a bright shot, Mr. Vereker. The hall lino, which is an imitation of a red-tiled floor, is washed every morning first thing. The maid carried out her duties as usual yesterday morning. Priceless clues may have vanished and our work doubled by the accident for it was an accident in a way. These little things are sent to try us, I suppose.”
“By Jove, but that’s really tragic!” soliloquized Vereker with an ironic smile and ascended the second half-flight of steps on to the first-storey corridor landing.
“Here’s where the body lay,” said Heather, “and that dark stain on the carpet is where a pool of blood flowed from the wound.”
“He ran up the stairs and collapsed here. Let me see the photographs you’ve got tucked away in your pocket, Heather.”
Heather chuckled and extracting some photographic prints from a note-case handed them to Vereker. The latter immediately switched on an electric light at the head of the stairs for, owing to the length of the corridor, the natural lighting was bad. He carefully examined the prints and handed them back to the inspector without comment.
“What d’you make of it, Mr. Vereker?” asked the officer seriously.
“Strange that he’s lying on his back, Heather. Can you explain?”
“He fell forward and turned over or he may have turned in falling, for he was bearing to his left towards his bedroom and would be slightly off his dead balance.”
“That’s possible, I suppose, but it strikes me as peculiar, very peculiar and most unlikely. But tell me, Heather, what was the man doing in a lounge suit at that time of night? He had dressed for dinner, went to bed at eleven and was dead at twelve or one o’clock in a complete change of clothes. He must have gone out. Could he let himself in?”
“Only if he had let himself out. If he had gone out before closing time he’d have left instructions with one of the servants for the front door to be left unlocked. You haven’t examined the front door yet?”
“No. Anything peculiar?”
“The lock is inside the door. Nearly all the locks in the house are these old-fashioned exposed affairs. Then when the front door—it is in reality a double door with glass panes—is closed, a pair of folding shutters are drawn out from the wall on each side and are made secure with an iron fastening bar.”
“Then he didn’t go out, after all?”
“Apparently not, but we mustn’t jump to conclusions just yet, Mr. Vereker. The butler locked up and bolted all the doors and unlocked and unbolted them in the morning. He says he found every door leading out of the house locked and bolted as he had left them the night before. Of course, Mr. Frank Cornell may have opened one of these doors again to go out and then locked and bolted it on his return, but the butler is certain he didn’t.”
“You’ve accepted the butler’s words as true?”
“The man looked as if he were speaking the truth and for the time being we’ll say his statement is correct. We must begin somewhere and somehow.”
“And the windows?”
“He says he personally examined all the windows and doors immediately he found Mr. Frank had changed into a lounge suit, because he himself inferred that the young man had been out or at least intended to go out.”
“Temporarily we’ll say he didn’t go out, but he must have gone downstairs for some purpose after he had changed, otherwise there wouldn’t have been those blood splashes on the half-landing and second flight of steps. This is working itself up into a first-class mystery, Heather. Where’s his bedroom?”
“First door on your left.”
“Let’s have a good look at it. I may pick up some information there.”
“Before we leave the staircase, Mr. Vereker, there’s one important thing I must tell you. I was going to hide it, but feel it wouldn’t be quite fair. The young gentleman had taken his shoes off and dropped them on the half-landing in his ascent. The shoelaces hadn’t been untied.”
“I was on the point of asking you why his shoes had been taken off before the police photographed the body,” remarked Vereker smiling. “I suppose we must infer he was creeping up the stairs in his socks to avoid disturbing the sleeping household. The tied shoelaces is a curious point and needs thinking over. Anything else you’re concealing so as to favour your own chances?”
“Nothing unfair,” said Heather with a smile. “I mustn’t bottle-feed you or you’ll get lazy.”
With these words he glanced at his watch and said he must keep an appointment with the Deputy Chief Constable. “Mrs. Cornell, Mrs. and Miss Mayo are lunching with Dr. Redgrave. They won’t be back till late. Mr. Carstairs has gone over to the village. I’ve told the servants in the house that you’re my assistant, so you’ll be able to scratch round on your own while I’m over at Bury. We’ll discuss matters in the ‘Dog and Partridge’ when I return.”
“That’s splendid, Heather, I like scratching round on my own. It’s the same when I’m painting. I always become self-conscious if there’s anyone looking over my shoulder; paralyses all my faculties.”
“On my way I’ll call at Dr. Redgrave’s surgery where the body lies. He has extracted the bullet and I’ll pick it up. I’ll ask him to let you see the body if you think it worth while.”
“It may not be necessary, Heather. You’re not hiding the fact that you’ve found the ejected cartridge shell if the weapon was an automatic?”
“No trace of a shell. It may have been an ordinary revolver,” replied the inspector.
“I shall want to see the bullet, Heather.”
“You shall, Mr. Vereker. I hope the beer’s good in Bury.”
“Wasn’t it one of your sayings, Heather, that there’s no such thing as bad beer, but that some kinds are better than others?”
“Possibly. I always forget my best wisecracks. Someone ought to record them for posterity.”
“Before you go will you tell me where the dead man’s shoes are?”
“You’ll find them in his dressing-room. They’re a heavy pair of brown brogues. You can’t make any mistake.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you on your return to the Inn.”