Dead Man's Quarry (24 page)

“No—o,” agreed John, gazing pensively at the blanched shell. “Still the egg-shell, obviously emptied by human agency, does prove that there was a stranger about on the evening of the murder. Because none of the local cottagers would have been in such a state of starvation as to eat seven eggs right off. A local person might have stolen the eggs. But, as mine host pointed out, he would have taken them home and boiled them like a Christian. The eating of them raw seems to suggest a tramp. And the fact that nobody noticed a tramp at the inn or on the road nearby suggests that if there were such a person he didn't want to be noticed.”

“But,” exclaimed Nora, “there were so many people coming and going round the Tram that he might easily not have been noticed.”

“And,” said Rampson, “the fact that he had designs on the poultry-yard would be quite enough to explain his invisibility without bringing murder into it.”

“You're both perfectly right and reasonable,” said John with a gentle sigh. “I count myself fortunate in being surrounded by such keen and critical intellects.
But
, all the same—forgive my obstinacy—there was a stranger at the Tram Inn last Monday evening. And there was a
murder
near the Tram Inn last Monday evening.”

“Surely, my dear John,” said Rampson peacefully, “you've got enough to do following up more promising clues, without bringing this egg-sucking stranger into it.”

“I don't propose to bring him into it. I only propose to keep him pigeon-holed, in case circumstances should bring him into it. What is it, Nora?”

Nora, who had suddenly uttered an exclamation, was gazing out through the arched and pillared doorway of the summer-house with introspective eyes. She turned them half-doubtfully, half-excitedly on John.

“Do you know—” she began abruptly, and stopped.

“I feel sure I don't. Do tell me.”

“Well, I've just remembered. There was a reflection in the looking-glass—”

“That,” observed Rampson, idly ironical, “is remarkable.”

“No, but there was. On Monday, just before we had tea in the Tram. Did you notice that old green mirror at the end of the passage, and how it reflects the front door? I was looking at myself in it, and I could see the opening of the front door over my shoulder. And a man came and looked in and went away.”

“Well?”

“That's all, I'm afraid. He was standing against the light and some way off, and I didn't get a clear reflection of him.”

“But, Nora, then he may have been anybody.”

“Yes,” admitted Nora. She was silent a moment. “But there was something in the way he looked in—something queer and furtive. And in the way he moved off when I looked round—so quickly and yet—furtively, as if he were used to moving like that. I couldn't really see him. I should never be able to describe him. I couldn't even tell what age he seemed to be. But I can see again quite plainly that furtive, embarrassed movement. One gets impressions like that much more from people's attitudes and movements than from their faces, you know.”

“My dear Nora, you quite make my flesh creep,” said Felix, who so far had been a silent member of the council of four. “Are you sure he didn't move off quickly just because he was embarrassed at seeing you there?”

He may have been,” replied Nora slowly. “Especially—” She laughed a little and coloured. “Especially as I was amusing myself by making a face at myself in the glass. He may have seen my reflection and thought I was an escaped lunatic. You'd better not make too much of him, John. But there he was, and you can pigeon-hole him along with your stray starving tramp, if you think he's worth it.”

“Thank you. I certainly will. Are you sure you can't describe him at all? His height or build or—”

Nora shook her head.

“I think I'd better not. I didn't see him full-length, except just for a second as he moved away. And one's so easily led into imagining things. I think he was fairly tall—at least he wasn't short. That's all. I'm afraid you'll have to do with that, John. And don't attach too much importance to him.”

Felix murmured thoughtfully:

“Didn't that queer girl at the inn say something about seeing a stranger in the yard? Surely she did. Don't you remember, Nora? When she apologized for the hard-boiled eggs? She said—”

“Yes, she did! She said she'd seen a man in the yard who looked as if he didn't ought to be there. And she went out to see who it was, and that was how our eggs were hard-boiled. I remember now! But—”

She hesitated, looking rather disappointed. “Of course it doesn't help us much. It only goes to prove what we knew already, that there was a suspicious character at the Tram Inn that evening, helping himself to eggs and apples. It doesn't get us any nearer to the murderer.”

“What should get us nearer to the murderer,” observed Rampson, “is that coat we found on the Forest yesterday. I take it that it's absolutely known to be Charles's?”

“Absolutely,” replied Nora.

Felix stirred his long limbs uneasily. He did not like to dwell upon that clue. Like Mr. Clino, he saw it as a weapon in the hands of his father's accusers.

“Well,” went on Rampson, fondling one of Blodwen's spaniels which had entered the summer-house in search of its mistress, “that coat was obviously left on the Forest either by the murderer or by an accomplice. And if it-was not actually left there on the night of the murder, it was left soon after. It had been lying in that patch of bracken for some days. That was plain from the distorted shapes and pale colour of the young shoots trying to grow under it. So its discovery should narrow down your field of inquiry. It adds a further necessary qualification to the list we were making yesterday: the murderer must either have had an accomplice, or he must have had the opportunity of visiting the Forest within a day or two of the murder.”

“True,” assented John dreamily, and suddenly in his mind's ear a light, gay voice chattered like a stream of clear water:
“Have you been up on the Forest yet? I went yesterday. You can't think how lovely it is.”

“Heavens, John,” said Nora, breaking the silence. “What a frown! What terrible idea has occurred to you?”

“I was only thinking,” said John, coining to himself with a smile, “about murderers and accomplices. Especially accomplices.”

Rampson suddenly laughed.

“What's the joke?” asked Felix, amiably enough, but with a faint undertone of resentment. Since John's appeal, he had not given way to gloom. But cheerfulness was beyond his powers. His was the tense and high-strung temper that can meet cruel circumstance with courage but not with confidence.

Nora shot a glance at him half-pitiful, half-amused. Well she knew her Felix and his capacity for suffering. She could imagine him vowing, like King Henry, never to smile again: and keeping his vow for an appreciable fraction of eternity. John, noting that tender, critical glance, apostrophized her silently:
Nora, my dear Nora, must you love this intense, preoccupied young man?
And they both asked with a liveliness intended to disguise their inward thoughts:

“Yes, Sydenham, what
is
the joke?”

“Nothing much,” replied Rampson with a grin. “I was just thinking of young Lion yesterday and his excitement when we put that darning-needle under the microscope and found traces of blood on it. He'd make a marvellous detective's assistant. I left him quite convinced that somebody had been stabbed to the heart with a darning-needle and that the police should be told of this amazing discovery forthwith. It wasn't the slightest use pointing out that people have blood in their fingers as well as in their hearts.”

Nora smiled.

“I know. He thinks he's found the one important clue. I told him that if he started darning his own socks he'd soon discover the reason for the blood on that needle. But he wouldn't have it. It's too tame an explanation.”

“Was there blood on the needle? It was probably mine. I pricked my finger on it yesterday.”

“Don't think so. The blood wasn't fresh enough to be yours. And this looked like the trace of quite a deep puncture, not a little prick.”

“Oh, well! It isn't important. But I'll pigeon-hole it along with the egg-shell and the other small matters.” Felix turned an austere and thoughtful eye on his friend.

“If you're going to remember things like Charles pricking his finger when he darns his socks, won't your pigeon-hole, as you call it, get rather in a muddle?”

“Not a bit of it. One should try to remember everything one hears, however trifling, about a man who's been murdered. It's always possible that something may turn up which will make all the clues we think important become insignificant, and all the stray facts we've collected become important. You never know. By the way, I'm going to have a good look at that map of young Lion's and see if it suggests anything to me, before I pursue the elusive Mrs. Field to London.”

“Are you going to?”

“Certainly. We must get at the truth of this five-pound-note business somehow.”

“Sweet innocent Sherlock,” remarked Rampson pitifully, “do you imagine that you will be able to induce her to present you with the truth?”

“Not for a moment. But the lies people tell are so enlightening. Clear that rug off the table, Sydenham, will you? I want to spread the map out.”

Rampson did as he was requested and a book which had been lying among the folds of the rug fell to the floor. He picked it up and gazed at it with mingled amusement and aversion.

“‘The Murder in the Attic!' Is this yours, John?” John, unrolling Lion's parchment, glanced at the dust-cover, which showed a hideous green and yellow face peering from a purple attic window. He grinned.

“No. But give it to me. I'll restore it to its rightful owner. You know, Nora, your young brother is really quite an accomplished draughtsman. Anybody got a pin or two?”

He speared the map at each corner to the wooden table. “Now then. You met Charles at Worcester. Lifelike portrait of Charles by the celebrated miniaturist, Mr. Lion Browning. You had lunch at the Crown, and then started along the road towards Leigh. You took various field-paths—these are the cows, of course, and—did your father really run over a pig, Nora?”

Nora laughed.

“Not really over. He just grazed it.”

“It came on to rain, and you all took shelter in a barn —and what's this? Told Travellers' Tales?”

“Yes. I suppose those balloons coming out of everybody's mouths represent talking.”

“Charles has an extra large one.”

“Yes. He was telling us about Canada, and about how it felt to be back in England. And then he and Felix started talking about their extreme youth, when Sir Almeric was at Rhyllan Hall and they both came to stay here in their holidays.”

“What sort of things?”

“Oh, I dunno. The usual sort of things. About how they used to dress and go out after they'd been sent to bed. And about what a rotten shot at a rabbit Felix used to be, and is still, aren't you, Felix? And about fishing and bathing in the river, and so on.”

“Well. The rain soon left off, and you went on, and had no more adventures until you arrived at Highbury Down, where you spent the night. The next day it was very hot. This is the sun, jeering at you. You had hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Charles found he had a puncture, and Lion kindly mended it for him. You started out at ten o'clock along a narrow lane full of chickens and other farmyard animals, and soon came out on a better road. When you'd gone about four miles you found that Charles was missing. You all sat and waited for him, and after a time he turned up. What on earth are these stripy things intended to represent?”

“Bulls' eyes. Charles had seen a sign-post saying half a mile to some village or other, and had gone down a side-road to buy some sweets—we were all awfully thirsty and pining for something to suck. It was really rather kind of him, because he didn't like sweets himself. But of course we all rather wondered where he'd got to.”

“Yes. You went on without any excitements except some formidable-looking hills to Fairway, where you had lunch at the Merry Month of May. After lunch it was hotter than ever—I see the sun has grown a good deal larger. You went on about five miles until you came to a small river, where you bathed.”

“Yes. It was lovely. So cool and clear. And there were water-lilies and dragon-flies—millions of them.”

“Does this unpleasant object represent a dragon-fly?”

“No, that's a leech. Father said he'd seen a leech, and got out. The rest of us laughed and said it must have been a water-beetle or something, but we didn't feel quite happy about it. And then Lion said he could feel something biting his leg, and that settled it. We all leapt out. But it was a lovely stream, and we had a lovely bathe.”

“Who's this standing on the bank?”

“That's Charles. He didn't bathe, because bathing when he was hot always gave him a headache, he said.”

“After the bathe you lay about in the sun and slept. Except your father and Lion, who went to look at the mill. Then you went slowly on to Galton, and had tea there, late, and stayed the night. There was a fair there, and you collected several coco-nuts.”

“Charles did. He was really good at it. And then we went on the roundabouts and swings.”

“The next day was Sunday. You went on towards Hereford. It was another hot day, and there were lots more hills. You bathed again in a river. Who are these on the bank this time?”

“Father and Charles. Father had leeches on the brain, and Charles said it was too hot for him, so they got lunch ready on the bank instead. We'd brought sandwiches from the inn, and they made a fire and stewed some awful tea in Lion's billy-can.”

“That seems to have been rather an energetic day. You got to Hereford about seven o'clock and stayed there the night, and started early the next day towards Penlow. I see from the size of the sun that it was a fine day, but not so hot. Isabel fell off her bicycle in Hereford, and was picked up by at least eight good Samaritans.”