The Victorian Mystery Megapack (54 page)

The jury had just returned from viewing the body when the crunch of wheels and hoofs was heard on the gravel of the drive, and a two-horse phaeton pulled up sharp at the entrance.

A moment later there came into the room a handsome, soldier-like man, with a girl clinging to his arm, whom he supported with tender, protecting fondness that was very touching. The girl’s face was pale, but wonderfully sweet and winsome; cheeks with the faint, pure flush of the wild rose, and eyes like a wild fawn’s.

No need to tell Mr. Beck that here were Colonel Peyton and his daughter. He saw the look—shy, piteous, loving—that the girl gave John Neville, as she passed close to the table where he sat with his head buried in his hands; and the detective’s face darkened for a moment with a stern purpose, but the next moment it resumed its customary look of good-nature and good-humour.

The gardener, the gamekeeper, and the butler were briefly examined by the Coroner, and rather clumsily cross-examined by Mr. Waggles, the solicitor whom Eric had thoughtfully secured for his cousin’s defence.

As the case against John Neville gradually darkened into grim certainty, the girl in the far corner of the room grew white as a lily, and would have fallen but for her father’s support.

“Does Mr. John Neville offer himself for examination?” said the Coroner, as he finished writing the last words of the butler’s deposition describing the quarrel of the night before.

“No, sir,” said Mr. Waggles. “I appear for Mr. John Neville, the accused, and we reserve our defence.”

“I really have nothing to say that hasn’t been already said,” added John Neville quietly.

“Mr. Neville,” said Mr. Waggles pompously, “I must ask you to leave yourself entirely in my hands.”

“Eric Neville!” called out the Coroner. “This is the last witness, I think.”

Eric stepped in front of the table and took the Bible in his hand. He was pale, but quiet and composed, and there was an unaffected grief in the look of his dark eyes and in the tone of his soft voice that touched every heart—except one.

He told his story shortly and clearly. It was quite plain that he was most anxious to shield his cousin. But in spite of this, perhaps because of this, the evidence went horribly against John Neville.

The answers to questions criminating his cousin had to be literally dragged from him by the Coroner. With manifest reluctance he described the quarrel at dinner the night before.

“Was your cousin very angry?” the Coroner asked.

“He would not be human if he were not angry at the language used.”

“What did he say?”

“I cannot remember all he said.”

“Did he say to your uncle: ‘Well, you will not live for ever’?”

No answer.

“Come, Mr. Neville, remember you are sworn to tell the truth.” In an almost inaudible whisper came the words: “He did.”

“I’m sorry to pain you, but I must do my duty. When you heard the shot you ran straight to your uncle’s room, about fifty yards, I believe?”

“About that.”

“Whom did you find there bending over the dead man?”

“My cousin. I am bound to say he appeared in the deepest grief.”

“But you saw no one else?”

“No.”

“Your cousin is, I believe, the heir to Squire Neville’s property; the owner I should say now?”

“I believe so.”

“That will do; you can stand down.”

This interchange of question and answer, each one of which seemed to fit the rope tighter and tighter round John Neville’s neck, was listened to with hushed eagerness by the room full of people.

There was a long, deep drawing-in of breath when it ended. The suspense seemed over, but not the excitement. Mr. Beck rose as Eric turned from the table, quite as a matter of course, to question him.

“You say you believe your cousin was your uncle’s heir—don’t you know it?”

Then Mr. Waggles found his voice.

“Really, sir,” he broke out, addressing the Coroner, “I must protest. This is grossly irregular. This person is not a professional gentleman. He represents no one. He has no locus standi in court at all.”

No one knew better than Mr. Beck that technically he had no title to open his lips; but his look of quiet assurance, his calm assumption of unmistakable right, carried the day with the Coroner.

“Mr. Beck,” he said, “has, I understand, been brought down specially from London to take charge of this case, and I certainly shall not stop him in any question he may desire to ask.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Beck, in the tone of a man whose clear right has been allowed. Then again to the witness: “Didn’t you know John Neville was next heir to Berkly Manor?”

“I know it, of course,”

“And if John Neville is hanged you will be the owner?”

Every one was startled at the frank brutality of the question so blandly asked. Mr. Waggles bobbed up and down excitedly; but Eric answered, calmly as ever—

“That’s very coarsely and cruelly put.”

“But it’s true?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“We will pass from that. When you came into the room after the murder, did you examine the gun?”

“I stretched out my hand to take it, but my cousin stopped me. I must be allowed to add that I believe he was actuated, as he said, by a desire to keep everything in the room untouched. He locked the door and carried off the key. I was not in the room afterwards.”

“Did you look closely at the gun?”

“Not particularly.”

“Did you notice that both barrels were at half cock?”

“No.”

“Did you notice that there was no cap on the nipple of the right barrel that had just been fired?”

“Certainly not.”

“That is to say you did not notice it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice a little burnt line traced a short distance o the wood of the stock towards the right nipple?”

“No.”

Mr. Beck put the gun into his hand.

“Look close. Do you notice it now?”

“I see it now for the first time.”

“You cannot account for it, I suppose?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Quite sure.”

All present followed this strange, and apparently purposeless cross-examination with breathless interest, groping vainly for its meaning.

The answers were given calmly and clearly, but those that looked closely saw that Eric’s nether lip quivered, and it was only by a strong effort of will that he held his calmness.

Through the blandness of Mr. Beck’s voice and manner a subtle suggestion of hostility made itself felt, very trying to the nerves of the witness.

“We will pass from that,” said Mr. Beck again. “When you went into your uncle’s room before the shot why did you take a book from the shelf and put it on the table?”

“I really cannot remember anything about it.”

“Why did you take the water-bottle from the window and stand it on the book?”

“I wanted a drink.”

“But there was none of the water drunk.”

“Then I suppose it was to take it out of the strong sun.”

“But you set it in the strong sun on the table?”

“Really I cannot remember those trivialities.” His self-control was breaking down at last. “Then we will pass from that,” said Mr. Beck a third time.

He took the little scraps of paper with the burnt holes through them from his waistcoat pocket, and handed them to the witness.

“Do you know anything about these?”

There was a pause of a second. Eric’s lips tightened as if with a sudden spasm of pain. But the answer came clearly enough—

“Nothing whatever.”

“Do you ever amuse yourself with a burning glass?”

This seeming simple question was snapped suddenly at the witness like a pistol-shot.

“Really, really,” Mr. Waggles broke out, “this is mere trifling with the Court.”

“That question does certainly seem a little irrelevant, Mr. Beck,” mildly remonstrated the Coroner. “Look at the witness, sir,” retorted Mr. Beck sternly. “He does not think it irrelevant.”

Every eye in court was turned on Eric’s face and fixed there.

All colour had fled from his cheeks and lips; his mouth had fallen open, and he stared at Mr. Beck with eyes of abject terror.

Mr. Beck went on remorselessly: “Did you ever amuse yourself with a burning glass?” No answer.

“Do you know that a water-bottle like this makes a capital burning glass?” Still no answer.

“Do you know that a burning glass has been used before now to touch off a cannon of fire a gun?”

Then a voice broke from Eric at last, as it seemed in defiance of his will; a voice unlike his own—loud, harsh, hardly articulate; such a voice might have been heard in the torture chamber in the old days when the strain on the rack grew unbearable.

“You devilish bloodhound!” he shouted. “Curse you, curse you, you’ve caught me! I confess it—I was the murderer!” He fell on the ground in a fit.

“And you made the sun your accomplice!” remarked Mr. Beck, placid as ever.

THE BLACK BAG LEFT ON A DOOR-STEP, by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

“It’s a big thing,” said Loveday Brooke, addressing Ebenezer Dyer, chief of the well-known detective agency in Lynch Court, Fleet Street; “Lady Cathrow has lost £30,000 worth of jewellery, if the newspaper accounts are to be trusted.”

“They are fairly accurate this time. The robbery differs in few respects from the usual run of country-house robberies. The time chosen, of course, was the dinner-hour, when the family and guests were at table and the servants not on duty were amusing themselves in their own quarters. The fact of its being Christmas Eve would also of necessity add to the business and consequent distraction of the household. The entry to the house, however, in this case was not effected in the usual manner by a ladder to the dressing-room window, but through the window of a room on the ground floor—a small room with one window and two doors, one of which opens into the hall, and the other into a passage that leads by the back stairs to the bedroom floor. It is used, I believe, as a sort of hat and coat room by the gentlemen of the house.”

“It was, I suppose, the weak point of the house?”

“Quite so. A very weak point indeed. Craigen Court, the residence of Sir George and Lady Cathrow, is an oddly-built old place, jutting out in all directions, and as this window looked out upon a blank wall, it was filled in with stained glass, kept fastened by a strong brass catch, and never opened, day or night, ventilation being obtained by means of a glass ventilator fitted in the upper panes. It seems absurd to think that this window, being only about four feet from the ground, should have had neither iron bars nor shutters added to it; such, however, was the case. On the night of the robbery, someone within the house must have deliberately, and of intention, unfastened its only protection, the brass catch, and thus given the thieves easy entrance to the house.”

“Your suspicions, I suppose, centre upon the servants?”

“Undoubtedly; and it is in the servants’ hall that your services will be required. The thieves, whoever they were, were perfectly cognizant of the ways of the house. Lady Cathrow’s jewellery was kept in a safe in her dressing-room, and as the dressing-room was over the dining-room, Sir George was in the habit of saying that it was the ‘safest’ room in the house. (Note the pun, please; Sir George is rather proud of it.) By his orders the window of the dining-room immediately under the dressing-room window was always left unshuttered and without blind during dinner, and as a full stream of light thus fell through it on to the outside terrace, it would have been impossible for anyone to have placed a ladder there unseen.”

“I see from the newspapers that it was Sir George’s invariable custom to fill his house and give a large dinner on Christmas Eve.”

“Yes. Sir George and Lady Cathrow are elderly people, with no family and few relatives, and have consequently a large amount of time to spend on their friends.”

“I suppose the key of the safe was frequently left in the possession of Lady Cathrow’s maid?”

“Yes. She is a young French girl, Stephanie Delcroix by name. It was her duty to clear the dressing-room directly after her mistress left it; put away any jewellery that might be lying about, lock the safe, and keep the key till her mistress came up to bed. On the night of the robbery, however, she admits that, instead of so doing, directly her mistress left the dressing-room, she ran down to the housekeeper’s room to see if any letters had come for her, and remained chatting with the other servants for some time—she could not say for how long. It was by the half-past-seven post that her letters generally arrived from St. Omer, where her home is.”

“Oh, then, she was in the habit of thus running down to enquire for her letters, no doubt, and the thieves, who appear to be so thoroughly cognizant of the house, would know this also.”

“Perhaps; though at the present moment I must say things look very black against the girl. Her manner, too, when questioned, is not calculated to remove suspicion. She goes from one fit of hysterics into another; contradicts herself nearly every time she opens her mouth, then lays it to the charge of her ignorance of our language; breaks into voluble French; becomes theatrical in action, and then goes off into hysterics once more.”