Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (25 page)

On that night Major Ceely
was murdered.

Of course, at first, no
one attached any importance to this weird coincidence. The very thought of
connecting the idea of murder with that of the personality of a bright,
good-looking young Yorkshireman like Mr. Smethick seemed, indeed, preposterous,
and with one accord all of us who were practically witnesses to the quarrel
between the two men, tacitly agreed to say nothing at all about it at the
inquest, unless we were absolutely obliged to do so on oath.

In view of the Major’s
terrible temper, this quarrel, mind you, had not the importance which it
otherwise would have had; and we all flattered ourselves that we had well
succeeded in parrying the coroner’s questions.

The verdict at the
inquest was against some person or persons unknown; and I, for one, was very
glad that young Smethick’s name had not been mentioned in connection with this
terrible crime.

Two days later the
superintendent at Bishopthorpe sent an urgent telephonic message to Lady Molly,
begging her to come to the police-station immediately. We had the use of a
motor all the while that we stayed at the “Black Swan,” and in less than ten
minutes we were bowling along at express speed towards Bishopthorpe.

On arrival we were
immediately shown into Superintendent Etty’s private room behind the office. He
was there talking with Danvers—who had recently come down from London. In a
corner of the room, sitting very straight on a high-backed chair, was a
youngish woman of the servant class, who, as we entered, cast a quick, and I
thought suspicious, glance at us both.

She was dressed in a coat
and skirt of shabby looking black, and although her face might have been called
good-looking—for she had fine, dark eyes —her entire appearance was distinctly
repellent. It suggested slatternliness in an unusual degree; there were holes
in her shoes and in her stockings, the sleeve of her coat was half unsewn, and
the braid on her skirt hung in loops all round the bottom. She had very red and
coarse-looking hands, and undoubtedly there was a furtive expression in her
eyes, which, when she began speaking, changed to one of defiance.

Etty came forward with
great alacrity when my dear lady entered. He looked perturbed, and seemed
greatly relieved at sight of her.

“She is the wife of one
of the outdoor men at Clevere,” he explained rapidly to Lady Molly, nodding in
the direction of the young woman, “and she has come here with such a queer tale
that I thought you would like to hear it.”

“She knows something
about the murder?” asked Lady Molly.

“Noa! I didn’t say that!”
here interposed the woman, roughly, “doan’t you go and tell no lies, Master
Inspector. I thought as how you might wish to know what my husband saw on the
night when the Major was murdered, that’s all; and I’ve come to tell you.”

“Why didn’t your husband
come himself?” asked Lady Molly.

“Oh, Haggett ain’t well
enough—he—” she began explaining, with a careless shrug of the shoulders, “so
to speak—”

“The fact of the matter
is, my lady,” interposed Etty, “this woman’s husband is half-witted. I believe
he is only kept on in the garden because he is very strong and can help with
the digging. It is because his testimony is so little to be relied on that I
wished to consult you as to how we should act in the matter.”

“What is his testimony,
then?”

“Tell this lady what you
have just told us, Mrs. Haggett, will you?” said Etty, curtly.

Again that quick,
suspicious glance shot into the woman’s eyes. Lady Molly took the chair which
Danvers had brought forward for her, and sat down opposite Mrs. Haggett, fixing
her earnest, calm gaze upon her.

“There’s not much to tell,”
said the woman, sullenly. “Haggett is certainly queer in his head sometimes—and
when he is queer he goes wandering about the place of nights.”

“Yes?” said my lady, for
Mrs. Haggett had paused awhile and now seemed unwilling to proceed.

“Well!” she resumed with
sudden determination, “he had got one of his queer fits on on Christmas Eve,
and didn’t come in till long after midnight. He told me as how he’d seen a
young gentleman prowling about the garden on the terrace side. He heard the cry
of ‘Murder’ and ‘Help’ soon after that, and ran in home because he was
frightened.”

“Home?” asked Lady Molly,
quietly, “where is home?”

“The cottage where we
live. Just back of the kitchen garden.”

“Why didn’t you tell all
this to the superintendent before?”

“Because Haggett only
told me last night, when he seemed less queerlike. He is mighty silent when the
fits are on him.”

“Did he know who the
gentleman was whom he saw?”

“No, ma’am—I don’t
suppose he did—leastways he wouldn’t say— but—”

“Yes? But?”

“He found this in the
garden yesterday,” said the woman, holding out a screw of paper which
apparently she had held tightly clutched up to now, “and maybe that ‘s what brought
Christmas Eve and the murder back to his mind.”

Lady Molly took the thing
from her, and undid the soiled bit of paper with her dainty fingers. The next
moment she held up for Etty’s inspection a beautiful ring composed of an
exquisitely carved moonstone surrounded with diamonds of unusual brilliance.

At the moment the setting
and the stones themselves were marred by scraps of sticky mud which clung to
them; the ring obviously having lain on the ground, and perhaps been trampled
on for some days, and then been only very partially washed.

“At any rate you can find
out the ownership of the ring,” commented my dear lady after awhile, in answer
to Etty’s silent attitude of expectancy. “There would be no harm in that.”

Then she turned once more
to the woman.

“I’ll walk with you to
your cottage, if I may,” she said decisively, “and have a chat with your
husband. Is he at home?”

I thought Mrs. Haggett
took this suggestion with marked reluctance. I could well imagine, from her own
personal appearance, that her home was most unlikely to be in a fit state for a
lady’s visit. However, she could, of course, do nothing but obey, and, after a
few muttered words of grudging acquiescence, she rose from her chair and
stalked towards the door, leaving my lady to follow as she chose.

Before going, however,
she turned and shot an angry glance at Etty.

“You’ll give me back the
ring, Master Inspector,” she said with her usual tone of sullen defiance. “‘Findings
is keepings’ you know.”

“I am afraid not,” replied
Etty, curtly; “but there’s always the reward offered by Miss Ceely for
information which would lead to the apprehension of her father’s murderer. You
may get that, you know. It is a hundred pounds.”

“Yes! I knew that,” she
remarked dryly, as, without further comment, she finally went out of the room.

My dear lady came back
very disappointed from her interview with Haggett.

It seems that he was
indeed half-witted—almost an imbecile, in fact, with but a few lucid intervals
of which this present day was one. But, of course, his testimony was
practically valueless.

He reiterated the story
already told by his wife, adding no details. He had seen a young gentleman
roaming on the terraced walk on the night of the murder. He did not know who
the young gentleman was. He was going homewards when he heard the cry of “Murder,”
and ran to his cottage because he was frightened. He picked up the ring
yesterday in the perennial border below the terrace and gave it to his wife.

Two of these brief
statements made by the imbecile were easily proved to be true, and my dear lady
had ascertained this before she returned to me. One of the Clevere
under-gardeners said he had seen Haggett running home in the small hours of
that fateful Christmas morning. He himself had been on the watch for the
cattle-maimers that night, and remembered the little circumstance quite
plainly. He added that Haggett certainly looked to be in a panic.

Then Newby, another
outdoor man at the Hall, saw Haggett pick up the ring in the perennial border
and advised him to take it to the police.

Somehow, all of us who
were so interested in that terrible Christmas tragedy felt strangely perturbed
at all this. No names had been mentioned as yet, but whenever my dear lady and
I looked at one another, or whenever we talked to Etty or Danvers, we all felt
that a certain name, one particular personality, was lurking at the back of all
our minds.

The two men, of course,
had no sentimental scruples to worry them. Taking the Haggett story merely as a
clue, they worked diligently on that, with the result that twenty-four hours
later Etty appeared in our private room at the “Black Swan” and calmly informed
us that he had just got a warrant out against Mr. Laurence Smethick on a charge
of murder, and was on his way even now to effect the arrest.

“Mr. Smethick did
not
murder Major Ceely,” was Lady Molly’s firm and only
comment when she heard the news.

“Well, my lady, that’s as
it may be!” rejoined Etty, speaking with that deference with which the entire
force invariably addressed my dear lady; “but we have collected a sufficiency
of evidence, at any rate, to justify the arrest and, in my opinion, enough of
it to hang any man. Mr. Smethick purchased the moonstone and diamond ring at
Nicholson’s in Coney Street about a week ago. He was seen abroad on Christmas
Eve by several persons, loitering round the gates at Clevere Hall, somewhere
about the time when the guests were leaving after the dance, and, again, some
few moments after the first cry of ‘Murder’ had been heard. His own valet
admits that his master did not get home that night until long after 2:00 am.,
whilst even Miss Granard here won’t deny that there was a terrible quarrel
between Mr. Smethick and Major Ceely less than twenty-four hours before the
latter was murdered.”

Lady Molly offered no
remark to this array of facts which Etty thus pitilessly marshalled before us,
but I could not refrain from exclaiming:

“Mr. Smethick is innocent,
I am sure.”

“I hope, for his sake, he
may be,” retorted Etty, gravely, “but somehow ’tis a pity that he don’t seem
able to give a good account of himself between midnight and two o’clock that
Christmas morning.”

“Oh!” I ejaculated, “what
does he say about that?”

“Nothing,” replied the
man, dryly; “that’s just the trouble.”

Well, of course, as you
who read the papers will doubtless remember, Mr. Laurence Smethick, son of
Colonel Smethick, M. P., of Pakethorpe Hall, Yorks, was arrested on the charge
of having murdered Major Ceely on the night of December 24th-25th, and, after
the usual magisterial inquiry, was duly committed to stand his trial at the
next York assizes.

I remember well that,
throughout his preliminary ordeal, young Smethick bore himself like one who had
given up all hope of refuting the terrible charges brought against him, and, I
must say, the formidable number of witnesses which the police brought up
against him more than explained that attitude.

Of course, Haggett was
not called, but, as it happened, there were plenty of people to swear that Mr.
Laurence Smethick was seen loitering round the gates of Clevere Hall after the
guests had departed on Christmas Eve. The head gardener, who lives at the
lodge, actually spoke to him, and Captain Glynne, leaning out of his brougham
window, was heard to exclaim: “Hello, Smethick, what are you doing here at this
time of night?” And there were others, too.

To Captain Glynne’s
credit, be it here recorded, he tried his best to deny having recognised his
unfortunate friend in the dark. Pressed by the magistrate, he said obstinately:

“I thought at the time
that it was Mr. Smethick standing by the lodge gates, but on thinking the
matter over I feel sure that I was mistaken.”

On the other hand, what
stood dead against young Smethick was, firstly, the question of the ring, and
then the fact that he was seen in the immediate neighbourhood of Clevere, both
at midnight and again at about two, when some men, who had been on the watch
for the cattle-maimers, saw him walking away rapidly in the direction of
Pakethorpe.

What was, of course,
unexplainable and very terrible to witness was Mr. Smethick’s obstinate silence
with regard to his own movements during those fatal hours on that night. He did
not contradict those who said that they had seen him at about midnight near the
gates of Clevere, nor his own valet’s statements as to the hour when he
returned home. All he said was that he could not account for what he did
between the time when the guests left the Hall and he himself went back to
Pakethorpe. He realised the danger in which he stood, and what caused him to be
silent about a matter which might mean life or death to him could not easily be
conjectured.