“You and Mercer are all right,” Gerald growled. “A wife can’t give evidence against her husband, even if she wanted to, and you’re not likely to peach on your brother.”

  Benjy bristled up. “To peach on me! What the devil do you mean?”

  “And what evidence do you think I could give against my husband?” I demanded.

  He looked sullen. “I don’t say you have any. I say if there was a—”

  “‘If you had a sister, would she like cheese?’ in other words,” Mr. Musson interrupted, as Addie came in with a cartridge to show him. “I think we may leave hypothetical cases out of it for the moment. Ah, thank you, Miss Stole, we are just wanting to see how Fonders could possibly be struck in the eye at extreme range. This does not help much.”

  He held up the cartridge, and she stared.

  “Did you think it would?”

  He shook his head. “This is a two-and-a-half-inch case, which would fire just the same charge as my twenty, which has a longer chamber. On the whole, I don’t see your gun carrying all the way to Fonders’s hide.”

  “The trouble to those of us who can think accurately and logically, Mr. Musson,” Vanity said sententiously, “is that Mr. Fonders was shot in the eye. I know nothing about guns, and I have to take what you have said at its face value, but what is the good of saying that no gun fired to-day could carry the distance, when we know one did?”

  He bowed ironically. “A logical mind like yours, Miss Doe, might remember that I made an exception. A brain of your calibre, even if you’re not a gun expert, will be able to understand that a charge of small shot, such as one uses for birds, does not travel very far, as each pellet is light, and meets with friction in its flight through the air.”

  She bit her lip, and coloured up. “It may do so.”

  “It does do so. In a charge of one ounce of number six shot, there are two hundred and seventy pellets. In a charge of what I may call swan-shot, there are twenty much larger pellets, size SSSG. Have you got that?”

  She said that she had, and he went on: “Swan-shot or buck-shot would undoubtedly travel a long way, and do damage at a hundred or more yards, even with a normal charge of powder.”

  “Why talk rot?” Benjy inquired. “Who is likely to come down here for swans or buck? And who wants the things, if they were here?”

  “Mr. Musson is being wise as usual,” said Gerald. “I shall show him the cartridges I have left, and insist on his dissecting them to make sure I didn’t load up with buck-shot.”

  “Why should you?” said Musson, staring at him steadily. “I was merely trying to convince Miss Doe that a shotgun could have hit Fonders.”

  “Oh, by inference you were going further than that,” Vanity said, thinking her logic had given her the advantage again. “You said it could only be done by swan-shot. It was done, so one of the guns must have done it.”

  Vincie nodded. “The real point is that no one was firing from an aeroplane at our party. So, whether it’s possible or impossible, one of us accidentally shot Lionel.”

  “What about the keepers or beaters?” Addie asked. “I don’t like the look of the Scotch one.”

  “Keepers don’t carry guns at a drive, and the beaters had none, and were away in the woods to the south,” Musson said.

  I felt that there was a danger of the storm rising again. “There was an accident,” I remarked. “The inquest will decide what its nature was. Or, if that is impossible, I suppose there is a suitable verdict?”

  “There is,” Vincie announced. “‘Accidental death, though the jury were unable to say exactly how it was caused.’ I think we had better leave it to the jury.”

  CHAPTER VII

  Gerald Whick was driven off very early next morning to catch a train at the junction eight miles away. We breakfasted at eight, and Vincie, Musson and I set off at nine towards Theby Wood.

  Musson had a long tape-measure and Vincie had a pad of paper and a pencil. We picked up Macpherson, the keeper, at the edge of the wood. Vincie went off to pace the wood, and make a rough sketch of its size and shape. I elected to stay with the other two.

  They began by measuring the distance between the hide where Lionel was found dead, and that occupied by Vanity and Benjy in Little Covert. Then they measured from Lionel’s to Whick’s, and then worked through the others till they came to Musson’s. All were over a hundred yards, except Gerald Whick’s, which was about ninety, and Musson’s was two hundred and fifty yards away. Vincie has marked the distances on his map.

  Vincie was coming round the far horn of the wood when we finished there, and remarked to the keeper that he could not understand it.

  “Unless one of us has a wonder-gun,” he added.

  “If it was no a saxteen she had, I wud say it was yon leddy in No. 5,” Macpherson remarked, frowning. “Wha’s to say, onyway, if she didna’ walk a yaird or twa oot o’ her hide?”

  “No, no,” said Vincie; “she was using number six shot. But I must get on with my sketch.”

  He had only gone on a few minutes, pacing solemnly, when the police turned up, in the shape of a large and intelligent superintendent and a stout but dull-faced constable. They had brought a map of the wood with them, enlarged to scale from the six-inch ordnance map, and greeted us with some surprise.

  “Having a look to see what happened, sir?” Superintendent Brown asked Musson.

  “We were measuring the distances between the hides,” Musson said, passing over his notes. “We can’t make out how the man was shot. Will you come back over the ground with us? We can go back to the hide where Mr. Fonders was found.”

  “Certainly. Who found him?”

  “My husband, Mr. Mercer,” I remarked. “He has just gone on to make a sketch of the wood.”

  Brown raised his eyebrows in some amusement. “I see. Waste of time really, you know, madam, for when you have shooting-parties you risk accidents. I shoot, myself, but not in company, I may say. All I want is just to look round, pick up the doctor again when he’s done, and know enough to instruct the coroner privately. No need for anyone to get worried about an accidental death.” He had reckoned without that typical Scot, the keeper, who was even more grimly logical than Vanity, and knew what he was talking about as well.

  “Mebbe sae,” he grunted, “but I’ll juist draw yer attention, sir, to yin fact. A’ the guns were oot o’ range o’ the bit hide where the man was kilt.”

  Brown smiled good-humouredly. “Macpherson, if I didn’t know that you were a Scot, I should say that was a Hibernian way of putting it. A Saxon like myself would say that a man who was killed by a shot was not out of range.”

  “Weel, weel, ye’ll know better when ye see,” Macpherson bridled.

  When Brown did come round with us, he saw. And made amends. “You’re right apparently. Still we may take it that by some fluke, or balling of pellets, Mr. Fonders was accidentally shot by another gun. It’s obvious the doctor thinks the death was chance too. The shot would not have penetrated the body, or even the flesh of the face, deeply. But it went into the eye-socket.”

  We agreed, but Macpherson, having established his position as a man incapable of Hibernianisms on a serious subject, had not said all his say. He planted his feet apart, and stared at the officer.

  “There’s anither factor, sir, that ocht tae be investigated.”

  “What’s that? You don’t mean that it’s most likely the shots must have come from Hides 1, 2, or 5?”

  “Or sax! Nae doot o’ that, and five, tae my mind, most likely o’ a’; for yon leddy was in’t! But it’s nae that. Whaur did the ither shot, the stray pickles, gae, I ask ye?”

  Vincie came hurrying back, was introduced to the superintendent, and asked what we were doing next.

  “Mr. Macpherson here has suggested that we should examine the hide where Mr. Fonders was found, for signs of the passage of shot, sir,” Brown remarked politely. “It is a good idea. It may be, but seems unlikely, that only one or two pellets went on. If so, we must search the trees and branches between that hide and the others, to see how, and where, they were intercepted.”

  “Good idea,” Vincie agreed, “though it may be a bit of a job finding small shot in tree-trunks.”

  “We will make the attempt,” said Brown, “but Hide No. 3 first. If we find any there, we may be able roughly to judge the direction from which they came.”

  I began to find all this rather fascinating, for, like the rest of us, I’m afraid, I had almost forgotten the man whose death had given rise to this search.

  With six of us at work, aided by the keeper’s keen eyes, we managed to do all there was to be done at No. 3 hide in half an hour. But not a branch or leaf, or tree-trunk, showed signs of having been struck by shot, and Brown became less airy in his manner.

  It was lunch-time before we had done all the hides, and failed to discover a single clue to the manner of Lionel’s death.

  “Silly or not,” said the superintendent, as we walked back to the house, “it must have been a shot that was falling from a height.”

  Musson did not reply to that. “Will you stay to lunch, superintendent?” he asked.

  “I am sorry. I am very busy, and have taken too much time already. I can take the doctor back with me, if he’s done his job.”

  Dr. Smith had just finished, and was surrounded in the hall by Benjy, Vanity, Bob and Addie.

  I gathered that they were annoyed and disappointed, and the doctor very curt and firm. He had to make his report for the police. It was an official report, not something to be canvassed and gossiped about. I think he regarded us as a set of raffish Bohemians. At all events, he would not tell us what he had decided about the cause of death.

  The superintendent supported him. He said that the report must be considered at headquarters. It would be learned at the inquest exactly what the medical verdict was.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he added, before he bore the doctor away in his car, “you will receive official notices this evening. But I may tell you that the inquest is fixed for a quarter past twelve to-morrow, and it is proposed to hold it in the old tithe barn on the estate. I do not want to detain you in the country longer than I can help, and I hope the whole business will not take long. There are good trains to London in the afternoon.”

  I must say that most of us found the doctor’s reticence rather disquieting. Why was he so close about the matter? What harm would it have done to remark that it was an obvious accident?

  “He can’t have found anything, can he, Penny?” Addie asked me, when they had gone.

  “I don’t think so. What can he have found?”

  “I am sure,” said Vanity, “that the man was simply posing, showing his authority. He did not strike me as a man of brains.”

  Vincie laughed. “Probably it’s the usual routine. The police must consider it first, and we can all wait till to-morrow to hear what he thought. I don’t know what the rest of you are doing after lunch, but Penny and I propose to go for a walk, and see the countryside.”

  “I must study that tithe barn,” Vanity said. “I was not aware there was one here. An article on tithe barns would suit my Review, I think.”

  Benjy said he would go with her, and Addie and Bob said they would play billiards.

  “With muffled cues, I hope?” Benjy said.

  Addie laughed. “The fact is the butler and that silly doctor think we are a lot of yahoos. You could see it in their faces. So we have no reputation to lose!”

  As a matter of fact, we heard afterwards that the butler had told the other servants we were always quarrelling and sparring with each other and our late host. This got about, and caused some of the unpleasantness later.

  Luncheon over, we set out for a long walk, leaving the others to do what they pleased. We had gone about a mile towards the river when Vincie wondered what had become of his petrol-lighter and, after searching all his pockets, produced and stared at a cartridge with a greyish case.

  “Now, where the devil did that come from?” he asked. “It’s a tracer. Just shows you, my dear, that I am not properly valeted. This waistcoat should have been shaken and brushed.”

  “I didn’t like to ask the butler to do it,” I replied ironically. “He looks too important. But what’s the difference? I see it isn’t the same as your others, in colour anyway.”

  “No,” Vincie said, returning it. “I got it at the shooting-school. Blow it! I must have left that lighter at home.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I carry real matches. Here you are.”

  The country was really delightful. A good many country seats, with their park trees and well-kept demesnes, were quite near, and we forgot all about Lionel, I am afraid.

  Gerald Whick’s absence kept matters on a less acrimonious plane that day. He had come down ready to quarrel with Lionel and with anyone else who crossed him, and he was obviously unhappy and worried when he heard there was to be a post-mortem.

  “I wonder why?” I asked Vincie, that night in our room. “We know he made a nasty hit at Lionel in that cheap satire of his. People did recognise the original, and it caused some talk. But if that was to be taken into account, what about me? He had a go at most of us.”

  Vincie laughed. “The fact is that satire is the easiest job in the world, and is often mistaken for wit. Isn’t it always a soft thing to make fun of people, and a hard one to point out their good qualities? But the police don’t make cases against people just because they are known to have quarrelled with, or satirised, other people.”

  We had all been subpoenaed to attend the inquest, and Gerald would have to get an early train from town to be in time. After seven next day, police and workmen came and fitted up the empty old tithe barn as an improvised court, bringing a table and chairs on lorries.

  Fortunately, the London Press had not thought it worth while to send down to report the proceedings, but three local papers had sent men.

  The coroner was a doctor from Huckaby, a stout little man of few words. He was popular, not fussy or egotistical, and unlikely to turn the proceedings into a criminal trial or an unpremeditated farce.

  Then there were the members of the jury, a mixed crowd of farmers, some shopkeepers, a veterinary surgeon and an estate agent.

  We breakfasted at nine, and went down in a body at ten to watch the preparations at the tithe barn. The superintendent, with an inspector, a sergeant and some constables, was buzzing about. He came and talked to us for a little, and then disappeared into the building, as an aide came up with a bag full of papers.

  “I don’t know if we should take off our sporting rags, and appear in our bestest,” Vincie said, when eleven came. “What do you think, Benjy?”

  “Perhaps we should,” Benjy remarked.

  We went into the house and up to our room, and Vincie suddenly gave a yelp. “I do believe the valet service must have started!” he remarked. “Did the butler come up to our room this morning, Penny?”

  “How can I tell, having been out with you?” I said. “Why?”

  “Someone has shaken my cartridge out of this waistcoat,” he replied. “If that doesn’t hint at brushing, what does?”

  “Then it must have been when you were at dinner last night,” I said, “as you put on those tweeds the moment you got up.”

  He nodded. “May be so. One of the housemaids. I must ask what they did with my ammunition. Probably she removed the clothes, did not see that the cartridge had fallen out, and—”

  “What do they cost?” I interrupted.

  “Plain about a penny-ha’penny, rockets about threepence,” he replied.

  “Then forget it, and I’ll give you the threepence!” I said. “Do hurry on, or they will be sending for us. And you might fasten this snickersnee for me; I can’t get at it.”

  He did up the tiny catch-fastener, and went on with his dressing.

  “This should be a lesson to us,” I said. “The inquest, I mean. I have never been to one, but we could work in the details in a book later on.”

  “I had that idea too,” he said. “Hateful, isn’t it, that we can never forget our unholy job, even in a house of woe?”

  “Terrible,” I agreed, “but one doesn’t feel the woeful atmosphere somehow here. Even the servants don’t look much distressed. Lionel had the makings of a quite decent fellow, too, before he got into the Freudy set and went all nasty.”

  “True,” said my husband. “It’s no use saying that Lionel justifies many tears. Dying doesn’t turn us into angels. Isn’t retrospective, so to speak. Still, it is hard cheese being knocked out at his age.”

  It was now a quarter to twelve, so we hurried down and raced over to the improvised court. People had already taken their seats, and we were all herded together as witnesses, though we really hadn’t witnessed anything material. At a little table there was a local solicitor, and also a grey-haired man in town clothes, who turned out to be Lionel’s London lawyer. Gerald Whick came in with a rush, just as the coroner entered the court.

  After a few preliminaries, the jury was sworn in, and its members went to “view the body”. They came back, looking very serious, and sat down.

  The coroner’s introductory remarks were made in a quiet tone, and did not suggest much beyond the fact that Lionel Fonders had been shot dead while a member of a shooting-party, in circumstances which apparently led him to think that it might have happened to anybody rash enough to belong to a party carrying guns. He was not a sportsman but had, during his twenty years of office, held inquests on the bodies of at least two people who had been shot by reckless gunners.

  “When we think how many of these shooting-parties are held all over the country during the season,” he remarked, “and how many millions of cartridges fired, many of them by people who are neither expert shots nor careful in handling the dangerous weapons they carry, we may come to the conclusion that the death-rate from this cause is miraculously low. We are, indeed, in greater daily danger from the omnipresent motor-car.”

  CHAPTER VIII

 

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