Collected works of j s f.., p.424
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 424
“What’s all this?” asked Mr. Fransemmery in a hushed voice. “Something wrong?”
“Something very wrong, sir,” replied the policeman. He drew nearer, and turning, pointed to the shrouded figure. “Gentleman lying there dead, sir. Shot through the head! — but whether its murder or suicide, I can’t say, sir. Murder I think — anyhow, there’s no revolver lying near. And it’s been a revolver.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Why — who was he?”
The policeman gave him a sharp look.
“I couldn’t have said, sir,” he replied. “I’ve only been here three years, so of course I don’t know him. But these other two men, they do: Mr. Guy Markenmore, sir.”
Mr. Fransemmery started.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Sir Anthony’s elder son? You don’t mean it.”
“They say so, sir, and they know him well enough,” answered the policeman. “That man, Hobbs, the ploughman, found him. He ran down to the keeper’s cottage, and to me, and we came up at once. But before coming I telephoned to Selcaster, and the Chief Constable himself is coming along — they said he was starting out then, with the doctor. Come and look at him, sir.”
Mr. Fransemmery nerved himself to this sad task, and went nearer. The keeper and the labourer touched their caps; the policeman drew aside the cloak which the labourer had taken from his shoulders and laid over the dead man. And Mr. Fransemmery, wondering what all this meant, bent down.
Dead enough, he thought. And peaceful enough. A calm, bloodless face, neither smile nor frown on it — nothing but a little drawing together of the finely marked eyebrows, a slightly puzzled expression. Otherwise, so still. . . .
“It must have been murder, sir,” whispered the policeman, “and at close quarters. Look there! — the skin over his temples slightly burnt. And — —”
“They’re coming,” said the keeper suddenly. “Two or three of them.”
Mr. Fransemmery straightened himself and looked across the downs. A dog-cart, driven at considerable speed, was coming along the grass-track from the direction of Selcaster, the tall spire of whose cathedral showed above the woods which lay between the downs and the old city. In the gleam of the rapidly rising sun he caught the glint of the silver and blue uniform of the county police, and as the keeper had said, the dog-cart, driven by a policeman, seemed filled with men. And presently it raced up the sward to the lip of the hollow, and the Chief Constable, a military-looking man of middle age, jumped out and followed by two other men, one the police-surgeon, the other obviously a plain-clothes officer, came hurrying down to the little group beneath the Scotch firs. He nodded to Mr. Fransemmery, whom everybody in the district knew, and turned sharply on the village constable.
“Who found this man?” he asked quickly.
The ploughman came forward, with evident distaste.
“I did, sir!” he answered. “James Hobbs — work at Mr. Marrow’s.”
“When — and how?” asked the Chief Constable.
“About an hour ago, sir — maybe a bit more,” replied Hobbs. “I come this way to my work every morning. I caught sight of him as I was passing the top there, and I came down to take a look at him. Then I saw he was dead, so I covered him up with my coat and ran along to the village to tell the policeman there.”
“He was dead when you found him?” asked the Chief Constable.
“Made out he was dead enough, sir! I touched his hand and his face — stone cold they was, both of ’em.”
The Chief Constable turned to the police-surgeon, who went forward and removed the cloak. He stooped down and made a hasty examination; then rose and spoke with decision.
“He’s been dead from, I should say, two to three hours — perhaps a little longer,” he said. “Shot dead — a revolver, presumably.”
“Found anything of that sort?” asked the Chief Constable of the policeman.
“Nothing, sir. I’ve looked carefully all round. There’s nothing.”
“Murder then!” muttered the Chief Constable. He went nearer and looked intently at the dead man. “I suppose this is Mr. Guy Markenmore?” he said, glancing at the keeper and the policeman. “I’ve never seen him, you know — he’d left before I came to Selcaster.”
“This is Guy Markenmore, without a doubt,” said the police-surgeon. “I knew him well enough. He’s very little altered, either. You knew him, too, of course,” he continued, with a look at the keeper. “You can recognize him?”
“Oh, I know him, sir,” exclaimed the keeper. “That’s Mr. Guy, right enough, that is! I’d know him anywhere — poor gentleman!”
The Chief Constable looked round. Markenmore Court caught his eye, lying amongst its elms and beeches three-quarters of a mile away across the shelving hill-side. He shook his head.
“This is a bad business,” he muttered. “Who on earth should want to murder him? Been away for — seven years, isn’t it? Well, he’ll have to be removed, and we shall have to inform the coroner at once. Blick,” he continued, turning to the plain-clothes man, “you take charge of this. Send down to the village for help — have the body brought down to the Court; the inquest can be held there. Let Hobbs there run down to the village — send Walshaw back in the dog-cart to Selcaster for the other policeman — and have all round here thoroughly examined for footmarks, and so on. Doctor, will you stay by and come down with them to the Court when they’re ready to remove him? — you’ll no doubt want to make a more careful examination. Now then — we’ve got to break the news to the family. Mr. Fransemmery, I think you know them all pretty well — will you walk down with me? A painful duty, but it’s got to be done.”
Mr. Fransemmery bowed his head, and he and the Chief Constable set off at a smart pace across the downs. For awhile they walked in silence: the Chief Constable broke it.
“I understand that Sir Anthony’s about at his last end,” he said. “This — hello, what’s that?”
The two men stopped, staring at each other. Then, with a mutual understanding, they turned sharply towards the valley. From the tower of Markenmore Church came the deep, booming note of a bell; a moment passed and it was repeated.
“The minute bell!” muttered the Chief Constable. “Then — Sir Anthony Markenmore’s gone!”
CHAPTER V
DENOUNCED
LISTENING, AGAINST THEIR will, to the monotonous tolling of the death bell, the two men crossed the deep-set lane into which Mr. Fransemmery had tripped only an hour before in high spirits, never anticipating tragedy and gloom, and took their way across the sunlit park towards Markenmore Court. For awhile neither spoke: each was occupied with his own thoughts. But suddenly the Chief Constable turned to his companion.
“A remarkable thing, Mr. Fransemmery,” he said, “that if Sir Anthony is dead — and I make no doubt of it, for there’s nobody else in the village that they’d toll a minute bell for — he and his elder son should come to their deaths on the same morning! And now, I suppose, the title passes to Mr. Harry Markenmore — of course.”
But Mr. Fransemmery had been thinking on lines of his own, and he shook his head.
“Maybe,” he answered, as if in doubt.
“Aye?” said the Chief Constable. “But why maybe. He’s the next, isn’t he?”
“Well,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “Guy Markenmore, so I’m told, left home seven years ago, and has never been there since — I know that much. Now, the probabilities are that during those seven years, Guy Markenmore married — it’s likely, anyway. And in that case, if he’d a son, the title — and the estates, for I happen to know that the Markenmore property is strictly entailed — will pass to him. That, of course, will have to come out.”
“A lot will have to come out,” muttered the Chief Constable. “That Guy Markenmore has been murdered I haven’t the least doubt! But why! Evidently he has returned to the old place — summoned to see his father, I should think — and here he’s found shot dead, first thing in the morning! It will take some working out. Luckily, I had that man Blick in Selcaster when I heard the news, and I roused him out of his hotel, immediately, and brought him along.”
“Who is Blick?” asked Mr. Fransemmery.
“A C. I. D. man,” replied the Chief Constable. “One of the smartest men they’ve got at New Scotland Yard just now — detective-sergeant already, and likely to rise still higher. He’s been down in Selcaster for a day or two in connection with a case of fraud that’s given us a lot of trouble — now I shall get him switched off on to this affair. From what I’ve seen of him already — and heard of him, previously — he’s all the qualities of a human ferret.”
“He’ll need them, I think,” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “There’s all the semblance of some extraordinary mystery about this morning’s work, and apparently no clue on the spot. But we may hear more presently.”
They were now walking up the drive to the front of the house; as they came within a hundred yards of the terrace they saw a tall man emerge from the shrubberies, approach the front door and enter.
“I shouldn’t wonder if that’s Mr. John Harborough, of Greycloister, the big house on the other side of the village,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I heard from my housekeeper last night that he’s come home at last. Like Guy Markenmore, he’s been away a long time — the same time, indeed. Seven years — hunting, shooting big game, in all parts of the world. I’ve never met him and I suppose you haven’t.”
“Heard of him,” replied the Chief Constable. “Belongs to the big banking firm — Harborough, Chettle, and Fairweather, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but it’s as a sleeping partner,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “He’s never taken any active part in the business. A very rich man, I understand. Well, here we are — and I wish we came on any other matter than this.”
The front door of Markenmore Court stood open, and just inside the inner hall the two new arrivals caught sight of a little group — the tall man they had just seen, an elderly man of professional appearance, and Braxfield.
“Here’s Chilford, Sir Anthony’s solicitor, here already,” whispered the Chief Constable, as he and Mr. Fransemmery advanced without ceremony. “We’d better tell him before letting the boy and girl know. Fortunately I don’t see either of them.”
The three men in the hall gazed at the Chief Constable’s semi-military uniform with evident astonishment; the elderly man came hastily forward. The Chief Constable gave him a warning look and got in the first word.
“Young people anywhere about, Chilford?” he asked. “No? Then let Braxfield take us into some room for a minute or two — to ourselves.” He bent and whispered in the solicitor’s ear. “Some bad news.”
Chilford stared as if unable to understand the communication; he in his turn whispered to Braxfield; the old butler threw open a door and ushered the group into a dimly-lighted room, one of the many in Markenmore Court that were rarely used. He was closing the door on them when the Chief Constable called him back.
“Don’t go, Braxfield,” he said. “Come in — close the door. Am I right in supposing that your old master’s dead?” he continued, motioning the butler to join the group. “Mr. Fransemmery and I heard the death bell, so we thought — —”
“Sir Anthony died in his sleep early this morning, sir,” replied Braxfield mournfully. “The exact time I couldn’t say.”
“Well, I want to ask you a question or two, Braxfield,” continued the Chief Constable. “Was Mr. Guy Markenmore here?”
“Here, sir? When his father died? No — no, he was not.”
“Has he been here? Was he here yesterday?”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore, sir — Sir Guy as he is now, to speak correct — was here last night. He was here for a while — left about half-past ten, sir.”
“Left for where?”
“That I can’t exactly say, sir. He had a call to make on some one in the neighbourhood, but I don’t know who the person was. His intention, sir — Sir Guy’s — was to catch the early morning train for London at Mitbourne.”
The Chief Constable glanced at Mr. Fransemmery.
“Markenmore Hollow is on the side of the downs’ path to Mitbourne,” he whispered, in an aside. “You’ve not seen or heard of him since he went out of this house at ten-thirty, then, Braxfield?” he went on, turning again to the old butler. “Heard — nothing?”
“I, sir? No, sir. Neither seen nor heard.”
“What is all this?” asked the solicitor suddenly. “Has something happened?”
“I’d better tell you straight out,” answered the Chief Constable. He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I don’t want the young people to be alarmed,” he said. “You must break it gently to them, Chilford, as you’re the family solicitor. The fact is, Guy Markenmore’s body has been found, up there on the downs, at the place called Markenmore Hollow. He — —”
Braxfield let out a sharp cry. His usually rosy face paled.
“Body!” he exclaimed. “Then — —”
“Steady, my friend!” said the Chief Constable. “Keep calm! Yes — he’s dead — and I’m afraid — in fact — there’s no doubt about it — he’s been murdered!”
Braxfield burst into tears. And Mr. Fransemmery, gently taking the old man by the arm, led him away into one of the deep window-places, soothing him. Meanwhile, the Chief Constable rapidly narrated the events of the morning to Chilford and Harborough. The solicitor’s grave face grew still graver.
“You’re sure — from what you’ve seen already — that it’s a case of murder?” he asked at last.
“Haven’t one doubt,” affirmed the Chief Constable. “Murder! We shall have to go deeply into his doings, his whereabouts, between half-past ten last night and early this morning. According to the police-surgeon he was shot about four o’clock. What was he doing? — where was he? — in that interval? You live in Markenmore, Chilford, don’t you?”
“Outskirts,” answered Chilford, “but he never came to see me, if that’s what you’re thinking of. I didn’t know he’d been here, till just now.”
“I suppose he didn’t come to see you, Mr. Harborough?” asked the Chief Constable.
“No,” said Harborough. “Certainly not.”
“I thought you’d probably known each other before he left home,” said the Chief Constable. “Well, there’s a lot to do, Chilford; you’d better go and tell his brother and sister and prepare them. His body will be brought here — presently — and the inquest will be held here. Break it to them — they’ve got to know.”
Chilford nodded, and silently left the room. Braxfield, wiping his eyes, came back.
“You’ll excuse my emotion, gentlemen,” he said. “Forty years’ service in this family, you know — like my own, if I may say so. Come to the morning-room, gentlemen, if you please — there’s a good fire there, by now; this room’s never used, and it’s too cold to stay in.”
The three men followed the old butler across the hall to the room in which Harborough had talked to Harry and Valencia the previous evening. And there, escorted by Chilford, the brother and sister presently joined them. One glance at their faces made the Chief Constable turn to Mr. Fransemmery with a sigh of relief.
“Good!” he whispered. “Cool as cucumbers! Know how to control their feelings! — sure sign of old blood and good breeding that! That’s your sort, Fransemmery — true stuff!”
Then, next minute, he found himself quietly explaining matters to Harry and Valencia, who listened attentively, taking in each of the preliminary details that he could give them.
“At present,” he concluded, looking from one to the other, “the first thing is to find out where your brother was between half-past ten, when, I’m told by your butler, he left here, and early in the morning. You’ve no idea?”
“None,” said Harry. “He told us nothing.”
But Valencia shook her head.
“Scarcely that,” she said. “He told us something. Don’t you remember, Harry — just before he went?”
“Nothing definite,” replied Harry. “I gained no definite idea, anyway.”
“What did he tell you, Miss Markenmore?” inquired the Chief Constable.
“I remember perfectly,” answered Valencia. “He said he must go, because he had a business appointment in the neighbourhood. He said that where he was going, supper would be ready for him. But — that was all.”
“Not a hint as to where he was going — nor as to whom it was to see?”
“None!”
The group presently broke up into sections. Harborough and Mr. Fransemmery drew off into one corner of the room; Chilford and Harry into another; the Chief Constable and Valencia remained on the hearth, talking in low tones. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Braxfield, still lachrymose, announced, in a half-whisper:
“Mrs. Tretheroe!”
Everybody looked round as Mrs. Tretheroe — who had not forgotten the conventions and presented herself in a tailor-made gown of dead black habit-cloth — came rapidly into the room and made for Valencia. But one man shared his observation between her and his immediate company: Mr. Fransemmery, while giving Mrs. Tretheroe and her beauty a quick, admiring glance was sharp enough to see that at sight of her John Harborough not only started, but turned pale, and then red, and then pale again, compressing his firm lips. Another in the room saw all that, too — Valencia.
But Mrs. Tretheroe saw nothing — or seemed to see nothing. She was obviously excited; her cheek had more than its usual glow; her lips were slightly parted; she looked, thought at least three of the men there, as if she had come to receive congratulations rather than to offer condolence. But as she approached Valencia she moulded her mobile face into an expression of decorous sympathy.
“My poor Valencia!” she said in a soft, cooing voice. “Your dear father! — I came at once, the very moment I heard, to tell you and Harry how sorry I am, and to see what I could do. But — you’d expected it, hadn’t you? — and he was so very, very old, to be sure. And another thing — of course, you’ll let Sir Guy know at once — I — the fact is, Valencia, I saw Guy last night after — after I was here, you know — and — well, he’s altered his plans, and the address he gave you in London won’t find him for a few days. But I know where to find him — and hadn’t you better wire him at once? You see — —”
