CHAPTER XIII

How it Happened

With a heart beating with excitement Evelyn opened the door that led from the dining-room into the pantry. Luck favoured her, for Fairlie was in there alone.

“Oh, Fairlie,” she said in the most natural voice she could assume, “I’m so thirsty; can you give me a glass of water?”

As he went to fetch it her mind was in a ferment. She had promised to explain everything in half an hour, but could she? There was much she could only guess even if her deductions all proved to be facts; and it suddenly crossed her mind that, if the finger-marks on the pedestal did not prove to be Fairlie’s, she was as far from the truth as ever. At any rate, she had come to a point when she must share all her discoveries with Humblethorne. Fairlie now returned with a glass of water on a small silver tray. She took the latter carefully by the opposite side; then, wishing to duplicate his finger-prints in case of failure, she said, “That looks a little dusty, Fairlie,” and lifted the tray towards him.

Unsuspectingly he took the glass, held it up against the light, and then set it down again on the tray.

“It looks all right to me, Miss Evelyn; but I’ll get you another,” he replied.

“Oh no, don’t trouble,” she exclaimed, and bore away tray and glass.

As she passed through the hall again she was very conscious of the curious, not to say suspicious, gaze of the two men; but she was too intent on her purpose, and that purpose held too much that was terrible, for her to feel the amusement which would otherwise have been hers. Without looking at them she carried her last evidence carefully upstairs.

“Well,” remarked Birts with a heavy sigh as she disappeared, “I wonder what she’s up to now: play acting, I call it.”

Humblethorne did not reply, though his thoughts were running in the same direction. He was uneasy; it was difficult to stifle altogether the conviction that this girl, whose quick brain and perceptive eye had already aroused his appreciation, would not speak so confidently unless she had something better than a mere belief to go upon. He was moodily pacing the hall when Evelyn came downstairs again.

“I am ready now,” she said. “I asked for half an hour, but it did not take so long.”

“Perhaps you will be good enough to explain your mysteries, then,” remarked Humblethorne with slight irony.

“I will tell you everything I have discovered,” she answered; “it does not explain everything, I know, but it explains enough for you to be able to find out the rest. I have gone as far as I can alone,” she added simply, “and my only course now is to place it in your hands to use as you think fit.”

Humblethorne was mollified; he had been afraid she was going to taunt him with failure. But with the end of her task a heaviness had fallen upon her; to investigate was interesting, to discover horrible.

“Let us go into the drawing-room,” she said; “we cannot be overheard there, and here, as I know, we can be. Oh, I want you first to look at this. I don’t wonder it was overlooked; I only found it by accident,” and she took the two men to the dent under the cornice level with the third step of the stairs.

“You never saw the cigarettes in their original positions, I think,” she said to Humblethorne, as he bent over to look at it with his interest roused instantly to the full.

“No: did you?” he queried instantly.

“No, but after I found this dent yesterday I asked Mr. Castle to tell me exactly where they had lain. It was obvious when I came to look again that they had fallen out when the cigarette box struck the wall here.”

She spoke simply, intent on her explanation, and looked up in surprise when Humblethorne, seeing the full significance of her remark, gave a sudden exclamation and cried excitedly—

“Struck the wall! When was that?”

“Before Sir Roger was killed, obviously,” she answered. “How long before I do not know.”

“But, but——” he began, trying to assimilate this new and startling fact.

“It does rather upset one’s preconceived ideas, doesn’t it?” she said. “But I do not see how the conclusion is to be avoided. The box would hardly be thrown after Sir Roger lay dead.”

“You have made a discovery of the very greatest importance, Miss Temple,” Humblethorne asserted. “I will not deny that, but this doesn’t clear John Penterton.”

“I am aware of that,” she replied; the unconscious touch of condescension had not escaped her. “Perhaps it would help if you told me what evidence you have against him. I know he was here—Miss Penterton had arranged some while ago that he should come. Is that evidence that he is guilty of his father’s death?”

While she was speaking the dining-room door opened, and Fairlie came quietly into the hall.

“That remains to be seen,” returned Humblethorne. “He came secretly at night-time, and there are several questions to be answered. Did his father know of his coming? Was his father alive when he left? Who let him out? His father was killed that evening; if he didn’t kill him, who did? Answer me that, Miss Temple?”

As the questions followed each other, Evelyn felt as if the ground were opening under her feet; she had still all the evidence of the statuette, but she realized with a sudden pang that that did not answer the one dreadful question, “Was his father alive when he left?” She turned uneasily and saw Fairlie standing in the doorway; his guard was down as he listened, and a terrible indecision was written on his face. Evelyn read him like a book—his young master was accused; in spite of the way he had tried to cover up the trail, it was known that John had been there, and there was no one now alive except Fairlie himself who could save him, and he could only save him by admitting his own guilt—so Evelyn understood the look of doubt and agony with which the old man’s usually settled face was working. Whether, left to himself, he would have risen to a confession was never decided. Humblethorne’s final words had been a challenge as one should say, “Certainly I did overlook this dent which you admit you yourself only found by accident, but what difference does it really make?” and almost without thinking Evelyn took up the challenge.

“If he didn’t kill him, who did?” she repeated. “Look behind you! There stands your answer in the shoes for which you have been searching!”

Both men wheeled sharply. “Fairlie!” they gasped. The butler’s face set again, just as if a curtain had fallen across the vivid drama momentarily revealed; and he came forward, paler than usual, bowed down a little by age and the fearful thoughts within him, but retaining his imperturbable manner undiminished.

“I do not understand how you have ascertained the fact, Miss Evelyn,” he said, searching her with a slow, keen glance, but speaking in his normal, respectful voice; “but it is quite true that I killed Sir Roger.”

“Take care!” cried Humblethorne sharply. “It is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”

“I quite understand that,” replied Fairlie with a characteristically gracious inclination of his body towards Humblethorne. “I am obliged to you, but since I have been discovered there is no further object in concealment. I am not sorry,” he added wearily. “Perhaps you will excuse me if I sit down a moment.” He seated himself after an apologetic glance at Evelyn with the air of a man who has neither hope nor fear of any future thing.

The two men were too taken aback at the extraordinary suddenness of the accusation and confession to say a word: Evelyn was too overwhelmed with the conflict in her mind, horror, pity and a kind of dreadful fascination in this fulfilment of her labours.

“I will tell you how it happened,” resumed Fairlie slowly; “there has been enough of mystery in this house. Will you tell me, Miss Evelyn, how you found me out?”

“I knew that Mr. John couldn’t have done it when I found the dent in the wall showing the box had missed,” she replied; “so I searched for the real weapon. At first I thought—I didn’t know what to think. I knew it was some one in the house; Miss Celia had not let Mr. John out, nor broken the pantry window. By the way, when did you break that?”

“About ten minutes to two yesterday, when the other servants were just sitting down to dinner.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want Mr. John’s name brought into it; I was hurried the night before and didn’t think of it. In the morning I saw from the inspector’s questions that it was necessary to provide a way in for an ordinary burglar, or else they would find out Mr. John had been here and suspect him—though of course he had nothing whatever to do with it—or get on my tracks, as you have done. But I don’t see how you did, Miss Evelyn.”

“I found the statuette,” she said simply.

“The statuette?” exclaimed Humblethorne, bewildered.

“Yes, I will show it you later. Oh, I know you wiped it, Fairlie,” she added, seeing mystification still on his face. “I have the handkerchief you used both for that and for the window-sill, but the right arm has plenty of stains on it still: then you left a footprint on the wood below and marks of both thumbs on the pedestal when you replaced it.”

The old man was silent for several minutes; then he said slowly—

“I have made many mistakes; I fear I am a poor criminal. I didn’t think it out, you see. This was how it happened. I had locked up and put the lights out and should have gone to bed only Sir Roger was sitting up in his study with Mr. Castle, and I thought he might want something and ring, and if he did he would be very angry if no one came. So I busied myself with the silver and one thing and another to pass the time; Sir Roger did not used to sit up late. I was in the dining-room putting away the last of the silver when I heard him coming along the passage. The door was ajar and I could hear him quite well. The hall was in darkness, according to orders, as I told you.” He inclined towards Humblethorne, who nodded. “But Sir Roger was very contrary; I heard him swearing at me for not leaving a light on and saying I was too old and he’d give me notice to-morrow. I stepped across and put out the dining-room light for fear he should see it and come in and give me notice then and there—that would have been like him; he was very hasty always—and had hardly done so before I heard him give a sharp exclamation. I wondered what was up, and I pulled the door more open very quietly and looked out.

“I saw Miss Celia standing there in front of the drawing-room door, and he was going on at her, insisting that she was up to some mischief. And then she tried to pass him and go upstairs and he caught hold of her arm. She gave a little cry—he was always rough, was Sir Roger—and then out of the drawing-room came Mr. John. I hadn’t seen him for ten years or more and nor had Sir Roger, but we both recognized him at once. Sir Roger used dreadful language at him—you know, of course, the way he drove him from home—and then ordered Miss Celia to her room, saying he’d deal with her later. She was for staying, but Mr. John saw she couldn’t do any good and he told her to go too. Then Sir Roger began on Mr. John and called him all the things he could think of, dreadful the way he went on, it was: and at last he raised his stick and made as if to strike at him. Mr. John had stood there very quietly, not saying a word—he knew it wasn’t no use—but when he saw Sir Roger lift his stick at him he picked up that cigarette box which was just by his hand and threw it at him, not fierce-like but just to keep him off. It hit the wall and the cigarettes fell all over the stairs—and Mr. John gave a short laugh and ran back into the drawing-room: and I didn’t see him again.”

“What time was this?” interposed Humblethorne as Fairlie paused.

“Twelve o’clock struck just afterwards,” replied Fairlie.

“Well, what then?” interjected Birts after a moment’s silence.

“Then,” resumed Fairlie slowly, “I slipped away and turned up the back stairs and round to the top there where I could see down into the hall. I thought it was my duty to remonstrate with Sir Roger if he intended to go to Miss Celia: in the state he was in he would have thrashed her, as likely as not. I couldn’t stand by and see that. He was still in the hall, muttering to himself. He was just below me and it came over me all of a sudden. What with the fear of him giving me notice and the fear of him lifting his hand to Miss Celia—but, there, I can’t explain it. He heard me up there, looked up and somehow, when I see his face like that, I felt that he wasn’t fit to live and I tipped the statuette down on him. He just fell and never moved again.”

Fairlie paused, took out his handkerchief, blew his nose solemnly and then replaced his handkerchief carefully.

“I was filled with horror,” he went on, “at what I had done, naturally. But he was dead and couldn’t be brought to life again. It was as I was going downstairs I saw how thoughtless I’d acted. People that didn’t know him might think Mr. John had had a hand in it. So, after seeing that Sir Roger was really dead, I went and fastened up the drawing-room window, using my handkerchief, as Miss Evelyn guessed, to clean the sill in case of boot-marks. Then I came back and thought what was best to be done. First I picked up the cigarette box and put it down beside Sir Roger—I wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t been agitated; I was just thinking that would seem as if Sir Roger had come on some burglar, and, having shut Mr. John out, I didn’t think of him any more—but I was agitated and didn’t think clear. Then I picked up the statuette, wiped it with my handkerchief and put it back on the bracket upstairs. If I hadn’t been hurried I should have seen I had blood on my shoe. I made a great many mistakes.” He sighed deeply. “I ought to have broken the pantry window then, but I didn’t think it out. I saw that I had to be in bed when the body was found, and I knew Mr. Castle was still in his study: so I hurried to my room and I only just had time to get undressed and into bed before Mr. Castle came along. That’s just what happened.” He sighed again heavily and sat still, looking old and wearied but still indomitably respectable.

There was a long silence when he had finished, broken only by the stertorous breathing of Birts as he waited for orders from his superior officer; it was the most dramatic moment of Birts’s life and would be told by him with proper pride for years afterwards.

“You will remain in charge of the prisoner, Birts,” said Humblethorne at length. “I will see what Miss Temple has to show me.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Birts stolidly.

“Let us go up,” said Evelyn hurriedly; this was dreadful. She paused a moment, hesitating before Fairlie: she could not leave him without a word. “Oh, Fairlie,” she cried suddenly, “I am terribly sorry! Why, why did you do it?”

“Don’t take on, Miss Evelyn,” Fairlie replied looking up, the light of kindly affection coming for an instant over his sombre face. “What’s done is done. I didn’t think things out: that was where I went wrong.” His face settled back into solemn imperturbability, and with a heavy load upon her heart Evelyn led Humblethorne upstairs.

When she had shown him the bracket on which the statuette had stood and the footprint below it, she briefly described the course of her investigations from that point, omitting, however, all reference to her doubts of John and Philip. Then she took him to her room and handed over to his charge the statuette and the handkerchief and the glass and tray which had identified the thumb marks.

“I acted carefully on the information you kindly gave me,” she said. “It was not as difficult as I had supposed.”

“You have certainly shown remarkable resource, and, if I may say so, courage, Miss Temple,” Humblethorne remarked as he, fastened up the evidence with much precaution against injury. “It was taking a serious responsibility to handle this statuette after what you suspected.”

“Perhaps,” she returned vaguely: “it is necessary sometimes. At any rate I have finished now, and I wish I had never started. It is horrible to feel my hand has doomed one who has been really an old friend.” She shuddered and then added, “Well, at any rate you need not trouble about Mr. Penterton. This is the end.”

“Yes,” repeated Humblethorne thoughtfully, “this is the end—if Fairlie is speaking the truth, the whole truth, I mean. But is he?”

Without waiting for an answer he bowed to Evelyn in acknowledgment of her services and left the room.