CHAPTER VII

Fears and Discoveries

It was rather a crestfallen little man who re-entered the house after leaving Lady Penterton. The afternoon was passing, and he had made no progress whatever; more than that, which was negative, he reproached himself with a positive act of unnecessary brutality. Why had he asked her that question about Sir Roger and their son? It was ten years ago and quite beside his inquiry. He cursed Timmins in his heart; if he hadn’t had the story forced on his mind that same afternoon, he would never have wasted his time and put an old and tragedy-burdened lady to further pain. Humblethorne resolved to devote the remainder of the day exclusively to an examination of the rooms, and especially the windows, of the ground floor.

He accordingly made his way to the dining-room and began an unhurried, methodical examination. He worked intently and yet his whole mind was not on his task. The firm yet sensitive mouth he had just been watching recalled to him some other mouth he had seen, and he could not think whose. Mouths were a speciality with Humblethorne; a mouth was difficult to disguise, even a beard and moustache could not hide its tendencies completely and nothing else hid them at all; and the mouth betrayed more than any other feature. Much of his firm belief originated, as men’s beliefs will, in a single successful instance of clever identification, and it had not been weakened by later failures. He was convinced he had seen a mouth of just the same character before; when and where he was quite unable to recall. It might be of no importance at all, a mere coincidence; it might, on the other hand, assist: it annoyed him that he could not remember, especially as in that elusive game the mind plays with every one it seemed just round the corner, as it were, of his memory.

He worked over the whole dining-room with this dual mind, but nothing rewarded his industry. He went outside and satisfied himself from there that no one had either attempted to force his way in or, as far as could be seen, had entered through either window. He then went along the outside of the house past the hall to the smoking-room window, examined this without result, turned the corner to the south, the garden side, and was brought up short. In front of the third window on that side, which was the first of the two in the drawing-room, he saw a girl kneeling down and earnestly studying the soil in the narrow bed immediately below.

Such a proceeding interested Humblethorne to an amazing degree: instantly desisting from his own search, he moved along the edge of grass till he could see what was attracting her attention. The soil had been obviously trampled; the rain on the day preceding the murder had been heavy and the impress of a foot was clearly visible. At the same instant that he noticed this, Evelyn perceived that she was not alone.

“Who are you and what are you doing?” he asked brusquely, as she sprang up and turned in some confusion. Then she realized who he must be and the situation began to appeal to her.

“I am Miss Temple,” she answered calmly. “Who are you?”

“I am Inspector Humblethorne, in charge of this case,” he replied, “and you have only answered the least important half of my question.”

“Perhaps we are doing the same thing,” she said, smiling and meeting his gaze with absolute frankness, “I happening to be just ahead of you; that’s all.”

Her complete self-possession, her frank and winning air could hardly have failed to impress the most naturally suspicious of men; official and would-be idealist conflicted in Humblethorne as he looked at her, and idealist won. He found that, without further proof of innocence, he was acquitting this vivid girl at least from any connexion with the dark mystery he was engaged in trying to solve. Nevertheless, he was slightly annoyed at her remark, and answered quietly, “I think there are enough riddles already here. Will you please explain?”

“With pleasure,” replied Evelyn. “The train of reasoning which brought me to this spot is simplicity itself. A certain cigarette box is found lying close to—well, to the body; that cigarette box belongs to a certain table; it was on it last night, and it is probable, not certain of course but probable, that whoever threw it picked it up from there. That table stands close to the door of the drawing-room. Interest—curiosity, if you like—suggested to me that, since that was so, it was possible, perhaps even probable, that the intruder came from the drawing-room. A guess certainly, but after all not a wild guess, especially when one remembers that the drawing-room opens onto this quiet stretch of lawn. It would be so easy to get into the park and cross the lawn without being seen; and then again the drawing-room is the earliest room to be left unoccupied. True, it is next the smoking-room, but you cannot expect everything.”

Humblethorne listened with the greatest attention. “Your reasoning,” he said, as she stopped, “is admirably clear. But what made you come here?”

“There seem to be boot-marks on the sill inside,” she said simply, “though it is difficult to be sure without opening the shutters, and I was afraid I might disturb something if I did that. But they made me curious to see the earth outside, so I came round. And I find this.” She pointed to the trampled soil as she spoke.

“Do you often do this sort of thing?” he asked, his eyes still on her.

She laughed. “I began five minutes ago,” she answered. “It was an impulse which struck me as I came downstairs to go out.”

“Well,” he said, “I could do with a few of the same myself. Tell me,” he went on, “now I am here, can you add anything of importance to what I have gathered about last night?”

“My own knowledge is nil,” she answered. “Mr. Castle woke me about half-past one, I don’t know exactly when but about then, and told me, well, what had happened, and I then told Miss Penterton and Lady Penterton. I’m afraid I’m not much help. There was nothing whatever out of the way during the evening.”

“No,” he conceded, “that isn’t much help. Well,” he changed his tone and became brisk, professional, “let’s examine these marks.”

He bent down and saw that beyond possibility of doubt some one had at any rate stood beneath that window; the marks inside would speak as to the actual entrance. He took out his pocket-book and a measuring tape with a sense of relief; this at any rate was plain sailing. Evelyn watched him with breathless interest as, taking the greatest care not to disturb the earth which had grown hard and crumbling under the recent sun, he measured and noted the one footprint which showed clear in the midst of the trampled soil.

“I think he made that mark getting in,” she said. “See, here’s where he rested the other foot.” She pointed to a spot on the little ledge below the window, where a slight newly-made scratch showed on the brick, and the bark of a tendril of ivy was badly bruised.

“You have quick eyes, Miss Temple,” remarked Humblethorne, appreciatively. “I have no doubt you are right. By the marks he stood here some little time, too, waiting——”

The moment he had spoken the last word he longed to recall it. He stopped abruptly; but it was too late: she caught him up at once.

“Waiting?” she cried, “for what?” He did not answer, and her eyes dilated and into them came a sudden, chilling fear. “For whom,” she added in a low voice; not as one asking a question, but as a slow sinking of fact into her own brain.

“Let me see the inside,” he said, rising and shooting a glance of keenest inquiry at her. She did not seem at first to hear him; interest had died in her; she was turning away and all her vivacity had been struck from her face.

“I have seen it,” she said in a dull voice: “I do not wish to see it again.” Without another word she left him.

Humblethorne stood looking after her, moved less by interest than by sympathy.

“She doesn’t know who came in or she’d never have pointed anything out,” he thought, “but she thinks she knows who helped him in.”

When she was out of sight, he went swiftly back, and, crossing the hall, entered the drawing-room. He turned on all the lights and stood for one moment, taking stock of the room generally, and then slowly approached the window. No marks were discernible on the carpet, but a search revealed little pieces of dry earth on the stained wood. Carefully he unbarred the shutters, taking great pains not to touch anything but the bottom of the bolt, and the extreme rim of the shutters; there was no longer uncertainty about the entrance. Pieces of earth lay on the sill, only minute particles as if it had been hastily swept, but the white paint was scored to the left of the centre with a number of tiny criss-cross scratches, and among them dirt was ground in. Some one’s boot had been pressed and then turned upon it, it was impossible to doubt it. If confirmation were needed, it was given by the damning evidence of the faint imprint of finger-tips on the lintel, where any one entering by the window would naturally have caught hold to steady himself.

As he gazed, Humblethorne let out his breath in a long “ah!” Suddenly, with that agility of performance with which the mind sometimes chooses to delight those who have long been turning over a set of isolated facts without being able to fit them together, he saw clear: three facts came together without conscious effort and made a pattern. The mouth of which Lady Penterton’s had reminded him in vain was that of the unsociable stranger at the Rose and Crown, he remembered it now perfectly, and had no doubt whatever—fact number one; that stranger had gone out and returned hurriedly to the inn shortly after midnight on the night of the murder—fact number two; some one had made a secret entrance into the Towers—fact number three. In a flash his mind had forged a complete chain of events: the stranger was the son of whom he had been hearing; he had returned home secretly—for what purpose was at the moment immaterial—he had encountered his father, whether by arrangement or by accident; a quarrel had ensued; the son had struck his father down, and fled—and some one had first let him in, and had afterwards closed the window and bolted the shutters behind him.

Here the shutters did not help him; no finger prints were discernible. Closing them again, he sat down and ran over in his mind all the evidence in the light of what he now suspected with such deadly confidence. It remained to track and identify the stranger of the inn, perhaps a difficult but at any rate a straightforward task, and to investigate further such questions as Castle’s property in shoes. He rose up, full of energy and certain of success, went into the hall and rang the bell.

When Fairlie presented himself he said in a casual manner, “Oh, Fairlie, do you know where Mr. Castle is?”

“He was resting, but I think I heard him come down a few minutes ago and go into his study. Do you wish to speak to him?”

“No, it doesn’t matter. Have you had any rest? You must be pretty tired yourself.”

“I am all right, thank you,” Fairlie replied with a certain dignity. “It doesn’t signify with me, and I have the household to look after.”

“By the way,” remarked Humblethorne idly, “you’ve told me that all the windows were fastened; were all the shutters barred as well? I mean, you are sure?”

“Quite sure,” replied Fairlie with a slight lift of his eyebrows. “It was my duty to see to that. Whoever came in knew better than to try any of those windows: that’s why he broke in through the pantry—at least,” he added in a self-depreciatory tone, “I don’t know how people of that sort reckon things out, but that seems sense to me.”

“Yes, perhaps,” murmured Humblethorne absently. “What about being seen from the bedrooms upstairs, though? How do they go?”

“There isn’t anybody sleeps on that side of the house now,” replied Fairlie, “except Mr. Castle and he’s right at the corner over the study, with the kitchens, etc., between him and the pantry window. It’s as safe a place to get in by as there could be.”

“I see. Well, thanks; sorry to trouble you.”

“It’s no trouble,” returned Fairlie simply, “I am glad to help, though it’s little I can do. Besides, it will be her ladyship’s wish that I should help in every way I can. I shall be bringing tea up in a few minutes now. I expect you would like a cup too. Will you have it here?”

“Oh, that’s very kind: yes, here will do nicely,” said Humblethorne, anxious now he had learnt all he wished to know to get rid of Fairlie and go upstairs without attracting attention.

Fairlie departed and Humblethorne, as soon as he was alone, went quickly upstairs and made his way to the room indicated as belonging to Castle. He listened outside a moment, heard nothing, and then quietly opened the door and stepped in.

A dirty evening shirt and evening socks lay on the chair beside the bed, which was crumpled, and a pair of evening shoes now lay thrown on the top of the rest below the dressing-table. Castle had evidently completed his changing at last. The shoes were those he had worn whilst he had told his story that morning. Humblethorne, after one searching glance round, walked across and picked them up, and turned them over; they were nearly new and the soles smooth and as clean as could be expected. Humblethorne had looked for nothing else; they were not the pair, he was certain, Castle had worn the previous evening. He measured them swiftly and noted the measurements in his pocket-book, laid them down, examined the soles of all the other boots and shoes just to leave nothing to chance, and then swiftly, but methodically searched the room. He found nothing: ten minutes satisfied him that no trace of what he was looking for was in that room. He went first to one window and then to the other, and came rapidly to the conclusion that a very brief search would reveal any package flung out of either, “and this man’s no fool, whatever he may seem,” he concluded; “no, nothing so obvious as that; but I’ll find them yet.”

He stepped out and on an impulse turned to the left instead of returning along the passage by which he had come, and opened the door of the adjoining room. He found himself in a small room, neat and plain; on the chest of drawers stood a little folding book-case full of books—a miscellaneous collection composed of a Browning, an anthology of verse, a few small monographs on famous artists, and half a dozen novels: some moderate engravings of country subjects were on the walls and over the mantelpiece a couple of groups of school elevens: boots and shoes were ranged tidily by the further wall. The room produced an odd impression; it was fresh and clean and yet had a curious atmosphere of emptiness. Humblethorne walked straight to the mantelpiece; the groups were what interested him. One look, and he knew his chain of events was founded on no coincidence; the boy under whom was written “J. Penterton” bore an unmistakable resemblance to the stranger of the inn. Humblethorne opened the Browning; on the fly-leaf was written, “John, from his loving Mother;” a date, twelve years old, followed. He went over to the other wall, picked up a boot and compared its measurements with those he had entered in his notebook from the imprint below the drawing-room window: they were practically identical.

He had just replaced the boot and was gazing out of the window in a dark reverie when the door was pushed further open and Evelyn looked in at him. She had been returning wearily to her room, and with new unreasoning reluctance to pass those sheeted stains again had come up the little back staircase which passed the door. It was standing ajar and instantly attracted her attention.

For a moment no one spoke. He was particularly vexed at her finding him in the room; she was sick with apprehension at the thoughts which crowded in on her. Then in a low, strained voice she said, “What are you doing—here?”

“I am just looking round the house,” he answered evasively.

“But here, you can learn nothing here.”

“This seems to be the son’s room if I’m not mistaken?” he asked. “I understood he never came here.”

“It is ten years since he was here,” she answered; then, seeing his unspoken question, she went on, “It was his mother’s whim to keep the room exactly as it was when he was ordered out of the house: he went, you know, just as he stood, and left everything; he was proud—and angry. I expect you have heard the story. Anyway, his name was never allowed to be mentioned again. Sir Roger had one great fault; he was proud too but in a very different way, and he could not forgive.”

“I see, but I should have thought that this——” he paused and indicated the room.

“Oh, he never asked about it, why should he? It was never mentioned, just maintained. Sentimental, yes, but it harmed no one and pleased his mother. But I am afraid,” she went on, forcing herself to speak lightly, “that this old history, sad as it has been, is only a waste of time now. Tragedies of ten years ago have little bearing on tragedies of to-day.”

“I am bound to look everywhere,” he said, coming out. They walked along the passage together in silence. Each was wondering how much the other knew; she dared not say more in the light of her fears, he did not wish to in the light of his knowledge.

Evelyn went to her room and then, after taking off her hat, went with leaden feet to Celia.

“Well,” she said as brightly as she could as she entered, “how are you feeling now? It’s lovely out, not too hot like yesterday.”

“Where did you go?” asked Celia without interest.

“Oh, only in the garden.” Evelyn found a difficulty in keeping her voice quite natural, and her eyes strayed restlessly to the window. This was horrible; what was it that had thrust itself between them? She must make some effort to end the crushing uncertainty she had been suddenly called upon to face. Anything was better than that; and in her heart she was convinced, in spite of all the evidence which was pressing on her, that a frank renewal of speech would dispel the spectre. She might be deceived in her eyes and her reason, but she felt she could not be deceived in the character of her own Celia. She looked up abruptly and said, “I’m afraid the police are working rather at random.”

It seemed to her, though she hated to think it, that Celia did not receive this remark quite naturally; she turned quickly and said with a strange note—was it relief or disappointment or was it merely an overstrung imagination in the listener?—“Why do you say that?”

“Well, that inspector seems to be looking through the rooms just in case he can come across anything unusual. I found him just now,” Evelyn added as naturally as she could, “in John’s little room.”

She had hoped above all things that saying this would have little effect, but her hopes were doomed to extinction. Celia started away, grew as white as a sheet and said wildly, “In John’s room!”

“I told him,” answered Evelyn quickly, “I was afraid he was wasting his time.”

“It’s horrible, horrible!” moaned Celia. “What could he find in there?” She seized Evelyn’s hand convulsively: “Evie, for God’s sake, tell me, what did he say?”

“Only that he was bound to go everywhere,” answered Evelyn in a flat voice which sounded odd in her own ears.

Celia did not remark it; she sank back with a deep sigh, shivered a little and then stayed white and silent. Evelyn could not bear it; “she will not tell me,” she thought, “and she has something to tell.” She rose wearily and said, “I’m going to lie down a bit myself or I shall be the next one with a headache.”

But it was her heart rather than her head that was aching, and when she got to her room she could not force herself to rest.