Poison Island

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

  CHAPTER XII.

  THE BLOODSTAIN ON THE STILE.

  My father, in erecting a flagstaff before his summer-house, hadchosen to plant it on a granite millstone, or rather, had sunk itsbase through the stone's central hole, which Miss Plinlimmonregularly filled with salt to keep the wood from rotting. Upon thismossed and weather-worn bench I sat myself down to examine my find.

  Yet it needed no examination to tell me that the eyeglasses wereCaptain Branscome's. I recognized the delicate cable pattern oftheir gold rims, glinting in the sunlight. I recognized the ring andthe frayed scrap of black ribbon attached to it. I remembered theguinea with which Captain Branscome had paid my fare on the coach.I remembered Miss Plinlimmon's account of the stolen cashbox.

  The more my suspicions grew, the more they were incredible.That Captain Branscome, of all men in the world, should be guilty ofsuch a crime! And yet, with this damning evidence in my hand, Icould not but recall a dozen trifles--mere straws, to be sure--allpointing towards him. He had been here in my father's garden: that Imight take as proven. With what object? And if that object were aninnocent one, why had he not told me of his intention to visit MindenCottage? I remembered how straitly he had cross-examined me, a whileago, on the topography of the cottage, on my father's household andhis habits. Again, if his visit had been an innocent one, why, lastevening, had he said nothing of it? Why, when I questioned him abouthis holiday, had he answered me so confusedly? Yet again, I recalledhis demeanour when Mrs. Stimcoe handed me the letter, and theimpression it gave me--so puzzling at the moment--that he hadforeknowledge of the news. If this incredible thing were true--ifCaptain Branscome were the criminal--the puzzle ceased to be apuzzle; the guinea and the broken cashbox were only too fatallyaccounted for.

  Nevertheless, and in spite of the guinea, in spite even of theeyeglass there in my hand, I could not bring myself to believe.What? Captain Branscome, the simple-minded, the heroic? CaptainBranscome, of the threadbare coat and the sword of honour? Poor hewas, no doubt--bitterly poor--poor almost to starvation at times.To what might not a man be driven by poverty in this degree?And here was evidence for judge and jury.

  I glanced around me, and, folding the eyeglasses together in afumbling haste, slipped them into my breeches-pocket. From my seatbeneath the flagstaff I looked straight into the doorway of thesummer-house; but a creeper obscured its rustic window, dimming thelight within; and a terror seized me that some one was concealedthere, watching me--a terror not unlike that which had held me inCaptain Coffin's lodgings.

  While I stood there, summoning up courage to invade the summer-houseand make sure, my brain harked back to Captain Coffin and the manAaron Glass. Captain Coffin had taken leave of me in a fever toreach Minden Cottage. That was close on sixty hours ago--threenights and two days. Why, in that ample time, had he not arrived,and what had become of him? Plinny had seen no such man.

  I fetched a tight grip on my courage, walked across to the doorway,and peered into the summer-house. It was empty, and I steppedinside--superstitiously avoiding, as I did so, to tread on the spotwhere my father's body had lain.

  Ann the cook--so Plinny told me--had found his chair overset behindhim, but no other sign of a struggle. He had been stabbed in front,high on the left breast and a little below the collar-bone, and musthave toppled forward at once across the step, and died where he fell.The chair had been righted and set in place, perhaps by Ann when shewashed down the step. A well-defined line across the floor showedwhere the cleaning had begun, and behind it the scanty furniture ofthe place had not been disturbed. At the back, in one corner stoodan old drum, with dust and droppings of leaf-mould in the wrinkles ofits sagged parchment, and dust upon the drumsticks thrust within itsfrayed strapping; in the corner opposite an old military chest whichheld the bunting for the flagstaff--a Union flag, a couple ofensigns, and half a dozen odd square-signals and pennants. I stoopedover this, and as I did so I observed that there were finger-marks onthe dust at the edge of the lid; but, lifting it, found the flagsinside neatly rolled and stowed in order. On the table lay myfather's Bible and his pocket Virgil, the latter open and laid facedownwards. I picked it up, and the next moment came near to droppingit again with a shiver, for a dry smear of blood crossed the twopages.

  Here, not to complicate mysteries, let me tell at once what Ann toldme later--that she had found the book lying in the blood-dabbledgrass before the step, when it must have fallen from my father'shand, and had replaced it upon the table. But for the moment,surmising another clue, I stared at the page--a page of the seventh"Aeneid"--and at the stain which, as if to underline them, startedbeneath the words--

  "Hic domus, haec patria est. Genitor mihi talia namque (Nunc repeto) Anchises fatorum arcana reliquit."

  I set down the book as I had found it, stepped forth again into thesunshine. The scouring of the step had left a moist puddle below it,where the ground, no doubt, had been dry and hard on the evening ofthe murder. At the edge of this puddle the turf twinkled with cleandew--close, well-trimmed turf sloping gently to the stream whichformed the real boundary of the garden; but Miss Belcher, theneighbouring land-owner, a person of great wealth and the mosteccentric good-nature, had allowed my father to build a wall on thefar side, for privacy, and had granted him an entrance through it toher park--a narrow wooden door to which a miniature bridge gaveaccess across the stream.

  There were thus three ways of approaching the summer-house; (1) bythe path which wound through the garden from the house, (2) acrossthe turf from the side-gate, which opened out of a lane, orwoodcutters' road, running at right angles from the turnpike andalongside the garden fence towards the park; and (3) from the parkitself, across the little bridge. From the bridge a straight line tothe summer-house would lie behind the angle of sight of any oneseated within; so that a visitor, stepping with caution, mightpresent himself at the doorway without any warning.

  You may say that, my father being blind, it need not have enteredinto my calculations whether his assailant had approached in fullview of the doorway or from the rear. But the assailant--let ussuppose for a moment--was some one ignorant of my father's blindness.This granted, as it was at least possible, he would be likeliest tosteal upon the summer-house from the rear. I cannot say more thanthat, standing there by the doorway, I felt the approach from thestreamside to be most dangerous, and therefore the likeliest.

  In a few minutes, as I well knew, Plinny would be coming in search ofme, to persuade me back to the house to breakfast and bed. I steppeddown to the streamside, where the beehives stood in a row on thebrink, paused for a moment to listen to the hum within them, and notethat the bees were making ready to swarm, crossed the bridge, andtried the rusty hasp of the door. It yielded stiffly; but as Ipulled the door inwards it brushed aside a mass of spider's web,white and matted, that could not be less than a month old. Also itbrushed a clump of ivy overgrowing the lintel, and shook down abouthalf an ounce of powdery dust into my hair and eyes. I scarcelytroubled to look through. Clearly, the door had not been opened formany weeks--possibly not since my last holidays.

  I recrossed the bridge and inspected the side-gate. This opened, asI have said, upon a lane never used but by the woodmen on MissBelcher's estate, and by them very seldom. It entered the park by astone bridge across the stream and by a ruinous gate, the gaps ofwhich had been patched with furze faggots. The roadway itself wascarpeted with last year's leaves from a coppice across the lane--leaves which the winter's rains had beaten into a black compost; andalmost facing the side-gate was a stile whence a tangled footpath ledinto the coppice.

  I had stepped out into the lane, and was staring over the stile intothe green gloom of the coppice, when I heard Plinny's voice callingto me from the house, and I had half turned to hail in answer when myeyes fell on the upper bar of the stile.

  Across the edge of it ran a dark brown smear--a smear which Irecognized for dried blood.

  "Harry! Harry dear!"

 
"Plinny!" I raced back through the garden, and almost fell into herarms as she came along the path between the currant-bushes in searchof me. "Plinny--oh, Plinny!" I gasped.

  "My dear child, what has happened?"

  Before I could answer there came wafted to our ears from eastward asound of distant shouting, and almost simultaneously, from thehigh-road near at hand, the trit-trot of hoofs approaching at greatspeed from westward, and the "Who-oop!" of a man's voice, lusty onthe morning air.

  "That will be Mr. Jack Rogers," said Plinny. "He brings us news, forcertain! Yes; he is reining up."

  We ran through the house together, and reached the front door in timeto witness a most extraordinary scene.

  Mr. Jack Rogers's tilbury had run past the house and come to a halt ashort gunshot beyond, where it stood driverless--for Mr. Jack Rogershad dismounted, and was gesticulating with both arms to stop a manracing down the road to meet him. A moment later, as this runnercame on, a second hove in sight over the rise of the road behindhim--a short figure, so stout and round that in the distance itresembled not so much a man as a ball rolling in pursuit.

  "Hi! Stop, you there!" shouted Mr. Rogers; but the first runnermight have been deaf, for all the attention he paid.

  "Good Lord!" said I, catching my breath; "it's Mr. GeorgeGoodfellow!"

  "In the King's name!" Mr. Rogers shouted, making a dash to intercepthim. And a moment later the two had collided, and were rolling inthe dust together.

  I ran towards them, with Plinny--brave soul!--at my heels, andarrived to find Mr. Rogers, hatless and exceedingly dishevelled,kneeling with both hands around the neck of his prostrate antagonist,and holding his face down in the dust.

  "You'd best stand up and come along quietly," Mr. Rogers adjuredhim.

  "Gug-gug--how the devil c-can I stand up if you won't lul-lul-letme?" protested Mr. Goodfellow, reasonably enough.

  "Very well, then." Mr. Rogers relaxed his grip. "Stand up!But you're my prisoner, so let's have no more nonsense!"

  "I'd like to know what's taken ye to pitch into a man like this?"demanded Mr. Goodfellow in a tone of great umbrage, as he shook thedust out of his coat and hair. "A fellow I never seen before, not tomy knowledge! Why--hallo!" said he, looking up and catching sight ofme.

  "Hallo!" said I.

  "Hallo!" said Mr. Rogers, in his turn. "Do you two know each other?"

  "Why, of course we do!" said Mr. Goodfellow.

  "I don't know where 'of course' comes in." Mr. Rogers eyed him withstern suspicion. "Why were you running away from the constable?"

  Mr. Goodfellow glanced towards the stout, round man, who by this timehad drawn near, mopping, as he came, a face as red as the redwaistcoat he wore.

  "Him a constable? Why, I took him for a loonatic! They put theloonatics into them coloured weskits, don't they?"

  "Nothing of the sort. You're thinking of the warders," Mr. Rogersanswered.

  "Oh? Then I made a mistake," said Mr. Goodfellow, cheerfully.

  "Look here, my friend, if you're thinking to play this off as a jokeyou'll find it no joking matter. Madam"--he turned to MissPlinlimmon--"is this the man who called at the cottage two days ago."

  "Yes," answered Plinny; "and once before, as I remember."

  "And on each occasion did you observe something strange in hismanner?"

  "Very strange indeed. He kept asking questions about the house andgarden, and the position of the rooms and about poor Major Brooks,and what rent he paid, and if he was well-to-do. And he took out ameasure from his pocket and began to calculate--"

  "Quite so." Mr. Rogers turned next to the constable. "Hosken," heasked, "you have been making inquiries about this man?"

  "I have, sir; all along the road, so far as Torpoint Ferry."

  "And you learnt enough to justify you in arresting him?"

  "Ample, y'r worship. There wasn't a public-house along the road butthought his behaviour highly peculiar. He's a well-known character,an' the questions he asks you would be surprised. He plies betweenFalmouth and Plymouth, sir, once a week regular. So, actin' oninformation that he might be expected along early this morning, Iconcealed myself in the hedge, sir, the best part of two milesback--"

  "You didn't," interrupted Mr. Goodfellow. "I saw your red stomachbetween the bushes thirty yards before ever I came to it, andwondered what mischief you was up to. I'm wondering still."

  "At any rate, you are detained, sir, upon suspicion," said Mr. Rogerssharply, "and will come with us to the cottage and submit to besearched."

  "Brooks," asked Mr. Goodfellow feebly, "what's wrong with 'em?And what are you doing here?"

  "Mr. Rogers," I broke in, "I know this man. His name is Goodfellow;he lives at Falmouth; and you are wrong, quite wrong, in suspectinghim. But what is more, Mr. Rogers, you are wasting time.There's blood on the stile down the lane. Whoever broke into thegarden must have escaped that way--by the path through theplantation--"

  "Eh?" Mr. Rogers jumped at me and caught me by the arm. "Why thedevil--you'll excuse me, Miss Plinlimmon--but why on earth, child, ifyou have news, couldn't you have told it at once? Blood on thestile, you say? What stile?"

  "The stile down the lane, sir," I answered, pointing. "And Icouldn't tell you before because you didn't give me time."

  "Show us the way, quick! And you, Hosken, catch hold of the mare andlead her round to Miss Belcher's stables. Or, stay--she's dead beat.You can help me slip her out of the shafts and tether her by the gateyonder. That's right, man; but don't tie her up too tight. Give herroom to bite a bit of grass, and she'll wait here quiet as a lamb."

  "What about the prisoner, sir?" asked the stolid Hosken.

  "D--n the prisoner!" answered Mr. Rogers, testily, in the act ofunharnessing. "Slip the handcuffs on him. And you, Miss Plinlimmon,will return to the cottage, if you please."

  "I'd like to come, too, if I may," put in Mr. Goodfellow.

  "Eh?" Mr. Rogers, in the act of rolling up one of the traces, staredat him with frank admiration. "Well, you're a sportsman, anyhow.Catch hold of his arm, Hosken, and run him along with us. Yes, sir,though I say it as a justice of the peace, be d--d to you, but I likeyour spirit. And with the gallows staring you in the face, too!"

  "Gallows? What gallows?" panted Mr. Goodfellow in my ear a fewmoments later, as we tore in a body down the lane. "Hush!" I pantedin answer. "It's all a mistake."

  "It ought to be." We drew up by the stile, where I pointed to thesmear of blood, and Mr. Rogers, calling to Hosken to follow him,dashed into the coppice and down the path into the rank undergrowth.I, too, was lifting a leg to throw it over the bar, when Mr.Goodfellow plucked me by the arm. "Terribly hasty friends you keepin these parts, Brooks," he said plaintively. "What's it all about?"

  "Why, murder!" said I. "Haven't you heard, man?"

  "Not a syllable! Good Lord, you don't mean--" He passed a shakyhand over his forehead as a cry rang back to us through the coppice.

  "Here, Hosken, this way! Oh, by the Almighty, be quick, man!"

  I vaulted over the stile, Mr. Goodfellow close after me. For twohundred yards and more--three hundred, maybe--we blundered andcrashed through the low-growing hazels, and came suddenly to ahorrified stand.

  A little to the left of the path, between it and the stream, Mr.Rogers and the constable knelt together over the body of a man halfhidden in a tangle of brambles.

  The corpse's feet pointed towards the path, and I recognized theshoes, as also the sea-cloth trousers, before Mr. Rogers--cursing inhis hurry rather than at the pain of his lacerated hands--tore thebrambles aside and revealed its face--the face of Captain Coffin,blue-cold in death and staring up from its pillow of rotted leaves.

  I felt myself reeling. But it was Mr. Goodfellow who reeled againstme, and would have fallen if Hosken the constable had not sprung uponone knee and caught him.

  "If you ask my opinion," I heard Hosken saying as he raised himselfand held Mr. Goodfellow upright, steadying him, "'tis
a case o'guilty conscience, an' I never in my experience saw a clearer."