The Sign of the Stranger
Page 8
dressing-table heaped withsilver-mounted toilet requisites.
Without a moment's hesitation I opened the huge wardrobe, and after abrief search discovered a dark tweed tailor-made coat and skirt which Irecognised as one she often wore for walking, and these I hurriedlyrolled up and together with a pair of buttoned boots carried them off.I noticed that the bed, with its pale blue silken hangings, wasfortunately tumbled as though it had been slept in, therefore Westonevidently did not suspect that her young mistress had been absent allnight.
Not without risk of detection, I managed to convey the dress and bootsdown to my own room, where I packed them in a neat parcel and carriedthem with all speed back to Sibberton.
Mrs Dawson, who was a somewhat decrepit person, had not returned,therefore I carried the parcel up to the attic, and ten minutes laterher ladyship came down looking as fresh and neat in her tweed gown asthough she had only that moment emerged from her room.
Leaving her cloak and muddy dinner-dress in my charge, she escaped bythe back and away down the garden, expressing her intention of returningto the Hall as though she had only been out an hour for a morning walk,as was so frequently her habit. She had thanked me fervently for myassistance, and in doing so uttered a sentence that struck me asremarkably strange, knowing what I did.
"You have saved me, Willoughby. You can save my life, if you will."
"I will," was my earnest reply. "You know my secret," I added, raisingher fingers to my hot passionate lips before we parted.
She made no mention of the tragedy, and what, indeed, could I remark?
My journey to London I was compelled to postpone in view of what hadoccurred. She had not referred to it, and to tell the truth I felt thatmy presence beside her just then was of greater need. Thus, afterawaiting my housekeeper's return in order to preserve appearances, I atemy breakfast with the air of a man entirely undisturbed.
Just before nine the doctor came in, ruddy and well-shaven, and throwinghimself into an armchair exclaimed--
"You didn't keep your promise! I called and found nobody at home. Youwere out."
"I'd gone down the village," I explained.
"Well, I've been up into the park with the police. They've sent thatblundering fool Redway--worse than useless! We've been over the ground,but there's so many footprints that it's impossible to distinguish any--save one."
"And what's that?"
"Well, strangely enough, my dear fellow, it's a woman's."
"A woman's!" I gasped, for I saw that all my work had been in vain andin my hurry I must have unfortunately overlooked one.
"Yes, it's the print of a woman's slipper with a French heel--not thekind of shoe usually worn in Sibberton," remarked the doctor. "Funny,isn't it?"
"Very," I agreed with a sickly feeling. "What do the police think?"
"Redway means to take a plaster cast of it--says it's an important clue.Got a cigarette?"
I pushed the box before him, with sinking heart, and at the same timeinvited him to the table to have breakfast, for I had not yet finished.
"Breakfast!" he cried. "Why, I had mine at six, and am almost ready forlunch. I'm an early bird, you know."
It was true. He had cultivated the habit of early rising by goingcub-hunting with the Stanchester hounds, and it was his boast that henever breakfasted later than six either summer or winter.
"Did they find anything else?" I inquired, fearing at the same time tobetray any undue curiosity.
"Found a lot of marks of men's boots, but they might have been ours," heanswered in his bluff way as he lit his cigarette. "My theory is thatthe mark of the woman's shoe is a very strong clue. Some woman knowsall about it--that's very certain, and she's a person who wears thinFrench shoes, size three."
"Does Redway say that?"
"No, I say it. Redway's a fool, you know. Look how he blundered inthat robbery in Northampton a year ago. I only wish we could get a manfrom Scotland Yard. He'd nab the murderer before the day is out."
At heart I did not endorse this wish. On the contrary the discovery ofthis footmark that had escaped me was certainly a very serious_contretemps_. My endeavours must, I saw, now all be directed towardsarranging matters so that, if necessary, Lolita could prove a complete_alibi_.
"Do you know," went on the doctor, "there's one feature in the affairthat's strangest of all, and that is that there seems to have been anattempt to efface certain marks, as though the assassin boldly returnedto the spot after the removal of the body and scraped the ground inorder to wipe out his footprints. Redway won't admit that, but I'mcertain of it--absolutely certain. I suppose the ass won't accept thetheory because it isn't his own."
I tried to speak, but what could I say? The words I uttered resolvedthemselves into a mere expression of blank surprise, and perhaps it wasas well, for the man before me was as keen and shrewd as any member ofthe Criminal Investigation Department. He was essentially a man ofaction, who whether busy or idle could not remain in one place fiveminutes together. He rushed all over the country-side from earlymorning, or dashed up to London by the express, spent the afternoon inBond Street or the Burlington, and was back at home, a hundred milesdistant, in time for dinner. He was perfectly tireless, possessing ademeanour which no amount of offence could ruffle, and an even temperand chaffing good-humour that was a most remarkable characteristic. Thevery name of Pink in Northamptonshire was synonymous of patient surgicalskill combined with a spontaneous gaiety and bluff good-humour.
"I've given over that bit of white fur to Red way," he went on. "And Iexpect we shall find that the owner of it is also owner of the smallshoes. I know most of the girls of Sibberton--in fact, I've attendedall of them, I expect--but I can't suggest one who would, or even could,wear such a shoe as that upon the woman who was present at the tragedy,if not the actual assassin."
"Redway will make inquiries, I suppose?" I remarked in a faint hollowvoice.
"At my suggestion he has wired for assistance, and I only hope they'llget a man down from London. If they don't--by Gad! I'll pay for onemyself. We must find this woman, Woodhouse," he added, rising andtossing his cigarette-end into the grate. "We'll find her--at allcosts!"
CHAPTER SEVEN.
IS FULL OF MYSTERY.
The doctor's keen desire to solve the mystery caused me most seriousapprehension. His bluff good-humour, at other times amusing, nowirritated me, and I was glad when he rose restlessly and went out,saying that he had wired to Doctor Newman at Northampton, and that theyintended to make the post-mortem at two o'clock.
Presently, after a rest, which I so sorely needed, I walked along to the_Stanchester Arms_ and had a private consultation with Warr in thelittle back parlour of the old-fashioned inn. Standing back from theroad with its high swinging sign, it was a quaint, picturesque place,long and rambling, with the attic windows peeping forth from beneath thethatch. Half-hidden by climbing roses, clematis and jessamine it wasoften the admiration of artists, and many times had it been painted orsketched, for it was certainly one of the most picturesque of any of theinns in rural Northamptonshire, and well in keeping with the old-worldpeace of the Sibberton village itself.
Having again impressed upon the landlord the necessity of delivering theletter to Lolita in secret, as well as remaining utterly dumb regardingthe stranger's visit, I was allowed to view the body of the unknownvictim. It lay stretched upon some boards in the outhouse at rear ofthe inn, covered by a sheet, which on being lifted revealed the coldwhite face.
We stood there together in silence. In the dim light of the previousnight and the uncertain glimmer of the lantern, I had not obtained anadequate idea of the young man's features, and it was in order to dothis that I revisited the chamber of the dead.
For a long time I gazed upon that blanched countenance and sightlesseyes, a face that seemed in those few hours to have altered greatly,having become shrunken, more refined, more transparent. Theclosely-cropped hair, the very even dark eyebrows, and the rather highcheek-bo
nes were the most prominent features, and all of them, combinedwith the cut of his clothes and the shape of his boots, went to suggestthat he was not an Englishman.
In those moments every feature of that calm dead face becamephotographed upon the tablets of my memory, and as it did so I somehowbecame convinced that he was not altogether a stranger. I had, Ibelieved, met him previously somewhere--but where I could not determine.I recollected Warr's evasion of my question. Was he also puzzled, likemyself?
Outside the inn half Sibberton had assembled to discuss the terribleaffair, many of the village women wearing their lilac sun-bonnets, thoseold-world head-dresses that are, alas! so fast disappearing