by Marion Bryce
Even when David, relenting a little, though still reluctant to show it, grunted surlily, “None of you cavalry soldiers are safe with a gun.” Mark did not, as he would generally have done, deny the accusation resentfully, but displayed an astonishing meekness, which proved how clearly he saw himself to be in the wrong. Juliet, who had sometimes thought him rather selfish—a fault he shared with many others of his kind, and one perhaps almost unavoidable in attractive only sons—was touched by his unusual humility, and treated the matter lightly, doing all she could to cheer him up and restore to him his good opinion of himself.
But Mark, while he smiled back gratefully in reply, would not allow her to persuade him that he was less to blame than he asserted, and he was still lamenting his carelessness when they came up with the rest of the party, who were already stationed in the butts.
Miss Tarver was beside Lord Ashiel, and Mark stopped a minute to relate how nearly he had been the cause of an accident, although both David and Juliet, by mutual consent, guessed what he was going to do, and tried to dissuade him.
“No need to say anything about it,” David mumbled in his ear.
“No, no, don’t, please,” Juliet murmured in the other.
Yet he would not be tempted, and they walked on together in silence, leaving him to tell the story.
“I as near as makes no difference peppered David and Miss Byrne just now,” they heard him begin, and then Lord Ashiel’s voice broke in in an angry tone as they passed out of earshot.
David’s loader reported afterwards that that young gentleman and Miss Byrne, when she waited with him in the butt, seemed to find very little to talk about. And it was a long wait before any birds came up, on that beat.
CHAPTER VII
It was a few days after this that Gimblet, taking up an evening paper at the Club, was startled to see a sinister headline of “Murder,” immediately followed by the name of Ashiel.
“MURDER OF A SCOTCH PEER.”
“LORD ASHIEL SHOT DEAD IN HIS OWN HOUSE.”
“ESCAPE OF MURDERER.”
“They’ve got him,” he muttered between his teeth as he hastily began to read the paragraph that followed:
“News reaches us, as we go to press, of a dastardly crime, involving the death of Lord Ashiel, which occurred late last night at his residence in the Highlands of Scotland. Lord Ashiel was sitting quietly in his library at Inverashiel Castle, when a shot was fired through the window by someone in the grounds, which wounded his Lordship so severely that death took place instantaneously. Although the household was immediately alarmed and a thorough search made through the garden and grounds surrounding the castle, the murderer contrived to escape. The police are continuing their search in the neighbourhood, and it is believed that a very strong clue to the scoundrel has been discovered. Douglas, Lord Ashiel, was the seventh Baron. He was born in 1869, educated at Eton and Oxford, and served for some years in the Diplomatic Service. He was a widower and childless, and is succeeded in the title by his nephew, Mr. Mark McConachan.”
There was nothing more.
Gimblet strode out of the Club and drove to New Scotland Yard. The Superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department was in, and received him gladly. Gimblet held out the paper he had carried off from the Club and pointed to the news of the tragedy.
“Is all this correct?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, indeed,” replied Mr. Beech, the superintendent. “We heard of it this morning. The Glasgow people have sent their men up, but it will take them all day to get to the place. Inverashiel is on the West Coast, and not what one would call easy to get at. They ought to be there about five o’clock.”
“Who has gone?” asked Gimblet.
“Macross has gone himself with one or two others. He has taken a photographer and a finger-print man, and will get to work as soon as he possibly can. This is a big business. Lord Ashiel is an important person; apart from his being a Scotch landowner—he owns 90,000 acres of moorland there—he is connected with half the great families in England. He has a cousin in the Cabinet; cousins everywhere, in the Foreign Office, in Parliament, in trade; he has one who owns a newspaper. He is rich; he is a sleeping partner in some Newcastle iron works, he is part owner of a small colliery in Yorkshire. Oh, there’s going to be a fine to-do about this case, you bet your life!”
“I knew him,” said Gimblet slowly. “He came to see me a fortnight ago. He told me he expected an attempt might be made to kill him.”
“The deuce he did!” exclaimed Beech. “Did he say who it was he feared?”
“Not exactly; but I gathered he had mixed himself up with some secret society abroad. He refused to give me any explicit information, or to appeal to you for protection, as I advised him to do. He told me he had some document in his possession which his enemies were anxious to obtain from him, and that if they failed to do so by peaceful methods he thought it likely they might try to get him out of the way; though he added that he did not anticipate any open assault, but thought it likely he might die some death that should have all the appearances of being accidental. He made me promise to take up the case if this should happen.”
“We are always glad of your help, my dear fellow,” said Beech.
“He gave me certain instructions, in the event of my being able to satisfy myself that his death is the work of his Nihilist friends,” said Gimblet, who thought it unnecessary to mention his disconcerting experience with the veiled lady, “And contrariwise, if I can make sure that they have no hand in it, it was his wish that I should then leave the whole thing alone. So I had better see what I can make of it before I go into this any further with you.”
“I can’t say I agree with that idea,” protested the superintendent. “However, I know you insist on working on your own lines, and that I have really no influence with you, in spite of the show you make, humbug that you are! of consulting my opinion. Well, good luck go with you; and let me know if you hit on anything that escapes our men.”
Gimblet walked back to his flat, his mind full of the tragedy which he had an uneasy feeling he might, in some way, have averted. How, he hardly knew. Lord Ashiel could not have lived all his life encircled by a cordon of police and detectives; and, without such precautions, a man condemned by Nihilist societies is practically sure to fall a victim to their excellent organization and disregard for the lives of their own members.
Still Gimblet had liked the dead peer, and could not get the pale aristocratic face and tired, feverish blue eyes out of his head. Surely he might have found some way of preventing this catastrophe.
He found a telegram at his flat. It was signed Byrne, and ran:
“Please come immediately to investigate death of Lord Ashiel certain some mistake.”
It had been sent off at four o’clock that day.
“Higgs,” called Gimblet to his servant, as he filled up the prepaid reply form, “I am going North to-night, by the eight o’clock from Euston. Pack me things for a week; country clothes; and put in plenty of chocolate.”
He collected several things he wanted packed, and then retired to his sitting-room, where he buried himself in an enormous file of typewritten papers he had borrowed from Scotland Yard, and which related to the various Nihilists known to be living in England. He had to return them before he left London, and when he dropped them at the Yard about seven o’clock, on his way to the station, he learnt that no word had yet come from the Scotch authorities as to any further developments at Inverashiel.
A few minutes past eight he was travelling North as fast as the Scotch express could carry him.
It was midday on the following day when he got off the steamer that had brought him from Crianan, and landed with his luggage on the wooden pier which displayed, painted on a rough board, the name of Inverashiel.
One of the deck hands dumped his luggage out on to the side of the loch and the boat moved on again.
A track led across the moor, and down it Gimblet saw a farm cart advancing, d
riven by a man who shouted as he approached:
“The young leddy’s comin’ doon tae meet ye, sir.”
And behind him, on the near skyline, the detective beheld the hurrying figure of a girl.
Leaving the man with the cart to grapple with his luggage, which was not of large dimensions, Gimblet walked to meet Juliet. As they drew near, she stopped and held out her hand.
“Mr. Gimblet?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said; “and you are Miss Byrne, are you not?”
He looked at her keenly as he spoke, noticing that her eyes were red and swollen, and that her whole bearing was eloquent of sorrow and want of sleep. She lifted a miserable face to him.
“Yes,” she said. “I am so glad you have come, but it has seemed a long while. I suppose you couldn’t get here before. Do you know all that has happened?”
“I know that Lord Ashiel is dead,” said the detective. “Hardly more than that. Will you tell me all there is to tell before we go up to the castle?”
“I have left the castle, and am staying with Lady Ruth Worsfold, whose house you can just see through the trees,” she said. “Will you come there first, or shall we go straight to the castle. It is about a mile through the woods.”
“Let us walk straight up,” said Gimblet. “You can tell me as we go. I have, as you say, been a long while getting here, but it is fortunate that the day is fine. I hope it has not rained during the last thirty-six hours?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl. “No; I believe it has been fine. But I haven’t taken much notice what the weather has been like.” She was disappointed and indignant that he should talk in this trivial strain, when her own heart was nearly bursting, and her every nerve stretched and tingling. She had pinned all her hopes on the arrival of the famous detective.
Gimblet heard the change in her tone.
“You think I am talking platitudes about the weather,” he said quickly, “and you think I am unsympathetic for your distress; but, believe me, what I said is very much to the point. If it has not rained the murderer’s footmarks will be very much more easily seen, and that is very important.”
“You don’t know,” said Juliet in a voice that trembled ominously. “They have found plenty of footmarks. The Glasgow detectives said they were Sir—Sir David Southern’s. They found his gun too, not cleaned; and they say he did it, and they have taken him away, to—to prison.” A sob escaped her, but she controlled herself with a great effort and went on: “You must prove that he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t. Anyone who knew him must know he didn’t. Oh you must, you must, find the real murderer!”
Gimblet was silent for a moment before this appeal. It was difficult to know what to say. He knew Macross well for a cautious, intelligent officer; if he had arrested Sir David Southern it seemed pretty certain that there was good evidence against that gentleman. On the other hand Lord Ashiel had seemed to think it likely that his death might wear an appearance calculated to mislead. Still Gimblet had a deep-rooted prejudice against holding out hopes he could not see a good chance of fulfilling, and he had so often been appealed to by distracted women to save their friend and “find the real murderer.”
“Will you not begin at the beginning?” he said at last. “I know how you came to be staying at Inverashiel, but I know nothing of what has happened since your arrival, except the bare fact of Lord Ashiel’s death. Tell me every detail you can think of, but, first, who else was staying at the castle besides yourself? I suppose they have left now?”
“Yes, they have all gone,” said Juliet. “The men went before it all happened, and the others the next day. There were Lady Ruth Worsfold and Mrs. Clutsam; they are both cousins of Lord Ashiel’s, and he lends them little houses that belong to him near here, but they were staying at the castle for a week or two. Then there was Miss Julia Romaninov. She is half a Russian, and Lord Ashiel’s sister, who is away just now, had invited her. An American girl, Miss Tarver, a great heiress, was there too. The men were Sir George Hatch and Colonel Spicer, who are cousins of Lord Ashiel’s; and Mr. Mark McConachan and Sir David Southern, who are his nephews, Mr. McConachan being the son of his dead brother, while Sir David is his younger sister’s child.
“I have been here a fortnight. The time has gone quickly. Every one was very nice to me; and, though nothing out of the way happened, it was all new and delightful, and I enjoyed it very much. Lord Ashiel, especially, was kindness itself; he was never tired of explaining to me the customs and traditions of the countryside, and he spared no pains to see that I was amused and entertained. I was with him most of the time, and grew to know him very well. I thought him a wonderful man: so clever, so widely read, so tolerant and sympathetic in his opinions. He was terribly delicate, though; he had continual headaches, and was so easily tired; but he told me it was a new thing for him to feel ill; up till a year or so ago he had always had the best of health. Mrs. Clutsam told me she thought he had been terribly worried over something; she didn’t know what it was; and of course it is not so very long since his wife and child died. But he did not strike me as being troubled about anything; his eyes had a sad expression, and sometimes he looked at me in a wondering sort of way; but I never saw him appear worried, and he was always cheerful and lively while I was with him.”
“Was he not equally so with the rest of the party?” asked Gimblet. “Did he show his likes and dislikes plainly?”
“I am afraid he did, rather. I think feeling ill and tired made him irritable, and his temper was very quick. But he was always nice to me.”
“Who wasn’t he nice too?”
“Well, I don’t think he liked Miss Romaninov much, In fact, she seemed to get on his nerves, and sometimes he was so rude to her that I used to wonder that she stayed. But she is such a quiet, good-tempered little thing; she never seems to mind anything, and she was really sorry and upset when he died. And he didn’t much like the other girl, Miss Tarver, but he made an effort, I think, to bear with her for his nephew’s sake. He said to me how glad he was that the boy would be well provided for.”
“Which nephew?” asked Gimblet. “I don’t understand. What had Miss Tarver to do with it?”
“Sir David Southern was engaged to marry her. She has thrown him over now,” said Juliet, and in spite of herself there was a trace of elation in her voice. “As soon as Sir David was suspected of the murder she broke off the engagement.”
“Ah,” said Gimblet, stooping to pick a piece of bracken, and waving it before him to keep at bay the flies, which were buzzing round them in clouds. He offered another bit silently to his companion, and she took it absently, without a word.
“He seemed very fond of Mr. McConachan,” she said, “and I think he liked every one else as well. Yes, I am sure he did, though he did have a dreadful quarrel with Sir David two days before he was killed; and he was angry with him once before that.”
“Ah,” said Gimblet again. “How was that?”
“The first time it was my fault, or partly my fault,” Juliet went on. “It was out shooting, and I couldn’t go as fast as the others, so I lagged behind and nearly got shot by accident, as Mr. McConachan thought we were in front of him. Sir David was with me, and Lord Ashiel was fearfully angry with him, and said he’d no business to let me get in a place where I might have been killed. He was rather cross with him for the next few days, though I told him it was my fault; and then the other day, when Sir David annoyed him again, there was a frightful row.”
“Was that your fault too?” asked Gimblet with a smile.
“No, it really wasn’t. Sir David had a dog, a retriever, to which he was devoted, but which Lord Ashiel hated. It was not a well-trained dog, I must admit, and it used to pay very little attention to its master, except at meal times, when it became very affectionate, not only to him, but to every one. The truth is that he spoilt it, and never punished it when it did wrong, or took any trouble to make it behave better. I heard that before I arrived there was trouble about it, as it did
a lot of damage in the garden, trampling down the flower-beds, and knocking Lord Ashiel’s favourite plants to pieces—he was very fond of gardening—and the very first day they went out shooting it ran away for miles, and Sir David after it, which delayed one of the drives half an hour. His uncle had been very cross about that, they said, and told Sir David he must keep it on a chain; but the next day it ate a grouse it was supposed to be retrieving, and Lord Ashiel was furious, and said that if it did anything more of the kind he’d have it killed.
“However, after that, all went well. The dog was kept tightly chained, and nothing happened till the other day. We were all out on the moors, waiting in the butts for the last drive to begin. Everything had gone badly with the shooting that day; the birds all went the wrong way; there were hardly enough guns for driving, anyhow; there was a high wind, and the shooting had been shocking; no one had shot well except Mr. McConachan, who is such a good shot; every one had been wounding their birds, and that always annoyed Lord Ashiel. He was in a very bad temper, and though he was not cross with me, I was rather afraid he might be, so I went and stood with Sir David. Miss Tarver was watching Sir George Hatch in the next butt, and then came Colonel Spicer, with Mr. McConachan and Lord Ashiel right at the end of the line.
“We had been waiting some time, when Sir David whispered to me that the birds were coming, and crouched down under the wall of the butt. His loader was kneeling behind him ready to hand him his second gun, with two cartridges stuck between his fingers to reload the first one. We were all intent on the grouse, and no one noticed that that wretched dog had worked his head out of his collar and was roaming about behind us. Just at that moment a mountain hare came lolloping along the crest of the hill, and, deceived by the stillness, came to a pause just opposite us and sat up on its hind legs to brush its whiskers with its paw. Its toilette didn’t last long, however, for by that time the dog had caught its wind, and with a series of yelps had hurled itself upon it. The hare was off in a second, and away they went, straight down the line, the dog making as much noise as a whole pack of hounds as he bounded and leapt over the thick heather. Sir David started up with an exclamation of dismay, and I, too, stood up and looked over the top of the butt. Following the direction of his eyes, I saw clouds of grouse streaming away to the left, all turning as they came over the hill, and wheeling away from us towards the north.
