How he reached the heart of the Hag's Nook he could never afterwards remember. A steep slippery meadow, grass that twisted the feet like wires, then brambles and underbrush tearing through his shirt; he could see nothing except that he was bumping into fir trees with a gutted precipice looming up ahead. Breath hurt his lungs, and he stumbled against sodden bark to clear the water from his eyes. But he knew he was there. All around in the dark was a sort of unholy stirring and buzzing, muffled splashes, a sense of things that crawled or crept, but, worst of all, an odour.
Things were flicking against his face, too. Throwing out his hand,, he encountered a low wall. of rough stone, and felt the rust of a spike. There must be something in the feel of this place that made your head pound, and your blood turn thin, and your, legs feel weak. Then the lightning came with broken illumination through the trees. . . . He was staring across the wide well, on a level with his chest, and hearing water splash below.
Nothing there.
Nothing hanging head down across the edge of the well, impaled on a spike. In the dark he began groping his way round the side of the well, holding to the spikes, in a frenzy to know. It was not until he was just beneath the edge of the cliff, and beginning to gasp with relief, that his foot kicked something soft.
He started groping in the dark, so numb that he groped with hideous care. He felt a chilly face, open eyes, and wet hair, but the neck seemed as loose as rubber, because it was broken. It did not need the lightning-flare immediately afterwards to tell him it was Martin Starberth.
His legs gave, and he stumbled back against the cliff fifty feet below the governor's balcony, which had stood out black against the lightning a moment before. He shuddered, feeling drenched and lost, with only one sick thought - that he had failed Dorothy Starberth. Everywhere the rain ran down him, the mud thickened under his hands, and the roar of the shower deepened. When he lifted stupid eyes, he suddenly saw far across the meadow, at Dr. Fell's cottage, the yellow lamp in the window of his room. There it was, plain through a gap in the fir trees; and the only images that stuck in his mind, wildly enough, were the scattered music sheets across the bed-and the fragments of a brittle clay pipe, lying broken on the floor.
Chapter 6
MR. BUDGE, the butler, was making his customary rounds at the Hall to see that all the windows were fastened before he retired to his respectable bachelor bed. Mr. Budge was aware that all the windows were fastened, had been fastened every night during the fifteen years of his
officiation, and would continue so until the great red-brick house should fall or Get Took By Americans - which latter fate Mrs. Bundle, the housekeeper, always uttered in a direful voice, as though she were telling a terrible ghost story. None the less, Mr. Budge was darkly suspicious of housemaids. He felt that, when his back was turned, every housemaid had an overpowering desire to sneak about, opening windows, so that tramps could get in. His imagination never got so far as burglars, which was just as well.
Traversing the long upstairs gallery with a lamp in his hand, he was especially careful. There would be rain before long, and much weighed on his mind. He was not worried about the young master's vigil in the Governor's Room. That was a tradition, a foregone conclusion, like serving your country in time of war, which you accepted stoically; like war, it had its dangers, but there it was. Mr. Budge was a reasonable man. He knew that there were such things as evil spirits, just as he knew there were toads, bats, and other unpleasant things. But he suspected that even spooks were growing mild and weak-voiced in these degenerate days when housemaids had so much time off. It wasn't like the old times of his father's service. His chief concern now was to see to it that there was a good fire in the library, against the young master's return; a plate of sandwiches, and a decanter of whisky.
No, there were more serious concerns on his mind. When he reached the middle of the oaken gallery, where the portraits hung, he paused as usual to hold up his lamp briefly before the picture of old Anthony. An eighteenth-century artist had depicted Anthony all in black, and the decorations on his chest, sitting at a table with a skull under his hand. Budge had kept his hair and was a fine figure of a man. He liked to imagine a resemblance to himself in the pale, reserved, clerical countenance of the first governor, despite Anthony's history; and Budge always walked with even a more dignified gait when he left off looking at the portrait. Nobody would have suspected his guilty secret - that he wept during the sad parts at the motion pictures, to which he
was addicted; and that he had once tossed sleepless for many nights in the horrible fear that Mrs. Tarpon, the chemist's wife, had seen him in this condition during a performance of an American film called "Way Down East" at Lincoln.
Which reminded him. Having finished with the upstairs, he went in his dignified Guardsman's walk down the great staircase. Gas burning properly in the front hall-bit of a sputter in that third mantle to the left, though; they'd be having in electricity one of these days, he shouldn't wonder! Another American thing. Here was Mr. Martin already corrupted by the Yankees; always a wild one, but a real gentleman until he began talking in this loud gibberish you couldn't understand, nothing but bars and drinks named after pirates - made with gin, too, which was fit for nobody but old women and drunkards; yes, and carrying a revolver, for all he knew! "Tom Collins"; that was the pirate one, wasn't it, or was the pirate called John Silver? And something called a "sidecar Sidecar. That suggested Mr. Herbert's motorbike. Budge felt uneasy.
"Budge!" a voice said from the library.
Habit cleared Budge's mind as it cleared his face. Setting down his lamp carefully on the table in the hall, he went into the library with just the proper expression of being uncertain he had heard.
"You called, Miss Dorothy?" said the public face of Mr. Budge.
Even though his mind was a sponged slate, he could not help noticing a startling (almost shocking) fact. The wall safe was open. He knew its position, behind the portrait of Mr. Timothy, his late master; but in fifteen years he had never seen it indecently naked and open. This he observed even before his automatic glance at the fireplace, to see that the wood was drawing well. Miss Dorothy sat in one of the big hard chairs, with a paper in her hands.
"Budge," she said, "will you ask Mr. Herbert to step downstairs?"
A hesitation. "Mr. Herbert is not in his room, Miss Dorothy."
"Will you find him, then, please?"
"I believe Mr. Herbert is not in the house," said Budge, as though he had given some problem deep consideration and were arriving at a decision.
She dropped the paper into her lap. "Budge, what on earth do you mean?"
"He – er - mentioned no prospective departure, Miss Dorothy? Thank you."
"Good Heavens, no! Where would he be going?"
"I mentioned the matter, Miss Dorothy, because I had occasion to go to his room shortly after dinner on an errand. He appeared to be packing a small bag."
Again Budge hesitated. He felt uneasy, because her face had assumed an odd expression. She got up.
"When did he leave the house?"
Budge glanced at the clock on the mantel-shelf. Its hands pointed to eleven-forty-five. "I am not certain, Miss Dorothy," he replied. "Quite soon after dinner, I think. He went away on his motor-bicycle. Mr. Martin had asked me to get him an electric bicycle-lamp as being-ah-more convenient for his sojourn across the way. That is how I happened to notice Mr. Herbert's departure. I went out to the stable to detach a lamp from one of the machines, and -ah-he drove past me...."
(Odd how Miss Dorothy was taking this! Of course, she had a right to be upset, what with Mr. Herbert's unheard - of departure without a word to anybody, and the safe standing open for the first time in fifteen years; but he did not like to see her show it. He felt as he had once felt when he peeked through a keyhole and saw - Budge hastily averted his thoughts, embarrassed at remembering his younger days.)
"It's strange I didn't see him," she was saying, looking at Budge steadily. "I sat on the la
wn for at least an hour after dinner."
Budge coughed. "I was about to say, Miss Dorothy, that he didn't go by the drive. He went out over the pasture, towards Shooter's Lane. I noticed it because I was some time in finding a proper lamp to take to Mr. Martin, and I, saw him turning down the lane then."
"Did you tell Mr. Martin of this?"
Budge permitted himself to look slightly shocked. "No, Miss Dorothy," he answered, in a tone of reproof. "I gave him the lamp, as you know, but I did not think it within my province to explain-"
"Thank you, Budge. You needn't wait up for Mr. Martin."
He inclined his head, noting from a comer of his eye that the sandwiches and whisky were in the proper place, and withdrew. He could loosen his grammar now, like a tight belt; he was Mr. Budge again. A queer one, the young mistress was. He had almost thought, "pert little piece," but that it would be disrespectful. All stiffness and high varnish, with her straight back and her coolish eyes. No sentiment. No 'eart. He had watched her growing up - let's see; she was twenty-one last April - since she was six. A child not condescending or sure of getting her way, like Mr. Martin, or quietly thankful for attention, like Mr. Herbert, but odd....
It was thundering more frequently now, he noted, and little streaks of lightning penetrated dark places of the house. Ah, a good job he'd lit that fire! The grandfather clock in the hall wanted winding. Performing that office, he kept thinking of what an odd child Miss Dorothy had been. A scene came back: the dinner table, with himself in the background, when the master and the mistress were alive. Master Martin and Master Herbert had been playing war in Oldham orchard, with some other boys; in talking of it at dinner, Master Martin had twitted his cousin about not climbing into the branches of the highest maple as a lookout. Master Martin was always the leader, and Master Herbert trotted after him humbly; but this time he refused to obey orders. "I wouldn't!" he repeated at the table. "Those branches are rotten." "That's right, Bert," said the mistress, in her gentle way. "Remember, even in war one must be cautious." And then little Miss Dorothy had astonished them all by suddenly saying, very violent-like, though she hadn't spoken all evening: "When I grow up, I'm going to marry a man without any caution at all." And looked very fierce. The mistress had reproved her, and the master had just chuckled in his dry, ugly way; queer to remember that now....
It was raining now. As he finished winding the clock, it began to strike. Budge, staring at it vacantly, found himself surprised, and wondered why. Midnight, the clock was striking. Well, that was all right, surely....
No. Something was wrong. Something jarred at the back of his small, automatic brain. Troubled, he frowned at the landscape painted on the clock-face. Ah, he had it now! Just a few minutes ago he had been talking to Miss Dorothy, and the library clock had said eleven forty-five. The library clock must be wrong.
He drew out his gold watch, which had not erred in many years, and opened it. Ten minutes to twelve. No, the library clock had been right; this old grandfather, by which the housemaids set the other time-pieces in the house, was precisely ten and a half minutes fast. Budge permitted a groan to go backwards down his windpipe, and thus remain unheard. Now, before he could retire with an undisturbed conscience, he must go about and inspect the other clocks.
The clock struck twelve.
And then, presently, the telephone rang. Budge saw Dorothy Starberth's white face in the library door as he went to answer it.
Chapter 7
SIR BENJAMIN ARNOLD, the, chief constable, sat behind the writing-table in Dr. Fell's study, his bony hands folded on it like a schoolmaster. He looked a little like a schoolmaster also, but for the burnt color and horsiness of his face. His thick greyish hair was combed pompadour; his eyes looked sharp behind a pince-nez.
"-I thought it best, he was saying, "to take personal charge. It was suggested that an inspector be sent down from Lincoln. However, I have known the Starberths, and Dr. Fell in particular, for such a long time that I thought it best to drive over and superintend the Chatterham police myself. In that way we may save any scandal, or as much beyond what the inquest is bound to bring out."
He hesitated, clearing his throat.
"You, Doctor - and you, Mr. Saunders - are aware that I have never had occasion to handle a murder case. I am almost certain to being out of my depth. If everything fails, we shall have to call in Scotland Yard. But among us we may be able to straighten this unfortunate business out."
The sun was high in a clear, warm morning, but the study still held little light. During a long silence they could hear a police constable walking up and down the hall outside. Saunders nodded ponderously. Dr. Fell remained frowning and glum. Rampole was too tired and muddled to pay much attention.
"You – ah - said `murder case,' Sir Benjamin?" the rector inquired.
"I know the Starberth legend, of course," answered the chief constable, nodding. "And I confess I have a theory about it. Perhaps I should not have said `murder case' in the properest sense. Accident we may put out of the question. But I will come to that presently.... Now, Doctor."
He squared himself, drawing in his lips and tightening fingers round his bony knuckles; shifting a little, like a lecturer about to commence on an important subject.
"Now, Doctor. You have told everything up to the time the light went out in the Governor's Room. What happened when you went up to investigate?"
Moodily Dr. Fell poked at the edge of the writing-table with his cane. He rumbled and bit at his moustache.
"I didn't go. Thanks for the compliment, but I couldn't move like these other two. H'mf, no. Better let them tell you."
"Quite.... I believe, Mr. Rampole, that you discovered the body?"
The clipped, official lines of this procedure made Rampole feel uneasy. He couldn't talk naturally, and felt that anything he said might be used against him. Justice! – it was a big, unnerving thing. He felt guilty of something without knowing what.
"I did."
"Tell me, then: Why did it occur to you to go directly to the well, instead of through the gate and up to the Governor's Room? Had you reason to suspect what had happened?"
"I - I don't know. I've been trying to figure it out all day. It was just automatic. I'd been reading those journals – the history of the legend, and all that-so ..." He gestured, helplessly.
"I see. What did you do afterwards?"
"Well, I was so stunned that I sort of fell back against the hill and sat there. Then I remembered where I was and called for Mr. Saunders."
"And you, Mr. Saunders?"
"For for myself, Sir Benjamin," the rector said, giving the title its full value, "I was almost to the gate of the prison when I – ah - heard Mr. Rampole's summons. I thought it somewhat odd that he should go directly towards the Hag's Nook, and tried to beckon him. But there was scarcely time to think much." He frowned judicially.
"Quite. When you stumbled on the body, Mr. Rampole, it was lying at the edge of the well, directly beneath the balcony?"
"Yes."
"How lying? - I mean, on its back or face?"
Rampole reflected, closing his eyes. All he could think of was the wetness of the face. "On his side, I think. Yes, I'm certain."
"Left or right?"
"I don't know ... wait a minute! Yes, I do. It was the right
Doctor Fell bent forward unexpectedly, poking the table sharply with his cane. "You're sure of that?" he demanded. "You're sure of it, now, boy? Remember, it's easy to be confused."
The other nodded. Yes - feeling that dead man's neck, bending over and finding it all squashed into his right shoulder; he nodded fiercely, to drive away the image. "It was the right," he answered. "I'll swear to it
"That is quite correct, Sir Benjamin," the rector affirmed, putting his finger tips together.
"Very well. What did you do next, Mr. Rampole?"
"Why, Mr. Saunders got there, and we weren't certain what to do. All we could think of was getting him out of the wet. So first we though
t we'd carry him down to the cottage here, and then we didn't want to frighten Mrs. Fell; so we took him up and. put him in a room just inside the prison. Oh, yes-and we found the bicycle lamp he'd been using for a light. I tried to work it so as to give us some light, but it had been smashed by the fall."
"Where was this lamp? In his hand?"
"No. It was some distance away from him. It looked as though it had been pitched over the balcony; I mean, it was too far away for him to have been carrying it."
The chief constable tapped his fingers on the table. A spiral of wrinkles ascended his leathery neck as he kept his head sideways, staring at Rampole.
"That point," he said, "may be of the utmost importance in the coroner's verdict between accident, suicide, or murder.... According to Dr. Markley, young Starberth's skull was fractured, either by the fall or by a heavy blow with what we generally term a blunt instrument; his neck was broken, and there were other contusions of a heavy fall. But we can go into that later.... What next, Mr. Rampole?"
"I stayed with him while Mr. Saunders went down to tell Dr. Fell and drive to Chatterham after Dr. Markley. I just waited, striking matches and - I mean, I just waited."
He shuddered.
"Thank you. Mr. Saunders?'
"There is little more to add, Sir Benjamin," Saunders returned; his mind on details. "I drove to Chatterham, after instructing Dr. Fell to telephone to the Hall, speak to Budge, the butler, and inform him what had happened.... "
"That fool-" Dr. Fell began explosively. As the rector glanced at him in shocked surprise he added: "Budge, I mean. Budge isn't worth a two-ounce bottle in a crisis. He repeated what I said over the phone, and - I heard somebody scream; and, instead of keeping it from Miss Starberth until somebody could tell her gently, she knew it that minute."
"As I was saying, Sir Benjamin - of course you're right, Doctor; it was most inopportune - as I was saying," the rector went on, with the air of a man trying to please several people at once, "I drove to get Dr. Markley, stopping only at the rectory to procure myself a raincoat; then we returned, taking Dr. Fell to the prison with us. After a brief examination, Dr. Markley said there was nothing to do but notify the police. We took the-the body to the Hall in my car.”
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