Murder at the Manor

by Martin Edwards

  “What was that?” she cried breathlessly.

  “What was what?” demanded Benson, springing up and clutching her fast by the arm.

  She caught her breath and tried to laugh. “You’re hurting me, Jem.”

  His hold relaxed.

  “What is the matter?” he asked gently. “What was it startled you?”

  “I was startled,” she said slowly, putting her hands on his shoulder. “I suppose the words I used just now are ringing in my ears, but I fancied that somebody behind us whispered ‘Jem, help me out.’”

  “Fancy,” repeated Benson, and his voice shook; “but these fancies are not good for you. You—are frightened—at the dark and the gloom of these trees. Let me take you back to the house.”

  “No, I’m not frightened,” said the girl, reseating herself. “I should never be really frightened of anything when you were with me, Jem. I’m surprised at myself for being so silly.”

  The man made no reply but stood, a strong, dark figure, a yard or two from the well, as though waiting for her to join him.

  “Come and sit down, sir,” cried Olive, patting the brickwork with her small, white hand; “one would think that you did not like your company.”

  He obeyed slowly and took a seat by her side, drawing so hard at his cigar that the light of it shone upon his face at every breath. He passed his arm, firm and rigid as steel, behind her, with his hand resting on the brickwork beyond.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked tenderly, as she made a little movement.

  “Pretty fair,” she shivered; “one oughtn’t to be cold at this time of the year, but there’s a cold, damp air comes up from the well.”

  As she spoke a faint splash sounded from the depths below, and for the second time that evening, she sprang from the well with a little cry of dismay.

  “What is it now?” he asked in a fearful voice. He stood by her side and gazed at the well, as though half expecting to see the cause of her alarm emerge from it.

  “Oh, my bracelet,” she cried in distress, “my poor mother’s bracelet. I’ve dropped it down the well.”

  “Your bracelet!” repeated Benson dully. “Your bracelet? The diamond one?”

  “The one that was my mother’s,” said Olive. “Oh, we can get it back surely. We must have the water drained off.”

  “Your bracelet!” repeated Benson stupidly.

  “Jem,” said the girl in terrified tones, “dear Jem, what is the matter?”

  For the man she loved was standing regarding her with horror. The moon which touched it was not responsible for all the whiteness of the distorted face, and she shrank back in fear to the edge of the well. He saw her fear and by a mighty effort regained his composure and took her hand.

  “Poor little girl,” he murmured, “you frightened me. I was not looking when you cried, and I thought that you were slipping from my arms, down—down—”

  His voice broke, and the girl throwing herself into his arms clung to him convulsively.

  “There, there,” said Benson fondly, “don’t cry, don’t cry.”

  “To-morrow,” said Olive, half-laughing, half-crying, “we will all come round the well with hook and line and fish for it. It will be quite a new sport.”

  “No, we must try some other way,” said Benson. “You shall have it back.”

  “How?” asked the girl.

  “You shall see,” said Benson. “To-morrow morning at latest you shall have it back. Till then promise me that you will not mention your loss to any one. Promise.”

  “I promise,” said Olive wonderingly. “But why not?”

  “It is of great value, for one thing, and—But there—there are many reasons. For one thing it is my duty to get it for you.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to jump down for it?” she asked mischievously. “Listen.”

  She stooped for a stone and dropped it down.

  “Fancy being where that is now,” she said, peering into the blackness; “fancy going round and round like a mouse in a pail, clutching at the slimy sides, with the water filling your mouth, and looking up to the little patch of sky above.”

  “You had better come in,” said Benson, very quietly. “You are developing a taste for the morbid and horrible.”

  The girl turned, and taking his arm walked slowly in the direction of the house; Mrs. Benson, who was sitting in the porch, rose to receive them.

  “You shouldn’t have kept her out so long,” she said chidingly. “Where have you been?”

  “Sitting on the well,” said Olive, smiling, “discussing our future.”

  “I don’t believe that place is healthy,” said Mrs. Benson emphatically. “I really think it might be filled in, Jem.”

  “All right,” said her son slowly. “Pity it wasn’t filled in long ago.”

  He took the chair vacated by his mother as she entered the house with Olive, and with his hands hanging limply over the sides sat in deep thought. After a time he rose, and going upstairs to a room which was set apart for sporting requisites selected a sea fishing line and some hooks and stole softly downstairs again. He walked swiftly across the park in the direction of the well, turning before he entered the shadow of the trees to look back at the lighted windows of the house. Then having arranged his line he sat on the edge of the well and cautiously lowered it.

  He sat with his lips compressed, occasionally looking about him in a startled fashion, as though he half expected to see something peering at him from the belt of trees. Time after time he lowered his line until at length in pulling it up he heard a little metallic tinkle against the side of the well.

  He held his breath then, and forgetting his fears drew the line in inch by inch, so as not to lose its precious burden. His pulse beat rapidly, and his eyes were bright. As the line came slowly in he saw the catch hanging to the hook, and with a steady hand drew the last few feet in. Then he saw that instead of the bracelet he had hooked a bunch of keys.

  With a faint cry he shook them from the hook into the water below, and stood breathing heavily. Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. He walked up and down a bit and stretched his great muscles; then he came back to the well and resumed his task.

  For an hour or more the line was lowered without result. In his eagerness he forgot his fears, and with eyes bent down the well fished slowly and carefully. Twice the hook became entangled in something, and was with difficulty released. It caught a third time, and all his efforts failed to free it. Then he dropped the line down the well, and with head bent walked toward the house.

  He went first to the stables at the rear, and then retiring to his room for some time paced restlessly up and down. Then without removing his clothes he flung himself upon the bed and fell into a troubled sleep.

  III

  Long before anybody else was astir he arose and stole softly downstairs. The sunlight was stealing in at every crevice, and flashing in long streaks across the darkened rooms. The dining-room into which he looked struck chill and cheerless in the dark yellow light which came through the lowered blinds. He remembered that it had the same appearance when his father lay dead in the house; now, as then, everything seemed ghastly and unreal; the very chairs standing as their occupants had left them the night before, seemed to be indulging in some dark communication of ideas.

  Slowly and noiselessly he opened the hall door and passed into the fragrant air beyond. The sun was shining on the drenched grass and trees, and a slowly vanishing white mist rolled like smoke about the grounds. For a moment he stood, breathing deeply the sweet air of the morning, and then walked slowly in the direction of the stables.

  The rusty creaking of a pump-handle and a spatter of water upon the red-tiled courtyard showed that somebody else was astir, and a few steps farther he beheld a brawny, sandy-haired man gasping wildly under severe self-infliction at the pump.

&
nbsp; “Everything ready, George?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” said the man, straightening up suddenly and touching his forehead. “Bob’s just finishing the arrangements inside. It’s a lovely morning for a dip. The water in that well must be just icy.”

  “Be as quick as you can,” said Benson impatiently.

  “Very good, sir,” said George, burnishing his face harshly with a very small towel which had been hanging over the top of the pump. “Hurry up, Bob.”

  In answer to his summons a man appeared at the door of the stable with a coil of stout rope over his arm and a large metal candlestick in his hand.

  “Just to try the air, sir,” said George, following his master’s glance; “a well gets rather foul sometimes, but if a candle can live down it, a man can.”

  His master nodded, and the man, hastily pulling up the neck of his shirt and thrusting his arms into his coat, followed him as he led the way slowly to the well.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” said George, drawing up to his side, “but you are not looking over and above well this morning. If you’ll let me go down I’d enjoy the bath.”

  “No, no,” said Benson peremptorily.

  “You ain’t fit to go down, sir,” persisted his follower. “I’ve never seen you look so before. Now if—”

  “Mind your business,” said his master curtly.

  George became silent, and the three walked with swinging strides through the long wet grass to the well. Bob flung the rope on the ground, and at a sign from his master handed him the candlestick.

  “Here’s the line for it, sir,” said Bob, fumbling in his pockets.

  Benson took it from him and slowly tied it to the candlestick. Then he placed it on the edge of the well, and striking a match, lit the candle and began slowly to lower it.

  “Hold hard, sir,” said George quickly, laying his hand on his arm, “you must tilt it or the string’ll burn through.”

  Even as he spoke the string parted and the candlestick fell into the water below.

  Benson swore quietly.

  “I’ll soon get another,” said George, starting up.

  “Never mind, the well’s all right,” said Benson.

  “It won’t take a moment, sir,” said the other over his shoulder.

  “Are you master here, or am I?” said Benson hoarsely.

  George came back slowly, a glance at his master’s face stopping the protest upon his tongue, and he stood by watching him sulkily as he sat on the well and removed his outer garments. Both men watched him curiously, as having completed his preparations he stood grim and silent with his hands by his sides.

  “I wish you’d let me go, sir,” said George, plucking up courage to address him. “You ain’t fit to go, you’ve got a chill or something. I shouldn’t wonder it’s the typhoid. They’ve got it in the village bad.”

  For a moment Benson looked at him angrily, then his gaze softened. “Not this time, George,” he said quietly. He took the looped end of the rope and placed it under his arms, and sitting down threw one leg over the side of the well.

  “How are you going about it, sir?” queried George, laying hold of the rope and signing to Bob to do the same.

  “I’ll call out when I reach the water,” said Benson; “then pay out three yards more quickly so that I can get to the bottom.”

  “Very good, sir,” answered both.

  Their master threw the other leg over the coping and sat motionless. His back was turned toward the men as he sat with head bent, looking down the shaft. He sat for so long that George became uneasy.

  “All right, sir?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” said Benson slowly. “If I tug at the rope, George, pull up at once. Lower away.”

  The rope passed steadily through their hands until a hollow cry from the darkness below and a faint splashing warned them that he had reached the water. They gave him three yards more and stood with relaxed grasp and strained ears, waiting.

  “He’s gone under,” said Bob in a low voice.

  The other nodded, and moistening his huge palms took a firmer grip of the rope.

  Fully a minute passed, and the men began to exchange uneasy glances. Then a sudden tremendous jerk followed by a series of feebler ones nearly tore the rope from their grasp.

  “Pull!” shouted George, placing one foot on the side and hauling desperately. “Pull! pull! He’s stuck fast; he’s not coming; P—U—LL!”

  In response to their terrific exertions the rope came slowly in, inch by inch, until at length a violent splashing was heard, and at the same moment a scream of unutterable horror came echoing up the shaft.

  “What a weight he is!” panted Bob. “He’s stuck fast or something. Keep still, sir; for heaven’s sake, keep still.”

  For the taut rope was being jerked violently by the struggles of the weight at the end of it. Both men with grunts and sighs hauled it in foot by foot.

  “All right, sir,” cried George cheerfully.

  He had one foot against the well, and was pulling manfully; the burden was nearing the top. A long pull and a strong pull, and the face of a dead man with mud in the eyes and nostrils came peering over the edge. Behind it was the ghastly face of his master; but this he saw too late, for with a great cry he let go his hold of the rope and stepped back. The suddenness overthrew his assistant, and the rope tore through his hands. There was a frightful splash.

  “You fool!” stammered Bob, and ran to the well helplessly.

  “Run!” cried George. “Run for another line.”

  He bent over the coping and called eagerly down as his assistant sped back to the stables shouting wildly. His voice re-echoed down the shaft, but all else was silence.

  The White Pillars Murder

  G. K. Chesterton

  Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874–1936) was a brilliant polymath who would no doubt be surprised to learn that, eighty years after his death, his continuing fame rests mainly on his creation of the sleuthing priest, Father Brown. A theologian, journalist, broadcaster and campaigner, he used his newspaper, G. K.’s Weekly, as a soap box, and frequently debated issues of the day with the likes of George Bernard Shaw.

  Chesterton manifested a keen interest in detective fiction long before he became a skilled exponent of the genre; his article “A Defence of Detective Stories” appeared in 1901, and The Man Who Was Thursday, often described as a metaphysical thriller, appeared seven years later. Father Brown quickly became his best-loved character, and this resulted in a tendency to overlook Chesterton’s other detectives, including that unorthodox criminologist, Dr Adrian Hyde.

  ***

  Those who have discussed the secret of the success of the great detective, Dr. Adrian Hyde, could find no finer example of his remarkable methods than the affair which came to be called “The White Pillars Mystery.” But that extraordinary man left no personal notes and we owe our record of it to his two young assistants, John Brandon and Walter Weir. Indeed, as will be seen, it was they who could best describe the first investigations in detail, from the outside; and that for a rather remarkable reason.

  They were both men of exceptional ability; they had fought bravely and even brilliantly in the Great War; they were cultivated, they were capable, they were trustworthy, and they were starving. For such was the reward which England in the hour of victory accorded to the deliverers of the world. It was a long time before they consented in desperation to consider anything so remote from their instincts as employment in a private detective agency. Jack Brandon, who was a dark, compact, resolute, restless youth, with a boyish appetite for detective tales and talk, regarded the notion with a half-fascinated apprehension, but his friend Weir, who was long and fair and languid, a lover of music and metaphysics, with a candid disgust.

  “I believe it might be frightfully interesting,” said Brandon. “Haven’t you ever had t
he detective fever when you couldn’t help overhearing somebody say something—‘If only he knew what she did to the Archdeacon,’ or ‘And then the whole business about Susan and the dog will come out.’?”

  “Yes,” replied Weir, “but you only heard snatches because you didn’t mean to listen and almost immediately left off listening. If you were a detective, you’d have to crawl under the bed or hide in the dust-bin to hear the whole secret, till your dignity was as dirty as your clothes.”

  “Isn’t it better than stealing,” asked Brandon, gloomily, “which seems to be the next step?”

  “Why, no; I’m not sure that it is!” answered his friend.

  Then, after a pause, he added, reflectively, “Besides, it isn’t as if we’d get the sort of work that’s relatively decent. We can’t claim to know the wretched trade. Clumsy eavesdropping must be worse than the blind spying on the blind. You’ve not only got to know what is said, but what is meant. There’s a lot of difference between listening and hearing. I don’t say I’m exactly in a position to fling away a handsome salary offered me by a great criminologist like Dr. Adrian Hyde, but, unfortunately, he isn’t likely to offer it.”

  But Dr. Adrian Hyde was an unusual person in more ways than one, and a better judge of applicants than most modern employers. He was a very tall man with a chin so sunk on his chest as to give him, in spite of his height, almost a look of being hunchbacked; but though the face seemed thus fixed as in a frame, the eyes were as active as a bird’s, shifting and darting everywhere and observing everything; his long limbs ended in large hands and feet, the former being almost always thrust into his trouser-pockets, and the latter being loaded with more than appropriately large boots. With all his awkward figure he was not without gaiety and a taste for good things, especially good wine and tobacco; his manner was grimly genial and his insight and personal judgment marvellously rapid. Which was how it came about that John Brandon and Walter Weir were established at comfortable desks in the detective’s private office, when Mr. Alfred Morse was shown in, bringing with him the problem of White Pillars.