Murder at the Manor

by Martin Edwards

  A maid came in to remove the breakfast things.

  ‘Ain’t you well this morning, Mr. Wingard?’ she inquired. Bolsover, resident in the private hotel for a good many months, had been generous enough in his gratuities to the servants.

  ‘Feeling the heat,’ he answered, wiping his brow. ‘Dreadfully sultry, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is ’ot for May. Guess we’re going to ’ave a thunderstorm soon. Shall I fetch some fresh coffee, or would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks, but I have got to go out now.’

  Perhaps he was thankful for the interruption.

  ***

  The bank with which his cousin dealt was in the Strand. Feeling weak, he took a taxi thither. He was known at the bank, his cousin’s instructions had been duly received, and the money was handed over to him, without delay. He rather overdid his amusement, as he realized afterwards, at his shaky signature on the receipt. ‘Looks as if I had been having a late night,’ he remarked, passing the paper back to the grave cashier.

  As the door swung behind him, he called himself a fool and wiped his face.

  He lunched leisurely at an unusually early hour. He preceded the meal with a couple of cocktails, accompanied it with a pint of champagne, and followed it with a liqueur. He felt much better, though annoyed by an unwonted tendency to perspire. On his leaving the restaurant, the tendency became more pronounced, so much so that he feared it must be noticeable, and once more he took a taxi, telling the man to go Kensington way. A little later, he was sitting in a shady part of Kensington Gardens. He had wanted to get away from people.

  For a while he felt comfortable in body, and almost easy in mind. He was now quite hopeful that Philip would see the unreasonableness of the terms of that letter, which had obviously been written in haste. After all, his debts amounted to no more than £6,000—well, say, £7,000—a sum that would scarcely trouble his cousin to disburse, especially as it would not be required all at once. No doubt, Philip would kick, to begin with, and deliver a pretty stiff lecture, but in the end he would capitulate. Oh, yes, it had been a black morning, but there would be another story to tell by midnight. Bolsover smoked a cigarette or two, surrendered himself to a pleasant drowsiness, and fell into a doze.

  ***

  He awoke heavy of limb—hot in the head and parched, and with a great spiritual depression upon him. He must have a drink. He looked at his watch. Only 4.30. His hotel, however, was not far distant, and thither he went on foot.

  The hall porter presented an expressed letter which had come at midday. The writing was familiar, and Bolsover was not glad to see it. In his room he helped himself to brandy before opening the letter—a curt warning that a fairly large sum must be paid by noon on the morrow. It acted as a powerful irritant and brought on the silent frenzy against things and persons which had shaken him in the morning.

  He took another drink, and presently his fiery wrath at fortune gave place to the old smouldering hate against his cousin, who now seemed to block the road to salvation. He unlocked and opened a drawer, and for a long while sat glowering at the things it contained, a revolver, which he had purchased years ago on the eve of a trip abroad, and a package of cartridges, never opened.

  He saw himself at the sun-dial in Philip’s garden, the loaded weapon in his pocket. He saw Philip coming in the darkness, from the house with its lights and music. And then he began to realize that the house was not so very far away, and imagined how the report of the revolver would shatter the night. He must think of another way, he concluded, shutting the drawer, and turned to the bottle once more.

  It was near to seven o’clock when he went out. He ought to have been drunk, but apparently he was quite sober when he entered the cutler’s shop in the Paddington district. He was going abroad on a game-hunting expedition, he explained, and wanted something in the way of a sheath-knife. This was supplied, and with the parcel he returned to the hotel.

  After dinner he dressed, not carelessly. The brandy bottle tempted, and he put off the craving with a dose much diluted. He took train to a riverside station, then a cab for the last two miles of the journey. At five minutes before ten he was in his cousin’s grounds.

  The ancient sun-dial stood in the centre of a rose garden, which was separated from the house by a broad walk, a lawn and a path, and walled round by high, thick hedges. Beyond the bottom of the rose garden was a narrow stretch of turf, and then the river.

  ***

  The night was very dark; the atmosphere heavy, breathless. It seemed to Bolsover, waiting by the dial, that the storm might burst at any moment, and his anxiety was intense lest the deluge should descend and prevent the coming of Philip. Though the knife, loosened in the sheath, lay ready in the pocket of his cloak, he kept telling himself that he would never use it, save as a threat; that he had bought it only to strengthen his courage and purpose. The effects of the alcohol apart, the man was not quite sane. A brain storm was as imminent as the storm of nature.

  Peering, listening, he stood by the dial, seeing above the hedge the glow from the open windows, hearing dimly the chatter and laughter of the guests. He had arrived in the garden to the sound of music, but soon it had ceased, and now the pause between the dances seemed very long. He argued that Philip, who doubtless desired secrecy as much as himself, would leave the house only when a dance was in progress, and, fingering the knife’s haft, he cursed the idle musicians and the guests resting on the verandah, or strolling on the lawn.

  ***

  The minutes passed, and at last the music started again. And when Bolsover, savage with exasperation, was telling himself that another dance was nearly over, he became aware of a sound of footfalls on gravel, and a dark figure, with a glimmer of white, appeared in the gap.

  Philip Merivale Wingard came quickly down to the dial and halted opposite his cousin.

  ‘So you are here, in spite of my warning,’ he said.

  ‘Philip, I came to ask—’

  ‘Ask nothing. Did you get the money from the bank?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘Have you sent half of it to the woman?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bolsover lied. ‘Let me explain—’

  ‘No!’ the other interrupted. ‘I am going to tell you why I am here. I have decided to let you have a further five hundred, which will give you a start, wherever you may settle abroad. It shall go to you as soon as I receive your address there. But I must have your signature to a promise, that for five years you will not attempt to return to this country, without my permission. Will you sign?’

  No man is so infamous that he cannot feel insulted. Bolsover felt insulted, and once more the silent frenzy shook him.

  ‘Come,’ said Philip, laying a single sheet of notepaper on the smooth table of granite. ‘Here is a simple promise written out by myself—I need not say that all between us is private—and here is a pen. I’ll hold a match while you sign. Come, man, unless you wish us to be discovered!’

  Bolsover, his right hand in his pocket, moved round till he was against his cousin’s left arm.

  ‘Take the pen,’ said Philip.

  ‘One moment,’ Bolsover returned in a thick voice.

  He took a step backwards, threw up his arm, and drove the knife down between Philip’s shoulders. In that moment he experienced a sort of sickness of astonishment at the ease with which the blade penetrated; in the next moment he stepped back, withdrawing the knife and holding it away from him.

  Philip squirmed, made a choking noise, and fell across the broad dial, one hand clutching at the far edge. The paper, dislodged, fluttered to the feet of Bolsover, who picked it up, pocketed it, and retreated up the path, backwards, yet with eyes averted from his handiwork. And having reached a distance of seven yards, he turned right round and stood with hunched shoulders, waiting for the ghastly labouring sound to cease. Had he not killed Philip after all? For a littl
e while he knew not what he did—prayed, may be—and then the end came, a gasping, choking noise, a slithering sound, a soft thud. He turned slowly about. There was a heap, slightly moving on the path under the dial, and then—there was a heap that was very still.

  Bolsover remembered his own safety. Running softly on the grass verge, he came to the gap in the lower hedge, passed through, crossed the strip of turf, and halted at the river’s edge. From the river came no sound at all. The most enthusiastic of boating people had sensed the coming storm. Gingerly Bolsover fitted the knife into its sheath, and slung it far out into the darkness. He tore the paper into tiny bits, and scattered them on the black water. Slowly they drifted away.

  By a roundabout route he reached the main walk leading to the house, and deliberately went forward to the door. The servant in attendance, who knew him as his master’s cousin, received him as a late arriving guest; if he noticed his pallor, he was not interested.

  And the pallor was not so extreme. Bolsover was playing a part now, and so intent thereon that in a measure he forgot why he was playing it.

  Before long he was among the guests, greeting those whom he knew, explaining that he had just arrived and was looking for the host, his cousin. A curate, a particular friend of Philip’s, whom Bolsover had always rather disliked, remarked that he thought he had seen Philip go out by the French window of the library, about ten minutes earlier.

  ‘You appear to be feeling the heat, Mr. Wingard,’ he added. ‘You look quite haggard.’

  ‘Yes, I want a drink,’ Bolsover answered somewhat roughly, and was going to get it, when a girl, who with her partner had strayed to the rose garden, ran into the hall, screaming that Mr. Wingard was lying by the sun-dial, dead—murdered!

  It had come sooner than Bolsover could have wished, and for the moment he was staggered—but appropriately so. He was the first to recover his wits, and, as was his natural duty, proceeded to take charge, ordering a servant to phone for doctor and police, and requesting several of the men guests to accompany him to the scene, with the elements of first aid, lest life should still be there.

  ‘We shall want lights!’ cried Mr. Minn, the curate, whose company Bolsover had not requested. ‘I’ll get my torch from my overcoat.’

  ***

  Several torches were procured, and the party hurried down to the rose garden. The young man, whose partner had brought the alarm to the house, met them with a word of warning to prepare for a dreadful sight.

  ‘He was alive, and no more, when we found him, but he’s gone now,’ the young man added. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve used all my matches.’

  ‘Did he speak?’ asked the curate, as the others gathered round the dial.

  ‘Oh, no; didn’t even attempt it, poor chap. I fancied, though, that he tried to make signs.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Towards the dial above him. And then he collapsed—in my arms. Heavens, I’m all bloody—everything is bloody!’

  ‘Go up to the house and take some whisky,’ said the curate kindly. ‘But stay a moment! Did you look at the dial? Was there anything unusual about it?’

  ‘Blood—and a fountain pen.’

  ‘A pen!’

  ‘Lying against the pointer.’

  ‘Did you remove it?’

  ‘Didn’t touch it. It’s a gold pen with a green stone in the top.’

  ‘His own,’ said Mr. Minn. ‘What on earth—? Well, don’t wait, Mr. Marshall. I think you will find the library window open, so you can slip in and ring for a servant to fetch your overcoat to cover the—the stains. This is terrible!’ The curate gave way to emotion. ‘Poor Philip! My good friend and the best of men!’

  Presently he joined the group. Bolsover was speaking.

  ‘I wish we could take him to the house, but dare we do so before the doctor—and the police—have seen him?’

  ‘I’m afraid we must wait,’ said a guest.

  ‘I felt a spot of rain just now,’ said another. ‘We can’t let him lie here if the storm breaks. What do you say, Mr. Minn?’

  The curate did not seem to hear. He was playing the shuddering light of his torch on the dial.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said unsteadily, ‘please give me your attention for a moment.’

  There was a catching of breaths at the sight of the dark pool and rivulets on the smooth grey stone, followed by faint exclamations as the beam caught and lingered on the gold pen.

  ‘His own pen, gentlemen—and with it he has written something on the dial, for there is one line of ink not quite dry—and the nib of the pen has given way.’

  The beam moved towards the right, and stopped.

  Here was no blood; only some writing—of a sort. The guests leaned forward, peering—all save Bolsover, who shrank back, open-mouthed, the sweat of terror on his skin. Had the dying man left a message?

  ‘Figures!’ softly exclaimed a guest.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Minn, producing a pencil, following with the point of it the wavering, broken lines and curves. ‘A one—a three—a nought—a six—an eight—another nought—and something that might have been a four, had the nib not broken, or had the hand not failed. One, three, nought, six, eight, nought—’

  A big drop of rain splashed on his hand, and he started as though it had been blood.

  ‘If the storm breaks now, this message, which may be a clue, will be lost!’ he cried. ‘Will one of you run to the house and fetch something waterproof to cover the dial? Hurry, please!’

  A guest ran off. Another drop fell, and another, on the dial.

  Mr. Minn handed the torch to his neighbour, saying:

  ‘Kindly, all of you, direct your lights on the figures.’ He whipped out a little notebook. ‘In case of accidents, I shall make a copy as exactly as possible.’

  There was a silence while he drew, rather than wrote down, the figures.

  Bolsover’s panic had passed. There was nothing in those large ill-formed figures that could in any way draw attention to himself. He cleared his throat, and said:

  ‘Mr. Minn, do these figures convey anything at all to you, as a friend of poor Philip’s?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr. Wingard.’ Mr. Minn shook his head. ‘But whatever their meaning, they must surely represent almost the last thought—if not the very last thought—of our cruelly murdered friend—and an urgent message. Whether or not they may provide the police with a clue—’

  There was a blinding glare, a stunning crash, a throbbing silence in the blackness, and the clouds turned, as it seemed, to water.

  ***

  The inquest was over, the jury returning an open verdict, the only verdict in keeping with the evidence, as every person in court had agreed. The fact that Philip must have had an enemy made a mystery in itself. The figures written on the dial were a mystery also; a search through Philip’s papers had revealed nothing with which they could be connected. Mr. Minn was, however, congratulated by the coroner on the presence of mind which he had shown in recording them.

  Bolsover won the sympathy of all by his quiet, frank answers to the coroner’s questions, by his tribute to the high character and generosity of his late cousin, and by his sad, pale, stricken appearance. Yes, there was a small estate to come to him, but other expectations he had none, the gifts of his cousin in the past having been almost princely.

  On the fatal night, he explained, being detained in town, he had arrived at his cousin’s house, shortly after ten. His inquiries for his cousin brought from Mr. Minn the reply that his cousin had gone out, and immediately thereafter came the shocking news. It was possible that the crime in the rose garden was committed while he was walking up the avenue; but if so, it must have been done silently. At this point he had asked for a glass of water, and the coroner had expressed himself satisfied.

  On the morrow, he attended the funeral, as chief mourner, looking
a wreck of a man. But with the turning away from the grave, the worst was over. He was safe! Only one duty remained—his presence at the reading of the will.

  It was not a large gathering, and Bolsover was the person least interested. The will had been made five years ago. Bolsover, his heavy lids almost closing his eyes, listened indifferently till—

  ‘And to my cousin and friend, Philip Bolsover Wingard, the sum of fifty thousand pounds, free of legacy duty.’

  He nearly fainted. It was Mr. Minn, the curate, who brought him a drink.

  ***

  Lunch had been provided for the mourners, but Bolsover begged to be excused. He was feeling far from well, he said, and wished to consult his doctor in town, without delay.

  ‘I think you are wise, Mr. Wingard,’ said Mr. Minn, kindly. ‘You are looking ill, and no wonder. But before you go, I would beg for just a few minutes’ talk. Let us go to the rose garden, where we shall not be disturbed.’

  ‘Very well,’ assented Bolsover. He had hoped never again to enter the rose garden, but did not see how he could reasonably refuse to do so now. Anyway, it would be the final torment.

  In silence they crossed the lawn, and passed through the gap in the hedge. In silence, also, since Bolsover had not the speech for protest, they came to the sun-dial.

  Mr. Minn bared his head, and said:

  ‘As God Almighty’s rain has washed away all the signs of this tragedy, so is His infinite mercy able to wash away the sin that caused it. Amen.’

  He replaced his hat and looked very gently and gravely at Bolsover.

  ‘Mr. Wingard, I wish to show you something. I wish to show you Philip’s last thought before he died.’ So saying he took out his notebook and a scarlet chalk pencil.