‘Naturally,’ said Standish, in his most matter of fact tone. ‘When a man comes into a lot of money through the sudden death of two people, there are certain to be lots of people who will draw a connection between the two events.’
He stood up and faced Mansford.
‘Are the police still engaged on it?’
‘Not openly,’ answered the other. ‘But I know they’re working at it still. And I can’t and won’t marry Molly with this cloud hanging over my head. I’ve got to disprove it.’
‘Yes, but, my dear, it’s no good to me if you disprove it by being killed yourself,’ cried the girl. Then she turned to Ronald. ‘That’s where we thought that perhaps you could help us, Mr. Standish. If only you can clear Bill’s name, why—’
She clasped her hands together beseechingly, and Standish gave her a reassuring smile.
‘I’ll try, Miss Tremayne—I can’t do more than that. And now I think we’ll get to business at once. I want to examine that bedroom.’
II
Ronald Standish remained sunk in thought during the drive to Staveley Grange. Molly had not come with us, and neither Mansford nor I felt much inclined for conversation. He, poor devil, kept searching Ronald’s face with a sort of pathetic eagerness, almost as if he expected the mystery to be already solved.
And then, just as we were turning into the drive Ronald spoke for the first time.
‘Have you slept in that room since your brother’s death, Mansford?’
‘No,’ answered the other, a little shamefacedly. ‘To tell the truth, Molly extracted a promise from me that I wouldn’t.’
‘Wise of her,’ said Standish tersely, and relapsed into silence again.
‘But you don’t think—’ began Mansford.
‘I think nothing,’ snapped Standish, and at that moment the car drew up at the door.
It was opened by an elderly man with side-whiskers, whom I placed as the butler—Templeton. He was a typical, old-fashioned manservant of the country-house type, and he bowed respectfully when Mansford told him what we had come for.
‘I am thankful to think there is any chance, sir, of clearing up this terrible mystery,’ he said earnestly. ‘But I fear, if I may say so, that the matter is beyond earthly hands.’ His voice dropped, to prevent the two footmen overhearing. ‘We have prayed, sir, my wife and I, but there are more things in heaven and earth than we can account for. You wish to go to the room, sir? It is unlocked.’
He led the way up the stairs and opened the door.
‘Everything, sir, is as it was on the morning when Mr. Tom—er—died. Only the bedclothes have been removed.’
He bowed again and left the room, closing the door.
‘Poor old Templeton,’ said Mansford. ‘He’s convinced that we are dealing with a ghost. Well, here’s the room, Standish—just as it was. As you see, there’s nothing very peculiar about it.’
Ronald made no reply. He was standing in the centre of the room taking in the first general impression of his surroundings. He was completely absorbed, and I made a warning sign to Mansford not to speak. The twinkle had left his eyes: his expression was one of keen concentration. And, after a time, knowing the futility of speech, I began to study the place on my own account.
It was a big, square room, with a large double bed of the old-fashioned type. Over the bed was a canopy, made fast to the two bedposts at the head, and supported at the foot by two wires attached to the two corners of the canopy and two staples let into the wall above the windows. The bed itself faced the windows, of which there were two, placed symmetrically in the wall opposite, with a writing-table in between them. The room was on the first floor in the centre of the house, and there was thus only one outside wall—that facing the bed. A big open fireplace and a lavatory basin with water laid on occupied most of one wall; two long built-in cupboards filled up the other. Beside the bed, on the fireplace side, stood a small table, with a special clip attached to the edge for the speaking-tube. In addition there stood on this table a thing not often met with in a private house in England. It was a small, portable electric fan, such as one finds on board ship or in the tropics.
There were two or three easy chairs standing on the heavy pile carpet, and the room was lit by electric light. In fact the whole tone was solid comfort, not to say luxury; it looked the last place in the world with which one would have associated anything ghostly or mysterious.
Suddenly Ronald Standish spoke.
‘Just show me, will you, Mansford, as nearly as you can, exactly the position in which you found your father.’
With a slight look of repugnance, the Australian got on to the bed.
‘There were bedclothes, of course, and pillows which are not here now, but allowing for them, the poor old man was hunched up somehow like this. His knees were drawn up: the speaking-tube was in his hand, and he was staring towards that window.’
‘I see,’ said Standish. ‘The window on the right as we look at it. And your brother, now. When he was found he was lying over the rail at the foot of the bed. Was he on the right side or the left?’
‘On the right,’ said Mansford, ‘almost touching the upright.’
Once again Standish relapsed into silence and stared thoughtfully round the room. The setting sun was pouring in through the windows, and suddenly he gave a quick exclamation. We both glanced at him and he was staring up at the ceiling with a keen, intent look on his face. The next moment he had climbed on to the bed, and, standing up, he examined the two wire stays which supported the canopy. He touched each of them in turn, and began to whistle under his breath. It was a sure sign that he had stumbled on something, but I knew him far too well to make any comment at that stage of the proceedings.
‘Very strange,’ he remarked at length, getting down and lighting a cigarette.
‘What is?’ asked Mansford eagerly.
‘The vagaries of sunlight,’ answered Standish, with an enigmatic smile. He was pacing up and down the room smoking furiously, only to stop suddenly and stare again at the ceiling.
‘It’s the clue,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s the clue to everything. It must be. Though what that everything is I know no more than you. Listen, Mansford, and pay careful attention. This trail is too old to follow: in sporting parlance the scent is too faint. We’ve got to get it renewed: we’ve got to get your ghost to walk again. Now I’ve only the wildest suspicions to go on, but I have a feeling that that ghost will be remarkably shy of walking if there are strangers about. I’m just gambling on one very strange fact—so strange as to make it impossible to be an accident. When you go downstairs I shall adopt the rôle of advising you to have this room shut up. You will laugh at me, and announce your intention of sleeping in this room to-night. You will insist on clearing this matter up. Tony and I will go, and we shall return later to the grounds, where I see there is some very good cover. You will come to bed here—you will get into bed and switch out the light. You will give it a quarter of an hour, and then you will drop out of the window and join us. And we shall see if anything happens.’
‘But if we’re all outside, how can we?’ cried Mansford.
Standish smiled grimly. ‘You may take it from me,’ he remarked, ‘that if my suspicions are correct the ghost will leave a trail. And it’s the trail I’m interested in—not the ghost. Let’s go and don’t forget your part.’
‘But, my God! Standish—can’t you tell me a little more?’
‘I don’t know any more to tell you,’ answered Standish gravely. ‘All I can say is—as you value your life don’t fall asleep in this room. And don’t breathe a word of this conversation to a soul.’
Ten minutes later he and I were on our way back to the Old Hall. True to his instructions Mansford had carried out his rôle admirably, as we came down the stairs and stood talking in the hall. He gave it to be understood that he was damned if he was g
oing to let things drop: that if Standish had no ideas on the matter—well, he was obliged to him for the trouble he had taken—but from now on he was going to take the matter into his own hands. And he proposed to start that night. He had turned to one of the footmen standing by, and had given instructions for the bed to be made up, while Ronald had shrugged his shoulders and shaken his head.
‘Understandable, Mansford,’ he remarked, ‘but unwise. My advice to you is to have that room shut up.’
And the old butler, shutting the door of the car, had fully agreed.
‘Obstinate, sir,’ he whispered, ‘like his father. Persuade him to have it shut up, sir—if you can. I’m afraid of that room—afraid of it.’
‘You think something will happen to-night, Ronald,’ I said as we turned into the Old Hall.
‘I don’t know, Tony,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m utterly in the dark—utterly. And if the sun hadn’t been shining to-day while we were in that room, I shouldn’t have even the faint glimmer of light I’ve got now. But when you’ve got one bit of a jig-saw, it saves trouble to let the designer supply you with a few more.’
And more than that he refused to say. Throughout dinner he talked cricket with old Tremayne: after dinner he played him at billiards. And it was not until eleven o’clock that he made a slight sign to me, and we both said good-night.
‘No good anyone knowing, Tony,’ he said as we went upstairs. ‘It’s an easy drop from my window to the ground. We’ll walk to Staveley Grange.’
The church clock in the little village close by was striking midnight as we crept through the undergrowth towards the house. It was a dark night—the moon was not due to rise for another three hours—and we finally came to a halt behind a big bush on the edge of the lawn from which we could see the house clearly. A light was still shining from the windows of the fatal room, and once or twice we saw Mansford’s shadow as he undressed. Then the light went out, and the house was in darkness: the vigil had begun.
For twenty minutes or so we waited, and Standish began to fidget uneasily.
‘Pray heavens! he hasn’t forgotten and gone to sleep,’ he whispered to me, and even as he spoke he gave a little sigh of relief. A dark figure was lowering itself out of the window, and a moment or two later we saw Mansford skirting the lawn. A faint hiss from Standish and he’d joined us under cover of the bush.
‘Everything seemed perfectly normal,’ he whispered. ‘I got into bed as you said—and there’s another thing I did too. I’ve tied a thread across the door, so that if the ghost goes in that way we’ll know.’
‘Good,’ said Standish. ‘And now we can compose ourselves to wait. Unfortunately we mustn’t smoke.’
Slowly the hours dragged on, while we took it in turns to watch the windows through a pair of night glasses. And nothing happened—absolutely nothing. Once it seemed to me as if a very faint light—it was more like a lessening of the darkness than an actual light—came from the room, but I decided it must be my imagination. And not till nearly five o’clock did Standish decide to go into the room and explore. His face was expressionless: I couldn’t tell whether he was disappointed or not. But Mansford made no effort to conceal his feelings: frankly he regarded the whole experiment as a waste of time.
And when the three of us had clambered in by the window he said as much.
‘Absolutely as I left it,’ he said. ‘Nothing happened at all.’
‘Then, for heaven’s sake, say so in a whisper,’ snapped Standish irritably, as he clambered on to the bed. Once again his objective was the right hand wire stay of the canopy, and as he touched it he gave a quick exclamation. But Mansford was paying no attention: he was staring with puzzled eyes at the electric fan by the bed.
‘Now who the devil turned that on,’ he muttered. ‘I haven’t seen it working since the morning Tom died.’ He walked round to the door. ‘Say, Standish—that’s queer. The thread isn’t broken—and that fan wasn’t going when I left the room.’
Ronald Standish looked more cheerful.
‘Very queer,’ he said. ‘And now I think, if I was you, I’d get into that bed and go to sleep—first removing the thread from the door. You’re quite safe now.’
‘Quite safe,’ murmured Mansford. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Nor do I—as yet,’ returned Standish. ‘But this I will tell you. Neither your father nor your brother died of heart failure, through seeing some dreadful sight. They were foully murdered, as, in all probability you would have been last night had you slept in this room.’
‘But who murdered them, and how and why?’ said Mansford dazedly.
‘That is just what I’m going to find out,’ answered Standish grimly.
***
As we came out of the breakfast-room at the Old Hall three hours later, Standish turned away from us. ‘I’m going into the garden to think,’ he said, ‘I have a sort of feeling that I’m not being very clever. For the life of me at the moment I cannot see the connection between the canopy wire that failed to shine in the sunlight, and the electric fan that was turned on so mysteriously. I am going to sit under that tree over there. Possibly the link may come.’
He strolled away, and Molly joined me. She was looking worried and distraite, as she slipped her hand through my arm.
‘Has he found out anything, Tony?’ she asked eagerly. ‘He seemed so silent and preoccupied at breakfast.’
‘He’s found out something, Molly,’ I answered guardedly, ‘but I’m afraid he hasn’t found out much. In fact, as far as my brain goes it seems to me to be nothing at all. But he’s an extraordinary fellow,’ I added, reassuringly.
She gave a little shudder and turned away.
‘It’s too late, Tony,’ she said miserably.
‘Oh! if only I’d sent for you earlier. But it never dawned on me that it would come to this. I never dreamed that Bill would be suspected. He’s just telephoned through to me: that horrible man McIver—the Inspector from Scotland Yard—is up there now. I feel that it’s only a question of time before they arrest him. And though he’ll get off—he must get off if there’s such a thing as justice—the suspicion will stick to him all his life. There will be brutes who will say that failure to prove that Bill did it, is a very different matter to proving that he didn’t. But I’m going to marry him all the same, Tony—whatever he says. Of course, I suppose you know that he didn’t get on too well with his father.’
‘I didn’t,’ I answered. ‘I know nothing about him except just what I’ve seen.’
‘And the other damnable thing is that he was in some stupid money difficulty. He’d backed a bill or something for a pal and was let down, which made his father furious. Of course there was nothing in it, but the police got hold of it—and twisted it to suit themselves.’
‘Well, Molly, you may take it from me’, I said reassuringly, ‘that Bob Standish is certain he had nothing to do with it.’
‘That’s not much good, Tony,’ she answered with a twisted smile. ‘So am I certain, but I can’t prove it.’
With a little shrug of her shoulders she turned and went indoors, leaving me to my own thoughts. I could see Standish in the distance, with his head enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and after a moment’s indecision I started to stroll down the drive towards the lodge. It struck me that I would do some thinking on my own account, and see if by any chance I could hit on some solution which would fit the facts. And the more I thought the more impossible did it appear: the facts at one’s disposal were so terribly meagre.
What horror had old Mansford seen coming at him out of the darkness, which he had tried to ward off even as he died? And was it the same thing that had come to his elder son, who had sprung forward revolver in hand, and died as he sprang? And again, who had turned on the electric fan? How did that fit in with the deaths of the other two? No one had come in by the door on the preceding night: no one had got in by t
he window. And then suddenly I paused, struck by a sudden idea. Staveley Grange was an old house—early sixteenth century; just the type of house to have secret passages and concealed entrances.…There must be one into the fatal room: it was obvious.
Through that door there had crept some dreadful thing—some man, perhaps, and if so the murderer himself—disguised and dressed up to look awe-inspiring. Phosphorus doubtless had been used—and phosphorus skilfully applied to a man’s face and clothes will make him sufficiently terrifying at night to strike terror into the stoutest heart. Especially someone just awakened from sleep. That faint luminosity which we thought we had seen the preceding night was accounted for, and I almost laughed at dear old Ronald’s stupidity in not having looked for a secret entrance. I was one up on him this time.
Mrs. Bretherton’s story came back to me—her so-called nightmare—in which she affirmed she had been touched by a shining skinny hand. Shining—here lay the clue—the missing link. The arm of the murderer only was daubed with phosphorus; the rest of his body was in darkness. And the terrified victim waking suddenly would be confronted with a ghastly shining arm stretched out to clutch his throat.
A maniac probably—the murderer: a maniac who knew the secret entrance to Staveley Grange: a homicidal maniac—who had been frightened in his foul work by Mrs. Bretherton’s shrieks, and had fled before she had shared the same fate as the Mansfords. Then and there I determined to put my theory in front of Ronald. I felt that I’d stolen a march on him this time at any rate.
I found him still puffing furiously at his pipe, and he listened in silence while I outlined my solution with a little pardonable elation.
‘Dear old Tony,’ he said as I finished. ‘I congratulate you. The only slight drawback to your idea is that there is no secret door into the room.’
Murder at the Manor Page 21
