‘How do you know that?’ I cried. ‘You hardly looked.’
‘On the contrary, I looked very closely. I may say that for a short while I inclined to some such theory as the one you’ve just put forward. But as soon as I saw that the room had been papered I dismissed it at once. As far as the built-in cupboard was concerned, it was erected by a local carpenter quite recently, and any secret entrance would have been either blocked over or known to him. Besides McIver has been in charge of this case—Inspector McIver from Scotland Yard. Now he and I have worked together before, and I have the very highest opinion of his ability. His powers of observation are extraordinary, and if his powers of deduction were as high he would be in the very first flight. Unfortunately he lacks imagination. But what I was leading up to was this. If McIver failed to find a secret entrance, it would be so much waste of time looking for one oneself. And if he had found one, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it dark. We should have heard about it sharp enough.’
‘Well, have you got any better idea?’ I said a little peevishly. ‘If there isn’t any secret door, how the deuce was that fan turned on?’
‘There is such a thing as a two-way switch,’ murmured Ronald mildly. ‘That fan was not turned on from inside the room; it was turned on from somewhere else. And the person who turned it on was the murderer of old Mansford and his son.’
I stared at him in amazement.
‘Then all you’ve got to do’, I cried excitedly, ‘is to find out where the other terminal of the two-way switch is? If it’s in someone’s room you’ve got him.’
‘Precisely, old man. But if it’s in a passage, we haven’t. And here, surely, is McIver himself. I wonder how he knew I was here?’
I turned to see a short thick-set man approaching us over the lawn.
‘He was up at Staveley Grange this morning,’ I said. ‘Mansford telephoned through to Molly.’
‘That accounts for it then,’ remarked Standish, waving his hand at the detective. ‘Good morning, Mac.’
‘Morning, Mr. Standish,’ cried the other. ‘I’ve just heard that you’re on the track, so I came over to see you.’
‘Splendid,’ said Standish. ‘This is Mr. Belton—a great friend of mine—who is responsible for my giving up a good week’s cricket and coming down here. He’s a friend of Miss Tremayne’s.’
McIver looked at me shrewdly.
‘And therefore of Mr. Mansford’s, I see.’
‘On the contrary,’ I remarked, ‘I never met Mr. Mansford before yesterday.’
‘I was up at Staveley Grange this morning,’ said McIver, ‘and Mr. Mansford told me you’d all spent the night on the lawn.’
I saw Standish give a quick frown, which he instantly suppressed.
‘I trust he told you that in private, McIver.’
‘He did. But why?’
‘Because I want it to be thought that he slept in that room,’ answered Standish. ‘We’re moving in deep waters, and a single slip at the present moment may cause a very unfortunate state of affairs.’
‘In what way?’ grunted McIver.
‘It might frighten the murderer,’ replied Standish. ‘And if he is frightened, I have my doubts if we shall ever bring the crime home to him. And if we don’t bring the crime home to him, there will always be people who will say that Mansford had a lot to gain by the deaths of his father and brother.’
‘So you think it was murder?’ said McIver slowly, looking at Standish from under his bushy eyebrows.
Ronald grinned. ‘Yes, I quite agree with you on that point.’
‘I haven’t said what I think!’ said the detective.
‘True, McIver—perfectly true. You have been the soul of discretion. But I can hardly think that Scotland Yard would allow themselves to be deprived of your valuable services for two months while you enjoyed a rest cure in the country. Neither a ghost nor two natural deaths would keep you in Devonshire.’
McIver laughed shortly.
‘Quite right, Mr. Standish. I’m convinced it’s murder: it must be. But frankly speaking, I’ve never been so absolutely floored in all my life. Did you find out anything last night?’
Standish lit a cigarette.
‘Two very interesting points—two extremely interesting points, I may say, which I present to you free, gratis and for nothing. One of the objects of oil is to reduce friction, and one of the objects of an electric fan is to produce a draught. And both these profound facts have a very direct bearing on…’ He paused and stared across the lawn. ‘Hullo! here is our friend Mansford in his car. Come to pay an early call, I suppose.’
The Australian was standing by the door talking to his fiancée, and after a glance in their direction, McIver turned back to Ronald.
‘Well, Mr. Standish, go on. Both those facts have a direct bearing on—what?’
But Ronald Standish made no reply. He was staring fixedly at Mansford, who was slowly coming towards us talking to Molly Tremayne. And as he came closer, it struck me that there was something peculiar about his face. There was a dark stain all round his mouth, and every now and then he pressed the back of his hand against it as if it hurt.
‘Well, Standish,’ he said with a laugh, as he came up, ‘here’s a fresh development for your ingenuity. Of course,’ he added, ‘it can’t really have anything to do with it, but it’s damned painful. Look at my mouth.’
‘I’ve been looking at it,’ answered Ronald. ‘How did it happen?’
‘I don’t know. All I can tell you is that about an hour ago it began to sting like blazes and turn dark red.’
And now that he had come closer, I could see that there was a regular ring all round his mouth, stretching up almost to his nostrils and down to the cleft in his chin. It was dark and angry-looking, and was evidently paining him considerably.
‘I feel as if I’d been stung by a family of hornets,’ he remarked. ‘You didn’t leave any infernal chemical in the telephone, did you, Inspector McIver?’
‘I did not,’ answered the detective stiffly, to pause in amazement as Standish uttered a shout of triumph.
‘I’ve got it!’ he cried. ‘The third point—the third elusive point. Did you go to sleep this morning as I suggested, Mansford?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said the Australian, looking thoroughly mystified. ‘I sat up on the bed puzzling over that darned fan for about an hour, and then I decided to shave. Well, the water in the tap wasn’t hot, so—’
‘You blew down the speaking-tube to tell someone to bring you some,’ interrupted Standish quietly.
‘I did,’ answered Mansford. ‘But how the devil did you know?’
‘Because one of the objects of a speaking-tube, my dear fellow, is to speak through. Extraordinary how that simple point escaped me. It only shows, McIver, what I have invariably said: the most obvious points are the ones which most easily elude us. Keep your most private papers loose on your writing-table, and your most valuable possessions in an unlocked drawer, and you’ll never trouble the burglary branch of your insurance company.’
‘Most interesting,’ said McIver with ponderous sarcasm. ‘Are we to understand, Mr. Standish, that you have solved the problem?’
‘Why, certainly,’ answered Ronald, and Mansford gave a sharp cry of amazement. ‘Oil reduces friction, an electric fan produces a draught, and a speaking-tube is a tube to speak through secondarily; primarily, it is just—a tube. For your further thought, McIver, I would suggest to you that Mrs. Bretherton’s digestion was much better than is popularly supposed, and that a brief perusal of some chemical work, bearing in mind Mr. Mansford’s remarks that he felt as if he’d been stung by a family of hornets, would clear the air.’
‘Suppose you cease jesting, Standish,’ said Mansford a little brusquely. ‘What exactly do you mean by all this?’
‘I mean that we are up against a partic
ularly clever and ingenious murderer,’ answered Standish gravely. ‘Who he is—I don’t know; why he’s done it—I don’t know; but one thing I do know—he is a very dangerous criminal. And we want to catch him in the act. Therefore, I shall go away to-day; McIver will go away to-day; and you, Mansford, will sleep in that room again to-night. And this time, instead of you joining us on the lawn—we shall all join you in the room. Do you follow me?’
‘I follow you,’ said Mansford excitedly. ‘And we’ll catch him in the act.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Standish quietly. ‘And perhaps we may have to wait a week or so. But we’ll catch him, provided no one says a word of this conversation.’
‘But look here, Mr. Standish,’ said McIver peevishly, ‘I’m not going away to-day. I don’t understand all this rigmarole of yours, and….’
‘My very good Mac,’ laughed Standish, ‘you trot away and buy a ticket to London. Then get out at the first stop and return here after dark. And I’ll give you another point to chew the cud over. Mrs. Bretherton was an elderly and timorous lady, and elderly and timorous ladies, I am told, put their heads under the bedclothes if they are frightened. Mr. Mansford’s father and brother were strong virile men, who do not hide their heads under such circumstances. They died, and Mrs. Bretherton lived. Think it over—and bring a gun to-night.’
***
For the rest of the day we saw no sign of Ronald Standish. He had driven off in the Tremayne’s car to the station, and had taken McIver with him. And there we understood from the chauffeur they had both taken tickets to London and left the place. Following Ronald’s instructions, Mansford had gone back to Staveley Grange, and announced the fact of their departure, at the same time stating his unalterable intention to continue occupying the fatal room until he had solved the mystery. Then he returned to the Old Hall, where Molly, he and I spent the day, racking our brains in futile endeavours to get to the bottom of it.
‘What beats me’, said Mansford, after we had discussed every conceivable and inconceivable possibility, ‘is that Standish can’t know any more than we do. We’ve both seen exactly what he’s seen; we both know the facts just as well as he does. We’re neither of us fools, and yet he can see the solution—and we can’t.’
‘It’s just there that he is so wonderful,’ I answered thoughtfully. ‘He uses his imagination to connect what are apparently completely disconnected facts. And you may take it from me, Mansford, that he’s very rarely wrong.’
The Australian pulled at his pipe in silence.
‘I think we’ll find out everything to-night,’ he said at length. ‘Somehow or other I’ve got great faith in that pal of yours. But what is rousing my curiosity almost more than how my father and poor old Tom were murdered is who did it? Everything points to it being someone in the house—but in heaven’s name, who? I’d stake my life on the two footmen—one of them came over with us from Australia. Then there’s that poor old boob Templeton, who wouldn’t hurt a fly—and his wife, and the other women servants, who, incidentally, are all new since Tom died. It beats me—beats me utterly.’
For hours we continued the unending discussion, while the afternoon dragged slowly on. At six o’clock Mansford rose to go: his orders were to dine at home. He smiled reassuringly at Molly, who clung to him nervously; then with a cheerful wave of his hand he vanished down the drive. My orders were equally concise: to dine at the Old Hall—wait there until it was dark, and then make my way to the place where Standish and I had hidden the previous night.
It was not till ten that I deemed it safe to go; then slipping a small revolver into my pocket, I left the house by a side door and started on my three-mile walk.
As before, there was no moon, and in the shadow of the undergrowth I almost trod on Ronald before I saw him.
‘That you, Tony?’ came his whisper, and I lay down at his side. I could dimly see McIver a few feet away, and then once again began the vigil. It must have been about half-past eleven that the lights were switched on in the room, and Mansford started to go to bed. Once he came to the window and leaned out, seeming to stare in our direction; then he went back to the room, and we could see his shadow as he moved about. And I wondered if he was feeling nervous.
At last the light went out, and almost at once Standish rose.
‘There’s no time to lose,’ he muttered. ‘Follow me—and not a sound.’
Swiftly we crossed the lawn and clambered up the old buttressed wall to the room above. I heard Ronald’s whispered greeting to Mansford, who was standing by the window in his pyjamas, and then McIver joined us, blowing slightly. Climbing walls was not a common form of exercise as far as he was concerned.
‘Don’t forget,’ whispered Standish again, ‘not a sound, not a whisper. Sit down and wait.’
He crossed to the table by the bed—the table on which stood the motionless electric fan. Then he switched on a small electric torch, and we watched him eagerly as he took up the speaking-tube. From his pocket he extracted what appeared to be a hollow tube some three inches long, with a piece of material attached to one end. This material he tied carefully round the end of the speaking-tube, thereby forming a connection between the speaking-tube and the short hollow one he had removed from his pocket. And finally he placed a cork very lightly in position at the other end of the metal cylinder. Then he switched off his torch and sat down on the bed. Evidently his preparations were complete; there was nothing to do now but wait.
The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece sounded incredibly loud in the utter silence of the house. One o’clock struck—then half-past—when suddenly there came a faint pop from near the bed which made me jump violently. I heard Ronald draw in his breath sharply and craned forward to see what was happening. There came a gentle rasping noise, as Standish lit his petrol cigarette lighter. It gave little more light than a flickering glimmer, but it was just enough for me to see what he was doing. He was holding the flame to the end of the hollow tube, in which there was no longer a cork. The little pop had been caused by the cork blowing out. And then to my amazement a blue flame sprang from the end of the tube and burnt steadily. It burnt with a slight hiss, like a bunsen burner in a laboratory—and it gave about the same amount of light. One could just see Ronald’s face looking white and ghostly; then he pulled the bed curtain round the table, and the room was in darkness once again.
McIver was sitting next to me and I could hear his hurried breathing over the faint hiss of the hidden flame. And so we sat for perhaps ten minutes, when a board creaked in the room above us.
‘It’s coming now,’ came in a quick whisper from Ronald. ‘Whatever I do—don’t speak, don’t make a sound.’
I make no bones about it, but my heart was going in great sickening thumps. I’ve been in many tight corners in the course of my life, but this silent room had got my nerves stretched to the limit. And I don’t believe McIver was any better. I know I bore the marks of his fingers on my arm for a week after.
‘My God! look,’ I heard him breathe, and at that moment I saw it. Up above the window on the right a faint luminous light had appeared, in the centre of which was a hand. It wasn’t an ordinary hand—it was a skinny, claw-like talon, which glowed and shone in the darkness. And even as we watched it, it began to float downwards towards the bed. Steadily and quietly it seemed to drift through the room—but always towards the bed. At length it stopped, hanging directly over the foot of the bed and about three feet above it.
The sweat was pouring off my face in streams, and I could see young Mansford’s face in the faint glow of that ghastly hand, rigid and motionless with horror. Now for the first time he knew how his father and brother had died—or he would know soon. What was this dismembered talon going to do next? Would it float forward to grip him by the throat—or would it disappear as mysteriously as it had come?
I tried to picture the dreadful terror of waking up suddenly and seeing this thing
in front of one in the darkened room; and then I saw that Ronald was about to do something. He was kneeling on the bed examining the apparition in the most matter of fact way, and suddenly he put a finger to his lips and looked at us warningly. Then quite deliberately he hit at it with his fist, gave a hoarse cry, and rolled off the bed with a heavy thud.
He was on his feet in an instant, again signing to us imperatively to be silent, and we watched the thing swinging backwards and forwards as if it was on a string. And now it was receding—back towards the window and upwards just as it had come, while the oscillations grew less and less, until, at last it had vanished completely, and the room once more was in darkness save for the faint blue flame which still burnt steadily at the end of the tube.
‘My God!’ muttered McIver next to me, as he mopped his brow with a handkerchief, only to be again imperatively silenced by a gesture from Standish. The board creaked in the room above us, and I fancied that I heard a door close very gently: then all was still once more.
Suddenly with disconcerting abruptness the blue flame went out, almost as if it had been a gas jet turned off. And simultaneously a faint whirring noise and a slight draught on my face showed that the electric fan had been switched on. Then we heard Ronald’s voice giving orders in a low tone. He had switched on his torch, and his eyes were shining with excitement.
‘With luck we’ll get the last act soon,’ he muttered. ‘Mansford, lie on the floor, as if you’d fallen off the bed. Sprawl: sham dead, and don’t move. We three will be behind the curtain in the window. Have you got handcuffs, Mac?’ he whispered as we went to our hiding place. ‘Get ’em on as soon as possible, because I’m inclined to think that our bird will be dangerous.’
McIver grunted, and once again we started to wait for the unknown. The electric fan still whirred, and looking through the window I saw the first faint streaks of dawn. And then suddenly Standish gripped my arm; the handle of the door was being turned. Slowly it opened, and someone came in shutting it cautiously behind him. He came round the bed, and paused as he got to the foot. He was crouching—bent almost double—and for a long while he stood there motionless. And then he began to laugh, and the laugh was horrible to hear. It was low and exulting—but it had a note in it which told its own story. The man who crouched at the foot of the bed was a maniac.
Murder at the Manor Page 22
