by Ashby, R. C.
I then seriously applied myself to a plan for discovering the Roman’s outfit.
It has been asked me, why, if Barr was so wary, did he not suspect the return of Mertoun with a stranger and take the precaution of destroying the evidences?
Partly because he had no real grounds for suspecting Mertoun and me. Again because the clothes were valuable to him and he would require them in the future, if and when the Colonel came back. This is the strongest reason; he would have to be at bay before he destroyed his stock-in-trade, and far from being at bay he wasn’t even threatened, so far as he knew. Besides, it isn’t an easy matter to get rid of a brass helmet and cuirass. Try it.
The return of Molly Blaik was a nasty twirl of Fortune’s wheel for Charlie. As soon as Hamleth brought me the story of the “buried treasure in the broch,” and how Blaik had held the secret of a “gold-mine” I saw light in the darkness, and suspected that the shepherd’s “gold-mine” was actually a blackmailed goose that might be induced to lay golden eggs.
I wondered then how I could have been so criminally blind to the significance of a haunted tower in which no one would dream of setting foot. That would be a far better and more convenient cache—not to say dressing-room—than a study in the house. And of course Blaik had blundered in and found the actor’s properties. . . .
That afternoon I went over to Heaviburgh, saw the Superintendent of Police, revived the evidence of the Blaik and Barr murders, and told him what I was on the track of. Was he ready to stand by?
He thought I was quite mad—with the north-country man’s supreme contempt for London nit-wits—and told me in plain language that the Heaviburgh police could very well look after their own duties without any interference from long-eared London detectives. After that he said that when I’d found some decent evidence to put before him he might be persuaded to give me a hearing; and he condescended to tell me where the Chief Constable of the county lived.
That night when I thought Mertoun was asleep I armed myself with torch, automatic, pocket camera, digging tools, a suitcase full of stuff, and set out alone for the broch. I guessed that there wouldn’t be much spadework; the things would have to be easily accessible. I screened my torch and had a good survey of the ground, finally seeing how easy it would be to remove a few stones, apparently naturally scattered, and make a shallow trough underneath. Some of the larger stones resisted me; I left them alone and concentrated on those which came readily. To a scrutinizing eye it was possible to see that these had been handled and overturned before.
At last I uncovered a patch of newly turned earth, trampled down. A few spadefuls uncovered the box which was made of oak, and I forced the lock with a jemmy and thrilled to behold my spoils. The helmet was my best find, for when I powdered it I saw perfect prints at the two sides, just where the wearer would grip it to lift it from his head. I took flashlight photographs there and then—and these, let me say at this point, I developed directly I got back to the farm, enlarged them, and found them identical with the prints on the tooth-glass.
I also took photographs of the helmet, back and front, showing the twisted neckguard, and of the breast-plate and sandals. I guessed the use for the veil, which I did not disturb, thereby missing Hamleth’s own ridiculous discovery of the cigarette-stub caught in the clinging meshes of the gauze. Doubtless Charlie smoked during his long waits scores of cigarettes, and I consider that little accident of a stub which he thought he had tossed away a piece of sheer bad luck. But you try smoking with a gauze veil slipped down over your chest and you’ll see how easily it could happen.
When I’d got my photographs and seen all I wanted I replaced everything with the utmost care and returned home. I knew I couldn’t have been seen from the house because of the way I’d screened my lights. When we came afterwards in force, I let them play about like a school of glow-worms to their hearts’ content. I knew it would fetch our man.
The next day I got a car and went off to the Chief Constable; we also got through to the Heaviburgh police, and obtained the magistrate’s warrant; and I chose two men as well as the Superintendent to see the evidence and help me make the arrest.
The remainder of the story you know; Hamleth described it well. Barr went berserk when he knew he was captured, and we had all our work to get him away.
He got the best Counsel in England, Sir Ernest Boydell-Baynes, and sat like a statue throughout his trial. When sentence of death was pronounced he smiled. One of those stoics that you can’t explain by ordinary standards, and a great scoundrel. To what do I ascribe his downfall? Not to any slips he made. Small circumstances, tiny chances, began to turn against him; some may like to say that it was right asserting itself at last against triumphant wrong.
However, speaking superficially, I do consider that it was the roughest luck on Barr that Mertoun should have had me for a friend and confidant. He might have told his story to any one of fifty other men who would have shrugged shoulders, said, “By Jove, old man, what an experience!” and forgotten all about it in twenty-four hours.
But fortunately for society these things do sometimes work out for the best, and I am convinced that some chance happenings are not chance happenings. . . .
It may be of interest to know that Mertoun and Miss Hope will be married this year when she comes of age. I think Mertoun has forgiven me for the shocking surprise I sprang upon him that night—it took him days to realize the truth—but I couldn’t possibly have taken him into my confidence. His innocence was such a foil to my investigations. However, he has forgiven me, because I am invited to the wedding.
Ingram returned to London and was carried off by his friend, Joan’s father, to Boston, where I have heard he is well on the way to complete recovery.
Colonel Barr returned with the utmost calm to his house and took up occupation again as though nothing had happened, with Miss Goff installed as housekeeper. As far as we know, he never discussed the story with anybody and didn’t appear particularly interested in it. I have heard that he deeply resented the “laying” of the ghost which for a century had given distinction to his family record. I have no idea how he will leave his money, but I think not to the Society for Psychical Research. Mertoun called on him in the autumn—sheer curiosity to see the man for himself—and was dismayed to find the library in its old confusion. He didn’t dare to show his disappointment, much less to ask for his cheque!
THE END
