Man with the Dark Beard

by Annie Haynes

  Then, lower down on the same page came another paragraph in the latest news:

  The maid, Alice Downes, on being interrogated, stated that her mistress and Mr. Basil Wilton had only been married about a fortnight, though for some weeks past the latter had been living at the flat. According to Miss Downes he was a delicate gentleman and Miss Iris Houlton, as she then was, had nursed him devotedly. The pair, so far as the maid saw, were on the best of terms, and Mr. Wilton’s disappearance was a complete mystery to her. From their conversation she had gathered that they were old friends as they were often alluding to events that had occurred in the past.

  That was all. Hilary put down the paper and stared at her aunt.

  “It – it can’t be true!” she gasped, her eyes wide with horror.

  “It looks remarkably as if it was,” Miss Priestley said, her face beginning to resume its ordinary hue. “In fact of course it is true enough. But I never thought –” She did not finish her sentence.

  Hilary took up the paper again and stared at it unseeingly. She felt too dazed yet to take in all that the paragraph implied. At last she spoke slowly:

  “Aunt Lavinia, what can have become of Basil?”

  “It rather strikes me from that paragraph that a good many people, the police included, would like to know that,” Miss Lavinia said grimly. “Heavens, Hilary! What does it matter to you where the man has got to? Though I am sure I should be glad to know he was out of the country. I have had enough in this past year of horrors to last me all my lifetime.”

  “Aunt Lavinia! Do you know that you are speaking as if you thought that Basil did it – murdered his wife?” Hilary said in a tone of smouldering wrath.

  Miss Priestley stretched out her hand and took the “Daily Wire” from her niece.

  “Well, it is no use trying to evade the truth, child. It is easy enough to see what the paper means, reading between the lines.”

  “I don’t want to read between the lines, and I don’t care what that wretched rag means,” Hilary said indignantly. “It is always attacking somebody. I know Basil Wilton never murdered anybody – Iris Houlton or anyone else.”

  “Well, it strikes me it will be a good thing if you can convince the world of that,” Miss Lavinia said dryly. “Where has he gone to, anyway?”

  “Gone! I expect he has been murdered too,” Hilary cried wildly.

  “Then where is his body?” Miss Lavinia inquired wisely.

  Hilary threw out her hands.

  “I don’t know. How should I know? The murderer has disposed of his body somehow.”

  “Not so easy as you think to dispose of the body of a strong young man of Basil Wilton’s height and weight,” Miss Lavinia argued shrewdly.

  “They always do,” Hilary contradicted, twisting her shaking fingers together. “The murderers, I mean. They cut them up and put them in trunks or – or suitcases or anything. I dare say Basil is lying all mutilated in a trunk at Waterloo or – or – or Victoria.”

  Miss Lavinia was not going to be worsted. “It will be a large trunk that holds Basil Wilton. Use your common sense, Hilary. Of course he got tired of the girl, whom he probably only married for her money, and no doubt she was aggravating – those sly-faced women that never look you in the face always are – and in a quarrel he must have shot her, the pistol might have been lying about handy, and then, frightened at what he had done, he ran away.”

  “No!” Hilary said with a sudden accession of energy, “Basil would never have run away. I don’t believe that he would have shot anybody, even in a rage. But if he had he would not have run away.”

  “Well, who do you suppose did shoot the woman, then?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea who Iris Houlton’s associates may have been,” Hilary returned impatiently. “I dare say it was some burglar. She seems to have had a lot of money.”

  “Yes. And now I hope it will come out where she got it from,” Miss Lavinia retorted significantly.

  Hilary made no rejoinder; she sat on, the “Daily Wire” spread out on the table before her, either absorbed in its perusal, or meditating over the crime that had been committed.

  Miss Lavinia got up and after a compassionate glance at Hilary’s brown head went out to talk to Fee on the lawn.

  He had not seen the paper or heard of the crime and was as usual absorbed in his own ailments, and the prospects of a cure held out by Dr. Blathwayte. He found his aunt an unusually sympathetic listener, for Miss Lavinia was too much occupied with her own thoughts to do more than reply at suitable intervals.

  It seemed a terribly long morning to Miss Lavinia; more than once she went back to the house, but Hilary had locked herself in her own room and refused to see her aunt.

  At last the gong sounded for lunch and Miss Lavinia rose as their man came out to wheel Fee in.

  At the same moment the garden gate clicked and, looking round, Miss Lavinia beheld the tall figure of Sir Felix Skrine. He came quickly across to her.

  “Where is Hilary?”

  “Upstairs. I haven’t seen her since breakfast.”

  “She knows?”

  Miss Lavinia nodded. “All there is to know I expect. I take in the ‘Daily Wire,’ and it would not miss a line of such a happening.”

  “Poor child! It is a terrible thing for her,” Sir Felix said sympathetically.

  “Oh, well, I don’t know. As far as Hilary is concerned it may all be for the best. Put an end to all the nonsense she has been brooding over once and for all. If only the unfortunate young man is not caught.”

  “Then you haven’t heard?” Sir Felix turned and looked at her.

  “Just what was in the first edition of the paper,” Miss Lavinia glanced at him inquiringly. “You do not mean –?”

  “Basil Wilton was taken to a police station at a late hour last night. He was recognized by a constable a couple of streets from Hawksview Mansions.” Sir Felix said gravely. “In all probability he will be brought before the magistrates today.”

  “What is that you say, Sir Felix?”

  Unheard by them Hilary had come across the grass. She was wearing her hat and outdoor dress. Her face was very white, but her eyes were bright and keen as she glanced from her aunt to Sir Felix.

  “Well, what were you telling Aunt Lavinia, Sir Felix?” she questioned sharply.

  For a moment the lawyer hesitated. Then a glance at the girl’s face told him that the truth would be the most merciful thing.

  “Basil Wilton was taken to the police station last night and detained. He will be charged with the murder of his wife today in all probability.”

  “He did not do it!” Hilary snapped.

  Sir Felix bowed. “I hope he did not. But at the present time the whole case is shrouded in mystery.”

  “But you say they have arrested him – Basil!”

  “Not exactly arrested – taken to the police station and detained on suspicion. Look!” Sir Felix spread out a thin sheet of paper.

  “The ‘Daily Wire’ – racing edition,” Hilary read. “I don’t see.”

  Sir Felix pointed to the stop press news at the side.

  Hawksview Mansions mystery – Murdered Bride. Arrest of the husband. We understand that Basil Wilton, the husband of the young woman found dead in Hawksview Mansions, was taken to the police station at a late hour last night, that valuable clues are in the hands of the police. It is rumoured that another arrest is imminent.

  Hilary’s eyes and voice were alike steady as she looked up.

  “And this is true?”

  “I believe so. I think there can be no doubt that it is.”

  “What is the difference between being taken to the police station on suspicion and being arrested?” Hilary demanded.

  Sir Felix frowned. “Not much. Still, a man only detained on suspicion is more likely to be released than one who is formally arrested.”

  Hilary pointed to the end of the paragraph.

  “And the other clues in the hands o
f the police?”

  Sir Felix shrugged his shoulders. “I know nothing of them. The usual penny-a-line rubbish, I suppose.”

  “Sir Felix, you will lunch with us,” Miss Lavinia interrupted at this juncture. “A slice of cold lamb and a salad. That is all we can offer you. But you will be very welcome.”

  “Thank you, I shall be delighted.”

  But Sir Felix looked at Hilary. Would he have a welcome from her? The question was patent. Hilary answered by turning to her aunt.

  “I cannot stay to lunch, Aunt Lavinia, I am going up to town. If I get the 2.20, it just catches the express at Sempton.”

  “And what are you going to do when you do get there?” Miss Lavinia demanded. “And where are you going to stay, may I ask?”

  Hilary put her hand to her head.

  “I don’t know. I shall get in somewhere. I dare say Amy Wilson would take me in if she is at home. She has a studio off Holland Road. It is an old promise that I should pay her a visit. I’ll see if she will have me now.”

  “And why in the name of all that is idiotic should you choose to run off at the present moment?” Miss Lavinia went on pitilessly.

  Hilary twisted her hands together. Her eyes wandered from her aunt’s face to Sir Felix Skrine’s averted eyes.

  “Aunt Lavinia, I must go. I must see Basil. I must be near him and tell him that if all the world believes him guilty I know he is innocent.”

  Miss Lavinia lifted up her hands.

  “Now, may Heaven give me patience! Do you imagine that, when a man is in prison charged with murdering his wife, he wants a sentimental girl meandering round reminding him of an old love affair? I don’t suppose he will even see you. He has something other than kisses and fooling to think of now.”

  “So have I!” Hilary said indignantly. “Really, Aunt Lavinia, I think –”

  “Hilary!” Sir Felix Skrine’s face was grave as he turned and caught the girl’s hands. “Do you know what your going up to town will mean to Wilton?”

  Hilary flushed quickly. “What do you mean, Sir Felix?”

  She tried to pull her hands away, but the lawyer would not release them.

  “You will grant me a little experience in this sort of thing,” he said with a slight smile. “And I tell you, Hilary, that Wilton’s best chance of getting off – and the evidence against him is heavier than you know – lies in the apparent absence of motive. Now, you rush up to town. You demand to see Wilton. You speak of your former engagement, of your old affection for one another, your certainty of his innocence – do you not see that you supply a motive? Why should a man murder a rich young wife to whom he is apparently attached? But given a girl with little or no money, say that the pair were desperately in love, that a month or two ago they were engaged, but could not afford to marry – it becomes apparent that Wilton married for money, that the wife was in the way. With her money, Wilton can marry the girl he has always loved. Now do you see that for Wilton’s sake all knowledge of your love affair must be kept out of the papers?”

  CHAPTER 14

  “It is a curious affair altogether,” Inspector William Stoddart said to his subordinate, Alfred Harbord.

  The two men were standing outside Hawksview Mansions. The inspector was looking up at the windows of the Wilton flat on the second floor as he spoke.

  “No chance of anything being seen from the outside with those curtains drawn across,” he went on. “If it had been winter and the lights on there might have been that possibility.”

  Harbord assented silently. He was not a man of many words, this young detective; but the inspector had singled him out from the first for his remarkable powers of deduction, and of analysis, that Stoddart had brought him to Hawksview Mansions showed that there were problems connected with the death of Iris Wilton that were puzzling that astute detective. He said no more now, but went up the steps to the Mansions. Harbord followed. In the hall Stoddart glanced round.

  “Only two flights of stairs, you see. Hardly worth taking the lift for. As a matter of fact Mrs. Wilton very seldom used it except when she brought Wilton up or down, which was but seldom. Only three or four times in all, after the marriage, the man says. He has never seen Wilton come down in the lift or by the stairs alone, until the day of Mrs. Wilton’s death, and even of that he is not certain. He thinks he saw Wilton come down the stairs and go out. He puts the time as near five o’clock as possible; but he was not at all familiar with his appearance, so he cannot swear to him. I think for this morning we will walk up, Harbord.” The lift man motioned to them, but the inspector shook his head and went on.

  “Quite easy steps, you see, and softly carpeted. Not at all difficult for Wilton to negotiate, I should imagine, even if he were the invalid we have heard described.”

  “Depends what was the matter with him,” Harbord remarked sagely. “By the way, what does he say is wrong with him?”

  The inspector looked dubious. “I believe his account is that he is quite well, only that he feels stupid and sleepy and does not remember things clearly. Dunbar, the man who recognized and detained him, says that he was walking along the street in an aimless fashion and that he appeared perfectly thunderstruck on hearing of his wife’s death. He seemed quite willing to give all the information he could at the police station, and he was released this morning, as you know. There is really nothing against him except that one cannot see who else could have done it, and that will not do for the law. The inquest will be adjourned after the doctor’s evidence has been taken, of course. But now – just a look round, and then we will see what we can make of the maid, Alice Downes. I told her to be ready to come when I sent for her.” He opened the door of the Wilton’s flat as he spoke and turned to the telephone just inside.

  “Where is she – Alice Downes – and what is she doing?” Harbord inquired.

  “Oh, going from one hysterical fit into another, as far as I know,” Stoddart said impatiently. “She stayed with the caretaker and his wife last night. Of course she couldn’t remain in the flat, and we couldn’t let her go far away. But here we are.”

  He turned to the drawing-room door as he spoke and inserted a key, dropping the latchkey back in his pocket as he spoke.

  “The poor creature’s own,” he remarked. “Wilton hadn’t one on him when he was searched – seemed amazed at being asked about such a thing. Yet it is not an uncommon possession. He had one at Dr. Bastow’s.”

  “He lived in, there, didn’t he?” Harbord inquired.

  “No, he lodged with the doctor’s chauffeur just over the road. He appears to have had a good many meals at the house, though, incidentally falling in love with the doctor’s daughter.”

  “And the secretary,” Harbord finished.

  Stoddart did not answer. His quick eye wandered round the lounge, then without further comment he turned into the drawingroom.

  Harbord went over to the hearthrug.

  “This is where she was found, of course.”

  The inspector nodded.

  “Her head was on the steel curb. You can see the dried blood on the tiled hearth. Everything in the room is just as it was when she was found, except that the body was moved to the mortuary when the medical examination was over.”

  “Suicide out of the question, of course?”

  “Quite!” The inspector’s tone was emphatic. “The medical evidence makes that plain, and death must have taken place before six o’clock, probably before 5.30 which, as you see, keeps it perilously near the time when the porter thinks he saw Wilton come downstairs.”

  Harbord went over the tea-table.

  “The cups have been used. Only two, I see, sir.”

  The inspector was measuring the distance from the hearthrug to the different objects in the room.

  “I should say she was standing by this table when she was shot and she fell rather to one side, striking her head on the curb, just above the temple. Probably death would have resulted anyhow. But her assailant was not taking any risks. He
must have either stooped over her or knelt beside her and shot her through the ear. A more cold-blooded murder has seldom come my way.”

  “On the face of it, it looks curious that people should be shot in two houses in which Wilton lived,” Harbord said slowly. “Still, the pistol with which Dr. Bastow was shot was found in Rufford Square, I remember it was taken as pointing to Dr. Sanford Morris. He might have gone home that way.”

  “That wasn’t the pistol that shot Dr. Bastow,” Stoddart said quietly. “Cruikshanks said that from the first. The papers chose to assume that it was, but you know well enough, Harbord, that we don’t tell them everything.”

  Harbord nodded.

  “Quite, sir. I understand. I do not know that it makes much difference whether it was the same pistol or not.”

  “Very little!” the inspector assented.

  He took a small pill-box from his pocket and shook a powdering of fine dust over the table he had indicated, then blew it away.

  “Ah!” he said in a disappointed tone. “Only her finger-prints. Well, I expected nothing else, but there was just a chance. She stood there, Harbord, supporting herself by one hand on the table. You see the mark of the right thumb and of the tips of three fingers. The murderer must have stood over here, the bullet entered in front and passed right through the body, by some miracle missing all the vital parts and went – where did it go, Harbord? That is one of the minor points that will have to be cleared up. But to-day the main issue is, to my mind, was there any third person in the flat on that fatal 12th of July? Or were there only Iris Wilton and her husband?”