Man with the Dark Beard

by Annie Haynes

  “Don’t try!” Miss Lavinia advised, giving her niece a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “A night’s rest will do you more good than anything.”

  The two were alone at Rose Cottage. Fee had gone to Dr. Blathwayte’s clinic after all. That it had been made possible for him by the sacrifice of some of his aunt’s capital was known only to Miss Lavinia herself.

  Basil Wilton’s second trial was fixed to begin the next week, and so far Hilary had heard of no fresh evidence. She had seen but little of her godfather of late. Today, however, he had been expected at the Manor and she had been surprised to hear nothing of him so far.

  Hilary went up to her room now, but she did not feel inclined to sleep. She threw open the window and looked out. The night was a lovely one, moonlight save for the little fleecy clouds that flitted across the sky. The wind was almost warm, there was no suspicion of frost in the air. Altogether the night was more like May than December.

  Hilary drew up a chair and laying her head back let the breeze play upon her temples. She had been sitting there for some time, she hardly knew how long, when she was surprised to see people, quite a lot of people, coming along the road from the village.

  Heathcote, as a rule, retired early, save in the sunny days of harvest, and nine o’clock, or at the most ten, saw the village given over to darkness and to sleep. Therefore Hilary was all the more astonished to see so many people abroad. Still more was she amazed when they stopped by the lich-gate opposite. In a moment more she saw them walking up to the church. She could not make out how many of them there were, some of them seemed to be walking in the shadow, but she could see that several of them carried curiously shaped burdens.

  An intense curiosity took possession of Hilary. Never afterwards could she account for the impulse that made her wrap herself in a long, dark cloak, and pulling on a small black hat steal softly downstairs. She could hear her aunt, who detested going to bed early, moving about her room, which fortunately looked on to the back of the house, as Hilary reflected.. The servants had gone to bed long ago, and their quarters were given up to sleep and darkness. The girl knew the doors would be locked and bolted.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she let herself out by the French window in the little drawingroom. She kept instinctively in the shadow as she crossed the lawn and went over to the lich-gate. She found this fastened as she had expected. She felt inclined to get over it and was considering the matter, when she heard footsteps coming down the road from the Manor and a man’s tall form loomed in sight. It was Sir Felix Skrine! She looked round in despair, he was the last man she desired to see, but no escape was possible: the moon was shining brilliantly. Skrine saw her at once. He stopped.

  “Hilary!” he said in amazement. “What on earth are you doing here at this time of night, alone?”

  “I came out to see – something surprised me –” Hilary faltered. Then, plucking up courage, “I dare say you saw it too. Was that why you came, Sir Felix?”

  “Saw it? Saw what?” Skrine questioned absently. “I came out because I can always think best in the open air. I saw Westerham tonight, and I mean to run up again and see him tomorrow. I want to keep my promise to you, Hilary. I want to help Wilton if I can. And it has struck me that there were several points for the defence that were not made the most of at the last trial. I mean to suggest –”

  He stopped short and stood gazing up into the churchyard just as Hilary had been doing a moment before.

  “I thought – of course it must have been a mistake, but I thought I saw a light up there.”

  “Yes, yes!” Hilary said eagerly. “Indeed it is not my fancy. There is one, at least there are several. That is what I thought so extraordinary – why I came out really. Several people, quite a lot, came down from the village; some of them seemed to be carrying things, and they went up into the churchyard. I could not imagine what they were doing or going to do.” Sir Felix did not speak for a moment. Then he said quietly:

  “A lot of people carrying things. That is rather curious. I will just see you back to the Cottage, and then I will look into this.”

  Hilary was not paying much attention to him. “What on earth can they be there for?” she cogitated. “There is more than one light. And they are putting something up. It looks like a big piece of tarpaulin. Is it to prevent us seeing what they are doing, I wonder. It is a pretty big sheet, or whatever it is. It quite prevents us seeing the cross on Lady Skrine’s grave. I saw it gleaming white in the moonlight when I was at my window. I wonder whether they are trying to get into the church, Sir Felix? Mr. Drury told us the plate was very valuable. Perhaps they are burglars. I don’t suppose sacrilege would stop them.”

  “I don’t suppose it would,” Sir Felix assented. “You must go home, Hilary – then I can –”

  But Hilary was not inclined to be obedient.

  “No, I am going to wait here until I know what they are doing. Good gracious, no! I’m not a bit frightened, godfather” – reverting to the old name in her excitement – “girls are not like that nowadays.”

  Sir Felix did not stay to argue the point. The gate was quite easy to negotiate and he was soon striding up the churchyard.

  Hilary watched him. Then suddenly he disappeared from sight. She looked all round, wondering what had become of him. Then she remembered the big yew tree that stood on the left of the path. Probably Skrine had concealed himself there to watch proceedings, himself unseen. After all, it might be one man against many if her theory of burglars was correct.

  As she stood there, a closed car came from the village. Hilary drew back as much behind it as she could, and two men got out. She recognized one as a doctor from a neighbouring town. To her surprise, he drew a key from his pocket and, with a word to his chauffeur, opened the gate and went up to the church with his companion. This rather disposed of the burglar theory. Hilary asked herself what on earth they could be doing in the churchyard. She did not know how long she had waited there, when she saw a tall figure coming towards her. It was Sir Felix Skrine, and she went forward to meet him.

  The moon was momentarily obscured by a passing cloud, but as it shone out again its light fell upon Sir Felix Skrine’s face, and she was surprised to see how extraordinarily white it had become. As he came up to her, she said:

  “Well, what is it? Not burglars I suppose, for I saw Dr. Fairfield and another man go up just now.”

  Skrine looked at her for a moment as if he hardly knew that she was speaking, then he said slowly:

  “Oh, no, nothing of that kind. They are –”

  She thought how flat and emotionless his voice sounded as he stopped.

  “Yes. What are they –?” she prompted.

  “Doing something quite different,” Skrine said in the same dull, tired voice. “You shall know all about it to-morrow, Hilary. And now I am going to take you back to the Cottage. I have much to do – a lot of work to get through before morning.”

  Hilary felt suddenly tired too. She asked herself what on earth had she waited there for; why had she come at all. She turned with Sir Felix without any demur.

  “Who was the man with Dr. Fairfield, did you say?”

  “Oh, I expect he had come down from town. A representative of the Home Office probably.”

  Hilary felt suddenly startled.

  “Why should a representative of the Home Office come down here at this time of night?”

  “Ah, that you will probably know in the morning.”

  Something in Skrine’s voice forbade further questions. They walked up to the drawing-room window in silence. Skrine held it open; then as Hilary was about to pass through he stopped her.

  “I have thought of a way to save Wilton.”

  Hilary looked up at him. Was it the moonlight, she wondered, that had made his face look ashen pale and stiff like the face of a corpse, or a mask in which only his eyes were alive; big and burning they looked in that strange pale light.

  “And I” – he seemed to bring out the wo
rds with difficulty – “give you back your promise. You will be free, quite free, when he comes to you.”

  He paused, and she could see the muscles of his throat working. A feeling as of some terrible, impending catastrophe came over Hilary. In spite of Skrine’s words of hope a great awe fell upon the girl. She did not speak.

  Skrine took her hands. “I have a feeling that I should like to hear you say you forgive me, Hilary.”

  “Forgive you!” the girl murmured, looking into that pallid face, those pain filled eyes.

  “For what? You have always been kind to me.”

  Skrine’s grasp of her hand grew almost convulsive.

  “For – for everything. Say ‘I forgive you,’ Hilary.”

  “I forgive you,” Hilary murmured.

  “Thank you –”

  He seemed to be about to add something, then he stopped, almost threw her hands away, and strode off without another backward look.

  Hilary went upstairs very quietly, hoping not to wake her aunt; but just as she reached her room her aunt’s door opened and Miss Lavinia came out.

  “Well, upon my word, this is a nice time for you to take your walks abroad. What have you been doing, pray?”

  Hilary did not answer. She went across to her window.

  “There are such funny lights in the churchyard, Aunt Lavinia.”

  “Lights! Corpse lights, do you mean?”

  Miss Lavinia came into the room. She looked rather more extraordinary than usual in the garments in which she prepared for repose. Naturally the flimsy “nighties” beloved of the modern woman made no appeal to her. She wore thick woollen pyjamas, Jaegar make; they came right up to her neck and down to her wrists and ankles. In them, as she often said, she felt prepared for anything. Her teeth she had frankly laid aside and the front of her hair was kept in its place by divers combs, which the lady called setting it. On the top of them she had stuck a towering erection which she spoke of as a boudoir cap. She followed Hilary to the window.

  “Why, bless my life, the child is right! There are people moving about in the churchyard, and lights – torches, I believe. And they look to me – they always said I had eyes like a hawk – as if they were digging.”

  “Aunt Lavinia, you couldn’t see through that tarpaulin, or whatever it is they have put up.” And Hilary could not help thinking that the gaslight made her aunt’s face look green.

  “They haven’t made it high enough this side – I wonder what they are doing?”

  Then oddly enough, considering her interest in what was going on, she drew down the blind sharply.

  “Whatever it is, it is no business of ours! Now make haste and get into bed, Hilary. If you have a headache, as you said you had, you are not going the way to improve it.”

  And now Hilary became conscious that she was very tired – that the one thing she needed was sleep.

  Very quietly she undressed herself and got into bed, her aunt tucking her in with awkward, unaccustomed fingers, but with almost motherly tenderness.

  As soon as she had gone Hilary fell into a dreamless slumber, lasting far beyond her usual hour for getting up. Somewhat to her surprise her aunt stood by the window in much the same position as she had seen her the preceding evening.

  “Why, Aunt Lavinia, you’ve not been there all night surely?” she said stupidly.

  “Good Lord! No, of course I haven’t,” said Miss Lavinia, staring at her. “Don’t you see I am dressed? I have had a shock this morning. I don’t believe in beating about the bush, so I will tell you at once. I expect it will be one to you too – Sir Felix is dead!”

  Hilary lay and gazed at her.

  “He can’t be!” she gasped at last. “I was talking to him just before I came to bed last night.”

  “Well, you will not talk to him any more,” her aunt said brusquely.

  Hilary was conscious of a great bewilderment and a feeling as if the bottom had fallen out of the universe rather than of any personal sorrow.

  “But what killed him? He was quite well last night.”

  “I dare say he was,” Miss Lavinia said slowly. “But as I said before it’s no use beating about the bush and you will hear it when you get down, for the whole place is buzzing with it. Sir Felix shot himself.”

  “It can’t be true!” Hilary sprang up in bed with eyes of horror. “He would not do such a thing. Somebody has shot him as they shot Daddy. He – Godfather – was telling me that he had thought out a way of saving Basil – that I was not to worry any more. And now, what shall we do without him?”

  “I fancy,” Miss Lavinia said very slowly, “I really fancy, for nobody has told me, that Sir Felix has not forgotten Basil Wilton.”

  “But how could he –”

  “I shall answer no more questions – come downstairs and have your breakfast.”

  Miss Lavinia’s tone was decisive.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Wilton will be acquitted of course,” Harbord said, looking at the inspector. Stoddart nodded.

  “The prosecution will offer no evidence against him. He will leave the court without a stain on his character – that style of thing. Skrine’s confession may be put in or it may not. Anyway, it will have to be made public. Wilton must be cleared of all complicity in Dr. Bastow’s murder as well as Iris Wilton’s.”

  “I should have fought it out if I had been Skrine,” Harbord said, knitting his brows. “Conviction wouldn’t have been easy.”

  Stoddart smiled grimly.

  “It wouldn’t have been difficult. He knew they would find arsenic in Lady Skrine’s body. His recognition as William Taylor was bound to follow. In fact he must have felt pretty certain that it had already taken place to account for the exhumation. In that lay the keynote to the other two murders. Dr. Bastow discovered his secret and was shot in consequence. Iris Houlton blackmailed him and he conceived the idea of killing her, and by making Wilton appear guilty get rid of them both at one stroke. Altogether it was a marvellous edifice of crime, and it was within a hairbreadth of success. They say all murderers make mistakes, and it seems to me that Skrine with all his experience made a pretty big one. I wonder if you can guess what it was?”

  “The putting of the beard in the bag,” Harbord hazarded.

  Stoddart nodded.

  “Though I am inclined to go further and say the putting of the bag in the cloak-room at all. He meant it to clinch matters against Wilton, and so at first sight it appeared to do. It was cleverly thought out. The putting in of newspapers taken in by Iris Wilton and of the date of the murder and of the empty Chinese box and the beard, all combined, did seem to point unmistakably to Wilton; and, if our suspicions had not already been directed to Skrine, it might have succeeded. Once the beard came into our possession, however, we had got hold of one thread of the tangled skein. The bag itself was another. It could not have been identified as Wilton’s –it must have been eventually discovered to be Skrine’s. Oh, we should have traced it all home to him in time, but he has saved us a lot of trouble. And when we had succeeded, and he had been put on his trial, it would only have resulted in all the great medicos swearing it was a case of homicidal insanity, and he would have retired to Broadmoor to enjoy himself.”

  “He would have found it a change from Worthington Square and Heathcote Manor and from the universal respect accorded to Sir Felix Skrine, K.C., I fancy,” Harbord said dryly.

  “He would that. There seems a touch of rough, self-inflicted justice in the fact that he shot himself with the same pistol that he used in the Bastow case.”

  “That pistol?” Harbord opened his eyes. “But I thought that was found in Rufford Square – that we had it at the Yard.”

  Stoddart shrugged his shoulders.

  “You ought to know we do not always tell the public everything. The newspapers jumped to the conclusion at once that the pistol found in Rufford Square was the pistol with which Dr. Bastow was shot. But as a matter of fact all the great gunsmith experts have agreed that it was not
and that this one of Skrine’s was. It seems that when a bullet is fired from a gun, revolver or what not, marks are made upon it so fine as to be indistinguishable to the naked eye, but proof positive to the expert that the bullet was fired from that particular gun – proof positive and capable of ocular demonstration.’’

  “Still, that would only have proved that the pistol was in Skrine’s possession if the case had come for trial,” Harbord argued.

  “Naturally! But of course the inference goes much further,” Stoddart rejoined. “And Mrs. Carr spoke out when she knew that Skrine was dead. She had known him years ago in her husband’s lifetime and he had tried to make love to her then. Incidentally it comes out that she was innocent of all complicity in Major Carr’s death. But that is another story. She recognized Skrine by his walk in the garden on the night of Dr. Bastow’s murder; but she was too much afraid of him to speak out. She knew he would deny it and might in turn accuse her, and she felt certain that his word would be taken against hers.”

  “Dare say it would,” Harbord acknowledged. “But one thing I should like to know, inspector, what made you suspect Skrine? For suspect him from the first I feel sure you did.”

  “I really hardly know,” the inspector answered thoughtfully. “Intuition, I think I must say. Something in his manner – his grief over his friend’s death did not seem quite genuine to me. And I never for one moment believed in the theory that some discovery Dr. Bastow had made in his research work was the motive for the crime. Well, well, we know the truth now and all the world will know it soon. And so the Bastow Case ends – a mystery no longer.”

  “Well, I have a bit of news for you, Hilary. Two bits, to speak accurately, but one can wait awhile. This one is about myself.”

  The two – Hilary and her aunt – had settled down for the time being in a private hotel in Bloomsbury. It had the advantages of being central, cheap and within fairly easy reach of Fee’s clinic.

  Rose Cottage was to let furnished. Hilary had left Heathcote directly after the tragedy of Skrine’s death, and had refused to go back even to superintend the packing of her own belongings. The Manor was to be sold. Lady Skrine’s fortune had returned to her own family after Skrine’s death. And it was astonishing how little the great K.C. had left of his own. That little had been left to Hilary and Fee in equal shares. Hilary had refused to touch it, but by common consent it was to be allowed to pay for some of Fee’s expensive treatment.