Man with the Dark Beard

by Annie Haynes

  It was a month since Wilton’s second trial had resulted, as Inspector Stoddart had prophesied, in an acquittal – no evidence being offered by the prosecution. Since then so far as Miss Lavinia knew Hilary had heard nothing of her whilom lover. But the girl had developed a sort of apathy. She seemed to be living in a trance and to take little or no notice of anything that was going on. Her aunt was becoming seriously alarmed at her lack of interest and had determined to rouse her if possible.

  “News! What news?” Hilary questioned in a lifeless fashion. “Anything particular?”

  Miss Lavinia bridled. “Well, some people might think it so. I only hope they won’t say that I have gone through the wood and taken the crooked stick at last. I am going to be married, Hilary.”

  Certainly she had achieved her object of rousing her niece. Hilary started up in her chair.

  “Aunt Lavinia! You must be joking!” she gasped.

  “Certainly I am not,” Miss Lavinia returned with dignity. “Your surprise is not very complimentary, Hilary. You don’t even ask who the man is.”

  “I – I was too much amazed,” Hilary said, gazing up at her aunt.

  Decidedly, she reflected, it must have been a brave man who had proposed to Miss Lavinia. That lady’s odd style of dress, her thin legs in their silk stockings, her masculine, weatherbeaten countenance with the wisps of sandy hair sticking out all round, seemed rather out of place taken in conjunction with matrimonial dallying.

  “Who in the world is it, Aunt Lavinia?” her niece questioned at last.

  Miss Priestley bridled afresh. Her wrinkled cheeks actually deepened in colour.

  “Well, I expect you will be surprised to hear. But I have seen a good deal of him lately and I have learned to estimate him at his true worth. It is Dr. Sanford Morris.”

  “Aunt Lavinia!” Hilary ejaculated in her astonishment. “Why, you have always said you didn’t like him. You used to call him the Beaver.”

  “Oh, well! You can’t call him that now. He is clean-shaven enough. I won’t say that I should have married him if he had stuck to his beard,” Miss Lavinia said with a wide smile that showed her false teeth to their fullest advantage. “I hate being kissed by a man with a beard.”

  A faint smile curved Hilary’s lips.

  “Have you tried, Aunt Lavinia?”

  “Of course I have,” Miss Lavinia confessed shamelessly. “In the days when I was engaged to the curates it was not the fashion for a parson to go about like a smooth-faced girl. They wore beards or moustaches, espoused the first decent-looking district visitor they met and reared large families. Still, the present fashion has its advantages and I prefer it even, aesthetically, for a layman. But I do think a rector or a vicar looks better with a beard or something.”

  “I cannot imagine you married,” Hilary breathed.

  Miss Lavinia tossed her head.

  “For that matter I cannot imagine you married, but I presume that some day I shall have to get accustomed to the idea, and you had better do the same. But that is enough of my affairs and of my first piece of news. The second is that an old friend wants to see you.”

  “What old friend? I don’t think I have any old friends,” Hilary said languidly.

  “Oh, well! Perhaps you haven’t,” Miss Lavinia agreed hurriedly. “Anyway, you shall see for yourself.” She bustled out of the room.

  Hilary felt half inclined to follow her, and demand an explanation, but her desire was conquered by the general malaise from which she had suffered of late, and she laid her head back on her chair and gave herself up to a daydream of the past. From it she was awakened by a gentle tap at the door.

  Wondering whether this could be the old friend spoken of by her aunt she said, “Come in.”

  The door opened and Basil Wilton stood on the threshold. Then at last Hilary was startled into a momentary semblance of her old self. The hot blood surged over cheeks and neck and temples.

  “You!” she said in an amazed tone. “Why have you come here?”

  “To see you,” Basil Wilton answered quietly.

  He came across the room and stood before her.

  “Will you forgive me, Hilary?”

  As quickly as it had come Hilary’s colour faded away.

  “Oh, yes, I forgive you,” she said listlessly. “You were quite right to marry Miss Houlton if you liked her best, only – you might have told me.”

  “Told you what?” Wilton began. Then he broke off – “Liked her best! Hilary, is that what you have been thinking? Dear, didn’t you understand?”

  “No. I did not understand. I don’t know what you mean,” Hilary said slowly, in the same uninterested fashion.

  Basil possessed himself of one hand, noting as he did so that both were ringless.

  “It has all been a miserable tangle, Hilary, but one thing has never varied – my love for you.”

  A faint, mocking laugh came from Hilary’s pale lips.

  “Why did you never write to me? Why did you marry Miss Houlton if your love for me had not altered? No, no! Please go! I can’t talk. My head is not clear.”

  But Wilton still clasped the cold hand that tried to withdraw itself.

  “Let me try to make you understand, Hilary. I wrote to you again and again, but I had no answer. Of course my letters to you were stopped, as yours were to me, by Skrine.”

  As the last word left his lips Hilary shivered from head to foot.

  “Not – not that!”

  “Just this once, dear, and then his name need never be mentioned between us again. There can be no doubt that our letters were intercepted by Skrine. And he helped Iris, who – Heaven knows why she should – had apparently taken one of those unbalanced fancies to me that one hears of sometimes. She asked me to her flat and we had always got on very well together – I need not say that I had never suspected her of any knowledge or complicity in the cruel end. So – I was feeling very unhappy and depressed; I heard on all sides that you were going to marry Skrine, and I was at a loose end; there seemed no reason why I shouldn’t go. I was taken ill there. She drugged me, so much is certain, probably incited by Skrine, who found me in his way. At any rate I was kept under the influence of a certain preparation of morphia, and the purchase of it has now been definitely traced to Skrine. A marriage was suggested to me. She had been very good to me. She had nursed me. You were out of reach, and there seemed nothing else to be done. Then I dare say I was an expensive luxury and the flat must have cost a lot. I am afraid she must have asked for more money than Skrine could give. The idea of shooting her, poor thing, and putting the blame on me must have occurred to him. Thus at one blow he meant to rid himself of both the obstacles in his path. It was a diabolical scheme; it nearly succeeded.”

  Hilary shuddered. “I wish I was dead. I wish I had died when I was ill. Now – now – I am young, I suppose I shall live for years and years and never forget – anything.” Her lips quivered and two tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.

  There was a great pity in Wilton’s eyes as he watched her. Presently he said in a voice that not his best efforts could steady:

  “Hilary, let me teach you to forget. I – I am going abroad. People have been very kind. I have got an appointment at a hospital in Kenya – I want to take you with me, Hilary.”

  The girl shook her head.

  “No, I am not going anywhere with anybody. I shall stay here – till the end.”

  “The end!” Wilton repeated. “Darling, the end of all this unhappy business is going to be that you will marry me.”

  “No, no! I am not going to marry anybody!” Hilary cowered down among her cushions, the terror in her eyes going to the heart of the man who loved her.

  “Oh, Hilary dear!” he said, not offering to touch her again. “You are so young, all this dreadful time will – must pass into the mists eventually. No one remembers for ever.”

  “I shall!” Hilary shivered. “Oh, Basil, if I could only forget!”

  The use of his Chris
tian name in some unexplainable way gave Wilton hope.

  “You must let me teach you, dearest. Hilary, why did you promise to marry him – Skrine? Did he force you to it?”

  “No – not exactly. I promised to marry him to save you.”

  “To save me!” Basil echoed in amazement.

  “Yes, yes!” Hilary said feverishly. “He wouldn’t defend you unless I said I would marry him, and everybody said he was the only man to get you off; so I promised – and then – you wouldn’t let him.”

  “He wouldn’t have got me off,” Basil said at once. “I always hated Skrine. It was more than jealousy in my heart. I suspected him all along. Oh, Hilary, the bitterest drop in my cup was the thought that you would belong to him –that you would be his wife.”

  “It was all for your sake, Basil. I could not let you be – be –”

  “Why not?” Basil Wilton inquired quietly.

  “You say you will not marry me. Why should you mind if I was convicted?”

  Once more the colour surged over Hilary’s pale cheeks.

  “I did not want you to be – be – hanged.”

  “Plenty of people are,” Wilton said callously. “And you do not seem to take much notice. Why should you mind one more?”

  “Oh, well!” She hesitated. “You are different, of course. I know you –”

  “Is that all?” Basil smiled down at her. “Oh, Hilary, you little humbug!” He managed to get one arm round her and his lips just touched her soft, short hair.

  “Oh, Hilary, Hilary dear,” he said brokenly, “it is happiness – it is worth it all to know that you are mine –that you never belonged to him, not for one day – one hour.”

  “Basil, I would have died rather than marry Sir Felix.”

  “But you will marry me?” Basil went on.

  “Yes – perhaps,” she whispered brokenly. “Some day, Basil.”

  THE END

  About The Author

  Annie Haynes was born in 1865, the daughter of an ironmonger.

  By the first decade of the twentieth century she lived in London and moved in literary and early feminist circles. Her first crime novel, The Bungalow Mystery, appeared in 1923, and another nine mysteries were published before her untimely death in 1929.

  Who Killed Charmian Karslake? appeared posthumously, and a further partially-finished work, The Crystal Beads Murder, was completed with the assistance of an unknown fellow writer, and published in 1930.

  Also by Annie Haynes

  The Bungalow Mystery

  The Abbey Court Murder

  The Secret of Greylands

  The Blue Diamond

  The Witness on the Roof

  The House in Charlton Crescent

  The Crow’s Inn Tragedy

  The Master of the Priory

  The Crime at Tattenham Corner

  Who Killed Charmian Karslake?

  The Crystal Beads Murder

  ANNIE HAYNES

  The Crime at Tattenham Corner

  The body lay face downwards in a foot of water at the bottom of the ditch. Up to the present it has not been identified. But a card was found in the pocket with the name of –

  The grisly discovery was overshadowed in the public imagination by Derby Day, the most prestigious event in the English horse-racing calendar. But Peep o’ Day, the popular favourite for the Derby and owned by the murdered man, won't run now. Under Derby rules, the death means automatic disqualification.

  Did someone find an ingenious if ruthless way to stop the horse from competing? Or does the solution to the demise of Sir John Burslem lie away from the racetrack? The thoughtful Inspector Stoddart starts to investigate in a crowded field of sinister suspects and puzzling diversions.

  The Crime at Tattenham Corner was the second of the four Inspector Stoddart mysteries, first published in 1928. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  “We not only encounter thrilling surprises but are introduced to many admirably life-like characters. Miss Haynes is here at her best. Excellent as a detective tale, the book is also a charming novel.” Spectator

  CHAPTER 1

  The big clock outside struck 7.30. Early as it was, Inspector Stoddart was already in his room at Scotland Yard.

  He looked up impatiently as his most trusted subordinate, Alfred Harbord, entered after a sharp preliminary tap.

  “Yes, sir. You sent for me?”

  The inspector nodded. “You are detailed for special duty at once. We are starting in the runabout immediately, so if you want to send a message ” He nodded at the telephone.

  Harbord grinned. “My people are pretty well used to my irregular habits, thank you, sir.”

  The inspector rose. “The sooner we are off the better, then.” He handed Harbord a typewritten paper. “Wired up,” he said laconically, “from the Downs.”

  Mysterious death at an early hour this morning. Some platelayers on their way to work in the cutting beyond Hughlin’s Wood, not far from Tattenham Corner, found the body of a man of middle age in a ditch. He is evidently of the better class and supposed to be a stranger in the district. The body lay face downwards in a foot of water at the bottom of the ditch or dyke. Up to the present it has not been identified. But a card was found in the pocket with the name of –

  The corner of the paper had been torn off, evidently on purpose. Harbord read it over.

  “Hughlin’s Wood,” he repeated. “I seem to know the name. But I can’t think where the place is.”

  “Not a great many miles from Epsom,” the inspector said, as he locked his desk and dropped the keys into his pocket. “Centuries ago, Hughlin’s Wood used to stretch all round and over that part of the Downs, but it has dwindled to a few trees near Hughlin’s village. These trees go by the name of Hughlin’s Wood still. I can tell you the rest as we go along.”

  Harbord followed him in silence to the little two-seater in which the inspector was wont to dash about the country. He was an expert driver, but it needed all his attention to steer his car among the whirl of traffic over Westminster Bridge, passing Waterloo and Lambeth.

  The inspector glanced at “The Horns” as they glided by it. “We will lunch there on the way back, Harbord.”

  He put on speed as they got on the Brixton Road and, passing Kennington Church, tore along through Streatham and Sydenham, and across country until they could feel the fresh air of the Downs in their faces. Then the inspector slackened speed and for the first time looked at his companion.

  “What do you make of it?”

  “What can I make of it?” Harbord fenced. “Except that you would not be going down unless there was more in the summons than meets the eye.”

  Stoddart nodded.

  “The body was found face downwards in the stagnant water of a ditch, but the cause of death was a bullet wound in the head. The man had been thrown into the ditch almost immediately after death. In the pocket have been found a card and a couple of envelopes bearing the name of a man high in the financial world. The markings on the linen, etc., correspond. I know this man fairly well by sight. Therefore I am going down to see whether I can identify the remains. See those Downs –”

  Harbord looked where he pointed at the vast, billowy expanse around them, then he looked back inquiringly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stoddart waved his hand to the north side. “Over there lie Matt Harker’s stables. He has turned out more winners of the classics than any other trainer. His gees get their morning gallops over the Downs.”

  Harbord’s expression changed. “And you connect this dead man at Hughlin’s Wood with Harker’s stables?”

  Stoddart looked at him. “I will tell you that in an hour or so.”

  As he spoke he turned the car rapidly to the right, and dashing down the road, which was little more than a track, they found themselves at Hughlin’s Wood, with Hughlin’s village in the immediate foreground.

  Harbord thought he had seldom seen a more
desolate looking spot, or a more appropriate setting for the crime they had come to investigate. A few stark, upstanding pines, growing in rough, stubbly grass, were all that was left of the once mighty wood; a long, straggly hedge ran between them and the road that led to Hughlin’s village. It stood in a cleft in the hill which ran along to the bottom of the Downs. There was a curious cone-like hill just above the Wood. Harbord learned later that it went by the name of Hughlin’s Tomb, and was supposed to contain the remains of a giant named Hughlin, from whom the wood derived its name. On the opposite side of the road was some barren pasture-land, and a little back from the track stood a small hut or barn.

  By the Wood apparently the whole of the little population of Hughlin’s village was gathered. A policeman was keeping every one back from the ditch.

  The crowd scattered as the car came in sight. Stoddart slowed down and he and Harbord sprang out.

  Inside the space which was being kept free two men were standing. One was easily recognized by his uniform as a superintendent of police. The other, a tall, clean-shaven man of military appearance, Harbord identified as Major Vincent, the chief constable of the county.

  Major Vincent came to meet them. “Glad to see you, Inspector Stoddart. I hardly hoped that you could be here so soon.”

  Stoddart jerked his head at his run-about. “She is a tidy sort of little bus, sir. This is a terrible job!”

  “It is,” Major Vincent assented. “This is where the body was found – was flung, I should say – just over here.”

  The inspector walked forward and glanced down into the rather deep ditch. Long grasses fringed the edges, broken down and trampled upon now; the bottom was full of evil-smelling water.