The Ha-Ha Case

by J. J. Connington

  His ordeal ended much sooner than he expected. The drawing-room door opened and a scared-looking maid announced:

  “Two gentlemen wish to see Mr. Dunne, sir.”

  At her heels there entered two fresh visitors: big broad-shouldered men whose general appearance suggested a queer similarity in type. Each wore a blue double-breasted overcoat and carried a bowler hat in his hand. Each had the same air of watchful and confident authority. Close-cropped hair, cheeks showing blue under the razor, square uncompromising jaws, and hard, steady eyes, completed the resemblance. They looked efficient machines endowed with intelligence.

  As they came into the room Mr. Dunne glanced up with obvious recognition but without any show of surprise. His face, in fact, betrayed something almost like relief.

  “Oh, it’s you, Connel?” he greeted the first-comer, rather in the tone of one addressing an inferior with whom he is on good terms.

  “Yes. You’ve led us a bit of a dance, Mr. Dunne; but we got news of you, you see. The car’s waiting for you, outside.”

  Mr. Dunne rose to his feet without ado.

  “That was very clever of you, Connel,” he said. “We must have a little chat about it, later on, perhaps. Shall we go, now? I’m afraid I must leave you,” he added, turning to Jim.

  The second burly man stood aside to let Mr. Dunne pass out of the room. Jim made a movement of protest, but before he could open his mouth the man Connel gave him a quick significant look which arrested the verbal expostulation on his lips. Mr. Dunne, closely followed by the big man in the blue overcoat, went out into the hall.

  “Look here,” Jim broke out as the door closed behind the pair, “are you the police?”

  Connel seemed surprised by the question.

  “No,” he replied tersely, without volunteering any further information.

  “Then you can’t take this Mr. Dunne—whoever he is—away from here until the police turn up. There’s been a shooting accident—my brother’s killed—and we need Mr. Dunne as a witness. He was near the place at the time, and the police will perhaps want his evidence.”

  “They won’t,” Connel said confidently. “I’m sorry about your brother, sir. Very sad affair indeed, that is. I sympathise, sir. But as to Mr. Dunne, if the police want to ask him questions they’ll have to come to Fairlawns. We’re going there now.”

  He seemed to think that this made the matter clear beyond any argument.

  “Fairlawns?” Jim demanded. “Where’s that?”

  Connel seemed a trifle surprised.

  “It’s the big house with large grounds, up Stanningleigh way.”

  He paused for a moment, scrutinising Jim’s face as though perplexed by his dullness of apprehension. Then his own face cleared and he went on:

  “You’re a stranger here, perhaps, sir? Ah, of course, or you’d have tumbled to it as soon as I mentioned the name.”

  “Tumbled to what?” Jim asked, irritably.

  “Well, sir, Fairlawns is Dr. Barreman’s place. It’s a private institution where rich people can go to get over a nervous breakdown, or what not.”

  A light broke on Jim’s mind as he translated this delicate euphemism.

  “A private lunatic asylum, you mean?”

  “You might call it that, if you like,” Connel admitted, as though personally disclaiming responsibility for the definition.

  Now Jim understood whom he was dealing with: one of the asylum attendants.

  “And this man Dunne?” he demanded. “He’s one of the patients? Escaped from your charge, evidently.”

  “He got away early in the morning, before sunrise,” the warder admitted.

  “What’s his trouble?” Jim asked with some interest. “He seemed sane enough to me, barring that he looked a bit dazed when he came up to us in the plantation.”

  “We’re not allowed to discuss the residents, sir,” Connel declared with a bluntness so uncompromising that it sounded like a snub to Jim. “If Mr. Dunne’s needed by the police, they’ll have to apply to Dr. Barreman about it.”

  There was a downrightness in Connel’s manner which, quite involuntarily, roused a suspicion that professional secrecy alone was not at the back of his abruptness. He gave the impression, quite against his intentions, that he felt himself on slippery ice and that he wanted to get off it before he came a cropper. Mr. Dunne suffered from bats in the belfry; that was undeniable. But at least Connel could keep his own counsel as to the nature of these bats. Discussion on that subject might lead him farther than he thought desirable. It was Dr. Barreman’s affair, not his; and he had no wish to burn his fingers by blabbing to a stranger.

  “That’s all I can say, sir,” he concluded after a pause. “I’ll wish you good morning. We must get back to Fairlawns. Dr. Barreman’s a bit anxious, naturally.”

  “But . . .” Jim began.

  “Can’t stay, sir. Good morning.”

  With his air of cool authority he bowed himself out; and a moment or two later Jim heard the purring of a car as it receded into the distance.

  Chapter Seven

  Oswald Brandon

  ONCE rid of Mr. Dunne and his keepers, Jim Brandon might well have hoped to be left undisturbed after his tragic experiences. But his respite was of the briefest. To him it seemed only a moment or two after Connel’s departure when the drawing-room door reopened and Una Menteith appeared on the threshold. One glance told Jim that she had heard the news of Johnnie’s disaster; and that it had hit her harder than he expected. Outwardly she was calm, but her eyes showed traces of recent tears. When she caught sight of Jim she turned to address someone behind her.

  “He’s here, Oswald. Come in.”

  Over her shoulder, Jim caught a glimpse of his elder brother’s face, serious and tight-lipped. Una came forward, and Oswald followed her into the room.

  “Hullo, Jim,” was his curt greeting. “Didn’t look for me, did you?”

  In appearance, Oswald Brandon faintly recalled both his brothers. He had Johnnie’s ready smile without Johnnie’s boyishness; and he had Jim’s aquiline features, unspoiled by the shade of discontent which marred Jim’s expression. The steady grey eyes and firm lips had served him well in many a game of poker, for they betrayed nothing which it did not suit him to reveal. His vocabulary was mainly monosyllabic, so that even in his less laconic sentences his speech had a trenchant note. Altogether, he looked a more formidable character than Jim, and in his presence the younger man seemed slightly overshadowed.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about it?” Jim asked, without showing surprise at his brother’s advent.

  His tone was almost perfunctory, for Una’s face had already given the answer to his question.

  “Yes,” Oswald replied. “A man told us, on the road up here. It’s true, is it? He’s dead, I mean, not just badly hurt?”

  “He’s quite dead,” Jim explained soberly. “He shot himself in the head, you know, behind the ear. A doctor’ll be here any minute now; but he won’t be able to do anything. Poor Johnnie’s gone.”

  Oswald accepted the main fact without futile questions.

  “How did it happen?”

  Jim’s involuntary gesture expressed total ignorance.

  “I don’t know; I wasn’t in sight of him at the time. He was walking along the top of a sunk fence, perhaps he tripped and his gun went off. I don’t know. The other two got there long before I did.”

  Oswald seemed to ponder over this for a moment or two, but his face gave no clue to his thoughts.

  “H’m!” he said. “What did he look like this morning? White about the gills? Una’s told me some queer yarns.”

  “He looked damnably worried,” Jim admitted, with a certain reluctance.

  “Why did you let him go out shooting at all when he was in that state?” Una demanded, with a note of accusation in her tone. “You knew quite well . . .”

  She broke off as though she could not trust herself to keep her voice under control.

  For a moment or two
Jim seemed puzzled by her vehemence. Then, apparently, an underlying meaning in her words suggested itself to his mind, and he stared at her with an air of incredulity which slowly changed to one of doubt.

  “What d’you mean, exactly?” he demanded.

  Oswald exchanged a quick glance with Una, and then intervened to save the girl from having to put her idea into words.

  “No use codding ourselves, Jim. It stares you in the face. Last night—so Una tells me—Johnnie got into a fix with Laxford’s wife. I knew poor Johnnie better than you did, for he liked me; and I can guess how he took it. Went to bed, scared stiff by the mess he’d got into. Got no sleep for thinking about it. Cubs are like that—always thinking the hole they’re in is the worst that ever was. After a night like that Johnnie’s nerves would be just fiddle-strings. Send him out in that state with a gun in his hand . . . it’s as good as giving him the key to a short road out of his fix.”

  He paused for a moment and then added:

  “Una blames herself for not letting you butt in last night. She did it for the best. She knew I was due here to-day, and she thought the pair of us could deal with Laxford better than you alone.”

  Jim seemed to pay no attention to the last three sentences. He fastened on the main implication of Oswald’s speech, which had evidently thrown a fresh light on the situation for him.

  “Good Lord!” he ejaculated in obvious surprise. “You think he shot himself on purpose? I don’t believe it. He was badly under the weather this morning; I could see that well enough. But from that to suicide’s too big a jump.”

  Oswald looked at him keenly.

  “Think so? All the better, then, especially for Una’s feelings. Now here’s the point. We want no talk about this thing. Poor Johnnie’s gone. We don’t want this affair with Laxford’s wife raked up for gossip. You’re with me there? Right. Say ‘Suicide,’ and every old wife in the place will be nosing in, trying to guess what was at the back of it. Let’s keep Johnnie’s name clear of all that sort of stuff.”

  “Of course,” Jim agreed instantly.

  “Then mind what you say,” Oswald warned him. “Keep your thumb on anything that might give a hint. There’ll be an inquest. You’ll need to be careful at it. He had no worries of any sort. That’s our line.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Jim agreed. “It’ll be easy enough. The only other people who could let it out are the Laxfords and Hay; and I don’t suppose they’ll want to brag much about their share in the business.”

  “Nor do I, from what Una’s told me,” Oswald concurred grimly.

  He had no chance to say more, for at that moment the door opened and the maid announced:

  “Dr. Brinkworth, sir.”

  Dr. Aloysius X. Brinkworth exemplified one of the minor tragedies of the medical profession: a competent doctor handicapped by a bad bedside manner. He cured his patients; but he never inspired them with that confidence which often wins half the battle. The continual struggle against a marked inferiority complex gave him an air of nervousness and indecision, even when he had settled in his mind the best course of treatment. He brought with him into the sickroom a faint suggestion of flurry, as though he had fallen behind his time-table and was on pins and needles to get away again to visit the next case on his list. He was a little bald man, with large round glasses and a pair of flat feet of which he was acutely conscious.

  “Er . . . Mr. Brandon?” he inquired vaguely, being evidently taken aback at finding more than one person in the room.

  “My name’s Brandon,” Oswald explained. “This is my brother. He can give you the facts you need. I know nothing at first hand.”

  Dr. Brinkworth looked rather flustered at this, but he turned to Jim.

  “Er . . . Yes, I see . . . A very distressing affair, Mr. Brandon. I knew your brother by sight, poor young man. Er . . . can you throw any light on this accident? I’d like to have some details, if possible, before I make an examination of . . .”

  His voice tailed off as he realised that the completion of the sentence might be untactful.

  “I’m afraid I can throw no light on the accident,” Jim answered readily. “Mr. Laxford or Mr. Hay might know more about it. They were on the spot long before I got there. But I’ll tell you what I saw myself, if it’s of any service to you.”

  Oswald and Una listened with strained attention while he gave a concise account of his discovery of Johnnie’s body, with Hay and Laxford beside it; then he described how Mr. Dunne had supervened. At Dunne’s name Jim saw Dr. Brinkworth’s eyebrows lift momentarily in what might have been an expression of surprise; but almost immediately the physician regained control of his features.

  “Mr. Dunne?” he echoed. “From Fairlawns, you say? Ah! I know him . . . er . . . at least I’ve played cricket with him, once or twice. I doubt if it’s worth troubling him for his account of the affair, Mr. Brandon. He suffers from . . . er . . . slight lapses of memory, at times. His recollections might not be altogether reliable. Or so I’ve found them, once or twice. I think Mr. Laxford and . . . er . . . Mr. Hay, most likely will be able to give me all the details I need.”

  He glanced furtively at his wrist-watch and seemed perturbed to find how time was passing.

  “Perhaps I might see them now?” he suggested in a faintly fussy tone, “and then go . . . er . . . upstairs. I’ve a case waiting for me . . . giving me some anxiety, you understand? Urgent, in fact. So I oughtn’t to delay too long.”

  At the door he turned back.

  “Er . . . Your brother, Mr. Brandon, was he careful in handling his gun? I mean, was he likely to have handled it so as to make this accident more likely in his case than it would have been with yourself, for instance, if you had tripped in walking along the sunk fence?”

  “He was very careless,” Jim answered unhesitatingly. “I had to check him for it this morning, before the accident happened.”

  Una forced herself to offer her testimony also.

  “Everybody complained of poor Johnnie’s lighthearted way of treating a gun, Dr. Brinkworth. I always felt a little anxious myself if I was out with him when he was shooting.”

  “So if he tripped . . .?” Dr. Brinkworth began.

  “The safety slide must have been out of action if the gun went off,” Oswald pointed out.

  “Er . . . Yes, of course,” Dr. Brinkworth agreed at once. “And so, if his gun slipped from his hold and fell the whole height of the ha-ha, there would be nothing to prevent it exploding with a jar like that. Er . . . When he was walking up the sunk fence, Mr. Brandon, had he the ha-ha on his right or his left hand?”

  “On his right,” Jim explained.

  “So the wound is on the right side? Of course. Thanks for making it clear. And now . . . er . . .”

  An inarticulate murmur represented the tail-end of the sentence, and with a hurried bow in Una’s direction, Dr. Brinkworth passed out of the room. For a few seconds after he had gone the three stood silent, listening to his footfalls on the parquet of the hall.

  “Think that’s nailed it down?” Oswald queried at last when it was evident that Dr. Brinkworth was not going to return again. “We overdid it a bit—all shouting at once about poor Johnnie’s carelessness. Still, no harm in zeal. He seemed to gulp it down. And that’s the main thing.”

  “Suicide isn’t likely to cross his mind,” Jim said, without noticing Una’s shudder at the word. “Why should it?”

  Oswald nodded thoughtfully, as though not altogether sure.

  “Well, one hopes so. Come to think of it, we don’t know ourselves which it was. But,” he added with an ugly scowl, “if he did himself in, I’d like to get my knife in Laxford, just to put things square. We’ve a score to pay there, Jim, if the chance comes our way. That’s a hound’s trick he played on poor Johnnie.”

  Una took his arm as though to coax him out of his black mood; and at her touch he made an effort to curb his vindictiveness. He threw a quizzical glance at his brother.

  “You di
dn’t guess Una knew me, Jim?”

  “She said nothing to me about you, if that’s what you mean,” Jim admitted. “I suppose . . .”

  “Yes, we fixed it up this morning. I’ve only been waiting till the Company gave me a shore job, and I’ve got that now. Heard the news yesterday when we got in. So I sent Una a wire and came on here at once.”

  Jim’s manner, as he offered his congratulations, was perhaps a trifle absent-minded. Something had stirred in his memory, and the effort to bring it into clear focus occupied part of his attention. Then, a few seconds later, his face cleared and he turned to Una.

  “Of course, that’s it! You talked about going on some of these summer cruises. I suppose you met Oswald on the Ithaca. But why didn’t you say you knew him, when you met me at the station yesterday?”

  Una seemed a shade disconcerted by the question.

  “Well, you see . . . I suppose I call you Jim, now? . . . I could hardly say: ‘I’m Una Menteith, the girl your brother’s going to get engaged to, sometime.’ And besides, nobody’s ever natural when they’re introduced to a total stranger as a prospective relation-in-law. It’s a strained business, with both on their best behaviour and both feeling critical and being afraid to show it. So I thought, since I had the chance, I’d say nothing about Oswald and just get to know you as an ordinary human being. Fairer to both parties. Partly for the fun of the thing, I kept it up and swore Johnnie to secrecy; and I couldn’t help playing the mystery-monger a little, just to make you inquisitive about me. Any kind of interest’s better than none, you know. And you didn’t seem particularly interested in me at the start.”

  “Oh, that was it, was it?” said Jim, without much cordiality in his tone.

  Oswald intervened swiftly and changed the subject.

  “Una’s told me a few things, Jim. We’ll need to get our bearings in this affair. Una can’t stay on with the Laxfords after this.”