The Return Of Bulldog Drummond

by Sapper

  Chapter 3

  The fog had lifted a little as they left the house, though it was still sufficiently thick to make progress slow. And they had only gone some thirty or forty yards down the drive when a cry came echoing faintly over the moor. They stopped abruptly: it was repeated again and again. It sounded as if someone was calling for help, and then as suddenly as the shouts had started they ceased.

  “That’s the direction of Grimstone Mire,” said Jerningham gravely. “Surely no one could be such a damned fool as to go near it on a night like this.”

  “Dangerous, is it?” said Drummond.

  “Dangerous, old boy! Why, it’s a death trap even by day. And in the dark, and foggy at that, it would be simply suicide. No one who lives round here would go within half a mile of the place.”

  “No good going to have a look, I suppose?”

  “Not the slightest, Hugh. Whoever it is has either scrambled out by now, or it’s all over, with the odds on the latter.”

  “Then let’s get back,” said Drummond. “We’ve got to put on our considering caps, you fellows, but it darned well can’t be done till I’ve lowered some ale. For unless I’m much mistaken we’ve stepped right into one of the biggest things we’ve ever handled. And the first thing to be considered is what we’re going to do about Mr Morris.”

  “You think he did in Marton?” said Darrell.

  “I’m damned certain he didn’t,” answered Drummond shortly. “But they’ll hang him all the same. It’s one of the most diabolically clever bits of work we’ve ever butted into, comparing quite creditably with the deeds of our late lamented Carl. Thank the Lord! here’s the house. Ale, Ted, in buckets. Then you, as the resident, get on to the police. Tell ’em a man has been murdered at Glensham House, and say that we shall be here to give ’em all the information we can. And one other thing, old lad. Ask the exchange if Glensham House is disconnected or not.”

  “What was the sudden brainstorm in the hall, Hugh, just before we left?” said Darrell curiously.

  Jerningham was telephoning, and Drummond’s face was buried in a tankard, which he drained before answering.

  “A little matter of dust,” he remarked. “But all in good time, Peter: we’ve got to get down to this pretty carefully.”

  “The house hasn’t been connected up for two years,” said Jerningham, coming back into the room, and Drummond nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve told the police, who darned near fused the wire in their excitement. They’ll be round as soon as they can.”

  “And before they come we’ve got to decide exactly what we are going to say,” remarked Drummond, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll take the chair for the moment: you stop me the instant you disagree with anything. Point one: was the story told us by Morris true? I unhesitatingly maintain that it was, for one very good reason. That man at the best of times hasn’t got the brains to invent such a wildly fantastic yarn and stick to it. And half screwed as he was when we found him, the thing is an utter impossibility. No – he was speaking the truth the whole way through; I watched him closely.”

  “I agree,” said Jerningham. “Or else he is the most consummate actor.”

  Drummond shook his head.

  “He wasn’t acting, Ted. What do you say, Peter?”

  “I agree with you, old boy. Which brings us to point two: if Morris didn’t murder Marton, who did?”

  “Exactly. But let’s go back a bit farther, and see what we can build up on the assumption that Morris’ story is true. Clearly there were people in the house when Morris broke in. There was a woman, young Marton, and another man or men. Right! They hear him come in, or someone – they don’t know who. The woman comes down, sees the glint of the candle and opens the door just enough to see who the visitor is. A convict: must be Morris. And it’s at this point, you fellows, that I maintain we get a line on to what we are up against which gives one pretty furiously to think. Because without the smallest hesitation they seized on a thing that had happened by the merest fluke, and had turned it to advantage with a brutality that is damned near unprecedented. Common or garden murder we know, but they don’t stick at butchery. I’m not often serious, as you know, but, ’pon my soul, this show is a bit over the odds. For some reason we haven’t got, they wanted young Marton out of the way: behold the unsuspecting scapegoat all ready to hand. Morris can be hanged for what they’ve done. But in order to make it doubly sure, they asked themselves the safest way of killing Marton. A revolver? Out of the question: Morris wouldn’t have one. A knife means fingerprints on the shaft, which Morris could prove were not his. And so these beauties, remembering that in the Sydenham case he was reputed to have bashed his victim’s head about, and acting on the well-known truth that a murderer rarely changes his methods, went and did likewise. They deliberately killed young Marton by battering his head in.”

  “Sounds OK so far, Hugh,” said Jerningham.

  “Hold hard, old boy, for a minute: we’ve got to go a bit farther. Down comes this woman with Marton’s clothes and pitches Morris a yarn which was exactly the kind to impress and frighten an ignorant man. Ghost and foggy night: just the stuff to scare the fellow stiff. And then she disappears, intending in all probability to come back later and get his convict’s uniform, so that there shall be no chance of his not putting on Marton’s clothes. And from that moment Morris would have been a doomed man. Supposing we hadn’t heard his yarn under the circumstances we did, should we have believed it? No: and that is the only point where their plan miscarried. No one was ever intended to hear it under such circumstances. It rang true tonight; it wouldn’t have rung true two or three days from now, when Morris was found wandering about. He would not have had a dog’s chance. The woman would either have disappeared, or she would have denied his story in toto. And then, unfortunately for them, we came barging in, which necessitated a considerable change in their plans. For my own belief is that if we had not arrived, they would merely have left, with the absolute certainty that it was only a question of time before Morris was caught. Our arrival altered matters, and completely forced their hands, so that we were treated to the theatrical performance we’ve just had. They knew we should have to ring up the police, and the instant the police arrived they were in the soup. What were they doing while this wretched boy’s head was being bashed in by Morris? It can’t have been a silent proceeding: why didn’t they hear it? They could only pretend they were out of the house, and if they were going to do that, the sooner they took the bull by the horns the better.”

  “You think they were in the house the whole time?” said Darrell.

  “My dear old Peter, who goes for a walk on a night like this for fun? Of course they were, though there is no denying that that swine Hardcastle’s acting was damned good. Probably to the police they will say they were walking back from Yelverton, which sounds feasible, because the police won’t be able to get beyond the point that Morris is the murderer.”

  “You think those two did it?” said Jerningham.

  Drummond shrugged his shoulders.

  “There, old boy, we’re getting into the region of guesswork. From what I saw of Hardcastle I should think he’s quite capable of anything. But it was either them or pals of theirs.”

  “And what about the housekeeper?” said Darrell.

  “Housekeeper, my aunt, Peter! Who ever heard of a housekeeper with a nightdress like that? Who ever heard of a housekeeper who smoked expensive cigarettes with purple-tipped mouthpieces? It’s just possible that the woman who fooled Morris was really Hardcastle’s daughter made up for the part, but there was never any housekeeper.”

  “And where was she all the time?”

  “In the hall, just as we were going, I happened to look at the floor close by the wall. It was very dusty, and I saw the marks of a woman’s footsteps going up to a big piece of panelling. There were none coming away from it.”

 
“There undoubtedly are secret passages in the house,” said Jerningham thoughtfully. “So you think the fairy was there, and not in Plymouth?”

  “Do we or do we not accept Morris’ story? That’s the answer, Ted. If we do, she was there.”

  “In which case she is there now. Are we to tell the police?”

  Drummond refilled his tankard thoughtfully.

  “I think we must tell the police the entire story that Morris told us. I don’t think any good will be done by putting in any comment on it: we must leave them to form their own conclusions. You see, a mere statement on our part that we believe the yarn cuts no ice anyway. At the same time, I think it’s going to be a little awkward for them. There are a whole lot of points they will have to explain away which would never have cropped up but for our arrival on the scene. Jove! they must have been as wild as civet cats when we appeared.”

  He rubbed his hands together and began to grin.

  “Boys, we’re going to have some fun. What is that galaxy doing there at all? Why do they know so little about it that they don’t even realise the telephone is not connected up? Why do they want to murder young Marton? Why does the old man have a gun accident? And I’m just wondering how much will come out when Morris is caught. Nothing – if we hadn’t come into it. But we have, and we’re damned well not going out.”

  He paused as a ring came at the front door bell.

  “Is that the police already? They’ve been pretty quick. Now don’t forget, you fellows, we were ghost-hunting, believing the house to be empty. And, for the rest, we give Morris’ story without expressing any opinion.”

  “It’s not the police,” said Jerningham, who had gone to the door. “It’s a woman’s voice.”

  A moment or two later Jennings entered the room.

  “A lady, sir, has lost her way. She is looking for Glensham House.”

  “Have you directed her?” asked his master, glancing at Drummond.

  The butler hesitated.

  “She seems very tired, sir. I was wondering if I should offer her a glass of wine. She is, if I may say so,” he continued confidentially, “distinctly – er – worthwhile.”

  “Bring her in, Ted,” said Drummond. “Tell Jennings to bring some champagne and sandwiches. Peter,” he went on, as they left the room, “the rush on Glensham House is making me giddy.”

  “But it is too kind of you,” came a woman’s voice from the hall. “I really am quite exhausted. If I could rest a little before continuing it would make all the difference.”

  She entered the room, and paused in momentary embarrassment on seeing the other two.

  “Of course,” cried Jerningham. “I have ordered some sandwiches for you. May I introduce Captain Drummond and Mr Darrell? My own name is Jerningham.”

  He pulled up a chair, and she sat down with a charming smile that embraced all three. And, as Jennings had remarked, she was distinctly worthwhile. Dark and of medium height, she had a complexion that was simply flawless. Her eyes, of which she knew how to make full use, were a deep blue: in fact, the only thing that struck an incongruous note was her frock, which was more suitable for Ascot than Dartmoor.

  “I have been over in Plymouth,” she explained, “and had intended to spend the night there. And then I suddenly decided to return. If only I had realised what a fog on Dartmoor was like, nothing would have induced me to. No taxi at the station: not even a cab. So I started to walk, and when I got to your gates I thought it was Glensham House. Luckily my father thinks I’m still in Plymouth, so he won’t be worried.”

  “Have we the pleasure of meeting Miss Hardcastle?” asked Drummond.

  She laughed merrily.

  “It is some time since I was called that,” she said. “I am Comtessa Bartelozzi.” And then she gave a puzzled little frown. “But how did you know my father’s name?”

  “Your father and we have been having a lot of fun and excitement this evening,” explained Drummond genially. “I feel we’re quite old friends.”

  “But I didn’t know that he had met anyone round here,” she said. “You see, we’re only newcomers. My father has rented Glensham House, and we just came down for a night or two to see what furniture was wanted.”

  “Well, I’m afraid your preliminary reconnaissance has not been devoid of incident, Comtessa,” he remarked. “It’s a merciful thing for you that you were in Plymouth; otherwise I fear the shock would have been considerable. A young man has had his head battered in at Glensham House.”

  She stared at him in speechless amazement.

  “Head battered in! A young man! But who?”

  “I gathered his name was Marton,” answered Drummond. “Ah! here is the champagne.”

  “Marton! But he’s our solicitor. Captain Drummond – please explain.”

  With a completely expressionless face, he told her the story, which she listened to with ever-increasing horror.

  “But how dreadful!” she cried as he finished. “Poor, poor boy! What a brute that convict must be!”

  “It certainly is one of the most brutal murders I have ever come across,” he agreed. “And we are expecting the police at any moment to hear what we have to tell them about it.”

  “Oh! I hope they catch the brute,” she cried passionately. “What a pity you ever let him escape! I can’t understand how you could have been taken in for a moment by such a story.”

  “You mean with regard to the housekeeper?”

  “Of course. There’s no such person in the house. Why, if there had been you would have seen her.”

  “That is true, Comtessa: perhaps we were credulous. Anyway, Morris is bound to be caught very shortly, and the whole thing will have to be thrashed out in court. Are you proposing to stay long at Glensham House?”

  He poured her out another glass of champagne.

  “It all depends on my father,” she answered. “Mr Hardcastle is very interested in cinema work, and he wants a place where he can work undisturbed at a new invention of his which he thinks is going to revolutionise the whole business.”

  “Indeed,” murmured Drummond. “Then we can only hope there are no more diversions of the sort that occurred tonight. It will have a most upsetting effect on his studies. By the way, you know it is your room, don’t you, that is reputed to be haunted?”

  “What: my bedroom!” she cried. “Is that really so?”

  “My host, Mr Jerningham, is quite positive about it,” he answered. “We didn’t see anything, I must admit, but perhaps your father and Mr Slingsby have an antagonistic aura for ghosts. Fortunately we did one good deed in shutting up a box of your cigarettes, which would otherwise have got dreadfully stale.”

  She stared at him thoughtfully.

  “Do you think it’s possible,” she remarked at length, “that the woman this man Morris said he saw was a spirit?”

  “My dear Comtessa,” said Drummond gravely, “I have reached the age when I never think anything is impossible. And there is no doubt that the amount of beer he had consumed might have rendered him prone to see things. However, those surely are the fairy footsteps of the police I hear on the drive. After we have talked to them, you must allow us to see you home.”

  It turned out to be a sergeant, who stood in the door with his helmet under his arm.

  “Mr Jerningham?” He looked round the group, and Jerningham nodded.

  “That’s me,” he said.

  “It was you that telephoned, sir, wasn’t it, about this murder at Glensham House? Well, sir, the Inspector has gone straight there, and he gave me orders to ask you to go round there at once and the other gentlemen that were with you.”

  “Of course,” cried Drummond. “We’ll all go. And you too, Comtessa.”

  “He didn’t say nothing about any lady, sir,” said the sergeant dubiously.


  “The Comtessa is living at Glensham House,” said Drummond. “Fortunately for her, she has been in Plymouth today, and lost her way in the fog coming back.”

  “Then that’s a different matter, sir,” answered the sergeant. “It’s much clearer now: we shan’t have any difficulty in getting there.”

  “Good,” said Drummond. “Let’s start.”

  The sergeant proved right: a few isolated stars were showing as they left the house. Pockets of mist still hung about the road, but they grew thinner and thinner each moment. And in a few minutes they could see the outline of Glensham House in front of them. There were lights showing in several of the downstair rooms, and finding the front door open, they walked straight in.

  An inspector, with a constable beside him, was seated at the table: opposite him were Hardcastle and Slingsby and a third man who was smoking a cigar.

  “Gee, honey,” cried Hardcastle, springing to his feet, “what under the sun are you doing here? I thought you were in Plymouth.”

  “I suddenly decided to come back, Dad,” she said, “and in the fog I went to this gentleman’s house by mistake. What is this awful thing I hear?”

  He patted her on the arm.

  “There, there,” he cried soothingly. “It’s just one of the most terrible things that’s ever happened. An escaped convict has murdered poor young Bob Marton.”

  “Are you the gentleman who telephoned?” asked the Inspector, rapping on the table for silence.

  “I telephoned from Merridale Hall,” said Jerningham.

  “I’ve explained that our instrument was disconnected,” said Hardcastle.

  “Please allow me, sir, to do the talking,” said the Inspector firmly. “Now, sir, would you be good enough to tell me exactly what happened? But before you begin, would you, sir” – he swung round in his chair and addressed Drummond – “be good enough to stop walking about?”