by Sapper
Chapter 4
As was only to be expected, the affair attracted an enormous amount of attention. The escape of Morris, duly reported in all the evening papers, had already brought Dartmoor into the centre of the limelight: the subsequent development increased the interest. Reporters swarmed like bluebottles; it was unsafe for anyone even remotely connected with the matter to be seen in the open.
Two facts, one positive and one negative, came to light the next day. The first was the clear imprint of a boot of regulation prison pattern on the track over Grimstone Mire – a boot, moreover, of the size taken by Morris. The second was the complete failure of the police to discover any trace of the weapon with which the crime had been committed. And when the inquest opened at eleven o’clock the day after, there was still no sign of it.
With some reluctance Mr Hardcastle had agreed to it being held at Glensham House. At first he demurred on the grounds of the added publicity, but when it was pointed out to him how very much proceedings would be facilitated if the enquiry was held on the spot, he finally consented.
“The whole thing is most annoying, Captain Drummond,” he remarked, as they met in the hall. “I particularly dislike notoriety in any form, and then a crime like this occurs, literally in my house.”
“Deuced boring, Mr Hardcastle,” agreed the other sympathetically. “I, too, like to blush unseen. Been worried by the jolly old newspaper men?”
“They swarm like maggots in a bit of bad meat,” snorted Hardcastle.
“An apt and charming simile,” murmured Drummond. “Ah, well, if you will have these regrettable incidents in the old family mansion, you must expect ’em to sit up and take notice. By the way” – he lowered his voice confidentially – “any further sign of the ghost?”
The other glanced quickly round the room; then, taking his arm, he drew Drummond on one side.
“Yes – last night. She was in exactly the same place at the head of the stairs. But not a word to my daughter about it.”
“The Comtessa has remained on, has she?”
“I persuaded her to. For one thing alone, I thought it better she should be here over the inquest, in case they want to ask her any questions. Tell me, Captain Drummond, what do you make of that apparition?”
“’Pon my soul, Mr Hardcastle, it’s deuced difficult to say, isn’t it? We’ve all seen her, and in my own mind I have no doubt that Morris saw her. It’s a strange thing, this haunting of old houses. I remember a great pal of mine whose house was haunted by a little green man. Most astonishing case it was. The little fellow used to come and perch on the end of his bed. And one night, after we’d got my friend there with some trouble – I may say he suffered from another delusion, and that was that whisky didn’t affect his head – we suddenly heard an awful crash outside. My poor old pal had jumped out of the window. We picked him up, Mr Hardcastle, and with his dying breath he told us what had happened. Thirteen little green men had come just after we left him, all armed with rifles. And as he’d always promised his mother he’d never be shot, he just jumped out. I cried like a child as the dear fellow passed away. Ah! there, if I mistake not, is your charming daughter. Good morning, Comtessa: I hear you have decided to risk the ghost.”
“Please don’t speak about it, Captain Drummond,” she cried. “My father persuaded me to stay on the one more night just for this inquest, but I leave this afternoon. You only saw her in the distance, don’t forget: when I saw her she was as close as I am to you.”
“A terrifying experience, Comtessa,” he remarked gravely. “Hullo! it looks as if the individual with the somewhat bulbous nose is about to kick off. Incidentally, who is the man talking to your father?”
“Mr Peters,” she said. “He is one of the members of Bob Marton’s firm.”
He proved to be the first witness, and identified the murdered man as Robert Marton. He explained that no relative was available for the purpose owing to the recent death of Mr Marton, senior, and that he had therefore come down from London on hearing the news. He further added that it was he who had sent him down at the request of Mr Hardcastle, who had recently acquired the lease of Glensham House through his firm.
“When did he receive your instructions?” demanded the Coroner.
“On Tuesday afternoon – the day before he was murdered. I gave him the address on a piece of paper, as he did not know the house.”
The Coroner consulted some documents in front of him.
“Am I not right in supposing that it was on Tuesday evening that his father was killed owing to an accident with a gun?” he asked.
“Perfectly right,” said Peters, speaking with some emotion. “I may say that the two things coming so close together has been a very great shock to me and the other members of the firm.”
The Coroner nodded sympathetically.
“I am sure that we quite understand that, Mr Peters,” he said. “But there is one point that I should like to get clear. You say that you gave him his instructions on Tuesday afternoon, so that he presumably left London on Wednesday morning. Where did he spend Tuesday night? I assume he cannot have been at home; for if he had been, his father’s death would naturally have prevented him coming here.”
“Exactly,” agreed the witness. “From inquiries I have made I find that Robert Marton did not go home on Tuesday night.”
“Have you any idea where he stayed?”
“None whatever, sir. His train on Wednesday morning left Paddington very early, and he probably stopped at some hotel.”
“So he was in ignorance of his father’s death?”
“That I can’t tell you, as he may have seen it in the papers. But I assume he did not, as otherwise he would surely have got out at the first stop and returned to Surbiton.”
“And he did not telephone to his father or mother or send them any message saying he was remaining in London for the night?”
“Certainly not to his mother. With regard to his father, unfortunately I cannot tell you, but I should think in all probability not. Had he done so, I think he would have told Mrs Marton.”
Peters stood down, and Hardcastle was called.
“Now, Mr Hardcastle,” said the Coroner, “will you kindly tell us all you know of this distressing affair?”
The witness bowed gravely.
“Distressing is too mild a word for it, sir,” he remarked. “I feel that I shall never forgive myself for having been the unwitting cause of this poor boy’s death. He was down here on business for me, and then this ghastly thing happened to him.”
He paused, overcome with emotion.
“However,” he continued, after recovering his composure, “I will tell you all I know. My daughter, my friends and I came down here on Tuesday to have a look at the house, which, as Mr Peters told you, I have recently leased. Marton was to come down on Wednesday, as you have heard. That morning we all went over to Plymouth to see that some alterations on my yacht had been carried out. Then, leaving my daughter there, we returned here to find that a dense fog had come down. I may say,” he remarked with a faint smile, “that we are accustomed to things on a big scale in my country, but that fog beat anything we’ve ever turned out. You gentlemen may be used to it, but it defeated us. However, as time went on and he did not appear, we realised he must have lost his way, and so my friend Mr Slingsby and I went out to look for him. And it was then we ran into two warders on the road, who told us about the escaped convict, and also mentioned that they had met a young man who was obviously lost, but who had finally reached Merridale Hall – the property of this gentleman.”
He bowed to Jerningham.
“From their description of him we realised it must be Marton, and so we walked on with the idea of finding Merridale Hall. In the fog we missed it, and then we got hopelessly lost ourselves. We wandered backwards and forwards, and then there came a cras
h from some little distance off which sounded like a car running into a gate or a wall. We blundered on until, quite suddenly, Marton ran right into us. He told us he had had a drink at Merridale Hall, and had then come on in another attempt to find us.”
He paused and blew his nose.
“I now come, sir, to the dreadful tragedy. The boy, I may say, did not seem at all himself. He was nervy, and about seven o’clock he began to shiver. Clearly he’d got fever, and so I gave him some quinine and told him to go to bed. And that” – his emotion was evident – “was the last time I saw the poor lad alive.”
“Take your time, Mr Hardcastle,” said the Coroner. “We all of us understand how you feel.”
“I thank you, sir,” continued the witness, after a moment or two. “I should think it was about eight o’clock that Mr Slingsby and I decided to go for a walk. It seemed to us that the fog had lifted a little, and we felt the need of some exercise. Mr Penton refused to come, but went to the garage instead, as something had gone wrong with the car. We thought that if we stuck to the main road we should have no difficulty, but somehow or other we got off it, and once again we found ourselves lost. And it was not until well after ten that we finally got back to the house. The first thing we found was that the whole of our supper had been eaten, and we were just blaming Mr Penton, as being the only possible person who could have taken it, when a man dashed down the stairs, rushed through the hall and vanished into the night. We stood dumbfounded, and a moment or two later we saw three gentlemen standing on the top of the stairs. And they told us what had happened in our absence.”
He paused again, and sighed deeply.
“I blame myself bitterly, Mr Coroner, for having gone out and left that sick boy alone in the house. I knew about this escaped convict, but frankly the thought of such a ghastly tragedy never entered my head. Had it done so, I need hardly state that nothing would have induced me to leave the house.”
He sat down, and a murmur of sympathy came from the jury.
“Thank you, Mr Hardcastle,” said the Coroner. “I speak for the jury as well as myself when I say that your feelings are only natural. But I can assure you that no vestige of blame can be attached to you for what you did. There is, however, one question I would like to ask you. Did the murdered man say anything to you about his father’s death?”
“No, sir: not a word. The first I heard of it was from this gentleman, Captain Drummond.”
“Thank you. Then I think we may safely conclude that Robert Marton was in ignorance of the fact. And now, to keep things in their correct order, I will call Captain Drummond. My first question, sir, is to ask what brought you here at all?”
“My friends and I, believing the house to be empty, decided that we would come along and see if the rumour of its being haunted was true,” answered Drummond.
“And did you see a ghost?” asked the Coroner with ponderous sarcasm.
“Other things occupied our attention, sir,” murmured Drummond.
“Kindly tell us what happened?”
“The first thing was that a strong reek of cigarette smoke proved the house was not empty. And we traced it to the room in which we found Morris.”
“Did you know it was Morris as soon as you saw him?”
“Yes,” said Drummond. “A warder had given me a description of him earlier in the day, and I spotted him by the red scar on his face.”
“And then?”
“I recognised the clothes he was wearing as belonging to a young man called Marton who had lost his way during the afternoon and come to Merridale Hall.”
Briefly Drummond outlined the events of the afternoon, and Darrell watched Hardcastle covertly. But his face was as expressionless as the Sphinx.
“You, too, say that he seemed nervy,” said the Coroner when Drummond had finished.
“He did.”
“Did he give you any reason?”
“I think the unexpected appearance of the two warders looming out of the fog and the discharge of a rifle had shaken him considerably.”
“Were you not surprised when you returned with your friends to find him gone?”
“Very. And my assumption was that he was a little ashamed of the condition of fright he had been in and had left.”
“Did he say he was going to Glensham House?”
“He never mentioned Glensham House.”
“Now, Mr Hardcastle stated that it was you who told him of the death of Mr Marton, senior. How did you know?”
Once again Darrell glanced at Hardcastle, whose eyes were now fixed on Drummond.
“Marton told me his name and the name of his firm,” said Drummond. “And when I happened to see the account of the accident in the paper, I assumed it was either his father or his uncle who was dead.”
Almost imperceptibly Hardcastle relaxed.
“I see,” said the Coroner. “Now, Captain Drummond, will you please continue from the point where you found Morris hiding in the room here?”
“I first of all asked him where he got his clothes from.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that an old woman had given them to him and that they belonged to a son of hers who was dead.”
“But since you knew they belonged to Marton you must have known that his statement was a lie.”
“My brain was moving on those lines,” said Drummond mildly, “when we saw the stain on the ceiling.”
“What did you do when you saw the stain?”
“We took Morris with us upstairs and went and investigated. And we then found the murdered man.”
“Did Morris show any reluctance to going upstairs with you?”
“The very strongest.”
“What did he say when he saw the body?”
For a moment or two Drummond hesitated; then he shrugged his shoulders.
“He said something about a ghost,” he remarked.
The Coroner smiled.
“Ghosts seem to have been popular that night. Now, Captain Drummond,” he went on severely, “are you seriously asking the jury to believe that when you found a man foully murdered on the floor, and an escaped convict, with a record like Morris, wearing the dead man’s clothes in an empty house at that hour of the night, you still harped on the subject of ghosts?”
“I come of a very superstitious family,” said Drummond with the utmost gravity. “My mother was the thirteenth child of a thirteenth child, and I suppose I have inherited a strain of the whimsical, of the mystical, one might almost say a Puck-like, elfin streak which at times has had the strangest results in my life.”
The Coroner looked at him suspiciously, while Jerningham was suddenly shaken with a bad fit of coughing.
“Would you kindly answer my question, Captain Drummond?” said the Coroner. “These family details, though interesting, are hardly relevant. Did you, or did you not, attach any importance to this story of Morris’?”
“He certainly seemed to attach a great deal of importance to it himself,” answered Drummond. “And then, before we realised what he intended to do, he bolted. I knew it would be useless to pursue him in the fog, and that sooner or later he would certainly be caught. And we were just going to ring up the police when we met Mr Hardcastle and Mr Slingsby here in the hall.”
“Now, Captain Drummond, I am going to put a leading question to you. You and your friends are the only people who actually saw and spoke to Morris. I dismiss the brief glimpse that Mr Hardcastle got of him as he dashed through the hall. Have you any doubts in your mind that Morris was the murderer of Robert Marton?”
“The evidence on the point appears conclusive, Mr Coroner,” said Drummond, and the jury nodded their heads in agreement. They were getting bored: the case was such an obvious one. But the Coroner – a man of stern determination – was not
to be baulked. First Darrell, then Jerningham, was called to substantiate Drummond’s story. Then Penton deposed to what he had seen when working on the car in the garage. And finally the Inspector put forward his reconstruction of the crime.
“The only thing wanting, sir, for absolute proof,” he concluded, “is the discovery of the weapon with which the murder was committed. The doctor has told us that the crime took place round about nine o’clock; he also says that in his opinion the weapon used was something in the nature of a meat-chopper. On the handle of that weapon, if we find it, will be the fingerprints – the fingerprints of the murderer: the fingerprints of Morris. But so far the most exhaustive search has failed to bring it to light.”
“Is it possible that he had it with him the whole time?” suggested the Coroner, glancing at Drummond.
“An axe is a difficult thing to conceal about one’s person,” remarked the latter mildly. “In fact, I feel almost sure we should have noticed it.”
“You have searched the grounds?” continued the Coroner to the witness.
“Yes, sir. But they are, of course, extensive, and we have not given up hope of discovering it. As Captain Drummond says, it is almost impossible that he should have had it on him, and in all probability, therefore, it is either hidden in the house, or he threw it from the window of the room in which he killed Marton.”
Finally the sergeant was called, who gave evidence of his call at Merridale Hall, and the presence there of Comtessa Bartelozzi, whom the Coroner decided it was not necessary to trouble. And so the inquest ended with the verdict that had been obvious from the commencement: “Wilful murder by John Morris, subsequently believed drowned in Grimstone Mire.” They further added a rider to the effect that no pains should be spared to discover the weapon with which the crime was committed.
