therefore I walked with him, keeping him aconsiderable distance behind the others as we went up the street.
"The superintendent is not here now?" I remarked casually, in orderthat he should recall our meeting up in the wood while we were alone,and not before my friends.
"No, sir. The guv'nor went back to Chichester about an hour ago," washis answer, and a few minutes later we turned into a farmyard, where ina barn, the door of which was unlocked by one of the men, we saw thebody lying face upwards upon a plank on trestles.
Booth drew the handkerchief from the dead face that seemed to stare atus so grimly in the semi-darkness of the barn, and from my companionsescaped exclamations of surprise and horror.
"Awful!" gasped the young viscount--who was known as "The Scrambler" tohis intimates--a name given to him at Eton; "I wonder who murdered him?"
"I wonder!" echoed Ellice Winsloe in a hard, hushed voice.
His strange tone attracted me, and my eyes fell upon his countenance.It had, I was amazed to see, blanched in an instant, and was as white asthat of the dead man himself.
The sudden impression produced upon the others was such that they failedto notice the change in Ellice. I, however, saw it distinctly.
I was confident of one thing--that he had identified the victim.
Yet he said nothing beyond agreeing with his companions that a dastardlycrime had been committed, and expressing a hope that the assassin wouldbe arrested.
"He's a stranger," declared Scarcliff.
"Yes--an entire stranger," said Winsloe, emphatically, and at the sametime he bent forward to get a better view of the lifeless countenance.Standing behind, I watched him closely.
The sight of the body had produced a remarkable change in him. His facewas wild and terrified, and I saw that his lips trembled.
Nevertheless he braced himself up with a great effort, and said,--
"Then it's a complete mystery. He was found by Harris, the keeper, lastnight?"
"Yes, sir," answered Booth. "He'd been dead then some hours. DrRichards says it's murder. He's goin' to make the post-mortem thisafternoon."
"Has the revolver been found?" he asked.
"No, sir. We've been searching all the morning, but can find nothing."
"And what was in his pockets?" inquired Winsloe, his anxiety welldisguised.
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?" he demanded.
"Oh! a knife, a piece of pencil, a little money and a few odds and ends.But nothing of any use to us."
"Then you can't identify him?"
"Unfortunately we can't, sir," was the man's reply.
"We hope to find out who he is, but from all appearances he's a totalstranger in these parts."
"It's very evident that the murderer searched the poor fellow'spockets," Jack said. "He was afraid lest his victim might beidentified."
"That's what we think, m'lord," remarked one of Booth's companions."The tab off the back of his jacket, which bore the maker's name, hasbeen cut out."
"By the murderer?" asked Wydcombe.
"Probably so, m'lord."
"Then whoever killed him took good care to remove every scrap ofevidence which might lead to his victim's identification," ElliceWinsloe remarked, standing with his eyes fixed steadily upon the deadface.
"That's what our superintendent thinks. He believes that if weestablish who the poor fellow is, that we shall have no difficulty inputting our hand upon the guilty person."
"But did no one hear the shot?" Winsloe inquired.
"Nobody. The doctor thinks the affair took place late in theafternoon," answered Booth.
Winsloe pursed his white lips, and turned away. For an instant ahaggard, fearsome look crossed his hard countenance--the look of a manhaunted by a guilty secret--but a moment later, when Wydcombe turned tojoin him, his face changed, and he exclaimed lightly,--
"Let's get out of this. The thing's a complete mystery, and we mustleave it to the police to puzzle it all out. Of course, there'll be aninquest, and then we may hear something further."
"At present the affair is a complete enigma," Jack remarked. Then,bending again towards the dead man's face, he added, "Do you know,Ellice, I can't help thinking that I've seen him before somewhere, butwhere, I can't for the life of me recollect."
I saw that Winsloe started, and he turned again. "I don't recognise himin the least," he said quickly. "A face is always altered by death. Henow resembles, perhaps, somebody you've known."
"Ah, perhaps so," remarked the young viscount. "Yet I certainly have afaint impression of having seen him somewhere before--or somebody verylike him."
"I hope your lordship will try and remember," urged the villageconstable. "It would be of the greatest assistance to us."
"I'll try and think, Booth. If I recollect I'll send for you," heanswered.
"Thank you, m'lord," the constable replied, and as I glanced covertly atWinsloe I saw that his face had fallen.
Would Scarcliff recall who he really was?
"To identify a dead person is always most difficult," Winsloe remarkedwith assumed disinterestedness. "I've heard of cases where half a dozendifferent families have laid claim to one dead body--wives, mothers,children and intimate friends. No doubt lots of people are buried fromtime to time under names that are not their own. Richards, of anydoctor, will tell you that a countenance when drawn by death is mostdifficult to recognise."
By those remarks I saw that he was trying very ingeniously to arousedoubt within Jack's mind, in order to prevent him making any statement.His attitude increased the mystery a hundredfold.
I recollected the secret Sybil had revealed to me on the previousafternoon when we had stood together in the Long Gallery--how she hadtold me that she intended to many Winsloe. What he had said now arousedmy suspicions.
Winsloe knew the victim. That he had identified him I was fullyconvinced, and yet he held his tongue. What motive had he in that? Washe, I wondered, aware of the terrible truth?
Fortunately, I held in my possession those injudicious letters ofSybil's, and that miniature; fortunately, too, I knew the real facts,and was thus enabled to watch the impression produced upon Winsloe bysight of the victim.
As we left the barn I walked by his side.
"A queer affair, isn't it?" I remarked. "Strange that a man could bemurdered here, close to the village in broad daylight, and nobody hearthe shot!"
"But we were shooting until late yesterday afternoon, remember," he saidquickly. "The villagers thought it was one of our shots, I expect."
"I wonder who he is?" I exclaimed.
"Ah! I wonder," he said. "He walked a long way, evidently. He'sprobably some tramp or other. He might have quarrelled with hiscompanion--who knows? Perhaps the police will find out all about him."
"It will be interesting to see if they discover anything," I said,glancing at him at the same instant.
"Yes," he said, "it will," and then he turned to speak with Wydcombe,who was walking at Booth's side.
Whatever his knowledge, his self-command was marvellous. The others,who had not seen that expression on his face when he had first gazedupon the dead countenance, had no suspicion of the truth.
Yes. Ellice Winsloe was playing a double game; therefore I resolved towait and to watch.
Together we walked up through the park again, discussing the strangeaffair. Jack advanced more than one theory.
"Charlton Wood doesn't lead to anywhere," he pointed out. "Thereforethe dead man kept an appointment there. Perhaps he was lured to hisdeath," he added. "There may have been two or more assassins."
"No, I rather disagree," said Wydcombe. "If there had been a plot tokill him they wouldn't have risked firing a revolver, as it wouldattract too much attention. No, depend upon it that the affair was nota premeditated one. Did you notice his boots? Although dusty and badlyworn they were evidently by a good maker. Besides, I felt his hand. Itwas as soft as a woman's."
"But you sure
ly don't believe that he was a gentleman, do you?" askedWinsloe. "To me the fellow was more like a tramp."
"I hardly know what to think, Ellice," was his lordship's reply as helit a cigarette. "It's a mystery, and that's all one can say. Whoeverkilled him was a confoundedly good shot."
"You don't think it was suicide?" Winsloe asked slowly, looking thespeaker straight in the face.
"Suicide! Of course not. Why don't you hear? They
Whatsoever a Man Soweth Page 11
