Miss Arnott's Marriage

If she had stayed at home and seen him, what would he have said to her?

That was the question which she kept putting to herself throughout the run on her motor; fitting it not with one answer, but a dozen. There were so many things he might have said, so many he might have left unsaid.

She expected to be greeted with the news when she brought the car to a standstill in front of her own hall door. No; still not a word. Not one during the whole of the evening. A new phase seemed to be developing in Mrs Plummer's character-she had all at once grown restless, fidgety. Hitherto, if she had had a tendency, it had been to attach herself too closely to her charge. She was disposed to be too conversational. Now, on a sudden, it was all the other way. Unless the girl's fancy played her a trick she was not only desirous of avoiding her, but when in her society she was taciturn almost to the verge of rudeness. Miss Arnott was anxious neither for her company nor her conversation; but she did not like her apparent unflattering inclination to avoid her altogether.

That night the girl went early to bed. Hardly had she got into her room than she remembered the key; the key of the wardrobe drawer, which, in the small hours of the morning, she had put under her pillow before she got into bed. Until that moment she had forgotten its existence. Now, all at once, it came back to her with a jarring shock. She went to the bed and lifted the pillows-there was nothing there.

"Have you heard anything about a key being found underneath this pillow? I put it there just before I got into bed. I forgot it when I got up."

"No, miss, I haven't. What key was it?"

"It was" – she hesitated-"it was the key of a drawer in this wardrobe. Perhaps it's in it now. No; there's nothing there. Whoever made my bed must have seen it. Who made the bed?"

"Wilson, miss. If she saw a key under your pillow she ought to have given it me at once. I was in the room all the while; but she never said a word. I'll go and ask her at once."

"Do. But I see all the drawers have keys. I suppose any one of them will fit any drawer?"

"No, miss, that's just what they won't do; and very awkward it is sometimes. There's a different lock to every drawer, and only one key which fits it. I'll go and make inquiries of Wilson at once."

While Evans was gone Miss Arnott considered. It would be awkward if the key were lost or mislaid. To gain access to that drawer the lock would have to be forced. Circumstances might very easily arise which would render it necessary that access should be gained, and by her alone. Nor was the idea a pleasant one that, although the drawer was closed to her, it might be accessible to somebody else.

Evans returned to say that the maid, Wilson, denied all knowledge of a key.

"She declares that there was no key there. She says that if there had been she couldn't have helped but see it. I don't see how she could have either. You are sure, miss, that you left it there?"

"Certain."

"Then perhaps it slipped on to the floor when she moved the pillow, without being noticed."

It was not on the floor then-at least, they could discover no signs of it. Evans moved the bed, and went on her knees to see. Nor did it appear to have strayed into the bed itself.

"I will see Wilson myself in the morning," said Miss Arnott, when Evans's researches proved resultless. "The key can't have vanished into nothing."

But Wilson, even when interviewed by her mistress, afforded no information. She was a raw country girl. A bundle of nerves when she saw that Miss Arnott was dissatisfied. There seemed no possible reason why she should wish to conceal the fact that she had lighted on the key, if she had done so. So far as she knew the key was valueless, certainly it was of no interest to her. Miss Arnott had to console herself with the reflection that if she did not know what had become of the key no one else did either. She gave instructions that if it was found it was to be handed her at once. There, for the moment, the matter rested.

Again on that Monday nothing transpired. It dawned upon the girl, when she began to think things over, that it was well within the range of possibility that nothing would transpire for a considerable period. That mossy nook was in a remote part of the estate. Practically speaking, except the gamekeepers, nobody went there at all. It was certain that whoever did would be trespassing. So far as she knew, thereabouts, trespassers of any sort were few and far between. As for the gamekeepers, there was nothing to take them there.

By degrees her cogitations began to trend in an altogether unexpected direction. If the discovery had not been made already, and might be postponed for weeks, it need never be made at all. The body might quite easily be concealed. If there was time it might even be buried at the foot of the beech tree under which it had been lying, and all traces of the grave be hidden. It only needed a little care and sufficient opportunity. She remembered when a favourite dog had died, how her father had buried it at one side of the lawn in their Cumberland home. He had been careful in cutting out the sods of turf; when replacing them in their former positions, he had done so with such neatness and accuracy that, two or three days after no stranger would have supposed they had ever been moved.

The dead man might be treated as her father had treated Fido. In which case his fate might never become known, unless she spoke. Indeed, for all she could tell, the body might be under the turf by now. If she chose to return to the enjoyment of her favourite lounge there might be nothing to deter her. She might lie, and laze, and dream, and be offended by nothing which could recall unpleasant memories.

As the possibility that this might be so occurred to her she became possessed by a strange, morbid disposition to put it to the test. She was nearly half inclined to stroll once more along that winding path, and see if there was anything to prevent her enjoying another waking dream. This inclination began to be so strong that, fearful lest it should get the better of her, to escape what was becoming a hideous temptation, she went for another run upon her car, and, in returning, met Hugh Morice.

They saw each other's car approaching on the long straight road, while they were yet some distance apart, possibly more than a mile, backed by the usual cloud of dust. She was descending an incline, he was below, far off, where the road first came in sight. For some moments she was not sure that the advancing car was his, then she was undecided what to do; whether to sweep past him, or to halt and speak. Her heart beat faster, her hands were tremulous, her breath came quicker. She had just resolved to go past him with a commonplace salutation, when the matter was taken out of her hands. When he was within a hundred yards of her he stopped his car, with the evident design of claiming her attention for at least a second or two. So she stopped also, when the machines were within a yard of one another.

He was alone. He glanced at her chauffeur with his big grey eyes, as if the sight of him were offensive. Then he looked at her and she at him, and for a while they were silent. It seemed to her that he was devouring her with his eyes. She was vaguely conscious of a curious feeling of satisfaction at being devoured. For her part she could not take her eyes off his face-she loved to look at him.

It was only after some moments had passed that it appeared to occur to him that there might be anything singular in such a fashion of meeting, especially in the presence of her mechanic. When he spoke his voice seemed husky, the manner of his speech was, as usual, curt.

"Why weren't you at home yesterday morning as you promised?"

"I had forgotten that I did promise."

"You had forgotten?"

"Not that it would have made any difference if I had remembered; I should not have stayed in. I did not suppose you would come."

"I told you I should come."

"Yes, you told me."

"What I tell you I will do that I do do. Nothing that may happen will cause me to change my mind." He looked past her along the way she had come, then addressed the chauffeur. "There is something lying on the road. It may be something Miss Arnott has dropped-go and see."

"I don't think it is anything of mine. I have had nothing to drop."

"Go and see what it is." The man, descending, returned along the road. "I don't choose to have everything you and I may have to say to each other overheard. You knew that I should come, why did you not stay in? of what were you afraid?"

"Afraid? I? Of nothing, There was no reason why I should be afraid."

He searched her face, as if seeking for something which he was amazed to find himself unable to discover.

"You are a strange woman; but then women were always puzzles to me. You may not be stranger than the rest-I don't know. Hadn't you better go away again to-day? Back to the Lake of Como or further?"

"Why should I go away? Of what are you afraid?"

"Of what am I not afraid? I am even afraid to think of what I am afraid-of such different stuff are we two made. I never knew what fear was, before; now, I hardly dare to breathe for fear."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Trust you? What has that to do with it?"

"I see, you think it doesn't matter. I hardly know whether you intend to flatter me or not. Why don't you go away?"

"What's the use? Where should I go where I could be hidden? There is no hiding-place, none. Besides, if I were to hide myself under the sea it might make no difference. Don't you understand?

"I'm not sure; no, I don't think I do. But, tell me, I want to know! I must know! It was all I could do to keep myself from going to see-what have you done with him?"

"Done with him?"

"Have you-have you buried him?"

"Buried him? Do you think he could be buried?"

Something came on to his face which frightened her, started her all trembling.

"I-I didn't know. Don't look at me like that. I only wondered."

"You only wondered! Is it possible that you thought it could be hidden like that? My God! that you should be such a woman! Don't speak, here's your chauffeur close upon you; you don't want him to understand. You'll find the dust is worse further on. Good-day!"

He whizzed off, leaving her enveloped in a cloud of the dust of which he had spoken.

CHAPTER XV

COOPER'S SPINNEY

Not till the Friday following was the dead body discovered. And then in somewhat singular fashion.

A young gamekeeper was strolling through the forest with his dog. The dog, a puppy, strayed from his side. He did not notice that it had done so till he heard it barking. When he whistled it came running up to him with something in its mouth-a brown billycock hat. The creature was in a state of excitement. On his taking the hat from it, it ran back in the direction it had come, barking as it went. Puzzled by its behaviour, curious as to how it had found the hat, he followed to where the dead man lay beneath the beech tree.

He thought at first that it was some stranger who, having trespassed and lighted on a piece of open ground, had taken advantage of the springy turf to enjoy a nap. It was only after he had called to him three times, and, in spite, also, of the dog's persistent barking, had received no answer, that he proceeded to examine more closely into the matter. Then he saw not only that the man was dead, but that his clothing was stiff with coagulated blood. There had been a violent thunderstorm the night before. The rain had evidently come drenching down on the silent sleeper, but it had not washed out that blood.

Clarke was a country bumpkin, only just turned eighteen. When it began to break on his rustic intelligence that, in all probability, he was looking down on the victim of some hideous tragedy, he was startled out of his very few wits. He had not the faintest notion what he ought to do. He only remembered that the great house was the nearest human habitation. When he had regained sufficient control of his senses, he ran blindly off to it. A footman, seeing him come staggering up the steps which led to the main entrance, came out to inquire what he meant by such a glaring breach of etiquette.

"What are you doing here? This isn't the place for you. Go round to the proper door. What's the matter with you? Do you hear, what's up?"

"There-there's a man in Cooper's Spinney!"

"Well! what of it? That's none of our business."

"He's-he's dead."

"Dead? Who's dead? What do you mean?"

The hobbledehoy broke into a fit of blubbering.

"They've-they've killed him," he blubbered.

"Killed him? Who's killed him? What are you talking about? Stop that noise. Can't you talk sense?"

Day, the butler, crossing the hall, came out to see what was the cause of the to-do. At any moment people might call. They would please to find this senseless gawk boohooing like a young bull calf. Day and the footman between them tried to make head or tail of the fellow's blundering story. While they were doing so Mrs Plummer appeared in the doorway.

"Day, what is the matter here? What is the meaning of this disturbance?"

"I can't quite make out, but from what this young man says it appears that he's seen someone lying dead in Cooper's Spinney. So far as I can understand the young man seems to think that he's been murdered."

Mrs Plummer started back, trembling so violently that she leaned against the wall, as if in want of its support.

"Murdered? He's not been murdered! It's a lie!"

Day, after one glance at her, seemed to avoid looking in her direction.

"As to that, madam, I can say nothing. The young man doesn't seem to be too clear-headed. I will send someone at once and have inquiries made."

Shortly it was known to all the house that young Clarke's story was not a lie. A horse was put into a trap, the news was conveyed to the village, the one policeman brought upon the scene. When Miss Arnott returned with her motor it was easy enough for her to see that at last the air was stirred.

"Has anything happened?" she inquired of the footman who came to superintend her descent from the motor.

"I am afraid there has-something very unpleasant."

"Unpleasant! How?"

"It appears that a man has been found dead in Cooper's Spinney-murdered, cut to pieces, they do say.

"In Cooper's Spinney? Cut to pieces?" She paused, as if to reflect. "Did you say cut to pieces? Surely there's some mistake."

"I only know what they say, miss. Granger's up there now."

"Granger?"

"The policeman, miss. Now I'm told they've sent for a doctor."

A second footman handed her an envelope as she entered the hall. She saw that "Oak Dene" was impressed in scarlet letters on the flap.

"When did this come?"

"One of Mr Morice's grooms brought it soon after you went out."

She tore the envelope open, and there and then read the note which it contained. It had no preamble, it simply ran, -

"Why have you not acted on my suggestion and gone back to Lake Como or farther?

"At any moment it may be too late! Don't you understand?

"When I think of what may be the consequences of delay I feel as if I were going mad. I shall go mad if you don't go. I don't believe that I have slept an hour since.

"Do as I tell you-go! H. M."

Then at the bottom two words were added, -

"Burn this."

As she was reading it a second time Mrs Plummer came into the hall, white and shaky.

"Have you heard the dreadful news?"

She asked the question in a kind of divided gasp, as if she were short of breath. Miss Arnott did not answer for a moment. She fixed her glance on the elder lady, as if she were looking not at, but through her. Then she put a question in return.

"Where is Cooper's Spinney?"

Had the girl hauled at her a volley of objurgations Mrs Plummer could not have seemed more distressed.

"Cooper's Spinney!" she exclaimed. "Why do you ask me? How should I know?"

Without stopping for anything further Miss Arnott went up to her bedroom. There she found Evans, waiting to relieve her of her motoring attire. As she performed her accustomed offices her mistress became aware that her hands were trembling.

"What's the matter with you? Aren't you well?"

The woman seemed to be shaking like a leaf, and to be only capable of stammering, -

"I-I don't think, miss, I-I can be well. I-I think that dreadful news has upset me."

"Dreadful news? Oh, I see. By the way, where is Cooper's Spinney?"

"I haven't a notion, miss. I-I only know just about the house."

Miss Arnott put another question as she was leaving the room.

"Has nothing been heard yet of the key of that wardrobe drawer?"

"No, miss, nothing. And, miss-I beg your pardon-but if you want to break it open, you can do it easily, or I will for you; and, if you'll excuse my taking a liberty, if those clothes are in it, I'll wash them for you, and no one shall ever know."

Miss Arnott stared at the speaker in unmistakable surprise.

"It's very good of you. But I don't think I need trouble you to step so far out of the course of your ordinary duties." When she was in her sitting-room she said to herself, "She will wash them for me? What does the woman mean? And what does he mean by writing to me in such a strain?" She referred to Mr Morice's note which she had in her hand. "'Do as I tell you-go.' Why should I go? and how dare he issue his commands to me, as if it were mine merely to obey. Plainly this was written before the news reached Oak Dene; when he hears it, it is possible that he may not stand upon the order of his going, but go at once. I'll answer him. He shall have his reply before he goes, unless his haste's too great. Then, perhaps, he will understand."

On the back leaf of the note signed "H. M." she scribbled.

"Is not the advice you offer me better suited to yourself? Why should I go? It seems to me that it is you who do not understand. Have you heard the news? Possibly understanding will come with it. You do not appear to recognise what kind of person I really am. Believe me, I am to be trusted. But am I the only factor to be reckoned with?

"Had you not better swallow your own prescription? V. A."

She hesitated before adding the initials, since he knew that they were not actually hers. Then, putting her answer, still attached to his note, into an envelope, she gave instructions that a messenger should ride over with it at once. While she was hesitating whether to go down and learn if any fresh development had occurred, there came a tapping at her sitting-room door. Day entered. To him she promptly put the question she had addressed to others.

"Oh, Day, perhaps you will be able to tell me where is Cooper's Spinney?"

He looked at her until he saw that she was looking at him, then his glance fell.

"Cooper's Spinney is right away to the east, where our land joins Oak Dene. I don't know how it gets its name. It's pretty open there. In one part there's a big beech tree. It was under the tree the-the body was found."

"Thank you, Day. I think I know where you mean." Again the butler's glance rose and fell. Perceiving that he seemed to be at a loss for words she went on. "Is there anything you wish to speak to me about?"

"Yes, Miss Arnott, I'm sorry to say there is. I've come to give you notice."

"To give me notice?"

"Yes, miss, with your permission. I've been in service all my life, good service. I've been in this house a good many years. I've saved a little money. If I'm ever to get any enjoyment out of it, and I've my own ideas, it seems to me that I'd better start doing it. I should like to leave to-day."

"To-day?"

"Yes, miss, to-day. There isn't much to do in the house just now, and there's plenty of people to do it. Bevan's quite capable of taking my place till you get someone else to fill it. Your convenience won't suffer."

"But isn't this a very sudden resolution? What has caused you to arrive at it?"

Day still kept his glance turned down, as if searching for an answer on the carpet. It was apparently only a lame one which he found.

"I'm in an awkward situation, Miss Arnott. I don't want to say anything which can be misconstrued. So much is that my feeling that I thought of going away without saying a word."

"That would not have been nice conduct on your part."

"No, miss; that's what I felt, so I came."

"Come, Day, what is it you are stammering about? Something extraordinary must have happened to make you wish to leave at a moment's notice after your long service. Don't be afraid of misconstruction. What is it, please?"

The man's tone, without being in the least uncivil, became a trifle dogged.

"Well, miss, the truth is, I'm not comfortable in my mind."

"About what?"

"I don't want to be, if I may say so, dragged into this business."

"What business?"

"Of the body they've found in Cooper's Spinney."

"Day, what are you talking about? What possible connection can that have with you?"

"Miss Arnott, I understand that Dr Radcliffe says that that man has been lying dead under that beech tree for at least four or five days. That takes us back to Saturday, the day that you came home. In these sort of things you never know what the police may take it into their heads to do. I do not want to run the risk of being called as a witness at the inquest or-anywhere else, and-asked questions about last Saturday."

Then the man looked his mistress straight in the face, and she understood-or thought she did.

"What you have said, Day, settles the question. Under no circumstances will I permit you to leave my service-or this house-until the matter to which you refer has been finally settled. So resolved am I upon that point that, if I have any further reason to suspect you of any intention of doing so, I shall myself communicate with the police at once. Understand that clearly."

CHAPTER XVI

JIM BAKER

The inquest, which was held at the "Rose and Crown," was productive of one or two pieces of what the local papers were perhaps justified in describing as "Startling Evidence." It was shown that the man had been stabbed to death. Some broad-bladed, sharp-pointed instrument had been driven into his chest with such violence that the point had penetrated to the back. The wall of the chest had been indented by the violence of the blow. Death must have been practically instantaneous. And yet one side of him had been almost riddled by shot. He had received nearly the entire charge of a gun which had been fired at him-as the close pattern showed-within a distance of a very few feet. It was only small shot, and no vital organ had been touched. The discharge had been in no way responsible for his death. Still, the pain must have been exquisite. The medical witnesses were of opinion that the first attack had come from the gun; that, while he was still smarting from its effects, advantage was taken of his comparative helplessness to inflict the death-wound.

Nothing came out before the coroner to prove motive. There were no signs that the man had been robbed. A common metal watch, attached to a gilt chain, was found on his person, a half-sovereign, six-shillings in silver, and ninepence in copper, a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, a handkerchief, apparently brand new, and a piece of paper on which was written "Exham Park." As nothing suggested that an attempt had been made to rifle his pockets the probability was that that was all the property he had had on him at the moment of his death. There was no initial or name on any of his clothing, all of which, like his handkerchief, seemed brand new. His identity remained unrevealed by anything which he had about him.

On this point, however, there was evidence of a kind. The police produced witnesses who asserted that, on the preceding Saturday afternoon, he had arrived, by a certain train, at a little roadside station. He had given up a single third-class ticket from London, and had asked to be directed to Exham Park. On being informed that Exham Park was some distance off, he had shown symptoms of disgust. He had endeavoured to hire a conveyance to take him there but had failed. What had happened to him afterwards, or what had been the course of his movements, there was no evidence to show.