CHAPTER III
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
"Sir Simon Tedder!" Inspector Trent--as the red-faced official was called--relaxed his stiffness, so far as to display astonishment. "The millionaire, who made his fortune out of jam and pickles; who has a house at Tarhaven?"
"Yes!" faltered Herries weakly, and sinking into a chair near the door, he covered his shameful face. Trent, seeing tears trickling between the nerveless fingers, felt convinced, with the assurance of the shortsighted, that his experiment had proved successful. The guilty man's self-control had given way at the sight of his victim. So thought a jack-in-office, who was unable to see farther than his nose by reason of natural and official limitations. But the truth was--and a medical man would have surmised it--that Herries, with his long tramp, his weakened frame, his despairing outlook, and the surprising sight of his relative lying dead by violence, suddenly became as unstrung as an hysterical woman. The tears relieved him, and had they not broken forth, he would have become insane at the mere thought of this terrible disaster falling upon him, after years and years of cruel misfortune. He felt, and very naturally, like a tormented rat in a trap, and could see no means of escape.
"Sir Simon Tedder," repeated Trent, with a gratified glance at the still white face of the dead, "the millionaire," he rolled the agreeable word on his tongue. "This will be an important affair!" and throwing out his chest, he swelled with triumph at the thought of the fame and praise which so notorious a case would bring him. "Why did you kill him, young man?"
Herries, ashamed of the momentary weakness, dropped his hands and dashed the moisture from his eyes.
"I--did--not--kill--him!" he declared with emphatic slowness.
Trent grew red and indignant at what he conceived to be a shameless denial.
"I have heard the landlord's story," he retorted, pompously.
"And have therefore made up your mind, without hearing the other side, that I am guilty," said Herries, bitterly. "Is it the custom of the English law to hear only the accuser?"
"I am now prepared to listen to the defence," announced Trent, hastily, and in spite of the strong evidence, and his own belief, he felt sorry for the wreck before him, although red-tapeism condemned the too purely human feeling.
Leaving a stolid policeman to guard the door of the death-chamber, pending the arrival of the doctor, Trent led his prisoner down the stairs, and into the stuffy back-parlour, which Sir Simon had occupied on the previous evening. Mrs. Narby glared at the unfortunate man, whom she accused of having ruined her inn, and Pope's weak, silly face, alive with morbid curiosity, could be seen over the brawny maternal shoulder. Herries shuddered. In spite of many misfortunes, he had always been popular in his Bohemian world, and it was both new and unpleasant for him to see venomous looks cast upon him. Last night he had been merely an object of contemptuous interest; now he was like a tiger prisoned behind bars, at which everyone looked with dread and hatred.
As the short autumnal evening, rendered even more immediate by the still prevailing foes, was rapidly closing in, Trent lighted the cheap lamp which swung over the round table. The light and the oily smell came simultaneously, as both door and window were closed, and the room was crowded with frowsy furniture. The atmosphere was sickly and malodorous, and Herries never entered a stuffy apartment in after years without recalling that hopeless evening, when his misfortunes culminated in nothing less than a Waterloo.
The Inspector seated himself at the round table in a magisterial manner, and produced a portentous pocket-book. He permitted Herries to sit down in an antique arm-chair, slippery with horse-hair, and marvellously uncomfortable with an antimacassar of Berlin wool-work. Having moistened a pencil with his tongue he proceeded to ask what questions occurred to his not over-clever brain.
"What is your name?"
"Angus Herries."
"Your occupation?"
"I am a doctor, a ship's doctor, and I came last night from Pierside, where the Arctic sealer 'Nansen' is lying."
"Why did you come to this almost unknown inn?"
"I walked from Pierside, intending to seek a friend at Tarhaven. My strength gave way, and I stayed here to eat and sleep."
Trent took down these answers thoughtfully, then looked in what he fondly thought was a piercing manner at the suspected man.
"You told me that you did not know the deceased?"
"I did. That is perfectly true. Until you showed me the corpse, I was quite ignorant that Sir Simon had been killed. I did not even know that he was in this house."
"You knew Sir Simon Tedder then?"
"Yes!" Herries hesitated, then looked boldly at the officer, "I have nothing to conceal," he declared loudly, "Sir Simon is my uncle."
Trent looked at the shabby prisoner with great surprise; the reply amazed him, as coming from such a tramp.
"It is impossible," he said, sharply. "Sir Simon was wealthy and much respected. He would not allow his nephew to go about in rags."
Herries looked sullen.
"My uncle and I quarrelled."
"Oh," said the Inspector in a peculiar tone.
"Do you take that admission as a sign of guilt?" inquired Herries, ironically.
"I take it to mean that you had bad feelings towards the deceased."
The prisoner shook his head.
"You are wrong, I had no bad feelings."
"And yet you quarrelled?"
"Violently!"
"Take care. What you say may be used against--" Herries rose with an angry gesture.
"An innocent man such as I am does not need to be careful of his words," he cried. "My life history is miserable enough certainly, but there is no page of which I need be ashamed."
"For an educated man to be in such a plight--."
The prisoner again interrupted.
"Do you know what Jonah's Luck is?
"I know that the person you mention was swallowed by a whale," said Trent with dignity. "I am not entirely a heathen."
In spite of his misery Herries could not help smiling.
"I give you the whale," he said sarcastically. "In spite of my sojourn in the Arctic regions, I have escaped the gullet of that animal. I allude to the prophet's luck. Everything went wrong with him, as it has done with me. Do you know what it is, Inspector, to be unlucky--to try your hardest to earn bread and a roof in the face of circumstances too hard to conquer? Have you ever found doors shut against you? Has your family ever regarded you as a hopeless black sheep, because you had not the money to wash your wool white? I have been hungry, starving, almost without clothes, certainly without fire on freezing days. Life has crushed me into the mire, and every struggle I made to rise, was met with a fresh blow."
"Such miseries as these," said Dogberry, sapiently, "lead men to commit crimes."
"In my case, no," cried Herries, striking the table heavily. "I can look any man in the face, as I look into yours now, and can say that I am honest, in thought, word, and deed."
His clear blue eyes looked into those of the Inspector, and it was the official who first gave way. Turning over the leaves of his pocket-book, to disguise the impression which Herries' frankness had made on him, he took refuge in irritation, a sure sign that he had no feasible reply to make.
"This isn't what we are here to talk about," he said testily. "I wish to know what defence you have to make, to the charge brought against you by the landlord?"
"What defence?--that I am innocent."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that I never expected to find Sir Simon here, that I did not know he was in the house, that I have no grudge against him."
"How do I know that?" asked Trent, cunningly.
"Because I tell you that such is the case," said Herries haughtily, "and if you will listen to a short account of my life, you may be able to conquer the prejudice against me, which the couple who keep this miserable inn have instilled into your breast."
"I am not prejudiced," snapped Trent, nettled, "say what you have to say, and let us end this business as speedily as possible."
"I am only too anxious to do so," said Herries coldly and folding his arms, still standing. "I am the son of Sir Simon Tedder's only sister. He was a hard man, always, and when she married against his will, he would never help her. My mother and father both died when I was in my teens. They left enough money for me to gain an education and secure a doctor's degree. I practised on shore with bad success, and so went to sea. I have been away from England for about two years, and since then I have never set eyes on my uncle, until you showed me his corpse just now."
"When did you see him last?"
"Two years ago. I was doing badly, and called upon him to learn if he would help me. He might have done so, but that I was in love with his daughter, Maud. I had met her at the house of some friends in Edinburgh, and saw her frequently. We loved, and when I saw my uncle I told him this. He became angry, and turned me out of the house. By his order Maud sent back my letters, and since then I have had nothing to do with either of them. Why then, I ask you, should I kill my uncle, seeing that I cannot benefit in any way by such a crime? I landed here two days ago, unknown and friendless. As I said, I was on my way to Tarhaven, to see a friend, when I put up at this accursed inn last night."
"Who is your friend?"
"Dr. James Browne of Elgar Avenue, Tarhaven. We were fellow students."
"I know him," said the Inspector, taking down the name. "Can he vouch for your respectability?"
Herries smiled bitterly.
"Respectability and myself parted company long ago," said he with a shrug, "but Browne knows all that I am telling you now, even to the courting of my cousin Maud."
"What did he think of your quarrelling with your uncle?"
"He approved of my leaving the house. As to the quarrel, Browne knows that I have a fiery temper."
"Oh," interrupted Trent in his peculiar tone, and thinking that he had chanced upon something suspicious. "So you have a fiery temper?"
"Yes," admitted Herries, not dreaming of what such an admission might mean to him. "But only when it is aroused by injustice and insults. Last night it was not so roused. I went to bed shortly before eight o'clock, ignorant, as I have said several times, that my uncle was in the house. Had I known that, I would have gone on to Tarhaven, weary though I was, rather than have slept under the same roof with a man who insulted my mother and myself shamefully."
Trent shook his head.
"All very fine. But the key of Sir Simon's room was found on the floor of your bedroom. The razor, with which his throat was cut, was in your possession, and there is blood on the sleeve of your shirt."
The young man hastily stripped off his coat, and held the right hand sleeve of his shirt under the lamp, close to Trent's eyes.
"There are the smears," he said quietly, "and you will see that they are made by fingers dipped in blood having been drawn down the sleeve. Could I have done that myself? Also, when I found the razor on my quilt when I awoke, I called up the landlord to ask him what it meant. I knew nothing of the crime at the time, neither did Narby, as he will tell you. Were I guilty, would I have acted in so foolish a manner?"
"Oh yes, you would," said Trent, dictatorially, "criminals are very artful, as I have often found."
It was apparently impossible to convince a man so bent upon finding proofs of guilt where none existed, so Herries abandoned persuasion and turned away with a shrug.
"I have nothing more to say!"
"Yes, you have," insisted Trent, stupidly. "Why did you conceal that Sir Simon expected you last night?"
"He did not. He never knew that I was here, or even in England, as we had not corresponded since he turned me out of his house at Tarhaven two years ago. The maid Elspeth said that Sir Simon expected a gentleman. I was not the man."
"You were the only stranger who came last night," said Trent digging his pencil thoughtfully into the book.
"No. The expected visitor must have come last night, and have slept here. Mr. Narby will tell you that Mrs. Narby saw him pass through the tap-room at eight this morning."
"Did he not stop to pay the bill?"
"Mrs. Narby thought that the man was Sir Simon." The Inspector rose quickly.
"What?" he asked in an amazed tone.
"I am only telling you what Narby told me, before either of us knew that a murder had taken place," said Herries tartly. "He declared that his wife had seen the gentleman, who occupied this parlour last night,--and he was Sir Simon, as we know--pass through the tap-room at eight as he had arranged."
"As he had arranged?"
"Yes. He paid for the rooms, and a meal last night, so I was told."
"But if he was killed, he couldn't have passed out."
"Not unless he was a spirit," said Herries, with a shrug, "but the man whom Mrs. Narby took to be Sir Simon, certainly, according to her story, had a fur coat on, that belonged to my uncle, the same in which he arrived here last night."
Trent wrinkled his brow perplexedly. What Herries said quite upset his calculations, and he found himself face to face with a criminal mystery, such as had never before come into his official life. The accused man, saw his advantage and followed it up.
"Why should not this unknown man have murdered my uncle," he said quickly, "and have entered my bedroom to implicate me in the crime?"
"Why should he have done that?"
"I cannot say. But my bedroom door was not locked, and I was fast asleep, being quite worn out. The assassin left the razor and the key; he drew his bloody fingers down the shirt sleeve of my right arm, which probably lay outside the quilt. These are his marks," and Herries again shook his stained sleeve in the officer's face.
By this time Trent was more himself, and aggressively official.
"It is not for you to teach me my duty," he said, his self-love wounded. "The people who keep this inn must be examined before I can come to any conclusion."
"You might also examine Mr. Gowrie," suggested Herries quickly, "that is, if you can find him."
"Who is Mr. Gowrie?"
"An old tutor of mine, whom I found in the tap-room last night. He went away--to London, I believe--at seven."
"Upon my word, Mr. Herries," said the Inspector sarcastically, "for a man, who merely _chanced_ on this inn," he emphasised the word, "you seem to have met, not only with relatives, but with friends."
"I met my uncle on his death-bed, and Gowrie in the tap-room," said Herries, heatedly. "It is strange, I admit, since I came here so very unexpectedly."
"Extremely strange," said Trent, scoffingly. "I don't believe in coincidences myself. Every word you say seems to connect you more and more with the crime. This Gowrie may have been your accomplice."
"If so, he has left me in the lurch," said Herries, sitting down wearily, and with all the fire gone out of him. "There seems to be a kind of fatality haunting my steps. Jonah's luck, I expect."
Trent tried to keep up his official dignity, as he went to open the door to call Mrs. Narby. But on passing Herries, the young man looked so dejected, that he clapped him on the shoulder.
"Cheer up," he said in rather a shamefaced manner, "the evidence is very black against you, I admit; but you may be able to clear yourself yet."
"Find out the man who passed through the tap-room this morning at eight, and my character will be cleared," said Herries.
Rather ashamed of his momentary yielding. Trent opened the door.
"I will thank you not to teach me my duty, sir," he said in a dignified manner, and Herries shrugged his shoulders. It was terrible to think that his liberty and life, should be in the power of so obvious an idiot.
In the presence of Herries, the Inspector examined Mrs. Narby, who from being voluble, now became tongue-tied. Mrs. Narby's youth had brought her into frequent contact with the Whitechapel police, and she knew the value of silence. Everything had to be clawed out of her by persistent questioning, and all her answers went to prove that Herries was assuredly the guilty person. As her vernacular was vile and harsh, it will be as well to give the gist of her evidence in decent English.
Sir Simon Tedder, she said, had arrived about half-past six on the previous night, just before Herries came. He said that he wanted a parlour and a bedroom, as he was expecting a gentleman to call about eight o'clock. But the expected visitor never arrived and Sir Simon--he had not given any name, nor had Mrs. Narby asked him for one--seemed much annoyed. At ten o'clock he had retired to bed, after paying the score, and announced that he would depart, without breakfast, at eight in the morning. Mrs. Narby confessed that she saw him--as she believed--pass through the tap-room in his fur coat about that hour. He said nothing to her, and she said nothing to him, being well-pleased with the liberal sum he had paid her. She thought that having come to the inn secretly, he wished to preserve his incognito, so let him pass out without a word. But at ten o'clock--that is two hours later--the real Sir Simon had been found dead in his bed. Without doubt, the man who escaped through the tap-room could not have been the millionaire.
"But surely," said Trent, who was taking copious notes, "you must have guessed that the man who went away was not Sir Simon."
Mrs. Narby placed her stout arms akimbo and raged.
"I never know'd es 'is naime wos Sir Simon, or anythink else," said she shrilly. "An' th' gent es parsed through th' tap-room wos tall an' stout, same es this Sir Simon y' torks of. He wore the same fur coat es Sir Simon wore wen he come inter this very parlour overnight, so 'ow wos I t' know es the gent es slung 'is 'ook at eight this mornin' wasn't th' same es come et harlf-past six in th' evenin'."
"Are you sure it was the same fur coat?"
"Yuss," said Mrs. Narby, stoutly, "there ain't no fur coat lef' in' th' bedroom of th' gent es lies a deader. I looked fur it," added the landlady defiantly, "es I sawr th' value, an' wanted summat fur my bein' ruined by 'im," and she pointed towards Herries.
"I never killed him," muttered Herries, wearily. It seemed scarcely worth while to contradict those who seemed certain that he was guilty.
"Ho, but y' did," cried Mrs. Narby, shriller than ever. "Y' wos a pore tramp with no money, and thet gent--Sir Simon es y' calls 'im--hed 'eaps an' 'eaps."
Trent looked up quickly.
"How do you know that?"
"I took in 'is tea," said Mrs. Narby, nodding vigorously, "an' Pope, me son, took in th' toast which the gent ate. He wos settin' at thet there table, with a 'eap of notes an' gold beside 'im, and a big morrocker pocket-book, int' which he shovelled the money wen he saw Pope an' me come in. Look fur the blue pocket-book, Mr. Policeman, an' if it's gorn, it's that there cove," she again pointed to Herries, who again shook his head, "as 'ave it."
"You can search me," said the accused man, opening his arms.
Trent took him at his word, and ran his hand down the young man's sides. But nothing could be found. He then marched him and the landlady upstairs and into the bedroom. Herries, with his hands in his pockets, sat wearily by the window, while Trent examined the room, aided by Mrs. Narby. The lady was extremely active. She pulled the clothes from the bed, removed the wardrobe from against the wall, and wrenched up the carpet, but all to no purpose. Then while Trent looked up the chimney, Mrs. Narby, with surprising activity, scrambled under the bed. She emerged in a minute or so, with a smothered exclamation, covered with grime and fluff, and held in her large hand a blue pocket-book of morocco.
"The money!" cried Trent, darting towards her.
Mrs. Narby shook out the pocket-book triumphantly,--
"Empty," she cried vindictively, "he's the thief an' assassing!" and she flung the book at Herries' head.
CHAPTER IV
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
Mrs. Narby's discovery convinced Inspector Trent that his prisoner was guilty. The razor, the key of the dead man's bedroom, the smeared sleeve, and the pocket-book, all pointed to Herries as the assassin. And to this material evidence could be added several serious admissions. After an early denial, Herries had admitted that he knew the deceased; he had acknowledged him to be a relative with whom he had quarrelled; and he had stated that his temper was fiery; finally, the presumed murderer, arriving at an unknown inn on the particular night on which Sir Simon had slept there, had occupied the room directly adjoining that of his victim. In the face of such strong circumstantial evidence, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Herries looked upon himself as lost. Weaker proofs had hanged men just as innocent.
It was close on five o'clock when Trent came downstairs to see if the doctor had arrived. He locked Herries in the bedroom, intending to take him personally to Tarhaven prison, when the doctor had examined the body. In the meantime there was no chance of Herries escaping. From this solitary house, surrounded by marsh and fog, no one, without being well acquainted with the neighbourhood (and Herries was a stranger), could hope to get away without endangering his life. The two yokels still watched under the window, and three or four policemen were in and around the house. Trent felt that his valuable prisoner was perfectly safe, and went back to the stuffy parlour to examine Narby, and to question the landlady about the man called Michael Gowrie, to whom Herries had alluded.
The heads of the household being thus employed, Elspeth and Pope attended to the many customers who thronged the tap-room. A great number of people had been drawn to the inn by an account of the tragedy, and as some hours had elapsed since the discovery of the body, the news was pretty widely known. Never before in its sordid history had the "Marsh Inn" done such a roaring trade, and Pope put his poetry and dreaming on one side, to deliver pots of frothing beer to thirsty labourers, who lethargically discussed the crime.
Elspeth, looking more miserable and white-faced than ever, moved like an unquiet ghost about the room, fulfilling her duties in a mechanical way, while her thoughts were busy with the prisoner overhead. With the unreasoning affection of a woman, she was sure in her own mind that Herries was innocent, not because of what he said, but for the simple reason that he had been kind to her. That episode of the bucket, at their first meeting, had established a silent understanding between the two unlucky people, and each recognised in the other a kindred spirit. Never before had Elspeth met with an unsolicited act of kindness, and she was prepared to think of the man who rendered it to her trodden-down self, as a god. Moreover, the tones of his voice, the refinement of his face, the kindly look in his eyes, and perhaps his handsome exterior, appealed to her feminine nature. Moving about with steady eyes and firm lips, she was wondering all the time how she could help her hero to prove his innocence. But there is always one who loves and one who is loved. Herries was the latter, for as yet, and very naturally, his heart was untouched.
Shortly a picturesque figure entered the crowded tap-room in the person of a short, thick-set man, dressed in a coster costume of the ornate type. He wore bell-bottomed trousers of grey cloth, a short-tailed jacket of the same hue and texture, a yellow waistcoat, and a flaming red scarf twisted round his brawny throat. The dress was profusedly decorated with buttons, mother-of-pearl buttons, which appeared in every place where a button could be sewn on. His brown bowler hat was trimmed with a large ostrich feather, and his feet were shod with elegant, thin-soled, high-heeled, brown boots, more suited to a London Street than to the mud of the Essex marshes. This unusual figure--unusual at least in the country--attracted much bovine attention, but the man pushed his way towards Elspeth, and saluted her by touching his hat and kicking out his right leg, sailor fashion.
"Sweetlips," said Elspeth, looking surprised at seeing him.
"Sweetlips Kind himself," replied the man in a pleasant and rather cultivated voice, "just come into this smoky engine house, as the fogs make it, with the caravan, and the missus--ill."
"Oh!" Elspeth's voice was full of sympathy, "is Rachel ill?"
"Diphtheria, poor lass, and what's a Cheap-jack like me to do with a sick wife in a caravan?" he drew the sleeve of his jacket across his kind, shrewd, grey eyes, and must have scratched himself with the many buttons. "Is there a doctor about?" he asked huskily.
"The nearest doctor is ten miles away," explained the girl in a sympathetic manner. "He comes to Desleigh only on Saturdays."
"Can't wait till then, my girl, the missus may die at any moment, if the stuff ain't taken from her throat. It's hard to lose her, after all these years of fair and foul weather. I want you to come to her, Elspeth, and I'll ride my horse to that doctor, if you'll tell me where he is to be found."
"I can't leave the inn just now," said Elspeth, thinking of Herries upstairs, depending upon her assistance. "We're in dreadful trouble."
"A pot of beer, please," said Sweetlips, quickly. "What's up?"
"There's been a murder."
"Lor! You don't tell me so."
"Yes. An old gentleman has been killed----"
"And the murderer is shut in a bedroom upstairs," finished Pope with a leer.
"He is not the murderer," said the girl indignantly, and turning a shade paler. "I don't know who killed Sir Simon Tedder, but I am quite sure that Mr. Herries didn't."
"Sir Simon Tedder," said Kind, dropping the pot of beer from his mouth. "The millionaire cove? Is he a deader?"
"His throat has been cut," said Pope, eagerly.
"Not by Mr. Herries," retorted Elspeth.
"Lor!" said Kind again, "Why, I've got some of his jam stuff, with the name on the tins. Here's a go. I could do a bit of business on this here," he went on, his lip trembling, "folk always crowd to places where a murder's been committed. But I've Rachel to think of. Come, Elspeth," he ended entreatingly, "come to the missus, and lemme go for the doctor."
"A doctor will be here soon from Tarhaven to examine the body," said Pope filling another pewter.
"The Inspector and the police are in the house, and the doctor is to follow."
"Two doctors will be here," corrected Elspeth, struck with a sudden thought. "I sent a telegram from the station to Dr. James Browne, who is a friend of Mr. Herries."
"You'll get into trouble with the police," Pope warned her.
"What do I care for the police, so long as Mr. Herries is proved innocent?" cried the girl passionately. "But if you will wait for a short time," she continued, addressing the mournful Cheap-jack, "one or the other of the doctors will come soon."
"I hope one of 'em will be in time to save my Rachel," said Kind with a sigh. "Lor, what a go it will be if I lose her. She's been the sun and the moon to yours truly for years."
Pope sniggered.
"If you're in such a hurry," he said in an unkindly tone, "ask Mr. Herries to see your wife. Mr. Gowrie told me that he is a doctor, and he's on the spot."
Elspeth's pale cheeks flamed, and she clasped her hands.
"Oh!" she cried, passionately, "do you think the police would let him go and see Mrs. Kind."
"Not much," snapped Pope and giggled. "He's got to see Old Ketch."
"Young man," said Sweetlips sternly, "I've knocked down a cove for speaking more politely than you do. Not so much of it, do you hear?"
Pope did hear, and being a rank coward, changed colour. After an uneasy attempt to assert his dignity, he was quelled by the Cheap-jack's stern eye, and moved away hurriedly in response to an imaginary call. Kind turned to Elspeth, who was thinking.
"If them two doctors don't come," said he slowly, "an' the police won't let this chap, as is accused, see the missus, she's a deader."
Elspeth covered her face for a moment and thought. "Where is your caravan?" she asked hurriedly.
Sweetlips pointed a careless thumb over his right shoulder.
"Just outside the village," he replied, "come, an' let us see the Inspector chap. He might listen to me, and let Mr. Herries come to see the poor missus."
"I fear not, Sweetlips, you don't know the police."
"Don't I, my girl," Kind gave a conscious laugh. "I know them better than I do myself, but quite in an honest way, mind you. I've been other things than a Cheap-jack in my time. But the missus, the missus," he said impatiently, "while I'm talking, she's dying. Come and see her, Elspeth."
The girl stood irresolute. She thought of Mrs. Narby's temper, and of Mrs. Narby's heavy fist, of Herries upstairs in danger of his life, and finally of the poor woman dying in the caravan. Some angel passing must have whispered courage to her at the moment, for suddenly her cheeks flushed a brave red, her eyes sparkled, and her mouth grew firm.
"I'll come," she said quickly, "but first tell me what you had to do with the police?"
Kind hesitated, then lowered his lips to the level of her ear--
"I was a detective once," he whispered, hoarsely. "Used to look after chaps like this Dr. Herries you talk of, and hang 'em if I could."
"You beast," said Elspeth in low tones, drawing back. "Dr. Herries is quite innocent."
"Then let him save the missus, and I'll save him."
"Can you?" she asked, her breast heaving.
"Yes, if he really and truly is innocent."
"He is. I swear he is," she cried passionately. "Wait till I get my hat and shawl, and we'll see the Inspector, and afterwards go to Mrs. Kind."
"Don't tell this police chap of my being a detective," said Kind, in an anxious tone. "I've cut that business; and if folks knew what I had been, they wouldn't come and buy things. All the patter in the world wouldn't help a Cheap-jack who had once hanged criminals."
"You'll save this one, only he isn't a criminal," said Elspeth, and glided away up the stairs, while Kind boldly went towards the parlour and knocked. Mrs. Narby opened the door. Sweetlips Kind explained himself in a few minutes, and asked that the prisoner, guarded, of course, should be permitted to see Mrs. Kind.
"Certainly not," said Trent, sternly, "the prisoner is in his bedroom, and there he must remain until he is lodged in gaol."
"But my wife will die," said Kind, faintly.
"I am sorry," replied Trent blandly and uneasily, for his own inclination was to permit the visit. "But I cannot exceed my powers."
"Then you won't, sir?"
"If you knew the police, my man, you wouldn't ask that."
"I know the police for the biggest set of fools on earth," cried the Cheap-jack passionately. "You'll never hang this man, if I can clear his character. I'll save him to spite you, that would let my poor wife die, for your cursed red-tape business," and before the astonished Trent could express the indignation he felt, Kind was out of the inn, waiting in the foggy street for Elspeth. She joined him shortly in a state of intense excitement, and heard Kind's openly expressed wrath against Trent and his minions.
"Then you'll help Mr. Herries," she said, squeezing his arm.
"_Won't_ I, you bet, I just will," said Kind heartily. "Let us get the missus out of danger first, and I'll remember enough of my old business to hunt down the real murderer. Always provided," added the ex-detective cautiously, "that this man is innocent."
"He is--he is. I'll tell you all about it as we walk to the caravan."
"No, my dear," said Sweetlips gently, "until Rachel is safe, I can't think of anything else. Come quickly," he dragged her along into the fog, "she may be dead, poor soul. Come!" and the two figures vanished in the mist, which was thicker and darker and colder than ever.
The Cheap-jack's evil star must have been in the ascendant at the moment, for twenty minutes after he had turned his back on the inn, Dr. James Browne of Tarhaven arrived, hotfooted. He came by train to the local station, a quarter of a mile distant, and had walked to the inn through the fogs. At once, he asked for his friend, and Inspector Trent was informed of the fact. He immediately terminated his examination of Mr. and Mrs. Narby--from whom he had learned nothing new--and had the new-comer shown into the stuffy parlour, to be questioned.
"Your name?" demanded the Inspector, curtly official.
"Dr. Browne. I have come from Tarhaven, and wish to see my friend, Mr. Herries, who is, I understand, accused of murder."
"Who told you so?"
Browne took a telegram from his breast-pocket, and passed it in silence to the officer. It was unsigned and contained but a few words, which were as follows: "Angus Herries accused of murder, Marsh Inn, Desleigh. Come immediately." When Trent read this, he laid it on the table, and scrutinised the doctor, carefully.
Browne was short and stout, and imperative. His hair was red, so was his moustache, and short beard, and he had choleric blue eyes. Apparently he had a temper, but, recognising the majesty of the law, and knowing that it would be needful, for Herries' sake, to stand well with its representative, he kept himself in hand. Experience had taught him the necessity of being cool at critical moments, and the present was critical, if not for himself at least for his friend.
"What do you know of this?" asked Trent, when he had taken in the exterior of his visitor.
"As much as you see in that telegram," retorted Browne, pointing to the table. "I was a fellow-student of Mr. Herries in Edinburgh, and have not seen him for quite two years. I know him well enough to say that he is not guilty of murder."
"The evidence is strongly against him."
"Circumstantial evidence has hanged an innocent man before now."
"It will not hang Mr. Herries if he can prove his innocence. By-the-way, did you see Dr. Harkness in the train?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"I sent for him to come here, and examine the body. If he does not arrive soon, perhaps you will take his place."
"Certainly, I'll do anything to help Herries."
"I don't see how a post-mortem can help him," retorted Trent. "Sir Simon Tedder's throat has been cut."
"Sir Simon Tedder!" Browne started, and looked dismayed.
"You know him?"
"Yes. He is Herries' uncle. I attended him at Tarhaven, where he has a house, for an attack of influenza, and tried to make peace between him and his nephew."
"Ah!" Trent assumed an air of satisfaction, "then you know that the two had quarrelled?"
"I see no reason to conceal the fact that I do know," snapped the doctor sharply. "But that was two years ago. Herries went to sea, and it is incredible that he should return to murder his uncle."
"Yet you must admit that it is strange, uncle and nephew should both have been at this inn?"
"I admit nothing, until I know the facts, Mr. Inspector."
"Here they are. Between ourselves, doctor, I should like to save Mr. Herries, who seems to have had a hard time."
"He has, poor soul."
"But," added Trent, cautiously, "it will be difficult to save him in the face of the evidence."
"What is it?"
Inspector Trent detailed all that he had learned from the people of the inn, and from the prisoner himself. Dr. Browne, with his keen blue eyes fastened on the official, listened intently, weighing the evidence in silence. Only when Trent ended, did he speak, and then curtly.
"You have captured the wrong man."
"Indeed," said Trent sarcastically, "perhaps you can tell me the name of the right one."
"Not being omniscient, I cannot. It is for you, Mr. Inspector, to learn the name of the man who passed through the tap-room at eight."
"You accuse him?"
"Of course. He is the assassin, and has implicated Herries by placing in his room, the razor, the key and the pocket-book. This unknown man must have been the one whom Sir Simon expected on the previous night."
"How do you know that?"
"Because, by your own showing, Sir Simon could not have known of his nephew's presence here. The unknown man did not arrive at the time he was expected, but when the inn was closed, he must either have been admitted by Sir Simon, and taken to the bedroom, or he must have got in by the window."
"The window is on the first floor!"
Browne cast a look upward at the low ceiling.
"I don't think an active man would have any difficulty in climbing."
"There is certainly some trellis work outside, against the window of the room Sir Simon occupied," said Trent half to himself, "but this is all theoretical."
"So is the evidence against Herries."
"Do you call a razor, a stained shirt, the dead man's pocket-book and the key of the dead man's room, theoretical?"
"These things were placed in Herries' room by the assassin to implicate him in the crime," said Browne obstinately.
"Why should the unknown man take that trouble?" argued Trent. "He could not have known that my prisoner was the nephew of Sir Simon, and it would have been easy for him to have left as he did, after--as you say--committing the crime, without taking the trouble to throw the blame on an innocent man. I don't see what the assassin gains by taking such trouble."
"He provided for his own safety, in case his name was discovered."
"But," went on the Inspector, "how do we know that this unknown man saw Sir Simon at all?"
"The landlady's evidence makes that clear," replied Browne in a decisive way, "she saw him wearing the fur coat of the deceased."
"It might have been the man's own. Fur coats are very much alike."
"There I disagree with you. But presuming this to be the case, have you found the fur coat of Sir Simon in his room?"
"No. The landlady searched and could not find it."
"Then its disappearance proves what I say to be true," said Browne in a triumphant manner. "What happened is this. The assassin could not arrive at the appointed time, and Sir Simon retired to bed. Later the man came, and either obtained admittance through the front door opened by Sir Simon when all were in bed, or climbed up by the trellis to which you allude. The two had a talk and a quarrel, and the visitor cut the old man's throat. Then he waited until the morning. Knowing how his victim was to leave the inn, he boldly walked out, leaving strong evidence against Herries."
"But why?" asked Trent, persistently.
"Oh, I cannot tell you the motive for the commission of the crime, Mr. Inspector. You must learn that from the man who passed through the tap-room in Sir Simon's fur coat. And I think," added Browne shrewdly, "that you will learn, that the assassin implicated Herries to save himself, in the event of his being suspected."
"I don't agree with you," said Trent, doggedly, and rose to show that the interview was at an end. "Herries is guilty."
"I should have been surprised if you had agreed," retorted Browne. "Herries is innocent."
"Question the man yourself then," snapped the Inspector, not in the best of tempers. "His suspicious behaviour and lame explanations will shake your belief."
"Never," retorted the loyal friend, "I would as soon suspect myself as Herries, who is the best, as he is the most unfortunate, fellow in the world. What infernal luck he has had."
Trent stiffened his erect figure, and still obstinate, strode out of the room, followed by Browne, who looked like a very pugnacious bull-terrier. The two proceeded up the narrow stairs, and into the passage leading to the two rooms, round which all interest in the little hostel centred, since one contained a corpse, and the other, the presumed criminal. Policemen guarded each door, and both of them reported to Trent, that everything was going well. Taking the key of Herries' room from his pocket, Trent opened the door, and entered abruptly, as though to catch the prisoner unawares. The room was naturally in darkness, as it was now late, and no candle had been allowed the suspected man, in case he should set the inn on fire. Trent expected to find darkness, but he did not expect to experience a chilly clammy feeling, as though he were without, and not within. To be plain the bedroom was filled with mist, and a sudden suspicion struck the officer.
"Herries--Mr. Herries," he called, and when there was no reply, he turned towards Browne in the darkness of the passage. "Bring a light--bring a light."
The constable who had guarded the door, more ready than his chief, instantly struck a match, and the blue glimmer served somewhat to dispel the gloom. As the lucifer flamed up, Trent darted into the room, with an oath, and a cry of rage.
"The prisoner has escaped!" It was true. The window was open, the room was empty. As he had come out of the mist to that unfortunate inn, so had Herries vanished again behind the grey veil, which still hung over the marshes.