The Stowmarket Mystery Part 15

She did so. Subsequently she asked me not to refer to the escapade, for obvious reasons. It was a woman's little secret, Brett, and I was compelled to keep it."

"Anything else, Winter?" demanded the barrister, wrapped in a cloud of his own creation.

"That is all, sir, except the way in which I heard of Miss Layton's meeting with Mr. Hume."

"Not through Fergusson, eh?"

"Not a bit. The old chap is as close as wax. He seems to think that a Hume-Frazer must die a violent death outside that library window, and if the cause of the trouble is another Hume-Frazer, it is their own blooming business, and no other person's. Most extraordinary old chap. Have you met him?"

"No. Indeed, I am only just beginning to hear the correct details of the story."

Hume winced, but pa.s.sed no remark.

"Well, my information came through an anonymous letter."

"You don't say so! How interesting! Have you got it?"

"I brought it with me, for a reason other than that which actuates me now, I must confess."

He produced a small envelope, frayed at the edges, and closely compressed.

It bore the type-written address, "Police Office, Scotland Yard," and the postal stamp was "West Strand, January 18, 9 p.m."

Within, a small slip of paper, also typed, gave this message:--

"About Stowmarket. David Hume Frazer killed cousin. Cousin talked girl in road.

Girl waited wood. David Hume Frazer met girl in wood after 1 a.m."

Brett jumped up in instant excitement. Ha placed the two doc.u.ments on a table near the window, where the afternoon sun fell directly on them.

"Written by the murderer!" he cried "The result of perusing the evening papers containing a report of the first proceedings before the magistrates! The production of an illiterate man, who knew neither the use of a hyphen nor the correct word to describe the avenue! Not wholly exact either, if your story be true, Hume."

"My story is true. Helen herself will tell it you, word for word."

"This is most important. Look at that broken small 'c,' and the bent capital 'D.' The letter 'a,' too, is out of gear, and does not register accurately. Do you note the irregular s.p.a.cing in 'market,' 'Frazer,'

'talked'? You got that letter, Winter, and yet you did not test every Remington type-writer in London."

"Oh, of course it's my fault!"

Mr. Winter's _coup_ has fallen on himself, and he knew it.

"Oh, Winter, Winter! Come to me twice a week from six to seven, Tuesdays and Fridays, and I will give you a night-school training. Now, I wonder if that type-writer has been repaired?"

The detective had seldom seen Brett so thoroughly roused. His eyes were brilliant, his nose dilated as if he could smell the very scent of the anonymous scribe.

"An illiterate man," he repeated, "in evening dress; the same height and appearance as Hume; in a village like Sleagill on a New Year's Eve; four miles from everywhere. Was ever clue so simple provided by a careless scoundrel! And eighteen months have elapsed. This is positively maddening!"

"Look here, old chap," said Hume, still smarting under the recollections of Brett's caustic utterance, "say you forgive me for keeping that thing back. There is nothing else, believe me. It was for Helen's sake."

"Rubbis.h.!.+" cried the barrister. "The only wonder is that you are not long since a.s.similated in quicklime in a prison grave. You are all cracked, I think--living spooks, human March hares. As for you, Winter, I weep for you."

He strode rapidly to and fro along the length of the room, smoking prodigiously, with frowning brows and concentrated eyes. The others did not speak, but Winter treated Hume to an informing wink, as one might say.

"Now you will hear something."

CHAPTER IX

THE KO-KATANA

Thinking aloud, rather than addressing his companions, Brett began again:--

"The man must have had some place in which to change his clothes, for he would not court attention by walking about in evening dress by broad daylight He met and spoke with Alan Hume-Frazer that afternoon. The result was unsatisfactory. The stranger resolved to visit him again at night--the night of the ball. In a country village on such an occasion, a swallow-tailed coat was a _pa.s.se-partout_, as many gentry had come in from the surrounding district."

"Yes, that is so," broke in Hume.

Brett momentarily looked through him, and the detective shook his head to deprecate any further interruption.

"He could not enter Mrs. Eastham's house, for there everybody knew everybody else. He could not enter the library of the Hall, because the footman was on duty for several hours. Is not that so?"

He seemed to bite both men with the question.

"Yes," they answered.

"Then he was compelled to hang about the avenue, watching his opportunity--his opportunity for what? Not to commit a murder! He was unarmed, or, at any rate, his implement was a haphazard choice, selected on the spur of the moment. He saw David Hume leave the dance, and watched his brief talk with the butler. He correctly interpreted Hume's preparations to await his cousin's arrival. Did Hume's sleepiness suggest the crime, and its probable explanation? Perhaps. I cannot determine that point now. a.s.suredly it gave the opportunity to commit a theft. Something was stolen from the secretaire. A bold rascal, to force a drawer whilst another man was in the room! Did he fear the consequences if he were caught? I think not. He succeeded in his object, and went off, but before he reached the gates he saw Miss Layton, whom he did not know, talking to the baronet. He secreted himself until the baronet entered the park alone.

For some reason, he made his presence known, and walked with Sir Alan to the lawn outside the window, still retaining in his hand the small knife used to prise open the lock. There was a short and vehement dispute.

Possibly the baronet guessed the object of this unexpected appearance.

There may have been a struggle. Then the knife was sent home, with such singular skill that the victim fell without a word, a groan, to arouse attention. The murderer made off down the avenue, but he was far too cold-blooded to run away and encounter unforeseen dangers. No; he waited among the trees to ascertain what would happen when his victim was discovered, and frame his plans accordingly. It was then that he saw Helen Layton and David Hume. As soon as the news of the murder spread abroad the dance broke up. Amidst the wondering crowd, slowly dispersing in their carriages, he could easily slip away unseen, for the police, of course, were sure that David Hume killed his cousin. Don't you see, Winter?"

The inspector did not see.

"You are making up a fine tale, Mr. Brett," he said doggedly, "but I'm blessed if I can follow your reasoning."

"No, of course not. Eighteen months of settled conviction are not to be dispelled in an instant. But accept my theory. This man, the guilty man, must have resided in Stowmarket for some hours, if not days. Many people saw him. He could not live in Sleagill, where even the village dogs would suspect him. But the addle-headed police, ready to handcuff David Hume, never thought of inquiring about strangers who came and went at Stowmarket in those days. Stowmarket is a metropolis, a wilderness of changeful beings, to a country policeman. It has a market-day, an occasional drunken man--life is a whirl in Stowmarket. Fortunately, people have memories. At that time you did not wear a beard, Hume."

"No," was the reply, "though I never told you that."

"Of course you told me, many times. Did not your acquaintances fail to recognise you? Had not Mrs. Capella to look twice at you before she knew you? Now, Winter, start out. Ascertain, in each hotel in the town, if they had any strange guests about the period of the murder. There is a remote chance that you may learn something. Describe Mr. Hume without a beard, and hint at a reward if information is forthcoming. Money quickens the agricultural intellect."

The detective, doubting much, obeyed. Hume, asking if there was any reason why he should not drive back to Sleagill for an hour before dinner, was sarcastically advised to go a good deal farther. Indeed, the sight of that tiny type-written slip had stirred Brett to volcanic activity.

He tramped backwards and forwards, enveloped in smoke. Once he halted and tore at the bell.

A waiter came.

"Go to my room, No. 11, and bring me a leather dressing-case, marked 'R.B.' Run! I give you twenty seconds. After that you lose sixpence a second out of your tip."