The Loudwater Mystery by Edgar Jepson (page 3)

“Oh, they’re all right. I probably know them. I’ll get them to work with me. They must be treated very nicely,” said Mr. Flexen cheerfully.

“They’re always a confounded nuisance,” said Mr. Carrington, frowning.

“Not if they’re kindly treated. Indeed, I shall very likely find them really useful,” said Mr. Flexen. “But you might give the servants a hint to be careful of what they say. The hint will come best from you, and be much more effective than if it came from any one else. You represent the family.”

“I’ll see about it,” said Mr. Carrington, and he went to Olivia’s boudoir to confer with her about the invitations to the funeral.

Mr. Flexen was, indeed, little disturbed by the prospect of the coming of the newspaper men. A popular member of the chief literary and journalistic club in London, he would probably know them, or they would know of him; and he would find them ready enough to work with him. Besides, even if they discovered that the quarrel between Colonel Grey and Lord Loudwater had its origin in Lady Loudwater, in the present state of mind of the country, they would have to move very cautiously indeed in the case of a V.C.

He did not, indeed, think it likely that they would discover the cause of the quarrel for some time–possibly not before their papers had tired of the business and sent them on other errands. Mrs. Turnbull only knew of Lord Loudwater’s threat to hound Colonel Grey out of the Army; she did not know the reason of his fury and his threat. Elizabeth Twitcher would certainly hold her tongue about Lord Loudwater’s subsequent quarrel with Lady Loudwater, and his accusations and threats; Mrs. Carruthers was even more unlikely to tell of it. It was unlikely that William Roper would come within the ken of the newspaper men. No one could tell them that he was the great repository of facts in the case, and Mr. Flexen believed that he had given him good cause to keep his mouth shut till he called on him to open it.

Taking one thing with another, he thought it more than likely that the newspaper men would not hinder him in his purpose of dealing with the affair in his own way.

On the other hand, they might very well be used to help him discover the unknown woman who had had the furious quarrel with Lord Loudwater at about eleven o’clock. Indeed, he regarded the information about that quarrel as a sop to be thrown to them. She afforded just the element of melodrama in the case which would be most grateful to their different newspapers, and provide them with plenty of the kind of headlines which best sold them. It was certain that James Hutchings would also occupy their attention. The fact that he had been discharged with contumely and threats, that he had departed uttering violent threats against the dead man, and that he had returned to visit Elizabeth Twitcher late that night, were doubtless being discussed by the whole neighbourhood. However, only himself and William Roper knew, at present, that James Hutchings had come and gone by the library window, had actually passed twice within a few feet of his sleeping, or dead, master. That fact, also, Mr. Flexen proposed to keep to himself till he saw reason to divulge it. His next business must be to question Hutchings.

It was quite likely that there lay the solution of the mystery.

CHAPTER X

It would have been easy enough for Mr. Flexen to send for Hutchings to the Castle and question him there. But he did not. In the first place, he did not think it fair to a man who had already prejudiced himself so seriously by his threats against the murdered man. Besides, he would be at a disadvantage, under a greater strain at the Castle, and Mr. Flexen wanted him where he would be at his best, for he wished to be able to form an exact judgment of the likelihood of his being the murderer. Indeed, it must be a very careful and exact judgment, for he felt that he was moving in deep waters; that it was a case in which it was possible, even easy, to go hopelessly wrong. Also, he was fully alive to the fact that if threatened men live long, the men who threaten are to blame for it, and that threats such as Hutchings’ are the commonest things in the world, and, as a rule, of very little importance. But there was always the chance that Hutchings was the unusual threatener; and, if he were, he had assuredly been in circumstances most favourable to the carrying out of his threats.

Accordingly he learnt from Inspector Perkins the way to the gamekeeper’s cottage in the West Wood, where Hutchings was staying with his father, and drove the car to it himself. Hutchings was alone in the cottage, for his father was out on his rounds. He invited Mr. Flexen to come in. Mr. Flexen came in, sat down in an arm-chair, and examined Hutchings’ face. He saw that the man was plainly very anxious and ill at ease. It was natural enough. He must perceive quite clearly how black against him things looked.

He was forced also to admit to himself that Hutchings had not a pleasant face. It was choleric and truculent, and in spite of the man’s evident anxiety, there was a sullen fierceness on it which gave him no little of the air of a wild beast trapped.

Mr. Flexen wasted no time beating about the bush, but said to him: “When you visited Elizabeth Twitcher last night you entered and left the Castle by the library window.”

“You got that from that young blighter Manley,” said Hutchings bitterly.

“Not at all. I did not know that Mr. Manley knew it,” said Mr. Flexen. “So you did?”

“Yes, sir, I did. I always went to the village that way in the summer-time. It’s the shortest. Besides, his lordship was nearly always asleep; and if he wasn’t and did ‘ear me, there was always something I could be doing in the library, sir.”

He spoke with eager, rather humble civility.

“Well, did you, as you went through the library, coming or going, hear Lord Loudwater snore?”

Hutchings knitted his brow, thinking; then he said: “I can’t call to mind as I did, sir. But, then, I wasn’t giving him any attention. I was thinking about other things altogether. Of course, I went out quietly enough. But that was habit.”

“That sounds as if you had not heard him snore–as if you thought that he was awake,” said Mr. Flexen.

“I don’t think I thought about him at all, sir, at the moment. I was thinking about other things,” said Hutchings.

“You say that Mr. Manley saw you go out?”

“Yes, sir. I passed him in the hall and went into the library. We had a few words, and I told him I had come to fetch some cigarettes as I’d left behind.”

“Do you know what the time was?” said Mr. Flexen.

“No, sir–not exactly. But it must have been nearly half-past eleven, I should think.”

“It is very important to fix the time at which Lord Loudwater died,” said Mr. Flexen. “You can’t tell me nearer than that?”

“No, sir. It was nearly ten to twelve when I got home, and I reckon it’s about twenty minutes’ walk from the Castle to the cottage here.”

“And all you went to the Castle for was to speak to Elizabeth Twitcher?” said Mr. Flexen.

“That was all I went for–every single thing. And it was all I did there–every mortal thing I did there, sir,” Hatchings asseverated, and he wiped his brow.

“H’m!” said Mr. Flexen. “As you passed through the library, did you happen to notice whether the knife was in its place in the big inkstand?”

Hutchings hesitated, and his lips twitched. Then he said: “Yes, I did, sir. It was in the big inkstand.”

Mr. Flexen could not make up his mind whether he was telling the truth or not. He thought that he was not. But he did not attach much importance to the matter. People who knew themselves to be suspected of a crime had often told him quite stupid and unnecessary lies and been proved innocent after all.

“I should have thought that your mind was too full of other things to notice a thing like that,” he said in a somewhat incredulous tone.

Then there came an outburst. Mr. Flexen had thought that Hutchings was worked up to a high degree of nervous tension, and he was. He cried out that he knew that every one believed that he had done it; but he hadn’t. He’d never thought of it. He was damned if he didn’t wish he had done it. He might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, anyhow. He broke off to curse Lord Loudwater at length. He had been a curse to every one who came into contact with him while he was alive, and now he was getting people into trouble when he was dead. Yes: he wished it had occurred to him to stick that knife into him. He’d have done it like a shot, and he’d have done the right thing. The world was well rid of a swine like that!

His face was contorted, and his eyes kept gleaming red as he talked, and he came to the end of his outburst, trembling and panting.

Mr. Flexen was unmoved and unenlightened. It was merely the outburst of a badly-frightened man lacking in self-control, and told him nothing. It left it equally likely that Hutchings had, or had not, committed the crime.

“There’s nothing to get so frantic about,” he said quietly to the panting man. “It doesn’t do any good.”

“It’s all very well to talk like that, sir,” said Hutchings in a shaky voice. “But I know what people are saying. It’s enough to make any one lose their temper.”

“I should think that yours was pretty easy to lose,” said Mr. Flexen dryly.

“I know it. It is very short, sir. It always was; and I can’t help it,” said Hutchings in an apologetic voice.

“Then you’d better set about learning to help it, my man,” said Mr. Flexen.

He took out his pipe and filled it slowly. The flush faded a little from Hutchings’ face. Mr. Flexen lighted his pipe and rose.

Then as he went to the door he said: “I should advise you to get that stupid temper well in hand. It makes a bad impression. Good afternoon.”

Mr. Flexen drove back to the Castle, considering Hutchings carefully. There was no doubt that he was, indeed, badly frightened; but he had reason to be. Mr. Flexen could not decide whether he had worn the air of a guilty man or an innocent. He could not decide whether the butler had been too deeply absorbed in his own affairs to hear the snoring of Lord Loudwater as he went through the library. It was possible that Lord Loudwater was alive, asleep, and yet not snoring at the time. Snoring is often intermittent.

He considered Hutchings’ violent outburst. Certainly such an outburst showed the man uncommonly unbalanced; it might, indeed, on occasion take the form of uncontrollable murderous fury. But it seemed to him that an actual meeting with Lord Loudwater would have been necessary to provoke that. But Lord Loudwater had been sitting in his chair when he died; and if he had not killed himself, he had been killed in his sleep. At any rate, there was probably sufficient evidence, seeing what juries are, to convict Hatchings. If he had been one of those not uncommon ministers of the law, whose only desire is to secure a conviction, he would doubtless arrest him at once. But it was not his only desire to secure a conviction; it was his very keen desire to find the right solution of the problem. He could not see where any more evidence against Hutchings was to come from. What Mr. Manley had told him about the knife, that it had been in general use, and that he had seen Hutchings cut string with it the day before the murder, greatly lessened its value as evidence, even if Hutchings’ finger-prints were thick on it. He decided to dismiss Hutchings from his mind for the time being, and devote all his energies to discovering the mysterious woman with whom Lord Loudwater had had the furious quarrel between eleven and a quarter-past.

With this end in view, on his return to the Castle, he went straight to the library, where Mr. Carrington was engaged, along with Mr. Manley, in an examination of the murdered man’s papers. They were uncommonly few, and Mr. Manley had already set them in order. Lord Loudwater seemed to have kept but few letters, and the papers consisted chiefly of receipted and unreceipted bills.

When he found that Mr. Flexen had come to confer with the lawyer, Mr. Manley assumed an air of extraordinary discretion and softly withdrew.

“I want to know–it is most important–whether there was any entanglement between Lord Loudwater and a woman,” said Mr. Flexen.

“I should think it very unlikely,” said Mr. Carrington without hesitation. “At least, I have never heard of anything of the kind, and so far I have come across no trace of anything of the kind among his papers.”

Mr. Flexen frowned, considering; then he said: “Do you happen to know whether he employed any one besides your firm to do legal work for him?”

“As to that I can’t say. But I should not think it likely. It was always a business to get him to attend to anything that wanted doing, and he always made a fuss about it. I can’t see him employing another firm too. But he may have done. The only thing is that I ought to have found either their bills or the receipts for them among those papers–except that my late client does not appear to have taken the trouble to keep many receipts.”

“The thing is that I’ve learnt that Lord Loudwater had a furious quarrel with some unknown woman between eleven and a quarter-past on the night of his death, and I want to find her. You can see how important it is. It may be that she stabbed him, or it may be that she provided him with the motive to commit suicide–not that that seems likely. But you can’t tell: she might have been able to threaten him with some exposure. Those people without any self-control are always doing the most senseless things–bigamy, for instance, is often one of their weaknesses.”

“Loudwater was certainly without self-control; but I hardly think that he was the man to commit bigamy,” said the lawyer.

“It would very much simplify matters if he had,” said Mr. Flexen in a dissatisfied tone. “I wonder whether Manley would know anything about it?”

“He might,” said Mr. Carrington.

Mr. Flexen went through the library window to find Mr. Manley strolling up and down the lawn with every appearance of enjoying his pipe and the respite from perusing papers.

“Mr. Carrington tells me that you were in Lord Loudwater’s confidence,” said Mr. Flexen.

“Wholly,” said Mr. Manley, with more promptness than his actual knowledge of the facts warranted.

It seemed to him fitting that a secretary of his intelligence and discretion should have been wholly in the confidence of any nobleman who employed him. Therefore he himself must have been.

“Then perhaps you can tell me whether he was entangled with a woman,” said Mr. Flexen.

“Entangled? In what way?” said Mr. Manley in a tone of surprise.

“In the usual way, I suppose. Was he engaged in a love-affair with any woman, or had he been?”

“He certainly did not tell me anything about it if he was,” said Mr. Manley. “But that is the kind of thing he might very well _not_ confide to his secretary.”

“You don’t happen to know if he was making any payments to a woman–an allowance, for example?” said Mr. Flexen.

Mr. Manley was well on his guard by now. These questions must surely refer to Helena.

“He never told me anything about it,” he said with perfect readiness. “Not, of course, that I would tell you if he had,” he added, in his most amiable voice. “I’ve told you that I thought that he made enough trouble while he was alive. I won’t help him to make trouble now that he’s dead.”

Mr. Flexen thought that the asseveration was unnecessary, since Mr. Manley had not the knowledge which would make the trouble. He returned to the lawyer and told him that Mr. Manley had no information to give.

“It seems a very important point in the affair,” said the lawyer.

“It is,” said Mr. Flexen, frowning. “I wonder if there was an intrigue with a country girl or woman, some one in the neighbourhood?”

“There might have been. Lord Loudwater rode a great deal. He was hours in the saddle every day. He had time and opportunity for that kind of thing.”

“On the other hand, there’s no need for it to have been any one in the neighbourhood at all. To say nothing of the train, it’s a short enough motor drive from London; and it was a moonlight night,” said Mr. Flexen.

“Then you may be able to find traces of the car. The woman must have left it somewhere while she had the interview with Lord Loudwater,” said Mr. Carrington.

“I’ll try,” said Mr. Flexen, not very hopefully, “But there are so few people about at night nowadays. Five out of the eight gamekeepers are still abroad. In ordinary times there would have been four at least of them about the roads and woods. On that night there was only one.”

“There’s the further difficulty that Lord Loudwater had so few friends. That will make it harder to find out anything about an affair of this kind–if he had one,” said Mr. Carrington.

“It will, indeed,” said Mr. Flexen, and paused, frowning. Then he added gravely: “I’m sure that there was such an affair, and I’ve got to find the woman.”

CHAPTER XI

Mr. Manley did not lunch with Mr. Flexen and the lawyer. In cultivating Mr. Flexen he had been forced to see less than usual of Helena, and, interesting a companion as Mr. Flexen was, Mr. Manley very much preferred her society. He found her less nervous than she had been the day before, but she still wore a sufficiently anxious air, and was still restless. She seemed more pleased to see him than usual, and the warmth of her welcome gave him a sudden sense that she was even fonder of him than he had thought, or hoped. It stirred him to an admirable response.

At lunch she questioned him with uncommon particularity about the proceedings of Mr. Flexen, the discoveries he had made, the lines on which he was making his investigation. Her interest seemed natural enough, and he told her all that he knew, which was little. She seemed much disappointed by his lack of information. He was careful not to tell her that Mr. Flexen had inquired of him whether he knew of any entanglement between Lord Loudwater and a woman. Thanks to his imagination he was a young man of uncommon discretion, and it was plain that she was suffering anxiety enough.

At the end of her fruitless questioning she sighed and said: “Of course, the whole affair is of no great interest to you really.”

“It isn’t of very great interest to me,” said Mr. Manley. “You see, the victim of the crime, if it was a crime, was such an uninteresting creature. Nature, as I’ve told you before, intended him for a bull, changed her mind when it was too late to make a satisfactory alteration, and botched it. You must admit that the bull man is a very dull kind of creature, unless he can make things lively for you by prodding you with his horns. When he is dead, he is certainly done with.”

“I wish he was done with,” she said, with a sigh.

“Well, as far as you are concerned, he is done with, surely,” he said, in some surprise.

“Of course, of course,” she said quickly. “But still, he seems likely to give a great deal of trouble to somebody; and if there is a trial, how am I to know that my name won’t be brought up?”

“I don’t think there’s a chance of it,” he said. “How should it be brought up?”

“One never knows,” she said, with a note of nervous dread in her voice.

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, he’ll get no help in making a posthumous nuisance of himself from me; and I’m inclined to think that, as things are going, he’ll need my help to do that,” he said in a tone of quiet satisfaction.

“A posthumous nuisance–you do have phrases! And how you do dislike him!” she said.

“The moderately civilized man, with a gentle disposition like mine, always does hate the bull man. Also, he despises him,” said Mr. Manley calmly.

She was silent a while, thinking; then she said: “What did you mean by saying: ‘If it was a crime.’ What else could it have been?”

“A suicide. The evidence was that the wound might have been self-inflicted,” said Mr. Manley.

“Absurd! Lord Loudwater was the last man in the world to commit suicide!” she cried.

“That’s purely a matter of individual opinion. I am of the opinion that a man of his uncontrollable temper was quite likely to commit suicide,” he said firmly. “As for its being absurd, if there is any attempt to prove any one guilty of murdering him on purely circumstantial evidence, that person won’t find anything absurd in the theory at all. In fact, he’ll work it for all it’s worth. I think myself that, with Dr. Thornhill’s evidence in mind, the police, or the Public Prosecutor, or the Treasury, or whoever it is that decides those things, will never attempt in this case to bring any one to trial for the murder on merely circumstantial evidence.”

“Do you think not?” she said in a tone of relief.

“I’m sure of it,” said Mr. Manley. “But why do we waste our time talking about the tiresome fellow when there are things a thousand times more interesting to talk about? Your eyes, now–“

Mr. Flexen instructed Inspector Perkins and his men to make inquiries about the rides of Lord Loudwater and to try to learn whether any one had seen a strange car, or, indeed, a car of any kind, in the neighbourhood of the Castle about eleven o’clock on the night of the murder. Also, he could see his way to using the newspaper men to help him to discover whether there had been any entanglement known to the club gossips or the people of the neighbourhood between Lord Loudwater and a lady in London. It was not unlikely that he had talked of it to some one, for if they quarrelled so furiously he must need sympathy; and if he had not talked, the lady probably had, though it might very well be that she was not in the circle in which the Loudwaters moved in London. He had some doubt, however, that she was a London woman at all. She had shown too intimate a knowledge of Lord Loudwater’s habits at Loudwater and of the Castle itself, for it was clear from William Roper’s story that she had gone straight to the library window and through it, in the evident expectation of finding Lord Loudwater asleep as usual in his smoking-room. It was this doubt which prevented him from appealing to Scotland Yard for help in clearing up this particular point. He wished to make sure first that the woman did not belong to the neighbourhood. On the other hand, she might always be some one who had been a guest at the Castle.

He was about to go in search of Lady Loudwater to question her about their friends and acquaintances who might have this knowledge of the Castle and the habits of her husband, when the sleuth from the _Wire_ and the sleuth from the _Planet_ arrived together, in all amity and the same vexation at being prevented by this errand from spending the afternoon at the same bridge table. The sleuth of the _Wire_ was a very solemn-looking young man, with a round, simple face. The sleuth of the _Planet_ was a tall, dark man, with an impatient and slightly worried air, who looked uncommonly like an irritable actor-manager.

Both of them greeted Mr. Flexen with affectionate warmth, and Douglas, the tall sleuth of the _Planet_, at once deplored, with considerable bitterness, the fact that he had been robbed of his afternoon’s bridge. Gregg, the sleuth of the _Wire_, preserved a gently-blinking, sympathetic silence.

Mr. Flexen at once sent for whisky, soda and cigars, and over them took his two friends into his confidence. He told them that it was very doubtful whether it was a case of murder or suicide; that the jury’s verdict was not in accordance with the directions of the Coroner, but just a piece of natural, pig-headed stupidity. This produced another bitter outcry from Douglas about the loss of his afternoon. Mr. Flexen did not soothe him at all by pointing out that he was in a beautiful country on a beautiful day. Then he told them about the coming of the mysterious woman and her violent quarrel with the Lord Loudwater just about the probable time of his death. Douglas at once lost his irritated air and displayed a lively interest in the matter; Gregg listened and blinked. Mr. Flexen told them also of Hutchings, his threats, and his visit to the Castle. That was as far as his confidences went. But they were enough. He had given them the very things they wanted, and they both assured him that they would at once inform him of any discoveries they might make themselves. They left him feeling sure that he might safely leave the servants and the villagers to them and the policemen. If any one in the neighbourhood knew anything about the mysterious woman, they would probably ferret it out. What was far more important was that tomorrow’s _Wire_ and _Planet_ would contain such an advertisement of her that any one in London or the country who knew of her relations with the dead man would learn at once the value of that knowledge.

When they had gone he sent for Mrs. Carruthers, and learned, to his annoyance, that none of the upper servants except Elizabeth Twitcher had been in service at the Castle for more than four months. She could only say that during the six weeks that she had been housekeeper there had been very few visitors; and they had been merely callers, except when Colonel Grey had been coming to the Castle and there had been small tennis parties. She had heard nothing from the servants about his lordship’s being on particularly friendly terms with any lady in the neighbourhood. Hutchings would be the most likely person to know a thing like that. He had been in service at the Castle all his life. Of course, her ladyship, too, she might know.

Mr. Flexen made up his mind to seek out Hutchings at once and question him on the matter; but Mrs. Carruthers had only just left him when he saw Olivia come into the rose-garden with Colonel Grey. He watched them idly and perceived that, for the time being at any rate, Olivia had lost her strained and anxious air. She was plainly enough absorbed, wholly absorbed, in Grey. She had eyes only for him, and Mr. Flexen suspected that her ears were at the moment deaf to everything but the sound of his voice. They did look a well-matched pair.

It occurred to him that he might as well again question Olivia about her husband’s possible intrigue with another woman and be done with it. There could be no harm in Colonel Grey’s hearing the questions. As for interrupting their pleasant converse, he thought that they would soon recover from the interruption. Accordingly he went out to the rose-garden.

Absorbed in one another, they did not see him till he was right on them, and then he saw a curious happening. At the sight of him a sudden, simultaneous apprehension filled both their faces, and they drew closer together. But he had an odd fancy that they did not draw together for mutual protection, but mutually to protect. Then, almost on the instant, they were gazing at him with politely inquiring eyes, Lady Loudwater smiling. He felt that they were intensely on their guard. It was uncommonly puzzling.

He changed his mind about questioning Lady Loudwater in the presence of Grey, and asked if she could spare him a minute or two to answer a few questions.

“Oh, yes. I’m sure Colonel Grey will excuse me,” she said readily.

“But why shouldn’t you question Lady Loudwater before me?” said Colonel Grey coolly; but he slapped his thigh nervously with the pair of gloves he was carrying. “It’s always as well for a woman to have a man at hand in an awkward affair like this, which may lead to a good deal of unpleasantness if anything goes wrong. I’m a friend of Lady Loudwater, and I don’t suppose you fear that anything you discuss before me will go any further, Mr. Flexen.”

He was cool enough, but Mr. Flexen did not miss the note of anxiety in his voice.

“I don’t mind at all if Lady Loudwater would like it,” he said readily. “But it’s rather a delicate matter.”

“Oh, I should like Colonel Grey to hear everything,” said Olivia quickly.

“It’s about the matter of an entanglement between Lord Loudwater and some lady. Are you quite sure there was nothing of the kind before his marriage, if not after it?” said Mr. Flexen.

“I don’t know for certain,” said Olivia readily. “But two or three times Lord Loudwater did talk about other women in a boasting sort of way. Only it was when he was trying to annoy me; so I didn’t pay much attention to it.”

“And you never tried to find out whether it was the truth or not?” said Mr. Flexen.

“No, never. You see, I didn’t particularly care,” said Olivia, with unexpected frankness. “If I’d cared, I expect it would have been very different.”

“And did Lord Loudwater never mention the name of any lady when he was boasting?” said Mr. Flexen.

“No. Never. It was just general boasting. And he certainly gave me to understand that it was two or three, not one,” said Olivia.

“Have you any suspicion that he had any particular lady in mind–any of your common friends, for example–some one who has stayed at the Castle?” said Mr. Flexen.

“None at all. I haven’t the slightest idea who it could have been. It must have been some one I don’t know, or I should have been nearly sure to notice something,” said Olivia.

“Can you tell me any one who might know?”

Olivia shook her head, and said: “No. I don’t know any friend of my husband well enough to say. He never told me who his chief friends were. It never occurred to me that he had an intimate friend. I always thought he hadn’t, in fact.”

“I tell you what: you might inquire of Outhwaite, you know the man I mean, the man who used always to be getting fined for furious driving. He was a friend of Loudwater, the only friend I ever heard him mention, indeed. If he ever confided in any one, that would be the most likely man,” said Colonel Grey.

“Thank you. That’s an idea. I’ll certainly try him,” said Mr. Flexen, and he turned as if to go.

But Olivia stopped him, saying: “Do you think, then, that a woman did it, Mr. Flexen?”

“Well, there is a certain amount of evidence which lends some colour to that theory, but I don’t want any one to know that,” said Mr. Flexen.

And then he could have sworn that he heard Olivia breathe a faint sigh of relief.

But Colonel Grey broke in in a tone of some acerbity and more anxiety: “It’s nonsense to talk of any one having done it in face of the medical evidence–any one, that is, but Loudwater himself. He committed suicide.”

“You think him a likely man to have committed suicide, do you?” said Mr. Flexen.

“Yes. A man of his utterly uncontrollable temper is the very man to commit suicide,” said Colonel Grey firmly.

“It is, of course, always possible that he committed suicide,” said Mr. Flexen in a non-committal tone.

“It’s most probable,” said Colonel Grey curtly.

“What do you think, Lady Loudwater?” said Flexen.

“Why, I haven’t thought much about it. I always–I–but now I do think about it, I–I–think it’s not unlikely,” said Olivia, in a tone of no great conviction. “And he was so frightfully upset, too, that night–not that he had any reason to be; but he was.”

“Ah, well; my duty is to investigate the matter till there isn’t a shadow of doubt left,” said Mr. Flexen in a pleasant voice. “I daresay that I shall get to the bottom of it.”

With that he left them and went back into the Castle.

At the sight of his back Olivia breathed so deep a sigh of relief that Grey winced at it.

“If only it could be proved that Egbert did commit suicide!” she said wistfully.

“I don’t see any chance of it,” said Colonel Grey gloomily. Then he added in a tone of but faint hope: “Unless he wrote to one of his friends that he intended to commit suicide.”

Olivia shook her head and said: “Egbert wouldn’t do that. He hated letter-writing.”

“Besides, if he had, we should have heard of it by now,” said Grey.

“The friend might be away,” said Olivia. “I know that Mr. Outhwaite was in France.”

“That’s hoping too much,” said Grey.

They strolled on in silence, his eyes on her thoughtful face, which under Mr. Flexen’s questioning had again grown anxious. Then he said: “This sun is awfully hot. Let’s stroll through the wood to the pavilion. It will be delightful there.”

“Very well,” said Olivia, smiling at him.

Mr. Flexen went back to his room, rang for Holloway, and bade him find Mr. Manley, if he were in, and ask him to come to him. Holloway went, and presently returned to say that Mr. Manley had gone out to lunch, but left word that he would be back to dinner.

Mr. Flexen, therefore, gave his mind to the consideration of his talk with Colonel Grey and Olivia, and the longer he considered it, the more their attitude intrigued and puzzled him. They certainly knew something about the murder, something of the first importance. What could it be?

Again he asked himself could either, or both of them, have actually had a hand in it? It seemed improbable; but he was used to the improbable happening. He could not believe that either of them would have dreamt of committing murder to gain a personal end–to save themselves, for example, from the injuries with which Lord Loudwater had threatened them. But would they commit murder to save some one else, one to save the other, for example, from such an injury? Murder was, indeed, a violent measure; but Mr. Flexen was inclined to think that either of them might take it. Mr. Manley’s confident declaration that they were both creatures of strong emotions had impressed him. He felt that Colonel Grey, under the impulse to save Lady Loudwater, would stick at very little; and he was used to violence and to hold human life cheap. On the other hand, Lady Loudwater would go a long way–a very long way–if any one she loved were threatened. The fact that she had good Italian blood in her veins was very present in his mind.

Again, it would be a matter of sudden impulse, not of grave deliberation. The irritating sound of Lord Loudwater’s snores and the sight of the gleaming knife-blade on the library table coming together after their painful and moving discussion of their dangers might awake the impulse to be rid of him, at any cost, in full strength. He was not disposed to underrate the suggestion of that naked knife-blade on them when they were strung to such a height of emotion. Again, he asked himself, had either of them murdered Lord Loudwater to save the other?

At any rate, they knew who had committed the murder. Of that he was sure.

Could they be shielding a third person? If so, who was that third person?

CHAPTER XII

Mr. Flexen sat pondering this question of a third person for a good twenty minutes.

It could not be Hutchings. There would be no reason to shield Hutchings unless they had instigated or employed him to commit the murder, and that was out of the question. He was not sure, indeed, that Hutchings was not the murderer; the snores and the knife were as likely to have excited the murderous impulse in him as in them. He was quite sure that if Dr. Thornhill had been able to swear that the wound was not self-inflicted, he could have secured the conviction of Hutchings. But it was incredible that Lady Loudwater or Colonel Grey had employed him to commit the murder. No; if they were shielding a third person, it must be the mysterious, unknown woman who had come with such swift secrecy and so wholly disappeared.

It grew clearer and clearer that there most probably lay that solution of the problem. If that woman herself had not murdered Lord Loudwater, as seemed most likely, she might very well give him the clue for which he was groping. He must find her, and, of course, sooner or later he would find her. But the sooner he found her, the sooner would the problem be solved and his work done. Till he found her he would not find its solution.

It still seemed to him probable that somewhere among Lord Loudwater’s papers there was information which would lead to her discovery, and he went into the library to confer again with Mr. Carrington on the matter. He found him discussing the arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral with Mrs. Carruthers and Wilkins.

When they had gone he said: “Did you come across any information about that mysterious woman in the rest of the papers?”

“Not a word,” said Mr. Carrington.

“I’ve been thinking that you might come across traces of her in his pass-books–payments or an allowance.”

“I thought of that. But there’s only one passbook, the one in use. Lord Loudwater doesn’t seem to have kept them after they were filled. And Manley knows all about this one; he wrote out every cheque in it for Loudwater, and he is quite sure that there were no cheques of any size for a woman among them.”

“That’s disappointing,” said Mr. Flexen. “What about the cheques to ‘Self’? Are there any large ones among them?”

“No. They’re all on the small side–distinctly on the small side–cheques for ten pounds–and very few of them.”

“It is queer that it should be so difficult to find any information about a woman who played such an important part in his life,” said Mr. Flexen gloomily.

“It’s not so very uncommon,” said the lawyer.

“Well, let’s hope that the advertisement she’ll get from my newspaper friends will bring her to light,” said Mr. Flexen.

“It would be a pleasant surprise to me to find them serving some useful purpose,” said Mr. Carrington grimly.

Mr. Flexen laughed and said: “You’re prejudiced. It’s about time to dress for dinner.”

Mr. Carrington rose with alacrity and said anxiously, “I hope to goodness Loudwater didn’t quarrel with his chef!”

“I’ve no reason to think so. The food’s excellent,” said Mr. Flexen.

Mr. Manley joined them at dinner, wearing his best air of a discreet and indulgent man of the world, and confident of making himself valued. He was in very good spirits, for he had persuaded Helena to marry him that day month, and was rejoicing in his success. He did not tell Mr. Flexen, or Mr. Carrington, of his good fortune. He felt that it would hardly interest them, since neither of them knew Helena or was intimate with himself. But, inspired by this success, he took the lead in the conversation, and showed himself inclined to be somewhat patronizing to two men outside the sphere of imaginative literature.

It was Mr. Flexen who broached the subject of the murder.

After they had talked of the usual topics for a while, he said: “By the way, Manley, did you hear Lord Loudwater snore after Hutchings went into the library, or before?”

“So you know that I saw Hutchings in the hall that night?” said Mr. Manley. “It’s wonderful how you find things out. I didn’t tell you, and I should have thought that I was the only person awake in the front part of the Castle. I suppose that some one saw him getting his cigarettes from the butler’s pantry.”

“So that was the reason he gave you for being in the Castle,” said Mr. Flexen. “Well, was it after or before you spoke to him that you heard Lord Loudwater snore?”

Mr. Manley hesitated, thinking; then he said: “I can’t remember at the moment. You see, I was downstairs some little time. I found an evening paper in the dining-room and looked through it there. I might have heard him from there.”

“You can’t remember?” said Mr. Flexen in a tone of disappointment.

“Not at the moment,” said Mr. Manley. “Is it important?”

“Yes; very important. It would probably help me to fix the time of Lord Loudwater’s death.”

“I see. A lot may turn on that,” said Mr. Manley thoughtfully.

“Yes. You can see how immensely it helps to have a fact like that fixed,” said Mr. Flexen.

“Yes: of course,” said Mr. Manley. “Well, I must try to remember. I daresay I shall, if I keep the fact in my mind gently, and do not try to wrench the recollection out of it. You know how hard it is to remember a thing, if it hasn’t caught your attention fairly when it happened.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Flexen. “But I hope to goodness you’ll remember it quickly. It may be of the greatest use to me.”

“Ah, yes; I must,” said Mr. Manley, giving him a queer look.

“I was forgetting,” said Mr. Flexen, understanding the thought behind the queer look. “You’d hardly believe it, Mr. Carrington, but Mr. Manley told me at the very beginning of this business that he was not going to help in any way to discover the murderer of Lord Loudwater, because he considered that murderer a benefactor of society.”

“But I never heard of such a thing!” cried the lawyer in a tone of astonished disapproval. “Such a course might be possible in the case of some minor crime, or in a person intimately connected with the criminal in the case of a major crime. But for an outsider to pursue such a course in the case of a murder is unheard of–absolutely unheard of.”

“I daresay it isn’t common,” said Mr. Manley in a tone of modest satisfaction. “But I am modern; I claim the right of private judgment in all matters of morality.”

“Oh, that won’t do–that won’t do at all!” cried the shocked lawyer. “There would be hopeless confusion–in fact, if everybody did that, the law might easily become a dead letter–absolutely a dead letter.”

“But there’s no fear of everybody doing anything of the kind. The ruck of men have no private judgment to claim the right of. They take whatever’s given them in the way of morals by their pastors and masters. Only exceptional people have ideas of their own to carry out; and there are not enough exceptional people to make much difference,” said Mr. Manley calmly.

“But, all the same, such principles are subversive of society–absolutely subversive of society,” said Mr. Carrington warmly, and his square, massive face was growing redder.

“I daresay,” said Mr. Manley amiably. “But if any one chooses to have them, and act on them, what are you going to do about it? For example, if I happened to know who had murdered Lord Loudwater and did not choose to tell, how could you make me?”

“If there were many people with such principles about, society would soon find out a way of protecting itself,” said the lawyer, in the accents of one whose tenderest sensibilities are being outraged.

“It would have to have recourse to torture then,” said Mr. Manley cheerfully.

“But let me remind you that it is a crime to be an accessory before, or after, the fact to murder,” said the lawyer in a tone of some triumph.

“Oh, I’m not going as far as that,” said Mr. Manley. “A man might very well approve of a murder without being willing to further it.”

Mr. Flexen laughed and said: “I understand Mr. Manley’s point of view. Sometimes I have felt inclined to be judge as well as investigator–especially in the East.”

“And you followed your inclination,” said Mr. Manley with amiable certainty.

“Perhaps–perhaps not,” said Mr. Flexen, smiling at him.

“The war has upset everything. I never heard such ideas before the war,” grumbled the lawyer.

There was a silence as Holloway brought in the coffee and cigars.

When he had gone, Mr. Flexen said in an almost fretful tone: “It’s an extraordinary thing that Lord Loudwater kept so few papers.”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Manley carelessly. “During the six months I’ve been here we were never stuck for want of a paper. He seemed to me to have kept all that were necessary.”

“It’s the destroying of his pass-books that seems so odd to me,” said the lawyer. “A man must often want to know how he spent his money in a given year.”

“I’m sure I never want to,” said Mr. Manley. “And certainly pass-books are unattractive-looking objects to have about.”

“All the same, they might have proved very useful in this case,” said Mr. Flexen. “Of course, they wouldn’t tell us anything we shall not find out eventually. But they might have saved us a lot of time and trouble. They might put us on to the track of another firm of lawyers who did certain business for Lord Loudwater.”

“Well, no one but Mr. Carrington’s firm did any business for him during the last six months,” said Mr. Manley, rising. “I feel inclined to take advantage of the moonlight and go for a stroll. So I will leave you to go on working on the murder. Good-bye for the present.”

He sauntered out of the room, and when the door closed behind him, the lawyer said earnestly: “I do hate a crank.”

The words came from his heart.

“Oh, I don’t think he’s a crank,” said Mr. Flexen in an indulgent tone. “He’s too intelligent; that’s all.”

“There’s nothing so dangerous as too much intelligence. It’s always a nuisance to other people,” said the lawyer. “Do you think he really knows anything?”

“He knows something–nothing of real importance, I think,” said Mr. Flexen. “But, as I expect you’ve noticed, he likes to feel himself of importance. And whatever knowledge he has helps him to feel important. It’s a harmless hobby. By the way, is there anything in the way of insanity in Lady Loudwater’s family?”

“No, I never heard of any, and I should have been almost certain to hear if there were any,” said the lawyer in some surprise.

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Flexen.

“By the way, how did you get on with the newspaper men?” said the lawyer.

“I put them in the way of making themselves very useful to me, and, at the same time, I gave them exactly the kind of thing they wanted. I think, too, that when they’ve run the story I gave them for all it’s worth, they’ll very likely drop the case–unless, that is, we’ve really got it cleared up. I was careful to point out to them that the verdict of the coroner’s jury was a piece of pig-headed idiocy, and they’ll see the unlikelihood of securing a conviction for murder with the medical evidence as it is, unless we have an absolutely clear case.”

“But, all the same, there’s going to be a tremendous fuss in the papers,” said Mr. Carrington, in the tone of dissatisfaction of the lawyer who is always doing his best to keep tremendous fusses out of the papers.

“Oh, yes. That was necessary. It’s out of that fuss that I hope to get the evidence which will settle once and for all, in my mind at any rate, the question whether Lord Loudwater was murdered or not.”

“But surely you haven’t any doubt about that?” said the lawyer sharply.

“Just a trifle, and I may as well get rid of it,” said Mr. Flexen.

Mr. Manley took his hat and stick and went leisurely out of the front door of the Castle. He paused on the steps for half a minute to admire the moonlit night and murmur a few lines from Keats. Then he strolled down the drive whistling the tune of an American coon song. But presently the whistle died on his lips as he considered Mr. Flexen’s keen desire to discover the other firm of lawyers who had done business for Lord Loudwater. He could not but think, when he put this keenness of Mr. Flexen beside Helena’s strange anxiety, that she had done something of which she had not told him, something that might have drawn suspicion on her. He did not see what she could have done; but there it was. He had a feeling, an intuition that it was she whom Mr. Flexen was seeking, and he prided himself on his intuition. Well, the longer they were finding Shepherd, the lawyer who had handled the business of her allowance, the better he would be pleased. He had certainly done his best to block their way. At the same time, they might at any moment learn who he was. It was fortunate, therefore, that Shepherd had a job in Mesopotamia, and that his business was closed down for the present. If they did learn who he was, they would still be a long while before they obtained any information about Helena from him. Mr. Manley’s keen desire was that the first excitement about the murder should have died down before they did get it. He was a firm believer in the soothing effect of time. The discovery of Helena’s allowance, if it were made now, might cause her considerable annoyance, if not actual trouble. Coming in six weeks’ time, or even a month’s time, it would be far less likely to make that trouble.

He wondered what it could be that she had done to bring herself under suspicion. Remembering what she had said of her determination to discuss the halving of her allowance with the dead man, and her remark that she had such a knowledge of his habits that she could make sure of having an interview with him to discuss it, it seemed not unlikely that she had gone to see him on the very night of his murder, and that some one had seen her. If it were so, he hoped that she would tell him, so that they might together devise some way of preventing harm coming from the accident that the interview had occurred at such an unfortunate hour. He felt sure that he would be able to devise such a way. He never blinked the fact of his extreme ingenuity.

He found her strolling in her garden with the anxious frown which had awakened his uneasiness, still on her brow. Her face grew brighter at the sight of him, and presently he had smoothed the frown quite away. Again he realized that the murder of Lord Loudwater had had a softening effect on her. Before it they had been much more on equality; now she rather clung to him. He found it pleasing, much more the natural attitude of a woman towards a man of his imagination and knowledge of life. He was properly gracious and protective with her.

The next morning the _Daily Wire_ opened his eyes and confirmed his apprehensions. The murder of a nobleman is an uncommon occurrence, and the editor of that paper showed every intention of making the most of it. The visit of the unknown woman to Lord Loudwater and their quarrel, treated with the nervous picturesqueness of which Mr. Gregg was so famous a master, formed the main and interesting part of the article. When he came to the end of it, Mr. Manley whistled ruefully. He had no difficulty whatever in picturing to himself the indignant and violent wrath of Helena, and he could not conceive for a moment that Lord Loudwater had been able to withstand it. Of course, he would be violent, too, but with a much less impressive violence.

Lord Loudwater had been lavish in the matter of newspapers; he was a rich man, and they had been his only reading. Mr. Manley read the report of the inquest in all the chief London dailies, and found in the _Daily Planet_ another nervously picturesque article on the visit of the mysterious woman from the nervously picturesque pen of Mr. Douglas.

Here was certainly a pretty kettle of fish. He could not doubt that the woman was Helena. It explained Flexen’s questioning him whether he had any knowledge of an entanglement between Lord Loudwater and a woman, and Flexen’s keen desire to find some other firm of lawyers who might have been called in to deal with such an entanglement. But he could not for a moment bring himself to believe that there could have ever been any need for Helena to have recourse to the knife. He could not see Lord Loudwater resisting her when she became really angry; he must have given way. None the less, he did not underestimate the awkwardness, the danger even, of her having paid that visit and had that quarrel at such an unfortunate hour.

He had matter enough for earnest thought during the funeral. It was a large funeral, though there were not many funeral guests. Five ladies, an aunt and four cousins, of Lord Loudwater’s own generation, came down from London. The younger generation was either on its way back from the war, or too busy with its work to find the time to attend the funeral of a distant relation, whom, if they had chanced to meet him, they neither liked nor respected. But there was a show of carriages from all the big houses within a radius of nine miles, which more than made up for the fewness of the guests. Also, there was a crowd of middle- and lower-class spectators who considered the funeral of a murdered nobleman a spectacle indeed worth attending. It was composed of women, children, old men, and a few wounded private soldiers.

Olivia attended the funeral, wearing a composed but rather pathetic air, owing to the fact that her brow was most of the time knitted in a pondering, troubled frown. Lady Croxley, Lord Loudwater’s aged aunt, rode with her in the first coach. She was a loquacious soul, and whiled away the journey to and from the church, which is over a mile from the Castle, with a panegyric on her dead nephew, and an astonished dissertation on the strange fact that Olivia had not had a woman with her during this sad time. She ascribed her abstinence from this stimulant to her desire to be alone with her grief. Olivia encouraged her harmless babble by a vague murmur at the right points, and continued to look pathetic. It was all her aunt by marriage needed, and it left Olivia free to think her own thoughts. She gave but few of them to her dead husband; the living claimed her attention.

Mr. Manley wore an air of gloom far deeper than his sense of the fitness of things would in the ordinary course of events have demanded. It was the result of the nervously picturesque English which had flowed with such ease from the forceful pens of Mr. Douglas and Mr. Gregg. Mr. Carrington, who rode with him, and from attending the funerals of many clients had acquired as good a funeral air as any man in his profession, found his gloom exaggerated. He was all the more scandalized, therefore, when, as they were nearing the Castle, Mr. Manley suddenly cried, “By Jove!” and rubbed his hands together with a face uncommonly radiant.

He had had the cheering thought that he had the Loudwater case, if ever it should come to a trial, wholly in his hands. He had but to remember having heard Lord Loudwater snore at, say, a few minutes to twelve, to break it down. He did not conceive that he would encounter any difficulty in remembering that if it should be necessary.

The solemnity of the funeral and Mr. Carrington’s conversation in the coach–he had talked about the weather–had not weakened his resolve that, if he could help it, no one should swing for the murder.

This realization of his position of vantage made him eager to go to Helena to set her mind at rest, should she, as he thought most likely, be greatly troubled by the fact that her untimely visit to the murdered man was known. But he had to lunch at the Castle with the funeral guests. They were interested beyond measure in the murder and full of questions. He talked to them with a darkly mysterious air, and made a deep impression of discreet sagacity on their simple minds. He observed that Olivia appeared to have been afflicted more deeply by the funeral than he had expected. She looked harassed and seemed to find the lunch rather a strain. He observed also that she did not, as did her guests, who were so slightly acquainted with him, pay any tribute to the character of her dead husband.

Mr. Flexen was not lunching with them. He had spent an expectant morning waiting for the local effects of the story in the _Wire_ and _Planet_, and in having that story spread far and wide by Inspector Perkins and his two men among the villagers, who only saw a paper in the public-houses of the neighbourhood on a Sunday. He hoped, if it had been a local affair, to have information about it in the course of the day. Up to lunchtime the newspaper advertisement of the mysterious woman had proved as fruitless as the earlier private inquiries. But he remained hopeful.

It was past three before Mr. Manley escaped from the funeral guests and betook himself at a brisk pace to Helena’s house. As he went he made up his mind that the quality most fitting the occasion was discretion. He had better not let it appear that he was sure that she was the mysterious woman of the _Daily Wire._ He must make his announcement that, in the event of any one being brought to trial for the murder of Lord Loudwater, his evidence could break down any case for the prosecution, and that he would see that it did break it down, appear as casual as possible. But, at the same time, he must make it quite clear to her that he could secure her safety. He felt that though she might think his firm resolve that no one should swing for the murder quixotic, she would perceive that it was only in keeping with his generous nature.

He had expected to find her much more disturbed by the nervously picturesque articles of Mr. Gregg and Mr. Douglas than she appeared. Indeed, she seemed to him much less under a strain, much less nervous than she had been the night before. None the less, he was careful to reassure her wholly by the announcement of his discovery of the important nature of the evidence he could give, before he said anything about those articles. When he did tell her that he could break down any case for the prosecution, she did not at once confess that she was the woman of whose visit to Lord Loudwater those stories told; they did not even discuss the question, which had seemed so important to the _Daily Wire_, who that woman was. They contented themselves with discussing the question who could have seen her. He admired her spirit in not telling him, her readiness to forgo his comfort and support before the absolute need for them was upon her. Her force of character was what he most admired in her, and this was a striking example of it. His own character, he knew, was rather subtile and delicate than strong. He was more than ever alive to the advantage of having her to lean upon in the difficult career that lay before him.

Mr. Flexen was disappointed that the advertisement of the mysterious woman in the _Wire_ and the _Planet_ brought no information about her during the morning. After lunch Mr. Carrington returned to London. At half-past three Mr. Flexen telegraphed to Scotland Yard to ask if any one had given them information about the woman he was seeking. No one had. Then he realized that he was unreasonably impatient. Whoever had the information would probably think the matter over, and perhaps confer with friends before coming forward. In the meantime, he would make inquiries of James Hutchings.

He drove to the gamekeeper’s cottage to find James Hutchings sitting on a chair outside it and reading the _Planet_. He perceived that he looked puzzled. Also, he perceived that he still wore a strained, hunted air, more strained and hunted by far than at their last talk.

He walked briskly up to him and said: “Good afternoon. I see that you’re reading the story of Lord Loudwater’s murder in the _Planet_. It occurred to me that you might very likely be able to tell me who the lady who visited Lord Loudwater on the night of his murder was. At any rate, you can probably make a guess at who she was.”

Hutchings shook his head and said gloomily: “No, sir, I can’t. I don’t know who it was and I can’t guess. I wish I could. I’d tell you like a shot.”

“That’s odd,” said Mr. Flexen, again disappointed. “I should have thought it impossible for your master to have been on intimate terms with a lady without your coming to hear of it. You’ve always been his butler.”

“Yes, sir. But this is the kind of thing as a valet gets to know about more than a butler–letters left about, or in pockets, you know, sir. But his lordship never could keep a valet long enough for him to learn anything. He was worse with valets than with any one.”

“I see,” said Mr. Flexen in a vexed tone. “But still, I should have thought you’d have heard something from some one, even if the matter had not come under your own eyes. Gossip moves pretty widely about the countryside.”

“Oh, this didn’t happen in the country, sir–not in this part of the country, anyhow. It must have been a London woman,” said Hutchings with conviction. “If she’d lived about here, I must have heard about it.”

“It was a lady, you must know. The papers do not bring that fact out. My informant is quite sure that it was a lady,” said Mr. Flexen.

“That’s no ‘elp, sir,” said Hutchings despondently. “She must have come down by train and gone away by train.”

“She would have probably been noticed at the station. But she wasn’t. Besides, she could not have walked back to the station in time to catch the last train. I’m sure of it.”

“Then she must have come in a car, sir.”

“That is always possible,” said Mr. Flexen.

There was a pause.

Then Hutchings burst out: “You may depend on it that she did it, sir. There isn’t a shadow of a doubt. You get her and you’ll get the murderess.”

He spoke with the feverish, unbalanced vehemence of a man whose nerves are on edge.

“You think so, do you?” said Mr. Flexen.

“I’m sure of it–dead certain,” cried Hutchings.

“It’s a long way from visiting a gentleman late at night and quarrelling with him to murdering him,” said Mr. Flexen.

“And she went it. You mark my words, sir. She went it. I don’t say that she came to do it. But she saw that knife lying handy on the library table and she did it,” said Hutchings with the same vehemence.

“Any one who passed through the library would see that knife,” said Mr. Flexen carelessly, but his eyes were very keen on Hutchings’ face.

Hutchings was pale, and he went paler. He tried to stammer something, but his voice died in his throat.

“Well, I’m sorry you can’t give me any information about this lady. Good afternoon,” said Mr. Flexen, and he turned on his heel and went back to the car.

He was impressed by Hutchings’ air and manner. Of course, believing himself to be suspected, the man was under a strain. But would the strain on him be so heavy as it plainly was, if he knew himself to be innocent? And then his eagerness to fasten the crime on the mysterious woman. It had been astonishingly intense, almost hysterical.

When he reached the Castle he found Inspector Perkins awaiting him with a small package which had come by special messenger from Scotland Yard. It contained enlarged photographs of the fingerprints on the handle of the knife. They were all curiously blurred.

_The murderer had worn a glove._

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Flexen studied the photographs and the report which stated this fact with a lively interest and a growing sense of its great importance. For one thing, it settled the question of suicide for good and all. Lord Loudwater had worn no glove.

Also, it strengthened the case against the mysterious woman. She had come, apparently, from a distance, and probably in a motor-car. If she had driven herself down, she would be wearing gloves. Also, only a woman would be likely to be wearing gloves on a warm summer night. Indeed, coming from a distance by train, or car, she would certainly wear gloves. She would not dream of coming to an interview, with a man with whom she had been intimate and whom she wished to bend to her will, with hands dirtied by a journey.

If that gloved hand had not been the hand of the mysterious woman, then the murder had been premeditated, and the murderer or murderess had put on gloves with the deliberate purpose of leaving no finger-prints.

It _was_ the woman. In all probability it was the woman.

Then Mr. Flexen’s sub-conscious mind began to jog his intellect. Somewhere in his memory there was a fact he had noted about gloves, and that fact was now important in its bearing on the case. He set about trying to recall it to his mind. He was not long about it. Of a sudden he remembered that he had been a trifle surprised to perceive that Colonel Grey had been carrying gloves when he had found him in the rose-garden with Lady Loudwater.

His surprise had passed quickly enough. He had decided that the life in the trenches had not weakened Colonel Grey’s habit, as a fastidious man about town, of taking care of his hands. He remembered, too, that at his first interview with him he had observed that his hands were uncommonly well shaped and well kept.

He did not suppose that Colonel Grey had come to the Castle on the night of the murder wearing gloves with the deliberate intention of killing Lord Loudwater without leaving finger-prints. But suppose that, as he came away from a distressing interview with Lady Loudwater, the knife on the library table had caught his eye and his gloves had been in his pocket?

Mr. Flexen took out his pipe, lit it, and moved to an easy-chair to let his brain work more easily. He tabulated his facts.

Colonel Grey had gone through the library window at about twenty minutes past ten.

Hutchings had gone through the library window at half-past ten.

The mysterious woman had gone through the library window at about ten minutes to eleven.

She came out of the library window at about a quarter-past eleven after a violent quarrel with Lord Loudwater.

Colonel Grey came out of the library window at about twenty-five minutes past eleven, after a distressing interview with Lady Loudwater, apparently in a very bad temper.

James Hutchings had come out of the library window at about half-past eleven, also, if William Roper might be believed, furious.

Lady Loudwater had come through the library window at a quarter to twelve, and gone back through it at five minutes to twelve.

Each of the last three had passed within fifteen feet of Lord Loudwater, dead or alive, both on entering and on coming out of the Castle. The mysterious woman had actually been in the smoking-room with him.

If Lady Loudwater’s statement that she heard her husband snoring at five minutes to twelve were to be accepted, neither Colonel Grey, Hutchings, nor the mysterious woman could have committed the murder–unless always one of them had returned later and committed it. That possibility must be borne in mind.

But Mr. Flexen did not accept her statement. If he were to accept it, she herself at once became the most likely person to have committed the crime. It was always possible that she had. She certainly had the best reasons of any one, as far as he knew, for committing it.

The evidence of Mr. Manley about the time at which he heard Lord Loudwater snore was of the first importance. But how to get it out of him? Mr. Flexen had a strong feeling that not only would Mr. Manley afford no help to bring the murderer of Lord Loudwater to justice, but, that owing to the vein of Quixotry in his nature, he was capable of helping the murderer to escape. That he could do. He had only to declare that he heard Lord Loudwater snore at twelve o’clock to break down the case against any one of the four persons between whom the crime obviously lay. Mr. Flexen had a shrewd suspicion that Mr. Manley would fail to remember at what time he had last heard Lord Loudwater’s snores till the police had set about securing the conviction of one of the possible murderers. Then, when the case of the police against the murderer was revealed, he would come forward and break it down. He had decided that Mr. Manley was a sentimentalist, and he knew well the difficulty of dealing with sentimentalists. Moreover, Mr. Manley was animated by a grudge against the murdered man. Mr. Flexen could quite conceive that he might presently be regarding perjury as a duty; he had had experience of the queer way in which the mind of the sentimentalist works.

It appeared to him that everything depended on his finding the mysterious woman.

That afternoon Elizabeth Twitcher determined to go to see James Hutchings. She had not seen him since their interview on the night of the murder. In the ordinary course she would not have dreamt of going to him after that interview, for it had left them on such a footing that further advances, repentant advances, must come from him. But there were pressing reasons why she should not wait for him to make the advances which he would in ordinary circumstances have made after his sulkiness had abated. All her fellow-servants and all the villagers, who were not members of the Hutchings family, were assured that he had murdered Lord Loudwater. Three of the maids, who were jealous of her greater prettiness, had with ill-dissembled spitefulness congratulated her on having dismissed him before the murder; her mother had also congratulated her on that fact. Elizabeth Twitcher was the last girl in the world to desert a man in misfortune, and, considering James Hutchings’ temper, she could only consider the murder a misfortune. Besides, she had been very fond of him; she was very fond of him still, and the fact that he was in great trouble was making him dearer to her.

Moreover, every one who spoke to her about him told her that he was looking miserable beyond words. Her heart went out to him.

None the less, she did not go to see him without a struggle. She felt that he ought to come to her. However, her pride had been beaten in that struggle by her fondness and her pity–even more by her pity.

When she knocked at the door of his father’s cottage James Hutchings himself opened it, and his harassed, hang-dog air settled in her mind for good and all the question of his guilt. She was not daunted; indeed, a sudden anger against Lord Loudwater for having brought about his own murder flamed up in her. Like every one else who had known him, she could feel no pity for him.

James Hutchings showed no pleasure whatever at the sight of her. Indeed, he scowled at her.

“Come to gloat over me, have you?” he growled bitterly.

“Don’t be silly!” she said sharply. “What should I want to do a thing like that for? Is your father in?”

“No; he isn’t,” said James Hutchings sulkily, but his eyes gazed at her hungrily.

He showed no intention of inviting her to enter. Therefore she pushed past him, walked across the kitchen, sat down in the window-seat, and surveyed him.

He shut the door, turned, and gazed at her, scowling uncertainly.

Then she said gently: “You’re looking very poorly, Jim.”

“I didn’t think you’d be the one to tell of my being in the Castle that night!” he cried bitterly.

“It wasn’t me,” she said quietly. “It was that little beast, Jane Pittaway. She heard us talking in the drawing-room.”

“Oh, that was it, was it?” he said more gently. Then, scowling again, he cried fiercely:

“I’ll wring her neck!”

“That’s enough of that!” she said sharply. “You’ve talked a lot too much about wringing people’s necks. And a lot of good it’s done you.”

“Oh, I know you believe I did it, just like everybody else. But I tell you I didn’t. I swear I didn’t!” he cried loudly, with a vehemence which did not convince her.

“Of course you didn’t,” she said in a soothing voice. “But what are you going to do if they try to make out that you did? What are you going to tell them?”

He gazed at her with miserable eyes and said in a miserable voice: “God knows what I’m to tell them. It isn’t a matter of telling them. It’s how to make ’em believe it. These people never believe anything; the police never do.”

She gazed at him thoughtfully, with eyes compassionate and full of tenderness. They were a balm to his unhappy spirit.

The hardness slowly vanished from his face. It became merely troubled. He walked quickly across the room, dropped into the seat beside her and put an arm round her.

“You’re a damned sight too good for me, Lizzie,” he said in a gentler voice than she had ever heard him use before, and he kissed her.

“Poor Jim!” she said. And again: “Poor Jim!”

He trembled, breathing quickly, and held her tight.

After a while he regained control of himself, and sat upright. But he still held her tightly to him with his right arm.

They began to discuss his plight and how he might best defend himself. She was fully as fearful as he. But she did not show it. She must cheer him up, and she kept insisting that the police could not fix the murder on him, that they had nothing to go upon. If they had, they would have already arrested him. Certainly they knew what the servants and the village people were saying. But that was just talk. There wasn’t any evidence; there couldn’t be any evidence.

Her support and encouragement put a new spirit into him. He had been so alone against the world. His own family, though they had loudly and fiercely protested his innocence to their friends and enemies in the village, had not expressed this faith in him to him.

Indeed, his father had expressed their real belief, when he said to him gloomily: “I always told you that damned temper of yours would get you into trouble, Jim.”

Then Elizabeth gave him his tea. After it they talked calmly with an actual approach to cheerfulness till it was time for her to return to the Castle to dress Olivia’s hair for dinner. Then she would have it that he should escort her back to the Castle. She declared, truly enough, that he was doing himself no good by moping at the cottage, that people would say that he dare not show himself. He _must_ hold his head up.

She insisted also that they should take the long way round, through the village; that people should see them together. She insisted that he should look cheerful, and talk to her all the length of the village street. The looking cheerful helped to lighten his spirit yet more. As they went through the village she kept looking up at him in an affectionate fashion and smiling.

The village was, indeed, taken aback. It had made up its mind that James Hutchings was a pariah to be shunned. It was not only taken aback, it was annoyed. It had no wish that its belief that James Hutchings had murdered Lord Loudwater should be in any way unsettled.

Mrs. Roper, the mother of William Roper and a lifelong enemy of the Hutchings family, summed up the feeling of her neighbours about the behaviour of James Hutchings and Elizabeth.

“Brazen, I call it,” she said bitterly.

Before they reached the Castle, Elizabeth had come to feel that during the last three days James Hutchings had changed greatly, and for the better. She had an odd fancy that murdering his master had improved his character; the fear of the police had softened him. Not once did he try to domineer over her. That domineering had been the source of their not infrequent quarrels, for she was not at all of a temper to endure it.

Olivia and Grey had again spent their afternoon in the pavilion in the East wood. Their bearing at times had been oddly like that of Elizabeth and James Hutchings. Now and again they had lapsed from their absorption in one another into a like fearfulness. But, unlike Elizabeth and James Hutchings, neither of them said a word about the murder of Lord Loudwater. But both of them seemed a little less under a strain than they had been. This new factor of a quarrel with an unknown woman seemed to open a loophole. Olivia’s colouring had lost some of its warmth; the contours of her face were less rounded. Grey had manifestly taken a step backwards in his convalescence; his face was thinner, even a little haggard; there was a somewhat strained watchfulness in his eyes.

They could not tear themselves away from the pavilion till the last moment, and he walked back with her as far as the shrubbery on the edge of the East lawn, and there they parted after she had promised to meet him there that evening at nine.

As Olivia came into her sitting-room Elizabeth and James Hatchings came to the back door of the Castle. She did not say good-bye at once; of set purpose, she lingered talking to him that the other servants might understand clearly that her attitude to him was definitely fixed.

But at last she held out her hand and said: “I must be getting along to her ladyship, or she’ll be waiting for me.”

James Hutchings looked round, considered the coast sufficiently clear, caught her to him, kissed her, and said huskily: “You’re just a ministering angel, Lizzie, and there’s more sense in your little finger than in all my fat head. I’m feeling a different man, and I’ll baulk them yet.”

“Of course you will, Jim,” said Elizabeth, and she opened the door.

“Lord, how I wish I was coming in with you–back in my old place! I should be seeing you most of the time,” he said wistfully.

Elizabeth stopped short, flushing, and looked at him with suddenly excited eyes.

At his words a great thought had come into her mind.

“Wait a minute, Jim. Wait till I come back,” she said somewhat breathlessly, and, leaving the door open, she hurried down the passage.

She hurried up to her room, took off her hat, and hurried to Olivia. She found her in her sitting-room looking through an evening paper to learn if any new fact about the murder had come to light.

“If you please, your ladyship, James Hutchings has come to ask if your ladyship would like him to come back for the time being till you’ve got suited with another butler,” said Elizabeth in a rather breathless voice.

Olivia looked at Elizabeth’s flushed, excited and hopeful face, and smiled.

“Why, have you and James made it up, Elizabeth?” she said.

“Yes, m’lady,” said Elizabeth, and the flush deepened in her cheeks.

“Then go and tell him to come back, by all means,” said Olivia.

“Thank you, m’lady,” said Elizabeth, in accents of profound gratitude, and she ran out of the room.

Olivia smiled and then she sighed. It was pleasant to have given Elizabeth such obviously keen pleasure. She never dreamed that Elizabeth and James Hutchings were under the same strain of fear and anxiety as she herself, and that she had given them great help in their trouble, for Elizabeth saw that the return of James Hutchings to his situation would give the wagging tongues full pause.

James Hutchings was dumbfounded on receiving the message. He stared at Elizabeth with his mouth open.

“Be quick, Jim. Get your clothes and be back in time to wait on her ladyship at dinner,” said Elizabeth.

James Hutchings came out of his stupor.

“Why, L-L-Lizzie, you must let me p-p-put up our b-b-banns tomorrow,” he stammered.

“Be off!” said Elizabeth, stamping her foot. “We can talk about that later.”

When she came from her bath Olivia sent Elizabeth to tell Holloway that she would dine with Mr. Flexen and Mr. Manley that evening. She had a sudden desire to see more of Mr. Flexen, to weigh him as an antagonist.

Mr. Flexen was somewhat surprised to receive the information; then, considering the terms on which Olivia had been with her husband, he found her action natural enough. After all, she was not a woman of the middle class, bound to make a pretence of grieving for a wholly unamiable bully. Also, he was pleased: to dine with so charming a creature as Olivia would be pleasant and stimulating. In the course of the evening his wits might rise to the solution of his problem. Moreover, it would be odd if he did not gain a further, valuable insight into her character.

He was yet more surprised to find James Hutchings, still rather pale and haggard, but quite cool and master of himself, superintending the waiting of Wilkins and Holloway at dinner. Also, he liked the way in which he spoke to Olivia and looked at her. To Mr. Flexen, James Hutchings had the air of the authentic faithful dog. He was inclined to a better opinion of him.

Plainly, too, Olivia had learned that tongues were wagging against him, and had taken this way of checking them. It was a generous act. At the same time, he could very well believe that Olivia might, unconsciously of course, be on the side of the murderer of such a husband.

Thanks to Mr. Manley’s invaluable sense of what was fitting, there was no constraint about the dinner. He had decided that they were three people of the world dining together, and the fact that there had been a murder in the house three days before and a funeral in the morning should not be allowed to impair their proper nonchalance. At the same time, decorum must be preserved; there must be no laughter.

Accordingly he took the conversation in hand, and kept it in hand. Mr. Flexen was somewhat astonished at the ability with which he did it; now and again he felt as if, personally, he were performing feats on the loose wire, but that, thanks to Mr. Manley, he was not going to fall off. They talked of the usual subjects on which people who have not a large circle of common acquaintances fall back. They all three abused the politicians with perfect sympathy; they abused the British drama with perfect sympathy; with no less perfect sympathy they abused the Cubists and the Vorticists and the New Poets. Mr. Flexen had an odd feeling that they were behaving with entire naturalness and propriety; that their real interest was in the politicians, the British drama, the Cubists, the Vorticists and the New Poets, and not at all in the fate of the murderer of the late Lord Loudwater. After a while he found himself vying earnestly with Mr. Manley in an effort to display himself as a man of at least equal insight and intelligence.

Olivia did not talk much herself. She never did. But she displayed a quickness of understanding and soundness of judgment which stimulated them. All the while she was watching and weighing Mr. Flexen. He never once perceived it. Plainly enough, the talk did her good. She had come to dinner looking, Mr. Flexen thought, rather under the water. Before long she was looking, as she had resolved to look, her usual self. When, at a few minutes to nine, she left them, she was looking the most charming and sympathetic creature in the world, and, what was more, a creature without a care.

When the door closed behind her, she seemed to have taken with her a good deal of the brightness of the room. Mr. Flexen dropped back into his chair and frowned. In the silence which fell he wondered. Plainly she was free enough from care now.

“But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire–“

Then Mr. Manley said, in a tone almost insolent: “If you think she murdered that red-eyed bull in a china shop, you’re wrong. She didn’t.”

Mr. Flexen did not resent his tone. Indeed, before he could speak, it flashed on him that if she had done so, and Justice was depending on him himself to bring her to it, it was depending on a somewhat frail reed. He liked Mr. Manley for his readiness to fight for her cause.

He laughed gently and said: “I wasn’t thinking so. I was only wondering.” Then his eyes on Mr. Manley’s face turned very keen, and he said: “I believe you know a good deal more about the affair than I do, if you liked to speak.”

It seemed to him that for a moment Mr. Manley’s desire to make himself valued struggled with his desire to be accurate.

Then the young man shook his head and said in a tone of surprise: “But what nonsense! You know so much more about it than I do. Why, you must have all the threads in your hands by now. I never even dreamt of the _Daily Wire’s_ mysterious woman.”

“Not quite all–yet. But they’re coming all right,” said Mr. Flexen, with a confidence he was far from feeling.

James Hutchings, coming into the room to fetch cigarettes for Olivia, interrupted them.

“I’m glad to see you back again, Hutchings,” said Mr. Manley in a tone of hearty congratulation. “Your going away for a trifle after all the years you’ve been here was a silly business.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hutchings gratefully.

When Hutchings had gone, Mr. Flexen said: “It’s all very well your talking, but it was you who suggested that Lady Loudwater was a woman of strong primitive emotions with a strain of Italian blood in her.”

“I never suggested for a moment that she was a woman of _primitive_ emotions,” Mr. Manley protested with some vehemence.

“But the emotions of all women are primitive,” said Mr. Flexen.

“Not the emotion excited in them by beauty,” said Mr. Manley with chivalrous warmth. “And, hang it all! Does she look like a woman to commit murder?”

“Not on her own account, certainly,” said Mr. Flexen.

“And on whose account should she commit murder?” cried Mr. Manley.

Mr. Flexen shrugged his shoulders.

“I said you knew ten times as much about the business as I do,” said Mr. Manley in a tone of triumph.

CHAPTER XIV

Mr. Flexen awoke next morning hopeful of news of the mysterious woman. But the letters addressed to him at the Castle and those brought over from the office of the Chief Constable at Low Wycombe brought none. After breakfast, still hopeful, he telephoned to Scotland Yard. No information had reached it.

He perceived clearly that the case was at a deadlock till he had that information. He was sure that it would come sooner or later, possibly from the neighbourhood, more probably from London. It was always possible that Mr. Carrington might discover that some other lawyer had handled an entanglement for Lord Loudwater. In the meantime, his work at the Castle was done. He had exhausted its possibilities. There was no reason why he should not return to his rooms at Low Wycombe. After having conferred with Inspector Perkins, he decided to leave one of the two detectives to continue making inquiries in the neighbourhood. He told James Hutchings that he would like his clothes packed, and went to the rose-garden to taken his leave of Olivia and thank her for her hospitality.

He found her looking very charming in a light summer frock of white lace with a few black bows set about it, and he thought that she seemed less under a strain than she had seemed the day before. He told her that he was returning to Low Wycombe; she expressed regret at his going, and thanked him for his efforts to clear up the matter of Lord Loudwater’s death. They parted on the friendliest terms.

As he came away, Mr. Flexen thought it significant that, though she had thanked him for his efforts, she had made no inquiry about the result of them. It might be that she dreaded to hear that they were on the way to be successful.

He observed that James Hutchings, who watched over his actual departure, seemed less pale and haggard than he had been the night before. He could well believe that he was glad to see him going without having had him arrested.

As he drove through the park he told himself that Lady Loudwater and Mr. Manley between them would probably break down any case the police might bring against any one but the mysterious woman, and they might break down that. For his part, he was not going to give much time or attention to it till the mysterious woman had been discovered, and he did not think that he would be urged by Headquarters to do so after he had sent in his report, for, mindful of what he had told them of the unsatisfactory nature of Dr. Thornhill’s evidence, Mr. Gregg in the _Daily Wire_ and Mr. Douglas on the _Daily Planet_ were dealing with the case in a half-hearted manner, though they were still clamouring with some vivacity for the mysterious woman.

As Mr. Flexen came out of the park gates he met William Roper on the edge of the West wood, stopped the car, and walked a few yards down the road to talk to him out of hearing of the chauffeur.

“I gather that you haven’t told any one of what you saw on the night of Lord Loudwater’s death; or I should have heard of it,” he said.

“Not a word, I haven’t,” said William Roper.

“That’s good,” said Mr. Flexen in a tone of warm approval. “It might spoil everything to put people on their guard.”

He was more strongly than ever resolved to prevent, if he could, the gamekeeper from setting afoot a scandal about Lady Loudwater which could be of no service to the police or any one else.

“Everybody says as James Hutchings did it, sir,” said William Roper.

“H’m! And what do they say about the mysterious lady the papers are talking about–the lady you saw?”

“Oh, they don’t pay no ‘eed to ‘er–not about ‘ere, sir. They know Jim Hutchings,” said William Roper contemptuously.

“I see,” said Mr. Flexen.

“‘Er ladyship and Colonel Grey, they still spends a lot of their time in the East wood pavilion. But now ‘er ladyship’s a widder, it’s nobody’s business but their own, I reckon,” said William Roper.

“Of course not, of course not,” said Mr. Flexen quickly, pleased to find that the ferret-faced gamekeeper attached so little importance to it. “I suppose people about here see that.”

“They don’t know about it. Nobody knows about it but me, and I don’t tell everything I sees unless there’s something to be got by it. A still tongue makes a wise ‘ead, I say,” said William Roper, with a somewhat vainglorious air.

“Quite right–quite right,” said Mr. Flexen heartily. “Many a man’s tongue has lost him a good job.”

“You’re right there, sir. But not me it won’t,” said William Roper with emphasis.

“I can see that. You’ve too much sense. Well, I shall keep in touch with you, and when the time comes you’ll be called on. Drink my health. Good day,” said Mr. Flexen, giving him half-a-crown.

He walked back to the car, pleased to have done Olivia the service of closing William Roper’s mouth, at any rate for a time. He would talk, of course, sooner or later, probably sooner. But he might have closed his mouth for a fortnight.

William Roper walked on to the village and went into the “Bull and Gate.” The village was simmering in a very lively fashion. The return of James Hutchings to his situation at the Castle was a fact with which it could not grapple easily. It was bewildered and annoyed.

William Roper had not, as he had assured Mr. Flexen, told what he had seen on the night of the murder of Lord Loudwater, but he had been dropping hints. He dropped more. He was a supporter of the theory that James Hutchings was the murderer because he desired to oust the father of James Hutchings from his post as head-gamekeeper. That was the reason also of his belief in James Hutchings’ guilt. He was beginning to enjoy the interest he awakened as the storehouse of undivulged knowledge. When Mr. Flexen had supposed that he would remain silent for a fortnight, he had overestimated both his modesty and his reticence.

Later in the day the village was further upset by the behaviour of James Hutchings himself. He came into the “Bull and Gate” with an easy air, showed himself but little more civil than usual, and told the landlord that he had just arranged that the parson should publish the banns of his marriage with Elizabeth Twitcher on the following Sunday. The village was staggered. This was not the way in which it expected a man who would presently be tried and hanged for murder to behave.

In all fairness to James Hutchings, it must be said that he would not have acted with this decision of his own accord. Elizabeth had bidden him to it, urging that a bold front was half the battle. However grave her own doubts of his innocence might be, she was resolved that such doubts should, if possible, be banished from the minds of other people. Under her influence he was already becoming his old self as far as looks went. A shade of his usual ruddiness had come back; he was losing his haggardness.

With the going of Mr. Flexen there came a lull. His departure was a relief to Olivia, to Colonel Grey, and to James Hutchings. Doubtless he was still working on the case; but, working at a distance, he seemed less of a menace. All three of them seemed less under a strain. Olivia and Grey spent their hours together in a less feverish eagerness to make the most of them.

Even Helena Truslove, when Mr. Manley told her that Mr. Flexen had left the Castle, said that she was very pleased to hear it. She looked very pleased. Mr. Manley’s sense of what was fitting restrained him from asking her the reason of this pleasure. He had, indeed, no great desire to hear the reason of it from her own lips. It was enough for him to guess that she was the mysterious woman. He felt no need of her full confidence.

The Castle seemed to be settling down to its old round, the quieter for the loss of Lord Loudwater. His heir in Mesopotamia had been informed of his death by cable. But no cable in reply had come from him. Mr. Manley remained at the Castle as secretary to Olivia, who was making preparations leisurely to leave it and settle down in a flat in London. Colonel Grey was recovering from his wound with a passable quickness. James Hutchings had come to look very much his old self. Thanks to the shock he had had and thanks to Elizabeth, he wore a more subdued air, and was much more amiable with his fellow-servants.

The _Daily Wire_, the _Daily Planet_, and the rest of the newspapers had let the Loudwater mystery slip quietly out of their columns. Mr. Flexen was waiting with quiet expectation for information about the unknown woman. Since the advertisement the papers had given her had failed to produce that information he had a London detective working on the life in London, before his marriage, of the murdered man. Mr. Carrington had found nothing among Lord Loudwater’s papers in the office of his firm to throw any light on the matter.

The chief actors in the affair regarded the quiet turn it had taken with a timorous satisfaction. Not so William Roper; William Roper was thoroughly dissatisfied. He had been willing enough to hold his tongue, because by so doing his unexpected and damning appearance at the trial would be the more dramatic and impressive. But he was impatient to make that appearance, and chafed at the delay. Also, his prestige was waning. The village was losing interest in the mystery, and it no longer looked to him to drop hints as the holder of the secret. That did not prevent him from dropping them. He would bring up the subject of the murder in order to drop them. His acquaintances who wished now to talk about other things found this practice tiresome. They did not hide this feeling. Matters came to a climax one evening in the bar of the “Bull and Gate.”

William Roper dragged the subject of the murder into a conversation on the high price of groceries, and then, as usual, hinted at the things he could say and he would.

John Pittaway, who had been leading the conversation about the high price of groceries, turned on him and said with asperity: “I don’t believe as there’s anything you can tell us as we don’t know, or you’d ‘ave told it afore this fast enough, William Roper.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking this long time,” said old Bob Carter, who had for over forty years made a point of agreeing with the most disagreeable person at the moment in the bar of the “Bull and Gate.”

“Isn’t there? You wait an’ see. You wait till the trial,” said William Roper.

“Trial? There won’t be no trial. ‘Oo’s a goin’ to be tried? They ain’t agoin’ to try Jim ‘Utchings. It’s plain that ‘er ladyship ‘as set ‘er face against that. And, wot’s more, they can’t ‘ave much to try ‘im on, or they’d ‘ave to do it, in spite o’ wot she said,” said John Pittaway in yet more disagreeable accents.

William Roper was very angry. This was not to be borne. Indeed, if John Pittaway were right, and there was to be no trial, where was his dramatic and impressive appearance at it? He had better be dramatic and impressive now.

“Who said as they were goin’ to try Jim ‘Utchings? I never did,” he growled. “There was other people went to the Castle that night besides Jim ‘Utchings, and that mysterierse woman the papers talked about.”

“An’ ‘ow do you know?” said John Pittaway in a tone of most disagreeable incredulity.

“I know because I seed ’em,” said William Roper.

“Saw ‘oo?” said John Pittaway.

Then the whole story he had told Mr. Flexen burst forth from William Roper’s overcharged bosom, the story with the embellishments natural to the lapse of time since its first telling. No less naturally in the course of the discussion which followed, he told also the story of the luckless kiss in the East wood, and the landlord pounced on that as the cause of the quarrel between Lord Loudwater and Colonel Grey at Bellingham. William Roper supported his contention with an embellished account of the interview with Lord Loudwater in which he had informed him of that kiss.

It was, indeed, his great hour, not as great as the hour he had promised himself at the trial, not so public, but a great hour.

He left the “Bull and Gate” at closing time that night a man, in the estimation of all there, whose evidence could hang four of his fellow-creatures, the great man of the village.

Next morning the village was indeed simmering, and the scandal rose and spread from it like a stench. That very afternoon Mr. Manley heard it from Helena Truslove, and the next morning Mr. Flexen received two anonymous letters conveying the information to him, and suggesting that Colonel Grey and the Lady Loudwater had between them made away with her husband. It is hard to say whether Mr. Manley or Mr. Flexen was more annoyed by William Roper’s blabbing.

But there was nothing to be done. The scandal must run its course. Mr. Flexen did not think that it would find its way into the papers, local or London. None the less, he was alive to the danger that a sudden heavy pressure might be put on the police, and he might be forced to take ill-advised action, start a prosecution which would do Lady Loudwater infinite harm, and yet end in a fiasco which would leave the mystery just where it was. The one bright spot in the affair was that Lord Loudwater appeared to have left no friends behind him who would make it their business to see that he was avenged. As long as that avenging was everybody’s business it was nobody’s business.

Elizabeth Twitcher was no less disturbed than Mr. Flexen. She felt that Olivia ought to be informed of what was being said that she might be able to take steps to meet the danger. She took counsel with James Hutchings, who could not help feeling relieved by this diversion of suspicion, and he agreed with her that Olivia should be informed of the scandal at once. But it was an uncommonly unpleasant task, and she shrank from it.

Then a happy thought came to James Hutchings, and he said: “Look here: let Mr. Manley do it. He’s her ladyship’s secretary, and it’s the kind of thing he’ll do very well. He’s a tactful young fellow.”

“It would be a blessing if he did,” said Elizabeth with a sigh. She paused and added: “You do speak differently about him to what you used to.”

“Yes. I made a mistake about him like as I did about some other people,” said James Hutchings, with a rather shame-faced air. “He behaved very well about seeing me here the night the master was murdered and saying nothing to the police about it. An’ then he congratulated me very handsomelike on coming back as butler before Mr. Flexen.”

“He would do it better than I should,” said Elizabeth.

“Then I’ll speak to him about it,” said James Hutchings.

He paused a while to kiss Elizabeth, then went in search of Mr. Manley. He learned from Holloway that he had come in about twenty minutes earlier and was in his sitting-room. He went to him and found him looking through the MS. of the play he was writing, with an unlighted pipe in his mouth.

“If you please, sir, I thought I’d better come and tell you that they’re saying in the village that Colonel Grey kissed her ladyship in the East wood on the afternoon of his lordship’s death, and his lordship was