The murder at Troyte's Hill (1894) by C. L. Pirkis
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THE EXPERIENCES OF LOVEDAY BROOKE,
LADY DETECTIVE (1894)
by
C. L. PIRKIS
from THE LUDGATE MONTHLY
THE MURDER AT TROYTE'S HILL
"G
RIFFITHS, of the Newcastle Constabulary, has the case in
hand," said Mr. Dyer; "those Newcastle men are keen-witted,
shrewd fellows, and very jealous of outside interference.
They only sent to me under protest, as it were, because they
wanted your sharp wits at work inside the house."
"I suppose throughout I am to work with Griffiths, not
with you?" said Miss Brooke.
"Yes; when I have given you in outline the facts of the
case, I simply have nothing more to do with it, and you must
depend on Griffiths for any assistance of any sort that you
may require."
Here, with a swing, Mr. Dyer opened his big ledger and
turned rapidly over its leaves till he came to the heading
"Troyte's Hill" and the date "September 6th."
"I'm all attention," said Loveday, leaning back in her
chair in the attitude of a listener.
"The murdered man," resumed Mr. Dyer, "is a certain
Alexander Henderson — usually known as old Sandy —
lodge-keeper to Mr. Craven, of Troyte's Hill, Cumberland.
The lodge consists merely of two rooms on the ground floor,
a bedroom and a sitting-room; these Sandy occupied alone,
having neither kith nor kin of any degree. On the morning
of September 6th, some children going up to the house with
milk from the farm, noticed that Sandy's bed-room window
stood wide open. Curiosity prompted them to peep in; and
then, to their horror, they saw old Sandy, in his
night-shirt, lying dead on the floor, as if he had fallen
backwards from the window. They raised an alarm; and on
examination, it was found that death had ensued from a heavy
blow on the temple, given either by a strong fist or some
blunt instrument. The room, on being entered, presented a
curious appearance. It was as if a herd of monkeys had been
turned into it and allowed to work their impish will. Not
an article of furniture remained in its place: the
bed-clothes had been rolled into a bundle and stuffed into
the chimney; the bedstead — a small iron one — lay on its
side; the one chair in the room stood on the top of the
table; fender and fire-irons lay across the washstand, whose
basin was to be found in a farther corner, holding bolster
and pillow. The clock stood on its head in the middle of
the mantelpiece; and the small vases and ornaments, which
flanked it on either side, were walking, as it were, in a
straight line towards the door. The old man's clothes had
been rolled into a ball and thrown on the top of a high
cupboard in which he kept his savings and whatever valuables
he had. This cupboard, however, had not been meddled with,
and its contents remained intact, so it was evident that
robbery was not the motive for the crime. At the inquest,
subsequently held, a verdict of 'wilful murder' against some
person or persons unknown was returned. The local police
are diligently investigating the affair, but, as yet, no
arrests have been made. The opinion that at present
prevails in the neighbourhood is that the crime has been
perpetrated by some lunatic, escaped or otherwise, and
enquiries are being made at the local asylums as to missing
or lately released inmates. Griffiths, however, tells me
that his suspicions set in another direction."
"Did anything of importance transpire at the inquest?"
"Nothing specially important. Mr. Craven broke down in
giving his evidence when he alluded to the confidential
relations that had always subsisted between Sandy and
himself, and spoke of the last time that he had seen him
alive. The evidence of the butler, and one or two of the
female servants, seems clear enough, and they let fall
something of a hint that Sandy was not altogether a
favourite among them, on account of the overbearing manner
in which he used his influence with his master. Young
Mr. Craven, a youth of about nineteen, home from Oxford for
the long vacation, was not present at the inquest; a
doctor's certificate was put in stating that he was
suffering from typhoid fever, and could not leave his bed
without risk to his life. Now this young man is a
thoroughly bad sort, and as much a gentleman-blackleg as it
is possible for such a young fellow to be. It seems to
Griffiths that there is something suspicious about this
illness of his. He came back from Oxford on the verge of
delirium tremens, pulled round from that, and then suddenly,
on the day after the murder, Mrs. Craven rings the bell,
announces that he has developed typhoid fever and orders a
doctor to be sent for."
"What sort of man is Mr. Craven senior?"
"He seems to be a quiet old fellow, a scholar and
learned philologist. Neither his neighbours nor his family
see much of him; he almost lives in his study, writing a
treatise, in seven or eight volumes, on comparative
philology. He is not a rich man. Troyte's Hill, though it
carries position in the county, is not a paying property,
and Mr. Craven is unable to keep it up properly. I am told
he has had to cut down expenses in all directions in order
to send his son to college, and his daughter from first to
last, has been entirely educated by her mother. Mr. Craven
was originally intended for the church, but for some reason
or other, when his college career came to an end, he did not
present himself for ordination — went out to Natal instead,
where he obtained some civil appointment and where he
remained for about fifteen years. Henderson was his servant
during the latter portion of his Oxford career, and must
have been greatly respected by him, for although the
remuneration derived from his appointment at Natal was
small, he paid Sandy a regular yearly allowance out of it.
When, about ten years ago, he succeeded to Troyte's Hill, on
the death of his elder brother, and returned home with his
family, Sandy was immediately installed as lodge-keeper, and
at so high a rate of pay that the butler's wages were cut
down to meet it."
"Ah, that wouldn't improve the butler's feelings
towards him," ejaculated Loveday.
Mr. Dyer went on: "But, in spite of his high wages, he
doesn't appear to have troubled much about his duties as
lodge-keeper, for they were performed, as a rule, by the
gardener's boy, while he took his meals and passed his time
at the house, and, speaking generally, put his finger into
every pie. You know the old adage respecting the servant of
twenty-one years' standing: 'Seven years my servant, seven
years my equal, seven years my master.' Well, it appears to
have held good in the case of Mr. Craven and Sandy. The old
gentleman, absorbed in his philological studies, evidently
let the reins slip through his fingers, and Sandy seems to
have taken easy possession of them. The servants frequently
had to go to him for orders, and he carried things, as a
rule, with a high hand."
"Did Mrs. Craven never have a word to say on the
matter?"
"I've not heard much about her. She seems to be a
quiet sort of person. She is a Scotch missionary's
daughter; perhaps she spends her time working for the Cape
mission and that sort of thing."
"And young Mr. Craven: did he knock under to Sandy's
rule?"
"Ah, now you're hitting the bull's eye and we come to
Griffiths' theory. The young man and Sandy appear to have
been at loggerheads ever since the Cravens took possession
of Troyte's Hill. As a schoolboy Master Harry defied Sandy
and threatened him with his hunting crop; and subsequently,
as a young man, has used strenuous endeavours to put the old
servant in his place. On the day before the murder,
Griffiths says, there was a terrible scene between the two,
in which the young gentleman, in the presence of several
witnesses, made use of strong language and threatened the
old man's life. Now, Miss Brooke, I have told you all the
circumstances of the case so far as I know them. For fuller
particulars I must refer you to Griffiths. He, no doubt,
will meet you at Grenfell — the nearest station to Troyte's
Hill, and tell you in what capacity he has procured for you
an entrance into the house. By-the-way, he has wired to me
this morning that he hopes you will be able to save the
Scotch express to-night."
Loveday expressed her readiness to comply with Mr.
Griffiths' wishes.
"I shall be glad," said Mr. Dyer, as he shook hands
with her at the office door, "to see you immediately on your
return — that, however, I suppose, will not be yet awhile.
This promises, I fancy, to be a longish affair?" This was
said interrogatively.
"I haven't the least idea on the matter," answered
Loveday. "I start on my work without theory of any sort — in
fact, I may say, with my mind a perfect blank."
And anyone who had caught a glimpse of her blank,
expressionless features, as she said this, would have taken
her at her word.
Grenfell, the nearest post-town to Troyte's Hill is a
fairly busy, populous little town — looking south towards the
black country, and northwards to low, barren hills.
Pre-eminent among these stands Troyte's Hill, famed in the
old days as a border keep, and possibly at a still earlier
date as a Druid stronghold.
At a small inn at Grenfell, dignified by the title of
"The Station Hotel," Mr. Griffiths, of the Newcastle
constabulary, met Loveday and still further initiated her
into the mysteries of the Troyte's Hill murder.
"A little of the first excitement has subsided," he
said, after preliminary greetings had been exchanged; "but
still the wildest rumours are flying about and repeated as
solemnly as if they were Gospel truths. My chief here and
my colleagues generally adhere to their first conviction,
that the criminal is some suddenly crazed tramp or else an
escaped lunatic, and they are confident that sooner or later
we shall come upon his traces. Their theory is that Sandy,
hearing some strange noise at the Park Gates, put his head
out of the window to ascertain the cause and immediately had
his death blow dealt him; then they suppose that the lunatic
scrambled into the room through the window and exhausted his
frenzy by turning things generally upside down. They refuse
altogether to share my suspicions respecting young
Mr. Craven."
Mr. Griffiths was a tall, thin-featured man, with
iron-grey hair, cut so close to his head that it refused to
do anything but stand on end. This gave a somewhat comic
expression of the upper portion of his face and clashed
oddly with the melancholy look that his mouth habitually
wore.
"I have made all smooth for you at Troyte's Hill," he
presently went on. "Mr. Craven is not wealthy enough to
allow himself the luxury of a family lawyer, so he
occasionally employs the services of Messrs. Wells and
Sugden, lawyers in this place, and who, as it happens, have,
off and on, done a good deal of business for me. It was
through them I heard that Mr. Craven was anxious to secure
the assistance of an amanuensis. I immediately offered your
services, stating that you were a friend of mine, a lady of
impoverished means, who would gladly undertake the duties
for the munificent sum of a guinea a month, with board and
lodging. The old gentleman at once jumped at the offer, and
is anxious for you to be at Troyte's Hill at once.
Loveday expressed his satisfaction with the programme
that Mr. Griffiths had sketched for her, then she had a few
questions to ask.
"Tell me," she said, "what led you, in the first
instance, to suspect young Mr. Craven of the crime?"
"The footing on which he and Sandy stood towards each
other, and the terrible scene that occurred between them
only the day before the murder," answered Griffiths,
promptly. "Nothing of this, however, was elicited at the
inquest, where a very fair face was put on Sandy's relations
with the whole of the Craven family. I have subsequently
unearthed a good deal respecting the private life of
Mr. Harry Craven, and, among other things, I have found out
that on the night of the murder he left the house shortly
after ten o'clock, and no one, so far as I have been able to
ascertain, knows at what hour he returned. Now I must draw
your attention, Miss Brooke, to the fact that at the inquest
the medical evidence went to prove that the murder had been
committed between ten and eleven at night."
"Do you surmise, then, that the murder was a planned
thing on the part of this young man?"
"I do. I believe that he wandered about the grounds
until Sandy shut himself in for the night, then aroused him
by some outside noise, and, when the old man looked out to
ascertain the cause, dealt him a blow with the bludgeon or
loaded stick, that caused his death."
"A cold-blooded crime that, for a boy of nineteen?"
"Yes. He's a good-looking, gentlemanly youngster, too,
with manner as mild as milk, but from all accounts is as
full of wickedness as an egg is full of meat. Now, to come
to another point — if, in connection with these ugly facts,
you take into consideration the suddenness of his illness, I
think you'll admit that it bears a suspicious appearance and
might reasonably give rise to the surmise that it was a
plant on his part, in order to get out of the inquest."
"Who is the doctor attending him?"
"A man called Waters; not much of a practitioner, from
all accounts, and no doubt he feels himself highly honoured
in being summoned to Troyte's Hill. The Cravens, it seems,
have no family doctor. Mrs. Craven, with her missionary
experience, is half a doctor herself, and never calls in one
except in a serious emergency."
"The certificate was in order, I suppose?"
"Undoubtedly. And, as if to give colour to the gravity
of the case, Mrs. Craven sent a message down to the
servants, that if any of them were afraid of the infection
they could at once go to their homes. Several of the maids,
I believe, took advantage of her permission, and packed
their boxes. Miss Craven, who is a delicate girl, was sent
away with her maid to stay with friends at Newcastle, and
Mrs. Craven isolated herself with her patient in one of the
disused wings of the house."
"Has anyone ascertained whether Miss Craven arrived at
her destination at Newcastle?"
Griffiths drew his brows together in thought.
"I did not see any necessity for such a thing," he
answered. "I don't quite follow you. What do you mean to
imply?"
"Oh, nothing. I don't suppose it matters much: it
might have been interesting as a side-issue." She broke off
for a moment, then added:
"Now tell me a little about the butler, the man whose
wages were cut down to increase Sandy's pay."
"Old John Hales? He's a thoroughly worthy, respectable
man; he was butler for five or six years to Mr. Craven's
brother, when he was master of Troyte's Hill, and then took
duty under this Mr. Craven. There's no ground for suspicion
in that quarter. Hales's exclamation when he heard of the
murder is quite enough to stamp him as an innocent man:
'Serve the old idiot right,' he cried: 'I couldn't pump up
a tear for him if I tried for a month of Sundays!' Now I
take it, Miss Brooke, a guilty man wouldn't dare make such a
speech as that!"
"You think not?"
Griffiths stared at her. "I'm a little disappointed in
her," he thought. "I'm afraid her powers have been slightly
exaggerated if she can't see such a straightforward thing as
that."
Aloud he said, a little sharply. "Well, I don't stand
alone in my thinking. No one yet has breathed a word
against Hales, and if they did I've no doubt he could prove
an
alibi without any trouble, for he lives in the house,
and everyone has a good word for him."
"I suppose Sandy's lodge has been put into order by
this time?"
"Yes; after the inquest, and when all possible evidence
had been taken, everything was put straight."
"At the inquest it was stated that no marks of
footsteps could be traced in any direction?"
"The long drought we've had would render such a thing
impossible, let alone the fact that Sandy's lodge stands
right on the gravelled drive, without flower-beds or grass
borders of any sort around it. But look here, Miss Brooke,
don't you be wasting your time over the lodge and its
surroundings. Every iota of fact on that matter has been
gone through over and over again by me and my chief. What
we want you to do is to go straight into the house and
concentrate attention on Master Harry's sick-room, and find
out what's going on there. What he did outside the house on
the night of the 6th, I've no doubt I shall be able to find
out for myself. Now, Miss Brooke, you've asked me no end of
questions, to which I have replied as fully as it was in my
power to do; will you be good enough to answer one question
that I wish to put, as straightforwardly as I have answered
yours? You have had fullest particulars given you of the
condition of Sandy's room when the police entered it on the
morning after the murder. No doubt, at the present moment,
you can see it all in your mind's eye — the bedstead on its
side, the clock on its head, the bed-clothes half-way up the
chimney, the little vases and ornaments walking in a
straight line towards the door?"
Loveday bowed her head.
"Very well. Now will you be good enough to tell me
what this scene of confusion recalls to your mind before
anything else?"
"The room of an unpopular Oxford freshman after a raid
upon it by under-grads.," answered Loveday promptly.
Mr. Griffiths rubbed his hands.
"Quite so!" he ejaculated. "I see, after all, we are
one at heart in this matter, in spite of a little surface
disagreement of ideas. Depend upon it, by-and-bye, like the
engineers tunnelling from different quarters under the Alps,
we shall meet at the same point and shake hands.
By-the-way, I have arranged for daily communication between
us through the postboy who takes the letters to Troyte's
Hill. He is trustworthy, and any letter you give him for me
will find its way into my hands within the hour."
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when
Loveday drove in through the park gates of Troyte's Hill,
past the lodge where old Sandy had met with his death. It
was a pretty little cottage, covered with Virginia creeper
and wild honeysuckle, and showing no outward sign of the
tragedy that had been enacted within.
The park and pleasure-grounds of Troyte's Hill were
extensive, and the house itself was a somewhat imposing red
brick structure, built, possibly, at the time when Dutch
William's taste had grown popular in the country. Its
frontage presented a somewhat forlorn appearance, its centre
windows — a square of eight — alone seeming to show signs of
occupation. With the exception of two windows at the
extreme end of the bedroom floor of the north wing, where,
possibly, the invalid and his mother were located, and two
windows at the extreme end of the ground floor of the south
wing, which Loveday ascertained subsequently were those of
Mr. Craven's study, not a single window in either wing owned
blind or curtain. The wings were extensive, and it was easy
to understand that at the extreme end of the one the fever
patient would be isolated from the rest of the household,
and that at the extreme end of the other Mr. Craven could
secure the quiet and freedom from interruption which, no
doubt, were essential to the due prosecution of his
philological studies.
Alike on the house and ill-kept grounds were present
the stamp of the smallness of the income of the master and
owner of the place. The terrace, which ran the length of
the house in front, and on to which every window on the
ground floor opened, was miserably out of repair: not a
lintel or door-post, window-ledge or balcony but what seemed
to cry aloud for the touch of the painter. "Pity me! I
have seen better days," Loveday could fancy written as a
legend across the red-brick porch that gave entrance to the
old house.
The butler, John Hales, admitted Loveday, shouldered
her portmanteau and told her he would show her to her room.
He was a tall, powerfully-built man, with a ruddy face and
dogged expression of countenance. It was easy to understand
that, off and on, there must have been many a sharp
encounter between him and old Sandy. He treated Loveday in
an easy, familiar fashion, evidently considering that an
amanuensis took much the same rank as a nursery
governess — that is to say, a little below a lady's maid and
a little above a house-maid.
"We're short of hands, just now," he said, in broad
Cumberland dialect, as he led the way up the wide staircase.
"Some of the lasses downstairs took fright at the fever and
went home. Cook and I are single-handed, for Moggie, the
only maid left, has been told off to wait on Madam and
Master Harry. I hope you're not afeared of fever?"
Loveday explained that she was not, and asked if the
room at the extreme end of the north wing was the one
assigned to "Madam and Master Harry."
"Yes," said the man, "it's convenient for sick nursing;
there's a flight of stairs runs straight down from it to the
kitchen quarters. We put all Madam wants at the foot of
these stairs and Moggie comes down and fetches it. Moggie
herself never enters the sick-room. I take it you'll not be
seeing Madam for many a day, yet awhile."
"When shall I see Mr. Craven? At dinner to-night?"
"That's what naebody could say," answered Hales. "He
may not come out of his study till past midnight; sometimes
he sits there till two or three in the morning. Shouldn't
advise you to wait till he wants his dinner — better have a
cup of tea and a chop sent up to you. Madam never waits for
him at any meal."
As he finished speaking he deposited the portmanteau
outside one of the many doors opening into the gallery.
"This is Miss Craven's room," he went on; "cook and me
thought you'd better have it, as it would want less getting
ready than the other rooms, and work is work when there are
so few hands to do it. Oh, my stars! I do declare there is
cook putting it straight for you now."
The last sentence was added as the opened door laid
bare to view, the cook, with a duster in her hand, polishing
a mirror; the bed had been made, it is true, but otherwise
the room must have been much as Miss Craven left it, after a
hurried packing up.
To the surprise of the two servants Loveday took the
matter very lightly.
"I have a special talent for arranging rooms and would
prefer getting this one straight for myself," she said.
"Now, if you will go and get ready that chop and cup of tea
we were talking about just now, I shall think it much kinder
than if you stayed here doing what I can so easily do for
myself."
When, however, the cook and butler had departed in
company, Loveday showed no disposition to exercise the
"special talent" of which she had boasted.
She first carefully turned the key in the lock and then
proceeded to make a thorough and minute investigation of
every corner of the room. Not an article of furniture, not
an ornament or toilet accessory, but what was lifted from
its place and carefully scrutinised. Even the ashes in the
grate, the debris of the last fire made there, were raked
over and well looked through.
This careful investigation of Miss Craven's late
surroundings occupied in all about three quarters of an
hour, and Loveday, with her hat in her hand, descended the
stairs to see Hales crossing the hall to the dining-room
with the promised cup of tea and chop.
In silence and solitude she partook of the simple
repast in a dining-hall that could with ease have banqueted
a hundred and fifty guests.
"Now for the grounds before it gets dark," she said to
herself, as she noted that already the outside shadows were
beginning to slant.
The dining-hall was at the back of the house; and here,
as in the front, the windows, reaching to the ground,
presented easy means of egress. The flower-garden was on
this side of the house and sloped downhill to a pretty
stretch of well-wooded country.
Loveday did not linger here even to admire, but passed
at once round the south corner of the house to the windows
which she had ascertained, by a careless question to the
butler, were those of Mr. Craven's study.
Very cautiously she drew near them, for the blinds were
up, the curtains drawn back. A side glance, however,
relieved her apprehensions, for it showed her the occupant
of the room, seated in an easy-chair, with his back to the
windows. From the length of his outstretched limbs he was
evidently a tall man. His hair was silvery and curly, the
lower part of his face was hidden from her view by the
chair, but she could see one hand was pressed tightly across
his eyes and brows. The whole attitude was that of a man
absorbed in deep thought. The room was comfortably
furnished, but presented an appearance of disorder from the
books and manuscripts scattered in all directions. A whole
pile of torn fragments of foolscap sheets, overflowing from
a waste-paper basket beside the writing-table, seemed to
proclaim the fact that the scholar had of late grown weary
of, or else dissatisfied with his work, and had condemned it
freely.
Although Loveday stood looking in at this window for
over five minutes, not the faintest sign of life did that
tall, reclining figure give, and it would have been as easy
to believe him locked in sleep as in thought.
From here she turned her steps in the direction of
Sandy's lodge. As Griffiths had said, it was gravelled up
to its doorstep. The blinds were closely drawn, and it
presented the ordinary appearance of a disused cottage.
A narrow path beneath the over-arching boughs of
cherry-laurel and arbutus, immediately facing the lodge,
caught her eye, and down this she at once turned her
footsteps.
This path led, with many a wind and turn, through a
belt of shrubbery that skirted the frontage of Mr. Craven's
grounds, and eventually, after much zig-zagging, ended in
close proximity to the stables. As Loveday entered it, she
seemed literally to leave daylight behind her.
"I feel as if I were following the course of a
circuitous mind," she said to herself as the shadows closed
around her. "I could not fancy Sir Isaac Newton or Bacon
planning or delighting in such a wind-about-alley as this!"
The path showed greyly in front of her out of the
dimness. On and on she followed it; here and there the
roots of the old laurels, struggling out of the ground,
threatened to trip her up. Her eyes, however, had now grown
accustomed to the half-gloom, and not a detail of her
surroundings escaped her as she went along.
A bird flew out the thicket on her right hand with a
startled cry. A dainty little frog leaped out of her way
into the shrivelled leaves lying below the laurels.
Following the movements of this frog, her eye was caught by
something black and solid among those leaves. What was it?
A bundle — a shiny black coat? Loveday knelt down, and using
her hands to assist her eyes, found that they came into
contact with the dead, stiffened body of a beautiful black
retriever. She parted, as well as she was able, the lower
boughs of the evergreens, and minutely examined the poor
animal. Its eyes were still open, though glazed and
bleared, and its death had, undoubtedly, been caused by the
blow of some blunt, heavy instrument, for on one side its
skull was almost battered in.
"Exactly the death that was dealt to Sandy," she
thought, as she groped hither and thither beneath the trees
in hopes of lighting upon the weapon of destruction.
She searched until increasing darkness warned her that
search was useless. Then, still following the zig-zagging
path, she made her way out by the stables and thence back to
the house.
She went to bed that night without having spoken to a
soul beyond the cook and butler. The next morning, however,
Mr. Craven introduced himself to her across the breakfast
table. He was a man of really handsome personal appearance,
with a fine carriage of the head and shoulders, and eyes
that had a forlorn, appealing look in them. He entered the
room with an air of great energy, apologized to Loveday for
the absence of his wife, and for his own remissness in not
being in the way to receive her on the previous day. Then
he bade her make herself at home at the breakfast-table, and
expressed his delight in having found a coadjutor in his
work.
"I hope you understand what a great — a stupendous work
it is?" he added, as he sank into a chair. "It is a work
that will leave its impress upon thought in all the ages to
come. Only a man who has studied comparative philology as I
have for the past thirty years, could gauge the magnitude of
the task I have set myself."
With the last remark, his energy seemed spent, and he
sank back in his chair, covering his eyes with his hand in
precisely the same attitude at that in which Loveday had
seen him over-night, and utterly oblivious of the fact that
breakfast was before him and a stranger-guest seated at
table. The butler entered with another dish. "Better go on
with your breakfast," he whispered to Loveday, "he may sit
like that for another hour."
He placed his dish in front of his master.
"Captain hasn't come back yet, sir," he said, making an
effort to arouse him from his reverie.
"Eh, what?" said Mr. Craven, for a moment lifting his
hand from his eyes.
"Captain, sir — the black retriever," repeated the man.
The pathetic look in Mr. Craven's eyes deepened.
"Ah, poor Captain!" he murmured; "the best dog I ever
had."
Then he again sank back in his chair, putting his hand
to his forehead.
The butler made one more effort to arouse him.
"Madam sent you down a newspaper, sir, that she thought
you might like to see," he shouted almost into his master's
ear, and at the same time laid the morning's paper on the
table beside his plate.
"Confound you! leave it there," said Mr. Craven
irritably. "Fools! dolts that you all are! With your
trivialities and interruptions you are sending me out of the
world with my work undone!"
And again he sank back in his chair, closed his eyes
and became lost to his surroundings.
Loveday went on with her breakfast. She changed her
place at table to one on Mr. Craven's right hand, so that
the newspaper sent down for his perusal lay between his
plate and hers. It was folded into an oblong shape, as if
it were wished to direct attention to a certain portion of a
certain column.
A clock in a corner of the room struck the hour with a
loud, resonant stroke. Mr. Craven gave a start and rubbed
his eyes.
"Eh, what's this?" he said. "What meal are we at?" He
looked around with a bewildered air. "Eh! — who are you?" he
went on, staring hard at Loveday. "What are you doing here?
Where's Nina? — Where's Harry?"
Loveday began to explain, and gradually recollection
seemed to come back to him.
"Ah, yes, yes," he said. "I remember; you've come to
assist me with my great work. You promised, you know, to
help me out of the hole I've got into. Very enthusiastic, I
remember they said you were, on certain abstruse points in
comparative philology. Now, Miss — Miss — I've forgotten
your name — tell me a little of what you know about the
elemental sounds of speech that are common to all languages.
Now, to how many would you reduce those elemental sounds — to
six, eight, nine? No, we won't discuss the matter here, the
cups and saucers distract me. Come into my den at the other
end of the house; we'll have perfect quiet there."
And utterly ignoring the fact that he had not as yet
broken his fast, he rose from the table, seized Loveday by
the wrist, and led her out of the room and down the long
corridor that led through the south wing to his study.
But seated in that study his energy once more speedily
exhausted itself.
He placed Loveday in a comfortable chair at his
writing-table, consulted her taste as to pens, and spread a
sheet of foolscap before her. Then he settled himself in
his easy-chair, with his back to the light, as if he were
about to dictate folios to her.
In a loud, distinct voice he repeated the title of his
learned work, then its subdivision, then the number and
heading of the chapter that was at present engaging his
attention. Then he put his hand to his head. "It's the
elemental sounds that are my stumbling-block," he said.
"Now, how on earth is it possible to get a notion of a sound
of agony that is not in part a sound of terror? or a sound
of surprise that is not in part a sound of either joy or
sorrow?"
With this his energies were spent, and although Loveday
remained seated in that study from early morning till
daylight began to fade, she had not ten sentences to show
for her day's work as amanuensis.
Loveday in all spent only two clear days at Troyte's
Hill.
On the evening of the first of those days Detective
Griffiths received, through the trustworthy post-boy, the
following brief note from her:
I have found out that Hales owed Sandy close upon a
hundred pounds, which he had borrowed at various times.
I don't know whether you will think this fact of any
importance.
L.B.
Mr. Griffiths repeated the last sentence blankly. "If
Harry Craven were put upon his defence, his counsel, I take
it, would consider the fact of first importance," he
muttered. And for the remainder of that day Mr. Griffiths
went about his work in a perturbed state of mind, doubtful
whether to hold or to let go his theory concerning Harry
Craven's guilt.
The next morning there came another brief note from
Loveday which ran thus:
As a matter of collateral interest, find out if a
person, calling himself Harold Cousins, sailed two days
ago from London Docks for Natal in the
Bonnie
Dundee?"
To this missive, Loveday received, in reply, the
following somewhat lengthy despatch:
I do not quite see the drift of your last note, but
have wired to our agents in London to carry out its
suggestion. On my part, I have important news to
communicate. I have found out what Harry Craven's
business out of doors was on the night of the murder,
and at my instance a warrant has been issued for his
arrest. This warrant it will be my duty to serve on
him in the course of today. Things are beginning to
look very black against him, and I am convinced his
illness is all a sham. I have seen Waters, the man who
is supposed to be attending him, and have driven him
into a corner and made him admit that he has only seen
young Craven once — on the first day of his illness — and
that he gave his certificate entirely on the strength
of what Mrs. Craven told him of her son's condition.
On the occasion of this, his first and only visit, the
lady, it seems, also told him that it would not be
necessary for him to continue his attendance, as she
quite felt herself competent to treat the case, having
had so much experience in fever cases among the blacks
at Natal.
As I left Water's house, after eliciting this
important information, I was accosted by a man who
keeps a low-class inn in the place, McQueen by name.
He said that he wished to speak to me on a matter of
importance. To make a long story short, this McQueen
stated that on the night of the sixth, shortly after
eleven o'clock, Harry Craven came to his house,
bringing with him a valuable piece of plate — a handsome
epergne — and requested him to lend him a hundred pounds
on it, as he hadn't a penny in his pocket. McQueen
complied with his request to the extent of ten
sovereigns, and now, in a fit of nervous terror, comes
to me to confess himself a receiver of stolen goods and
play the honest man! He says he noticed that the young
gentleman was very much agitated as he made the
request, and he also begged him to mention his visit to
no one. Now, I am curious to learn how Master Harry
will get over the fact that he passed the lodge at the
hour at which the murder was most probably committed;
or how he will get out of the dilemma of having
repassed the lodge on his way back to the house, and
not noticed the wide-open window with the full moon
shining down on it?
Another word! Keep out of the way when I arrive at
the house, somewhere between two and three in the
afternoon, to serve the warrant. I do not wish your
professional capacity to get wind, for you will most
likely yet be of some use to us in the house.
S.G.
Loveday read this note, seated at Mr. Craven's
writing-table, with the old gentleman himself reclining
motionless beside her in his easy-chair. A little smile
played about the corners of her mouth as she read over again
the words — "for you will most likely yet be of some use to
us in the house."
Loveday's second day in Mr. Craven's study promised to
be as unfruitful as the first. For fully an hour after she
had received Griffiths' note, she sat at the writing-table
with her pen in her hand, ready to transcribe Mr. Craven's
inspirations. Beyond, however, the phrase, muttered with
closed eyes — "It's all here, in my brain, but I can't put it
into words" — not a half-syllable escaped his lips.
At the end of that hour the sound of footsteps on the
outside gravel made her turn her head towards the windows.
It was Griffiths approaching with two constables. She heard
the hall door opened to admit them, but, beyond that, not a
sound reached her ear, and she realised how fully she was
cut off from communication with the rest of the household at
the farther end of this unoccupied wing.
Mr. Craven, still reclining in his semi-trance,
evidently had not the faintest suspicion that so important
an event as the arrest of his only son on a charge of murder
was about to be enacted in the house.
Meantime, Griffiths and his constables had mounted the
stairs leading to the north wing, and were being guided
through the corridors to the sick-room by the flying figure
of Moggie, the maid.
"Hoot, mistress!" cried the girl, "here are three men
coming up the stairs — policemen, every one of them — will ye
come and ask them what they be wanting?"
Outside the door of the sick-room stood Mrs. Craven — a
tall, sharp-featured woman with sandy hair going rapidly
grey.
"What is the meaning of this? What is your business
here?" she said haughtily, addressing Griffiths, who headed
the party.
Griffiths respectfully explained what his business was,
and requested her to stand on one side that he might enter
her son's room.
"This is my daughter's room; satisfy yourself of the
fact," said the lady, throwing back the door as she spoke.
And Griffiths and his confrhres entered, to find pretty
Miss Craven, looking very white and scared, seated beside a
fire in a long flowing robe de chambre.
Griffiths departed in haste and confusion, without the
chance of a professional talk with Loveday. That afternoon
saw him telegraphing wildly in all directions, and
despatching messengers in all quarters. Finally he spent
over an hour drawing up an elaborate report to his chief at
Newcastle, assuring him of the identity of one, Harold
Cousins, who had sailed in the
Bonnie Dundee for Natal,
with Harry Craven, of Troyte's Hill, and advising that the
police authorities in that far-away district should be
immediately communicated with.
The ink had not dried on the pen with which this report
was written before a note, in Loveday's writing, was put
into his hand.
Loveday evidently had had some difficulty in finding a
messenger for this note, for it was brought by a gardener's
boy, who informed Griffiths that the lady had said he would
receive a gold sovereign if he delivered the letter all
right.
Griffiths paid the boy and dismissed him, and then
proceeded to read Loveday's communication.
It was written hurriedly in pencil, and ran as follows:
Things are getting critical here. Directly you
receive this, come up to the house with two of your
men, and post yourselves anywhere in the grounds where
you can see and not be seen. There will be no
difficulty in this, for it will be dark by the time you
are able to get there. I am not sure whether I shall
want your aid to-night, but you had better keep in the
grounds until morning, in case of need; and above all,
never once lose sight of the study window. [This was
underscored.] If I put a lamp with a green shade in
one of those windows, do not lose a moment in entering
by that window, which I will contrive to keep unlocked.
Detective Griffiths rubbed his forehead — rubbed his
eyes, as he finished reading this.
"Well, I daresay it's all right," he said, "but I'm
bothered, that's all, and for the life of me I can't see one
step of the way she is going."
He looked at his watch; the hands pointed to a quarter
past six. The short September day was drawing rapidly to a
close. A good five miles lay between him and Troyte's
Hill — there was evidently not a moment to lose.
At the very moment that Griffiths, with his two
constables, were once more starting along the Grenfell High
Road behind the best horse they could procure, Mr. Craven
was rousing himself from his long slumber, and beginning to
look around him. That slumber, however, though long, had
not been a peaceful one, and it was sundry of the old
gentleman's muttered exclamations, as he had started
uneasily in his sleep, that had caused Loveday to pen, and
then to creep out of the room to despatch, her hurried note.
What effect the occurrence of the morning had had upon
the household generally, Loveday, in her isolated corner of
the house, had no means of ascertaining. She only noted
that when Hales brought in her tea, as he did precisely at
five o'clock, he wore a particularly ill-tempered expression
of countenance, and she heard him mutter, as he set down the
tea-tray with a clatter, something about being a respectable
man, and not used to such "goings on."
It was not until nearly an hour and a half after this
that Mr. Craven had awakened with a sudden start, and,
looking wildly around him, had questioned Loveday who had
entered the room.
Loveday explained that the butler had brought in lunch
at one, and tea at five, but that since then no one had come
in.
"Now that's false," said Mr. Craven, in a sharp,
unnatural sort of voice; "I saw him sneaking round the room,
the whining, canting hypocrite, and you must have seen him,
too! Didn't you hear him say, in his squeaky old voice:
'Master, I knows your secret — — .' " He broke off abruptly,
looking wildly round. "Eh, what's this?" he cried. "No,
no, I'm all wrong — Sandy is dead and buried — they held an
inquest on him, and we all praised him up as if he were a
saint."
"He must have been a bad man, that old Sandy," said
Loveday sympathetically.
"You're right! you're right!" cried Mr. Craven,
springing up excitedly from his chair and seizing her by the
hand. "If ever a man deserved his death, he did. For
thirty years he held that rod over my head, and then — ah
where was I?"
He put his hand to his head and again sank, as if
exhausted, into his chair.
"I suppose it was some early indiscretion of yours at
college that he knew of?" said Loveday, eager to get at as
much of the truth as possible while the mood for confidence
held sway in the feeble brain.
"That was it! I was fool enough to marry a
disreputable girl — a barmaid in the town — and Sandy was
present at the wedding, and then — — " Here his eyes closed
again and his mutterings became incoherent.
For ten minutes he lay back in his chair, muttering
thus; "A yelp — a groan," were the only words Loveday could
distinguish among those mutterings, then, suddenly, slowly
and distinctly, he said, as if answering some plainly-put
question: "A good blow with the hammer and the thing was
done."
"I should like amazingly to see that hammer," said
Loveday; "do you keep it anywhere at hand?"
His eyes opened with a wild, cunning look in them.
"Who's talking about a hammer? I did not say I had
one. If anyone says I did it with a hammer, they're telling
a lie."
"Oh, you've spoken to me about the hammer two or three
times," said Loveday calmly; "the one that killed your dog,
Captain, and I should like to see it, that's all."
The look of cunning died out of the old man's eye — "Ah,
poor Captain! splendid dog that! Well, now, where were we?
Where did we leave off? Ah, I remember, it was the
elemental sounds of speech that bothered me so that night.
Were you here then? Ah, no! I remember. I had been trying
all day to assimilate a dog's yelp of pain to a human groan,
and I couldn't do it. The idea haunted me — followed me
about wherever I went. If they were both elemental sounds,
they must have something in common, but the link between
them I could not find; then it occurred to me, would a
well-bred, well-trained dog like my Captain in the stables,
there, at the moment of death give an unmitigated currish
yelp; would there not be something of a human note in his
death-cry? The thing was worth putting to the test. If I
could hand down in my treatise a fragment of fact on the
matter, it would be worth a dozen dogs' lives. So I went
out into the moonlight — ah, but you know all about it — now,
don't you?"
"Yes. Poor Captain! did he yelp or groan?"
"Why, he gave one loud, long, hideous yelp, just as if
he had been a common cur. I might just as well have let him
alone; it only set that other brute opening his window and
spying out on me, and saying in his cracked old voice:
'Master, what are you doing out here at this time of
night?' "
Again he sank back in his chair, muttering incoherently
with half-closed eyes.
Loveday let him alone for a minute or so; then she had
another question to ask.
"And that other brute — did he yelp or groan when you
dealt him his blow?"
"What, old Sandy — the brute? he fell back — Ah, I
remember, you said you would like to see the hammer that
stopped his babbling old tongue — now, didn't you?"
He rose a little unsteadily from his chair, and seemed
to drag his long limbs with an effort across the room to a
cabinet at the farther end. Opening a drawer in this
cabinet, he produced, from amidst some specimens of strata
and fossils, a large-sized geological hammer.
He brandished it for a moment over his head, then
paused with his finger on his lip.
"Hush!" he said, "we shall have the fools creeping in
to peep at us if we don't take care." And to Loveday's
horror he suddenly made for the door, turned the key in the
lock, withdrew it and put it into his pocket.
She looked at the clock; the hands pointed to half-past
seven. Had Griffiths received her note at the proper time,
and were the men now in the grounds? She could only pray
that they were.
"The light is too strong for my eyes," she said, and
rising from her chair, she lifted the green-shaded lamp and
placed it on a table that stood at the window.
"No, no, that won't do," said Mr. Craven; "that would
show everyone outside what we're doing in here." He crossed
to the window as he spoke and removed the lamp thence to the
mantelpiece.
Loveday could only hope that in the few seconds it had
remained in the window it had caught the eye of the outside
watchers.
The old man beckoned to Loveday to come near and
examine his deadly weapon. "Give it a good swing round," he
said, suiting the action to the word, "and down it comes
with a splendid crash." He brought the hammer round within
an inch of Loveday's forehead.
She started back.
"Ha, ha," he laughed harshly and unnaturally, with the
light of madness dancing in his eyes now; "did I frighten
you? I wonder what sort of sound you would make if I were
to give you a little tap just there." Here he lightly
touched her forehead with the hammer. "Elemental, of
course, it would be, and — — "
Loveday steadied her nerves with difficulty. Locked in
with this lunatic, her only chance lay in gaining time for
the detectives to reach the house and enter through the
window.
"Wait a minute," she said, striving to divert his
attention; "you have not yet told me what sort of an
elemental sound old Sandy made when he fell. If you'll give
me pen and ink, I'll write down a full account of it all,
and you can incorporate it afterwards in your treatise."
For a moment a look of real pleasure flitted across the
old man's face, then it faded. "The brute fell dead without
a sound," he answered; "it was all for nothing, that night's
work; yet not altogether for nothing. No, I don't mind
owning I would do it all over again to get the wild thrill
of joy at my heart that I had when I looked down into that
old man's dead face and felt myself free at last! Free at
last!" his voice rang out excitedly — once more he brought
his hammer round with an ugly swing.
"For a moment I was a young man again; I leaped into
his room — the moon was shining full in through the window — I
thought of my old college days, and the fun we used to have
at Pembroke — topsy turvey I turned everything — — " He broke
off abruptly, and drew a step nearer to Loveday. "The pity
of it all was," he said, suddenly dropping from his high,
excited tone to a low, pathetic one, "that he fell without a
sound of any sort." Here he drew another step nearer. "I
wonder — " he said, then broke off again, and came close to
Loveday's side. "It has only this moment occurred to me,"
he said, now with his lips close to Loveday's ear, "that a
woman, in her death agony, would be much more likely to give
utterance to an elemental sound than a man."
He raised his hammer, and Loveday fled to the window,
and was lifted from the outside by three strong pairs of
arms.
+ = + = +
"I thought I was conducting my very last case — I never
had such a narrow escape before!" said Loveday, as she stood
talking with Mr. Griffiths on the Grenfell platform,
awaiting the train to carry her back to London. "It seems
strange that no one before suspected the old gentleman's
sanity — I suppose, however, people were so used to his
eccentricities that they did not notice how they had
deepened into positive lunacy. His cunning evidently stood
him in good stead at the inquest."
"It is possible," said Griffiths thoughtfully, "that he
did not absolutely cross the very slender line that divides
eccentricity from madness until after the murder. The
excitement consequent upon the discovery of the crime may
just have pushed him over the border. Now, Miss Brooke, we
have exactly ten minutes before your train comes in. I
should feel greatly obliged to you if you would explain one
or two things that have a professional interest for me."
"With pleasure," said Loveday. "Put your questions in
categorical order and I will answer them."
"Well, then, in the first place, what suggested to your
mind the old man's guilt?"
"The relations that subsisted between him and Sandy
seemed to me to savour too much of fear on the one side and
power on the other. Also the income paid to Sandy during
Mr. Craven's absence in Natal bore, to my mind, an
unpleasant resemblance to hush-money."
"Poor wretched being! And I hear that, after all, the
woman he married in his wild young days died soon afterwards
of drink. I have no doubt, however, that Sandy sedulously
kept up the fiction of her existence, even after his
master's second marriage. Now for another question: how
was it you knew that Miss Craven had taken her brother's
place in the sick-room?"
"On the evening of my arrival I discovered a rather
long lock of fair hair in the unswept fireplace of my room,
which, as it happened, was usually occupied by Miss Craven.
It at once occurred to me that the young lady had been
cutting off her hair and that there must be some powerful
motive to induce such a sacrifice. The suspicious
circumstances attending her brother's illness soon supplied
me with such a motive."
"Ah! that typhoid fever business was very cleverly
done. Not a servant in the house, I verily believe, but who
thought Master Harry was upstairs, ill in bed, and Miss
Craven away at her friends' in Newcastle. The young fellow
must have got a clear start off within an hour of the
murder. His sister, sent away the next day to Newcastle,
dismissed her maid there, I hear, on the plea of no
accommodation at her friends' house — sent the girl to her
own home for a holiday and herself returned to Troyte's Hill
in the middle of the night, having walked the five miles
from Grenfell. No doubt her mother admitted her through one
of those easily-opened front windows, cut her hair and put
her to bed to personate her brother without delay. With
Miss Craven's strong likeness to Master Harry, and in a
darkened room, it is easy to understand that the eyes of a
doctor, personally unacquainted with the family, might
easily be deceived. Now, Miss Brooke, you must admit that
with all this elaborate chicanery and double dealing going
on, it was only natural that my suspicions should set in
strongly in that quarter."
"I read it all in another light, you see," said
Loveday. "I seemed to me that the mother, knowing her son's
evil proclivities, believed in his guilt, in spite,
possibly, of his assertion of innocence. The son, most
likely, on his way back to the house after pledging the
family plate, had met old Mr. Craven with the hammer in his
hand. Seeing, no doubt, how impossible it would be for him
to clear himself without incriminating his father, he
preferred flight to Natal to giving evidence at the
inquest."
"Now about his alias?" said Mr. Griffiths briskly, for
the train was at that moment steaming into the station.
"How did you know that Harold Cousins was identical with
Harry Craven, and had sailed in the
Bonnie Dundee?"
"Oh, that was easy enough," said Loveday, as she
stepped into the train; "a newspaper sent down to Mr. Craven
by his wife, was folded so as to direct his attention to the
shipping list. In it I saw that the
Bonnie Dundee had
sailed two days previously for Natal. Now it was only
natural to connect Natal with Mrs. Craven, who had passed
the greater part of her life there; and it was easy to
understand her wish to get her scapegrace son among her
early friends. The alias under which he sailed came readily
enough to light. I found it scribbled all over one of
Mr. Craven's writing pads in his study; evidently it had
been drummed into his ears by his wife as his son's alias,
and the old gentleman had taken this method of fixing it in
his memory. We'll hope that the young fellow, under his new
name, will make a new reputation for himself — at any rate,
he'll have a better chance of doing so with the ocean
between him and his evil companions. Now it's good-bye, I
think."
"No," said Mr. Griffiths; "it's au revoir, for you'll
have to come back again for the assizes, and give the
evidence that will shut old Mr. Craven in an asylum for the
rest of his life."
(the end)
Prepared by Eve M. Behr
Back to C.L. Pirkis' Loveday Brooke page
The murder at Troyte's Hill (1894) by C. L. Pirkis
Back to C.L. Pirkis' Loveday Brooke page
THE EXPERIENCES OF LOVEDAY BROOKE,
LADY DETECTIVE (1894)
by
C. L. PIRKIS
from THE LUDGATE MONTHLY
THE MURDER AT TROYTE'S HILL
"G
RIFFITHS, of the Newcastle Constabulary, has the case in
hand," said Mr. Dyer; "those Newcastle men are keen-witted,
shrewd fellows, and very jealous of outside interference.
They only sent to me under protest, as it were, because they
wanted your sharp wits at work inside the house."
"I suppose throughout I am to work with Griffiths, not
with you?" said Miss Brooke.
"Yes; when I have given you in outline the facts of the
case, I simply have nothing more to do with it, and you must
depend on Griffiths for any assistance of any sort that you
may require."
Here, with a swing, Mr. Dyer opened his big ledger and
turned rapidly over its leaves till he came to the heading
"Troyte's Hill" and the date "September 6th."
"I'm all attention," said Loveday, leaning back in her
chair in the attitude of a listener.
"The murdered man," resumed Mr. Dyer, "is a certain
Alexander Henderson — usually known as old Sandy —
lodge-keeper to Mr. Craven, of Troyte's Hill, Cumberland.
The lodge consists merely of two rooms on the ground floor,
a bedroom and a sitting-room; these Sandy occupied alone,
having neither kith nor kin of any degree. On the morning
of September 6th, some children going up to the house with
milk from the farm, noticed that Sandy's bed-room window
stood wide open. Curiosity prompted them to peep in; and
then, to their horror, they saw old Sandy, in his
night-shirt, lying dead on the floor, as if he had fallen
backwards from the window. They raised an alarm; and on
examination, it was found that death had ensued from a heavy
blow on the temple, given either by a strong fist or some
blunt instrument. The room, on being entered, presented a
curious appearance. It was as if a herd of monkeys had been
turned into it and allowed to work their impish will. Not
an article of furniture remained in its place: the
bed-clothes had been rolled into a bundle and stuffed into
the chimney; the bedstead — a small iron one — lay on its
side; the one chair in the room stood on the top of the
table; fender and fire-irons lay across the washstand, whose
basin was to be found in a farther corner, holding bolster
and pillow. The clock stood on its head in the middle of
the mantelpiece; and the small vases and ornaments, which
flanked it on either side, were walking, as it were, in a
straight line towards the door. The old man's clothes had
been rolled into a ball and thrown on the top of a high
cupboard in which he kept his savings and whatever valuables
he had. This cupboard, however, had not been meddled with,
and its contents remained intact, so it was evident that
robbery was not the motive for the crime. At the inquest,
subsequently held, a verdict of 'wilful murder' against some
person or persons unknown was returned. The local police
are diligently investigating the affair, but, as yet, no
arrests have been made. The opinion that at present
prevails in the neighbourhood is that the crime has been
perpetrated by some lunatic, escaped or otherwise, and
enquiries are being made at the local asylums as to missing
or lately released inmates. Griffiths, however, tells me
that his suspicions set in another direction."
"Did anything of importance transpire at the inquest?"
"Nothing specially important. Mr. Craven broke down in
giving his evidence when he alluded to the confidential
relations that had always subsisted between Sandy and
himself, and spoke of the last time that he had seen him
alive. The evidence of the butler, and one or two of the
female servants, seems clear enough, and they let fall
something of a hint that Sandy was not altogether a
favourite among them, on account of the overbearing manner
in which he used his influence with his master. Young
Mr. Craven, a youth of about nineteen, home from Oxford for
the long vacation, was not present at the inquest; a
doctor's certificate was put in stating that he was
suffering from typhoid fever, and could not leave his bed
without risk to his life. Now this young man is a
thoroughly bad sort, and as much a gentleman-blackleg as it
is possible for such a young fellow to be. It seems to
Griffiths that there is something suspicious about this
illness of his. He came back from Oxford on the verge of
delirium tremens, pulled round from that, and then suddenly,
on the day after the murder, Mrs. Craven rings the bell,
announces that he has developed typhoid fever and orders a
doctor to be sent for."
"What sort of man is Mr. Craven senior?"
"He seems to be a quiet old fellow, a scholar and
learned philologist. Neither his neighbours nor his family
see much of him; he almost lives in his study, writing a
treatise, in seven or eight volumes, on comparative
philology. He is not a rich man. Troyte's Hill, though it
carries position in the county, is not a paying property,
and Mr. Craven is unable to keep it up properly. I am told
he has had to cut down expenses in all directions in order
to send his son to college, and his daughter from first to
last, has been entirely educated by her mother. Mr. Craven
was originally intended for the church, but for some reason
or other, when his college career came to an end, he did not
present himself for ordination — went out to Natal instead,
where he obtained some civil appointment and where he
remained for about fifteen years. Henderson was his servant
during the latter portion of his Oxford career, and must
have been greatly respected by him, for although the
remuneration derived from his appointment at Natal was
small, he paid Sandy a regular yearly allowance out of it.
When, about ten years ago, he succeeded to Troyte's Hill, on
the death of his elder brother, and returned home with his
family, Sandy was immediately installed as lodge-keeper, and
at so high a rate of pay that the butler's wages were cut
down to meet it."
"Ah, that wouldn't improve the butler's feelings
towards him," ejaculated Loveday.
Mr. Dyer went on: "But, in spite of his high wages, he
doesn't appear to have troubled much about his duties as
lodge-keeper, for they were performed, as a rule, by the
gardener's boy, while he took his meals and passed his time
at the house, and, speaking generally, put his finger into
every pie. You know the old adage respecting the servant of
twenty-one years' standing: 'Seven years my servant, seven
years my equal, seven years my master.' Well, it appears to
have held good in the case of Mr. Craven and Sandy. The old
gentleman, absorbed in his philological studies, evidently
let the reins slip through his fingers, and Sandy seems to
have taken easy possession of them. The servants frequently
had to go to him for orders, and he carried things, as a
rule, with a high hand."
"Did Mrs. Craven never have a word to say on the
matter?"
"I've not heard much about her. She seems to be a
quiet sort of person. She is a Scotch missionary's
daughter; perhaps she spends her time working for the Cape
mission and that sort of thing."
"And young Mr. Craven: did he knock under to Sandy's
rule?"
"Ah, now you're hitting the bull's eye and we come to
Griffiths' theory. The young man and Sandy appear to have
been at loggerheads ever since the Cravens took possession
of Troyte's Hill. As a schoolboy Master Harry defied Sandy
and threatened him with his hunting crop; and subsequently,
as a young man, has used strenuous endeavours to put the old
servant in his place. On the day before the murder,
Griffiths says, there was a terrible scene between the two,
in which the young gentleman, in the presence of several
witnesses, made use of strong language and threatened the
old man's life. Now, Miss Brooke, I have told you all the
circumstances of the case so far as I know them. For fuller
particulars I must refer you to Griffiths. He, no doubt,
will meet you at Grenfell — the nearest station to Troyte's
Hill, and tell you in what capacity he has procured for you
an entrance into the house. By-the-way, he has wired to me
this morning that he hopes you will be able to save the
Scotch express to-night."
Loveday expressed her readiness to comply with Mr.
Griffiths' wishes.
"I shall be glad," said Mr. Dyer, as he shook hands
with her at the office door, "to see you immediately on your
return — that, however, I suppose, will not be yet awhile.
This promises, I fancy, to be a longish affair?" This was
said interrogatively.
"I haven't the least idea on the matter," answered
Loveday. "I start on my work without theory of any sort — in
fact, I may say, with my mind a perfect blank."
And anyone who had caught a glimpse of her blank,
expressionless features, as she said this, would have taken
her at her word.
Grenfell, the nearest post-town to Troyte's Hill is a
fairly busy, populous little town — looking south towards the
black country, and northwards to low, barren hills.
Pre-eminent among these stands Troyte's Hill, famed in the
old days as a border keep, and possibly at a still earlier
date as a Druid stronghold.
At a small inn at Grenfell, dignified by the title of
"The Station Hotel," Mr. Griffiths, of the Newcastle
constabulary, met Loveday and still further initiated her
into the mysteries of the Troyte's Hill murder.
"A little of the first excitement has subsided," he
said, after preliminary greetings had been exchanged; "but
still the wildest rumours are flying about and repeated as
solemnly as if they were Gospel truths. My chief here and
my colleagues generally adhere to their first conviction,
that the criminal is some suddenly crazed tramp or else an
escaped lunatic, and they are confident that sooner or later
we shall come upon his traces. Their theory is that Sandy,
hearing some strange noise at the Park Gates, put his head
out of the window to ascertain the cause and immediately had
his death blow dealt him; then they suppose that the lunatic
scrambled into the room through the window and exhausted his
frenzy by turning things generally upside down. They refuse
altogether to share my suspicions respecting young
Mr. Craven."
Mr. Griffiths was a tall, thin-featured man, with
iron-grey hair, cut so close to his head that it refused to
do anything but stand on end. This gave a somewhat comic
expression of the upper portion of his face and clashed
oddly with the melancholy look that his mouth habitually
wore.
"I have made all smooth for you at Troyte's Hill," he
presently went on. "Mr. Craven is not wealthy enough to
allow himself the luxury of a family lawyer, so he
occasionally employs the services of Messrs. Wells and
Sugden, lawyers in this place, and who, as it happens, have,
off and on, done a good deal of business for me. It was
through them I heard that Mr. Craven was anxious to secure
the assistance of an amanuensis. I immediately offered your
services, stating that you were a friend of mine, a lady of
impoverished means, who would gladly undertake the duties
for the munificent sum of a guinea a month, with board and
lodging. The old gentleman at once jumped at the offer, and
is anxious for you to be at Troyte's Hill at once.
Loveday expressed his satisfaction with the programme
that Mr. Griffiths had sketched for her, then she had a few
questions to ask.
"Tell me," she said, "what led you, in the first
instance, to suspect young Mr. Craven of the crime?"
"The footing on which he and Sandy stood towards each
other, and the terrible scene that occurred between them
only the day before the murder," answered Griffiths,
promptly. "Nothing of this, however, was elicited at the
inquest, where a very fair face was put on Sandy's relations
with the whole of the Craven family. I have subsequently
unearthed a good deal respecting the private life of
Mr. Harry Craven, and, among other things, I have found out
that on the night of the murder he left the house shortly
after ten o'clock, and no one, so far as I have been able to
ascertain, knows at what hour he returned. Now I must draw
your attention, Miss Brooke, to the fact that at the inquest
the medical evidence went to prove that the murder had been
committed between ten and eleven at night."
"Do you surmise, then, that the murder was a planned
thing on the part of this young man?"
"I do. I believe that he wandered about the grounds
until Sandy shut himself in for the night, then aroused him
by some outside noise, and, when the old man looked out to
ascertain the cause, dealt him a blow with the bludgeon or
loaded stick, that caused his death."
"A cold-blooded crime that, for a boy of nineteen?"
"Yes. He's a good-looking, gentlemanly youngster, too,
with manner as mild as milk, but from all accounts is as
full of wickedness as an egg is full of meat. Now, to come
to another point — if, in connection with these ugly facts,
you take into consideration the suddenness of his illness, I
think you'll admit that it bears a suspicious appearance and
might reasonably give rise to the surmise that it was a
plant on his part, in order to get out of the inquest."
"Who is the doctor attending him?"
"A man called Waters; not much of a practitioner, from
all accounts, and no doubt he feels himself highly honoured
in being summoned to Troyte's Hill. The Cravens, it seems,
have no family doctor. Mrs. Craven, with her missionary
experience, is half a doctor herself, and never calls in one
except in a serious emergency."
"The certificate was in order, I suppose?"
"Undoubtedly. And, as if to give colour to the gravity
of the case, Mrs. Craven sent a message down to the
servants, that if any of them were afraid of the infection
they could at once go to their homes. Several of the maids,
I believe, took advantage of her permission, and packed
their boxes. Miss Craven, who is a delicate girl, was sent
away with her maid to stay with friends at Newcastle, and
Mrs. Craven isolated herself with her patient in one of the
disused wings of the house."
"Has anyone ascertained whether Miss Craven arrived at
her destination at Newcastle?"
Griffiths drew his brows together in thought.
"I did not see any necessity for such a thing," he
answered. "I don't quite follow you. What do you mean to
imply?"
"Oh, nothing. I don't suppose it matters much: it
might have been interesting as a side-issue." She broke off
for a moment, then added:
"Now tell me a little about the butler, the man whose
wages were cut down to increase Sandy's pay."
"Old John Hales? He's a thoroughly worthy, respectable
man; he was butler for five or six years to Mr. Craven's
brother, when he was master of Troyte's Hill, and then took
duty under this Mr. Craven. There's no ground for suspicion
in that quarter. Hales's exclamation when he heard of the
murder is quite enough to stamp him as an innocent man:
'Serve the old idiot right,' he cried: 'I couldn't pump up
a tear for him if I tried for a month of Sundays!' Now I
take it, Miss Brooke, a guilty man wouldn't dare make such a
speech as that!"
"You think not?"
Griffiths stared at her. "I'm a little disappointed in
her," he thought. "I'm afraid her powers have been slightly
exaggerated if she can't see such a straightforward thing as
that."
Aloud he said, a little sharply. "Well, I don't stand
alone in my thinking. No one yet has breathed a word
against Hales, and if they did I've no doubt he could prove
an
alibi without any trouble, for he lives in the house,
and everyone has a good word for him."
"I suppose Sandy's lodge has been put into order by
this time?"
"Yes; after the inquest, and when all possible evidence
had been taken, everything was put straight."
"At the inquest it was stated that no marks of
footsteps could be traced in any direction?"
"The long drought we've had would render such a thing
impossible, let alone the fact that Sandy's lodge stands
right on the gravelled drive, without flower-beds or grass
borders of any sort around it. But look here, Miss Brooke,
don't you be wasting your time over the lodge and its
surroundings. Every iota of fact on that matter has been
gone through over and over again by me and my chief. What
we want you to do is to go straight into the house and
concentrate attention on Master Harry's sick-room, and find
out what's going on there. What he did outside the house on
the night of the 6th, I've no doubt I shall be able to find
out for myself. Now, Miss Brooke, you've asked me no end of
questions, to which I have replied as fully as it was in my
power to do; will you be good enough to answer one question
that I wish to put, as straightforwardly as I have answered
yours? You have had fullest particulars given you of the
condition of Sandy's room when the police entered it on the
morning after the murder. No doubt, at the present moment,
you can see it all in your mind's eye — the bedstead on its
side, the clock on its head, the bed-clothes half-way up the
chimney, the little vases and ornaments walking in a
straight line towards the door?"
Loveday bowed her head.
"Very well. Now will you be good enough to tell me
what this scene of confusion recalls to your mind before
anything else?"
"The room of an unpopular Oxford freshman after a raid
upon it by under-grads.," answered Loveday promptly.
Mr. Griffiths rubbed his hands.
"Quite so!" he ejaculated. "I see, after all, we are
one at heart in this matter, in spite of a little surface
disagreement of ideas. Depend upon it, by-and-bye, like the
engineers tunnelling from different quarters under the Alps,
we shall meet at the same point and shake hands.
By-the-way, I have arranged for daily communication between
us through the postboy who takes the letters to Troyte's
Hill. He is trustworthy, and any letter you give him for me
will find its way into my hands within the hour."
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when
Loveday drove in through the park gates of Troyte's Hill,
past the lodge where old Sandy had met with his death. It
was a pretty little cottage, covered with Virginia creeper
and wild honeysuckle, and showing no outward sign of the
tragedy that had been enacted within.
The park and pleasure-grounds of Troyte's Hill were
extensive, and the house itself was a somewhat imposing red
brick structure, built, possibly, at the time when Dutch
William's taste had grown popular in the country. Its
frontage presented a somewhat forlorn appearance, its centre
windows — a square of eight — alone seeming to show signs of
occupation. With the exception of two windows at the
extreme end of the bedroom floor of the north wing, where,
possibly, the invalid and his mother were located, and two
windows at the extreme end of the ground floor of the south
wing, which Loveday ascertained subsequently were those of
Mr. Craven's study, not a single window in either wing owned
blind or curtain. The wings were extensive, and it was easy
to understand that at the extreme end of the one the fever
patient would be isolated from the rest of the household,
and that at the extreme end of the other Mr. Craven could
secure the quiet and freedom from interruption which, no
doubt, were essential to the due prosecution of his
philological studies.
Alike on the house and ill-kept grounds were present
the stamp of the smallness of the income of the master and
owner of the place. The terrace, which ran the length of
the house in front, and on to which every window on the
ground floor opened, was miserably out of repair: not a
lintel or door-post, window-ledge or balcony but what seemed
to cry aloud for the touch of the painter. "Pity me! I
have seen better days," Loveday could fancy written as a
legend across the red-brick porch that gave entrance to the
old house.
The butler, John Hales, admitted Loveday, shouldered
her portmanteau and told her he would show her to her room.
He was a tall, powerfully-built man, with a ruddy face and
dogged expression of countenance. It was easy to understand
that, off and on, there must have been many a sharp
encounter between him and old Sandy. He treated Loveday in
an easy, familiar fashion, evidently considering that an
amanuensis took much the same rank as a nursery
governess — that is to say, a little below a lady's maid and
a little above a house-maid.
"We're short of hands, just now," he said, in broad
Cumberland dialect, as he led the way up the wide staircase.
"Some of the lasses downstairs took fright at the fever and
went home. Cook and I are single-handed, for Moggie, the
only maid left, has been told off to wait on Madam and
Master Harry. I hope you're not afeared of fever?"
Loveday explained that she was not, and asked if the
room at the extreme end of the north wing was the one
assigned to "Madam and Master Harry."
"Yes," said the man, "it's convenient for sick nursing;
there's a flight of stairs runs straight down from it to the
kitchen quarters. We put all Madam wants at the foot of
these stairs and Moggie comes down and fetches it. Moggie
herself never enters the sick-room. I take it you'll not be
seeing Madam for many a day, yet awhile."
"When shall I see Mr. Craven? At dinner to-night?"
"That's what naebody could say," answered Hales. "He
may not come out of his study till past midnight; sometimes
he sits there till two or three in the morning. Shouldn't
advise you to wait till he wants his dinner — better have a
cup of tea and a chop sent up to you. Madam never waits for
him at any meal."
As he finished speaking he deposited the portmanteau
outside one of the many doors opening into the gallery.
"This is Miss Craven's room," he went on; "cook and me
thought you'd better have it, as it would want less getting
ready than the other rooms, and work is work when there are
so few hands to do it. Oh, my stars! I do declare there is
cook putting it straight for you now."
The last sentence was added as the opened door laid
bare to view, the cook, with a duster in her hand, polishing
a mirror; the bed had been made, it is true, but otherwise
the room must have been much as Miss Craven left it, after a
hurried packing up.
To the surprise of the two servants Loveday took the
matter very lightly.
"I have a special talent for arranging rooms and would
prefer getting this one straight for myself," she said.
"Now, if you will go and get ready that chop and cup of tea
we were talking about just now, I shall think it much kinder
than if you stayed here doing what I can so easily do for
myself."
When, however, the cook and butler had departed in
company, Loveday showed no disposition to exercise the
"special talent" of which she had boasted.
She first carefully turned the key in the lock and then
proceeded to make a thorough and minute investigation of
every corner of the room. Not an article of furniture, not
an ornament or toilet accessory, but what was lifted from
its place and carefully scrutinised. Even the ashes in the
grate, the debris of the last fire made there, were raked
over and well looked through.
This careful investigation of Miss Craven's late
surroundings occupied in all about three quarters of an
hour, and Loveday, with her hat in her hand, descended the
stairs to see Hales crossing the hall to the dining-room
with the promised cup of tea and chop.
In silence and solitude she partook of the simple
repast in a dining-hall that could with ease have banqueted
a hundred and fifty guests.
"Now for the grounds before it gets dark," she said to
herself, as she noted that already the outside shadows were
beginning to slant.
The dining-hall was at the back of the house; and here,
as in the front, the windows, reaching to the ground,
presented easy means of egress. The flower-garden was on
this side of the house and sloped downhill to a pretty
stretch of well-wooded country.
Loveday did not linger here even to admire, but passed
at once round the south corner of the house to the windows
which she had ascertained, by a careless question to the
butler, were those of Mr. Craven's study.
Very cautiously she drew near them, for the blinds were
up, the curtains drawn back. A side glance, however,
relieved her apprehensions, for it showed her the occupant
of the room, seated in an easy-chair, with his back to the
windows. From the length of his outstretched limbs he was
evidently a tall man. His hair was silvery and curly, the
lower part of his face was hidden from her view by the
chair, but she could see one hand was pressed tightly across
his eyes and brows. The whole attitude was that of a man
absorbed in deep thought. The room was comfortably
furnished, but presented an appearance of disorder from the
books and manuscripts scattered in all directions. A whole
pile of torn fragments of foolscap sheets, overflowing from
a waste-paper basket beside the writing-table, seemed to
proclaim the fact that the scholar had of late grown weary
of, or else dissatisfied with his work, and had condemned it
freely.
Although Loveday stood looking in at this window for
over five minutes, not the faintest sign of life did that
tall, reclining figure give, and it would have been as easy
to believe him locked in sleep as in thought.
From here she turned her steps in the direction of
Sandy's lodge. As Griffiths had said, it was gravelled up
to its doorstep. The blinds were closely drawn, and it
presented the ordinary appearance of a disused cottage.
A narrow path beneath the over-arching boughs of
cherry-laurel and arbutus, immediately facing the lodge,
caught her eye, and down this she at once turned her
footsteps.
This path led, with many a wind and turn, through a
belt of shrubbery that skirted the frontage of Mr. Craven's
grounds, and eventually, after much zig-zagging, ended in
close proximity to the stables. As Loveday entered it, she
seemed literally to leave daylight behind her.
"I feel as if I were following the course of a
circuitous mind," she said to herself as the shadows closed
around her. "I could not fancy Sir Isaac Newton or Bacon
planning or delighting in such a wind-about-alley as this!"
The path showed greyly in front of her out of the
dimness. On and on she followed it; here and there the
roots of the old laurels, struggling out of the ground,
threatened to trip her up. Her eyes, however, had now grown
accustomed to the half-gloom, and not a detail of her
surroundings escaped her as she went along.
A bird flew out the thicket on her right hand with a
startled cry. A dainty little frog leaped out of her way
into the shrivelled leaves lying below the laurels.
Following the movements of this frog, her eye was caught by
something black and solid among those leaves. What was it?
A bundle — a shiny black coat? Loveday knelt down, and using
her hands to assist her eyes, found that they came into
contact with the dead, stiffened body of a beautiful black
retriever. She parted, as well as she was able, the lower
boughs of the evergreens, and minutely examined the poor
animal. Its eyes were still open, though glazed and
bleared, and its death had, undoubtedly, been caused by the
blow of some blunt, heavy instrument, for on one side its
skull was almost battered in.
"Exactly the death that was dealt to Sandy," she
thought, as she groped hither and thither beneath the trees
in hopes of lighting upon the weapon of destruction.
She searched until increasing darkness warned her that
search was useless. Then, still following the zig-zagging
path, she made her way out by the stables and thence back to
the house.
She went to bed that night without having spoken to a
soul beyond the cook and butler. The next morning, however,
Mr. Craven introduced himself to her across the breakfast
table. He was a man of really handsome personal appearance,
with a fine carriage of the head and shoulders, and eyes
that had a forlorn, appealing look in them. He entered the
room with an air of great energy, apologized to Loveday for
the absence of his wife, and for his own remissness in not
being in the way to receive her on the previous day. Then
he bade her make herself at home at the breakfast-table, and
expressed his delight in having found a coadjutor in his
work.
"I hope you understand what a great — a stupendous work
it is?" he added, as he sank into a chair. "It is a work
that will leave its impress upon thought in all the ages to
come. Only a man who has studied comparative philology as I
have for the past thirty years, could gauge the magnitude of
the task I have set myself."
With the last remark, his energy seemed spent, and he
sank back in his chair, covering his eyes with his hand in
precisely the same attitude at that in which Loveday had
seen him over-night, and utterly oblivious of the fact that
breakfast was before him and a stranger-guest seated at
table. The butler entered with another dish. "Better go on
with your breakfast," he whispered to Loveday, "he may sit
like that for another hour."
He placed his dish in front of his master.
"Captain hasn't come back yet, sir," he said, making an
effort to arouse him from his reverie.
"Eh, what?" said Mr. Craven, for a moment lifting his
hand from his eyes.
"Captain, sir — the black retriever," repeated the man.
The pathetic look in Mr. Craven's eyes deepened.
"Ah, poor Captain!" he murmured; "the best dog I ever
had."
Then he again sank back in his chair, putting his hand
to his forehead.
The butler made one more effort to arouse him.
"Madam sent you down a newspaper, sir, that she thought
you might like to see," he shouted almost into his master's
ear, and at the same time laid the morning's paper on the
table beside his plate.
"Confound you! leave it there," said Mr. Craven
irritably. "Fools! dolts that you all are! With your
trivialities and interruptions you are sending me out of the
world with my work undone!"
And again he sank back in his chair, closed his eyes
and became lost to his surroundings.
Loveday went on with her breakfast. She changed her
place at table to one on Mr. Craven's right hand, so that
the newspaper sent down for his perusal lay between his
plate and hers. It was folded into an oblong shape, as if
it were wished to direct attention to a certain portion of a
certain column.
A clock in a corner of the room struck the hour with a
loud, resonant stroke. Mr. Craven gave a start and rubbed
his eyes.
"Eh, what's this?" he said. "What meal are we at?" He
looked around with a bewildered air. "Eh! — who are you?" he
went on, staring hard at Loveday. "What are you doing here?
Where's Nina? — Where's Harry?"
Loveday began to explain, and gradually recollection
seemed to come back to him.
"Ah, yes, yes," he said. "I remember; you've come to
assist me with my great work. You promised, you know, to
help me out of the hole I've got into. Very enthusiastic, I
remember they said you were, on certain abstruse points in
comparative philology. Now, Miss — Miss — I've forgotten
your name — tell me a little of what you know about the
elemental sounds of speech that are common to all languages.
Now, to how many would you reduce those elemental sounds — to
six, eight, nine? No, we won't discuss the matter here, the
cups and saucers distract me. Come into my den at the other
end of the house; we'll have perfect quiet there."
And utterly ignoring the fact that he had not as yet
broken his fast, he rose from the table, seized Loveday by
the wrist, and led her out of the room and down the long
corridor that led through the south wing to his study.
But seated in that study his energy once more speedily
exhausted itself.
He placed Loveday in a comfortable chair at his
writing-table, consulted her taste as to pens, and spread a
sheet of foolscap before her. Then he settled himself in
his easy-chair, with his back to the light, as if he were
about to dictate folios to her.
In a loud, distinct voice he repeated the title of his
learned work, then its subdivision, then the number and
heading of the chapter that was at present engaging his
attention. Then he put his hand to his head. "It's the
elemental sounds that are my stumbling-block," he said.
"Now, how on earth is it possible to get a notion of a sound
of agony that is not in part a sound of terror? or a sound
of surprise that is not in part a sound of either joy or
sorrow?"
With this his energies were spent, and although Loveday
remained seated in that study from early morning till
daylight began to fade, she had not ten sentences to show
for her day's work as amanuensis.
Loveday in all spent only two clear days at Troyte's
Hill.
On the evening of the first of those days Detective
Griffiths received, through the trustworthy post-boy, the
following brief note from her:
I have found out that Hales owed Sandy close upon a
hundred pounds, which he had borrowed at various times.
I don't know whether you will think this fact of any
importance.
L.B.
Mr. Griffiths repeated the last sentence blankly. "If
Harry Craven were put upon his defence, his counsel, I take
it, would consider the fact of first importance," he
muttered. And for the remainder of that day Mr. Griffiths
went about his work in a perturbed state of mind, doubtful
whether to hold or to let go his theory concerning Harry
Craven's guilt.
The next morning there came another brief note from
Loveday which ran thus:
As a matter of collateral interest, find out if a
person, calling himself Harold Cousins, sailed two days
ago from London Docks for Natal in the
Bonnie
Dundee?"
To this missive, Loveday received, in reply, the
following somewhat lengthy despatch:
I do not quite see the drift of your last note, but
have wired to our agents in London to carry out its
suggestion. On my part, I have important news to
communicate. I have found out what Harry Craven's
business out of doors was on the night of the murder,
and at my instance a warrant has been issued for his
arrest. This warrant it will be my duty to serve on
him in the course of today. Things are beginning to
look very black against him, and I am convinced his
illness is all a sham. I have seen Waters, the man who
is supposed to be attending him, and have driven him
into a corner and made him admit that he has only seen
young Craven once — on the first day of his illness — and
that he gave his certificate entirely on the strength
of what Mrs. Craven told him of her son's condition.
On the occasion of this, his first and only visit, the
lady, it seems, also told him that it would not be
necessary for him to continue his attendance, as she
quite felt herself competent to treat the case, having
had so much experience in fever cases among the blacks
at Natal.
As I left Water's house, after eliciting this
important information, I was accosted by a man who
keeps a low-class inn in the place, McQueen by name.
He said that he wished to speak to me on a matter of
importance. To make a long story short, this McQueen
stated that on the night of the sixth, shortly after
eleven o'clock, Harry Craven came to his house,
bringing with him a valuable piece of plate — a handsome
epergne — and requested him to lend him a hundred pounds
on it, as he hadn't a penny in his pocket. McQueen
complied with his request to the extent of ten
sovereigns, and now, in a fit of nervous terror, comes
to me to confess himself a receiver of stolen goods and
play the honest man! He says he noticed that the young
gentleman was very much agitated as he made the
request, and he also begged him to mention his visit to
no one. Now, I am curious to learn how Master Harry
will get over the fact that he passed the lodge at the
hour at which the murder was most probably committed;
or how he will get out of the dilemma of having
repassed the lodge on his way back to the house, and
not noticed the wide-open window with the full moon
shining down on it?
Another word! Keep out of the way when I arrive at
the house, somewhere between two and three in the
afternoon, to serve the warrant. I do not wish your
professional capacity to get wind, for you will most
likely yet be of some use to us in the house.
S.G.
Loveday read this note, seated at Mr. Craven's
writing-table, with the old gentleman himself reclining
motionless beside her in his easy-chair. A little smile
played about the corners of her mouth as she read over again
the words — "for you will most likely yet be of some use to
us in the house."
Loveday's second day in Mr. Craven's study promised to
be as unfruitful as the first. For fully an hour after she
had received Griffiths' note, she sat at the writing-table
with her pen in her hand, ready to transcribe Mr. Craven's
inspirations. Beyond, however, the phrase, muttered with
closed eyes — "It's all here, in my brain, but I can't put it
into words" — not a half-syllable escaped his lips.
At the end of that hour the sound of footsteps on the
outside gravel made her turn her head towards the windows.
It was Griffiths approaching with two constables. She heard
the hall door opened to admit them, but, beyond that, not a
sound reached her ear, and she realised how fully she was
cut off from communication with the rest of the household at
the farther end of this unoccupied wing.
Mr. Craven, still reclining in his semi-trance,
evidently had not the faintest suspicion that so important
an event as the arrest of his only son on a charge of murder
was about to be enacted in the house.
Meantime, Griffiths and his constables had mounted the
stairs leading to the north wing, and were being guided
through the corridors to the sick-room by the flying figure
of Moggie, the maid.
"Hoot, mistress!" cried the girl, "here are three men
coming up the stairs — policemen, every one of them — will ye
come and ask them what they be wanting?"
Outside the door of the sick-room stood Mrs. Craven — a
tall, sharp-featured woman with sandy hair going rapidly
grey.
"What is the meaning of this? What is your business
here?" she said haughtily, addressing Griffiths, who headed
the party.
Griffiths respectfully explained what his business was,
and requested her to stand on one side that he might enter
her son's room.
"This is my daughter's room; satisfy yourself of the
fact," said the lady, throwing back the door as she spoke.
And Griffiths and his confrhres entered, to find pretty
Miss Craven, looking very white and scared, seated beside a
fire in a long flowing robe de chambre.
Griffiths departed in haste and confusion, without the
chance of a professional talk with Loveday. That afternoon
saw him telegraphing wildly in all directions, and
despatching messengers in all quarters. Finally he spent
over an hour drawing up an elaborate report to his chief at
Newcastle, assuring him of the identity of one, Harold
Cousins, who had sailed in the
Bonnie Dundee for Natal,
with Harry Craven, of Troyte's Hill, and advising that the
police authorities in that far-away district should be
immediately communicated with.
The ink had not dried on the pen with which this report
was written before a note, in Loveday's writing, was put
into his hand.
Loveday evidently had had some difficulty in finding a
messenger for this note, for it was brought by a gardener's
boy, who informed Griffiths that the lady had said he would
receive a gold sovereign if he delivered the letter all
right.
Griffiths paid the boy and dismissed him, and then
proceeded to read Loveday's communication.
It was written hurriedly in pencil, and ran as follows:
Things are getting critical here. Directly you
receive this, come up to the house with two of your
men, and post yourselves anywhere in the grounds where
you can see and not be seen. There will be no
difficulty in this, for it will be dark by the time you
are able to get there. I am not sure whether I shall
want your aid to-night, but you had better keep in the
grounds until morning, in case of need; and above all,
never once lose sight of the study window. [This was
underscored.] If I put a lamp with a green shade in
one of those windows, do not lose a moment in entering
by that window, which I will contrive to keep unlocked.
Detective Griffiths rubbed his forehead — rubbed his
eyes, as he finished reading this.
"Well, I daresay it's all right," he said, "but I'm
bothered, that's all, and for the life of me I can't see one
step of the way she is going."
He looked at his watch; the hands pointed to a quarter
past six. The short September day was drawing rapidly to a
close. A good five miles lay between him and Troyte's
Hill — there was evidently not a moment to lose.
At the very moment that Griffiths, with his two
constables, were once more starting along the Grenfell High
Road behind the best horse they could procure, Mr. Craven
was rousing himself from his long slumber, and beginning to
look around him. That slumber, however, though long, had
not been a peaceful one, and it was sundry of the old
gentleman's muttered exclamations, as he had started
uneasily in his sleep, that had caused Loveday to pen, and
then to creep out of the room to despatch, her hurried note.
What effect the occurrence of the morning had had upon
the household generally, Loveday, in her isolated corner of
the house, had no means of ascertaining. She only noted
that when Hales brought in her tea, as he did precisely at
five o'clock, he wore a particularly ill-tempered expression
of countenance, and she heard him mutter, as he set down the
tea-tray with a clatter, something about being a respectable
man, and not used to such "goings on."
It was not until nearly an hour and a half after this
that Mr. Craven had awakened with a sudden start, and,
looking wildly around him, had questioned Loveday who had
entered the room.
Loveday explained that the butler had brought in lunch
at one, and tea at five, but that since then no one had come
in.
"Now that's false," said Mr. Craven, in a sharp,
unnatural sort of voice; "I saw him sneaking round the room,
the whining, canting hypocrite, and you must have seen him,
too! Didn't you hear him say, in his squeaky old voice:
'Master, I knows your secret — — .' " He broke off abruptly,
looking wildly round. "Eh, what's this?" he cried. "No,
no, I'm all wrong — Sandy is dead and buried — they held an
inquest on him, and we all praised him up as if he were a
saint."
"He must have been a bad man, that old Sandy," said
Loveday sympathetically.
"You're right! you're right!" cried Mr. Craven,
springing up excitedly from his chair and seizing her by the
hand. "If ever a man deserved his death, he did. For
thirty years he held that rod over my head, and then — ah
where was I?"
He put his hand to his head and again sank, as if
exhausted, into his chair.
"I suppose it was some early indiscretion of yours at
college that he knew of?" said Loveday, eager to get at as
much of the truth as possible while the mood for confidence
held sway in the feeble brain.
"That was it! I was fool enough to marry a
disreputable girl — a barmaid in the town — and Sandy was
present at the wedding, and then — — " Here his eyes closed
again and his mutterings became incoherent.
For ten minutes he lay back in his chair, muttering
thus; "A yelp — a groan," were the only words Loveday could
distinguish among those mutterings, then, suddenly, slowly
and distinctly, he said, as if answering some plainly-put
question: "A good blow with the hammer and the thing was
done."
"I should like amazingly to see that hammer," said
Loveday; "do you keep it anywhere at hand?"
His eyes opened with a wild, cunning look in them.
"Who's talking about a hammer? I did not say I had
one. If anyone says I did it with a hammer, they're telling
a lie."
"Oh, you've spoken to me about the hammer two or three
times," said Loveday calmly; "the one that killed your dog,
Captain, and I should like to see it, that's all."
The look of cunning died out of the old man's eye — "Ah,
poor Captain! splendid dog that! Well, now, where were we?
Where did we leave off? Ah, I remember, it was the
elemental sounds of speech that bothered me so that night.
Were you here then? Ah, no! I remember. I had been trying
all day to assimilate a dog's yelp of pain to a human groan,
and I couldn't do it. The idea haunted me — followed me
about wherever I went. If they were both elemental sounds,
they must have something in common, but the link between
them I could not find; then it occurred to me, would a
well-bred, well-trained dog like my Captain in the stables,
there, at the moment of death give an unmitigated currish
yelp; would there not be something of a human note in his
death-cry? The thing was worth putting to the test. If I
could hand down in my treatise a fragment of fact on the
matter, it would be worth a dozen dogs' lives. So I went
out into the moonlight — ah, but you know all about it — now,
don't you?"
"Yes. Poor Captain! did he yelp or groan?"
"Why, he gave one loud, long, hideous yelp, just as if
he had been a common cur. I might just as well have let him
alone; it only set that other brute opening his window and
spying out on me, and saying in his cracked old voice:
'Master, what are you doing out here at this time of
night?' "
Again he sank back in his chair, muttering incoherently
with half-closed eyes.
Loveday let him alone for a minute or so; then she had
another question to ask.
"And that other brute — did he yelp or groan when you
dealt him his blow?"
"What, old Sandy — the brute? he fell back — Ah, I
remember, you said you would like to see the hammer that
stopped his babbling old tongue — now, didn't you?"
He rose a little unsteadily from his chair, and seemed
to drag his long limbs with an effort across the room to a
cabinet at the farther end. Opening a drawer in this
cabinet, he produced, from amidst some specimens of strata
and fossils, a large-sized geological hammer.
He brandished it for a moment over his head, then
paused with his finger on his lip.
"Hush!" he said, "we shall have the fools creeping in
to peep at us if we don't take care." And to Loveday's
horror he suddenly made for the door, turned the key in the
lock, withdrew it and put it into his pocket.
She looked at the clock; the hands pointed to half-past
seven. Had Griffiths received her note at the proper time,
and were the men now in the grounds? She could only pray
that they were.
"The light is too strong for my eyes," she said, and
rising from her chair, she lifted the green-shaded lamp and
placed it on a table that stood at the window.
"No, no, that won't do," said Mr. Craven; "that would
show everyone outside what we're doing in here." He crossed
to the window as he spoke and removed the lamp thence to the
mantelpiece.
Loveday could only hope that in the few seconds it had
remained in the window it had caught the eye of the outside
watchers.
The old man beckoned to Loveday to come near and
examine his deadly weapon. "Give it a good swing round," he
said, suiting the action to the word, "and down it comes
with a splendid crash." He brought the hammer round within
an inch of Loveday's forehead.
She started back.
"Ha, ha," he laughed harshly and unnaturally, with the
light of madness dancing in his eyes now; "did I frighten
you? I wonder what sort of sound you would make if I were
to give you a little tap just there." Here he lightly
touched her forehead with the hammer. "Elemental, of
course, it would be, and — — "
Loveday steadied her nerves with difficulty. Locked in
with this lunatic, her only chance lay in gaining time for
the detectives to reach the house and enter through the
window.
"Wait a minute," she said, striving to divert his
attention; "you have not yet told me what sort of an
elemental sound old Sandy made when he fell. If you'll give
me pen and ink, I'll write down a full account of it all,
and you can incorporate it afterwards in your treatise."
For a moment a look of real pleasure flitted across the
old man's face, then it faded. "The brute fell dead without
a sound," he answered; "it was all for nothing, that night's
work; yet not altogether for nothing. No, I don't mind
owning I would do it all over again to get the wild thrill
of joy at my heart that I had when I looked down into that
old man's dead face and felt myself free at last! Free at
last!" his voice rang out excitedly — once more he brought
his hammer round with an ugly swing.
"For a moment I was a young man again; I leaped into
his room — the moon was shining full in through the window — I
thought of my old college days, and the fun we used to have
at Pembroke — topsy turvey I turned everything — — " He broke
off abruptly, and drew a step nearer to Loveday. "The pity
of it all was," he said, suddenly dropping from his high,
excited tone to a low, pathetic one, "that he fell without a
sound of any sort." Here he drew another step nearer. "I
wonder — " he said, then broke off again, and came close to
Loveday's side. "It has only this moment occurred to me,"
he said, now with his lips close to Loveday's ear, "that a
woman, in her death agony, would be much more likely to give
utterance to an elemental sound than a man."
He raised his hammer, and Loveday fled to the window,
and was lifted from the outside by three strong pairs of
arms.
+ = + = +
"I thought I was conducting my very last case — I never
had such a narrow escape before!" said Loveday, as she stood
talking with Mr. Griffiths on the Grenfell platform,
awaiting the train to carry her back to London. "It seems
strange that no one before suspected the old gentleman's
sanity — I suppose, however, people were so used to his
eccentricities that they did not notice how they had
deepened into positive lunacy. His cunning evidently stood
him in good stead at the inquest."
"It is possible," said Griffiths thoughtfully, "that he
did not absolutely cross the very slender line that divides
eccentricity from madness until after the murder. The
excitement consequent upon the discovery of the crime may
just have pushed him over the border. Now, Miss Brooke, we
have exactly ten minutes before your train comes in. I
should feel greatly obliged to you if you would explain one
or two things that have a professional interest for me."
"With pleasure," said Loveday. "Put your questions in
categorical order and I will answer them."
"Well, then, in the first place, what suggested to your
mind the old man's guilt?"
"The relations that subsisted between him and Sandy
seemed to me to savour too much of fear on the one side and
power on the other. Also the income paid to Sandy during
Mr. Craven's absence in Natal bore, to my mind, an
unpleasant resemblance to hush-money."
"Poor wretched being! And I hear that, after all, the
woman he married in his wild young days died soon afterwards
of drink. I have no doubt, however, that Sandy sedulously
kept up the fiction of her existence, even after his
master's second marriage. Now for another question: how
was it you knew that Miss Craven had taken her brother's
place in the sick-room?"
"On the evening of my arrival I discovered a rather
long lock of fair hair in the unswept fireplace of my room,
which, as it happened, was usually occupied by Miss Craven.
It at once occurred to me that the young lady had been
cutting off her hair and that there must be some powerful
motive to induce such a sacrifice. The suspicious
circumstances attending her brother's illness soon supplied
me with such a motive."
"Ah! that typhoid fever business was very cleverly
done. Not a servant in the house, I verily believe, but who
thought Master Harry was upstairs, ill in bed, and Miss
Craven away at her friends' in Newcastle. The young fellow
must have got a clear start off within an hour of the
murder. His sister, sent away the next day to Newcastle,
dismissed her maid there, I hear, on the plea of no
accommodation at her friends' house — sent the girl to her
own home for a holiday and herself returned to Troyte's Hill
in the middle of the night, having walked the five miles
from Grenfell. No doubt her mother admitted her through one
of those easily-opened front windows, cut her hair and put
her to bed to personate her brother without delay. With
Miss Craven's strong likeness to Master Harry, and in a
darkened room, it is easy to understand that the eyes of a
doctor, personally unacquainted with the family, might
easily be deceived. Now, Miss Brooke, you must admit that
with all this elaborate chicanery and double dealing going
on, it was only natural that my suspicions should set in
strongly in that quarter."
"I read it all in another light, you see," said
Loveday. "I seemed to me that the mother, knowing her son's
evil proclivities, believed in his guilt, in spite,
possibly, of his assertion of innocence. The son, most
likely, on his way back to the house after pledging the
family plate, had met old Mr. Craven with the hammer in his
hand. Seeing, no doubt, how impossible it would be for him
to clear himself without incriminating his father, he
preferred flight to Natal to giving evidence at the
inquest."
"Now about his alias?" said Mr. Griffiths briskly, for
the train was at that moment steaming into the station.
"How did you know that Harold Cousins was identical with
Harry Craven, and had sailed in the
Bonnie Dundee?"
"Oh, that was easy enough," said Loveday, as she
stepped into the train; "a newspaper sent down to Mr. Craven
by his wife, was folded so as to direct his attention to the
shipping list. In it I saw that the
Bonnie Dundee had
sailed two days previously for Natal. Now it was only
natural to connect Natal with Mrs. Craven, who had passed
the greater part of her life there; and it was easy to
understand her wish to get her scapegrace son among her
early friends. The alias under which he sailed came readily
enough to light. I found it scribbled all over one of
Mr. Craven's writing pads in his study; evidently it had
been drummed into his ears by his wife as his son's alias,
and the old gentleman had taken this method of fixing it in
his memory. We'll hope that the young fellow, under his new
name, will make a new reputation for himself — at any rate,
he'll have a better chance of doing so with the ocean
between him and his evil companions. Now it's good-bye, I
think."
"No," said Mr. Griffiths; "it's au revoir, for you'll
have to come back again for the assizes, and give the
evidence that will shut old Mr. Craven in an asylum for the
rest of his life."
(the end)
Prepared by Eve M. Behr
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