The Postmaster\'s Daughter - Louis Tracy
The Postmaster's Daughter
by Louis Tracy
Author of "The Terms of Surrender," "The Wings of the Morning,"
etc., etc.
1916
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
II. P. C ROBINSON "TAKES A LINE"
III. THE GATHERING CLOUDS
IV. A CABAL
V. THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF
VI. SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND
VII. "ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS"
VIII. AN INTERRUPTED SYMPOSIUM
IX. HE WHOM THE CAP FITS--
X. THE CASE AGAINST GRANT
XI. P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE
XII. WHEREIN WINTER GETS TO WORK
XIII. CONCERNING THEODORE SIDDLE
XIV. ON BOTH SIDES OF THE RIVER
XV. A MATTER OF HEREDITY
XVI. FURNEAUX MAKES A SUCCESSFUL BID
XVII. AN OFFICIAL HOUSEBREAKER
XVIII. THE TRUTH AT LAST
CHAPTER I
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
John Menzies Grant, having breakfasted, filled his pipe, lit it, and
strolled out bare-headed into the garden. The month was June, that
glorious rose-month which gladdened England before war-clouds darkened
the summer sky. As the hour was nine o'clock, it is highly probable that
many thousands of men were then strolling out into many thousands of
gardens in precisely similar conditions; but, given youth, good health,
leisure, and a fair amount of money, it is even more probable that few
among the smaller number thus roundly favored by fortune looked so
perplexed as Grant.
Moreover, his actions were eloquent as words. A spacious French window
had been cut bodily out of the wall of an old-fashioned room, and was now
thrown wide to admit the flower-scented breeze. Between this window and
the right-hand angle of the room was a smaller window, square-paned, high
above the ground level, and deeply recessed--in fact just the sort of
window which one might expect to find in a farm-house built two centuries
ago, when light and air were rigorously excluded from interiors. The two
windows told the history of The Hollies at a glance. The little one had
served the needs of a "best" room for several generations of Sussex
yeomen. Then had come some iconoclast who hewed a big rectangle through
the solid stone-work, converted the oak-panelled apartment into a most
comfortable dining-room, built a new wing with a gable, changed a
farm-yard into a flower-bordered lawn, and generally played havoc with
Georgian utility while carrying out a determined scheme of landscape
gardening.
Happily, the wrecker was content to let well enough alone after enlarging
the house, laying turf, and planting shrubs and flowers. He found The
Hollies a ramshackle place, and left it even more so, but with a new note
of artistry and several unexpectedly charming vistas. Thus, the big
double window opened straight into an irregular garden which merged
insensibly into a sloping lawn bounded by a river-pool. The bank on the
other side of the stream rose sharply and was well wooded. Above the
crest showed the thatched roofs or red tiles of Steynholme, which was a
village in the time of William the Conqueror, and has remained a village
ever since. Frame this picture in flowering shrubs, evergreens, a few
choice firs, a copper beech, and some sturdy oaks shadowing the lawn, and
the prospect on a June morning might well have led out into the open any
young man with a pipe.
But John Menzies Grant seemed to have no eye for a scene that would have
delighted a painter. He turned to the light, scrutinized so closely a
strip of turf which ran close to the wall that he might have been
searching for a lost diamond, and then peered through the lowermost
left-hand pane of the small window into the room he had just quitted.
The result of this peeping was remarkable in more ways than one.
A stout, elderly, red-faced woman, who had entered the room soon after
she heard Grant's chair being moved, caught sight of the intent face. She
screamed loudly, and dropped a cup and saucer with a clatter on to a
Japanese tray.
Grant hurried back to the French window. In his haste he did not notice a
long shoot of a Dorothy Perkins rose which trailed across his path, and
it struck him smartly on the cheek.
"I'm afraid I startled you, Mrs. Bates," he said, smiling so pleasantly
that no woman or child could fail to put trust in him.
"You did that, sir," agreed Mrs. Bates, collapsing into the chair Grant
had just vacated.
Like most red-faced people, Mrs. Bates turned a bluish purple when
alarmed, and her aspect was so distressing now that Grant's smile was
banished by a look of real concern.
"I'm very sorry," he said contritely. "I had no notion you were in the
room. Shall I call Minnie?"
Minnie, it may be explained, was Mrs. Bates's daughter and assistant,
the two, plus a whiskered Bates, gardener and groom, forming the domestic
establishment presided over by Grant.
"Nun-no, sir," stuttered the housekeeper. "It's stupid of me. But I'm not
so young as I was, an' me heart jumps at little things."
Grant saw that she was recovering, though slowly. He thought it best not
to make too much of the incident; but asked solicitously if he might give
her some brandy.
Mrs. Bates remarked that she was "not so bad as that," rose valiantly,
and went on with her work. Her employer, who had gone into the garden
again, saw out of the tail of his eye that she vanished with a half-laden
tray. In a couple of minutes the daughter appeared, and finished the
slight task of clearing the table; meanwhile, Grant kept away from the
small window. Being a young man who cultivated the habit of observation,
he noticed that Minnie, too, cast scared glances at the window. When the
girl had finally quitted the room, he laughed in a puzzled way.
"Am I dreaming, or are there visions about?" he murmured.
Urged, seemingly, by a sort of curiosity, he surveyed the room a second
time through the same pane of glass. Being tall, he had to stoop
slightly. Within, on the opposite side of the ledge, he saw the tiny
brass candlestick with its inch of candle which he had used over-night
while searching for a volume of Scott in the book-case lining the
neighboring wall. Somehow, this simplest of domestic objects brought a
thrill of recollection.
"Oh, dash it all!" he growled good-humoredly, "I'm getting nervy. I must
chuck this bad habit of working late, and use the blessed hours of
daylight."
Yet, as he sauntered down the lawn toward the stream, he knew well that
he would do nothing of the sort. He loved that time of peace between
ten at night and one in the morning. His thoughts ran vagrom then.
Fantasies took shape under his pen which, in the cold light of morning,
looked unreal and nebulous, though he had the good sense to restrain
criticism within strict limits, and corrected style rather than matter.
He was a writer, an essayist with no slight leaven of the poet, and had
learnt early that the everyday world held naught in common with the
brooding of the soul.
But he was no long-haired dreamer of impossible things. Erect and
square-shouldered, he had passed through Sandhurst into the army, a
profession abandoned because of its humdrum nature, when an unexpectedly
"fat" legacy rendered him independent. He looked exactly what he was, a
healthy, clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique that led to
occasional bouts of fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a taste in
literature that brought about the consumption of midnight oil. This
latter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is far removed from such modern
"conveniences" as gas and electricity.
At present he had no more definite object in life than to watch the trout
rising in the pool. He held the fishing rights over half a mile of a
noted river, but, by force of the law of hospitality, as it were, the
stretch of water bordering the lawn was a finny sanctuary. Once, he
halted, and looked fixedly at a dormer window in a cottage just visible
above the trees on the opposite slope. Such a highly presentable young
man might well expect to find a dainty feminine form appearing just in
that place, and eke return the greeting of a waved hand. But the window
remained blank--windows refused to yield any information that
morning--and he passed on.
The lawn dipped gently to the water's edge, until the close-clipped turf
gave way to pebbles and sand. In that spot the river widened and
deepened until its current was hardly perceptible in fine weather. When
the sun was in the west the trees and roofs of Steynholme were so
clearly reflected in the mirror of the pool that a photograph of the
scene needed close scrutiny ere one could determine whether or not it
was being held upside down. But the sun shone directly on the water now,
so the shelving bottom was visible, and Grant's quick eye was drawn to a
rope trailing into the depths, and fastened to an iron staple driven
firmly into the shingle.
He was so surprised that he spoke aloud.
"What in the world is that?" he almost gasped; a premonition of evil was
so strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob of
water and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily in
midstream.
Somehow, too, he resisted the first impulse of the active side of his
temperament, and did not instantly tug at the rope.
Instead, he shouted:--
"Hi, Bates!"
An answering hail came from behind a screen of laurels on the right of
the house. There lay the stables, and Bates would surely be grooming the
cob which supplied a connecting link between The Hollies and the railway
for the neighboring market-town.
Bates came, a sturdy block of a man who might have been hewn out of a
Sussex oak. His face, hands, and arms were the color of oak, and he moved
with a stiffness that suggested wooden joints.
Evidently, he expected an order for the dogcart, and stood stock still
when he reached the lawn. But Grant, who had gathered his wits, summoned
him with crooked forefinger, and Bates jerked slowly on.
"What hev' ye done to yer face, sir?" he inquired.
Grant was surprised. He expected no such question.
"So far as I know, I've not been making any great alteration in
it," he said.
"But it's all covered wi' blood," came the disturbing statement.
A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating.
Miss--or is it Madam?--Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look sweet,
and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant's cheek which bled to a
surprising extent.
"Oh, it is nothing," he said. "I remember now--a rose shoot caught me as
I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to come
and see _this_."
Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple.
"Now who put _that_ there?" said Bates, not asking a question but rather
stating a thesis.
"It was not here yesterday," commented his master, accepting all that
Bates's words implied.
"No, sir, that it wasn't. I was a-cuttin' the lawn till nigh bed-time,
an' it wasn't there then."
Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope.
"Suppose we solve the mystery," he said.
"No need to dirty your hands, sir," put in Bates. "Let I haul 'un in."
In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter.
"Good Gawd!" he wheezed. At the end of the rope was the body of a woman.
There are few more distressing objects than a drowned corpse. On
that bright June morning a dreadful apparition lost little of its
grim repulsiveness because the body was that of a young and
good-looking woman.
If one searched England it would be difficult to find two men of
differing temperaments less likely to yield to the stress of even the
most trying circumstance than Grant and Bates, yet, during some agonized
moments the one, of tried courage and fine mettle, was equally horrified
and shaken as the other, a gnarled and hard-grained rustic. It was he
from whom speech might least be expected who first found his tongue.
Bates, who had stooped, straightened himself slowly.
"By gum!" he said, "this be a bad business, Mr. Grant. Who is she? She's
none of our Steynholme lasses."
Still Grant uttered no word. He just looked in horror at the poor husk
of a woman who in life had undoubtedly been beautiful. She was well but
quietly dressed, and her clothing showed no signs of violence. The
all-night soaking in the river revealed some pitiful little feminine
secrets, such as a touch of make-up on lips and cheeks, and the dark
roots of abundant hair which had been treated chemically to lighten its
color. The eyes were closed, and for that Grant was conscious of a deep
thankfulness. Had those sightless eyes stared at him he felt he would
have cried aloud in terror. The firm, well-molded lips were open, as
though uttering a last protest against an untimely fate. Of course, both
men were convinced that murder had been done. Not only were arms and
body bound in a manner that was impossible of accomplishment by the dead
woman herself, but an ugly wound on the smooth forehead seemed to
indicate that she had been stunned or killed outright before being flung
into the river.
And then, the rope and the staple suggested an outlandish, maniacal
disposal of the victim. Here was no effort at concealment, but rather a
making sure, in most brutal and callous fashion, that early discovery
must be unavoidable.
The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no assistance
from his master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on the strip
of gravel so that it lay clear of the water.
"I mum fetch t' polis," he said.
The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into a
species of comprehension.
"Yes," he agreed, speaking slowly, as though striving to measure the
effect of each word. "Yes, go for the police, Bates. This foul crime must
be inquired into, no matter who suffers. Go now. But first bring a rug
from the stable. You understand? Your wife, or Minnie, must not be told
till later. They must not see. Mrs. Bates is not so well to-day."
"Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick 'un!"
Bates was recovering from the shock, and prepared once more to take an
interest in the minor features of existence. Among these he counted
ability to eat as a sure sign of continued well-being in man or beast.
Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise.
"I hardly know what I am saying," he muttered. "At any rate, bring a rug.
I'll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There can be no
doubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead."
"Dead as a stone," said Bates with conviction. "Why, her's bin in there
hours," and he nodded toward the water. "Besides, if I knows anythink of
a crack on t'head, her wur outed before she went into t'river.... But who
i' t'world can she be?"
"If you don't fetch that rug I'll go for it myself," said Grant,
whereupon Bates made off.
He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him to
spread over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking a
path that avoided the house.
The lawn and river bank of The Hollies could only be overlooked from the
steep wooded cliff opposite, and none but an adventurous boy would ever
think of climbing down that almost impassable rampart of rock,
brushwood, and tree-roots. At any rate, when left alone with the ghastly
evidence of a tragedy, Grant troubled only to satisfy himself that no one
was watching from the house. Assured on that point, he lifted a corner of
the rug, and, apparently, forced himself to scrutinize the dead woman's
face. He seemed to search therein for some reassuring token, but found
none, because he shook his head, dropped the rug, and walked a few paces
dejectedly.
Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but had
hardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco.
Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and
the outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and
undecided aspect.
More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which had
drawn his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet. But,
if he hoped to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the event, it
proved that his real fear was lest the person he half expected to see
should look out.
He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river; birds
sang in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to rock in
the shallows; honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in the
postmaster's garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a June
morning--that which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror lay
hidden beneath the carriage rug.
To and fro he walked in that trying vigil, carrying the empty pipe in one
hand while, with the other, he dabbed the handkerchief at the cut on his
face. He was aware of some singular change in the quality of the sunlight
pouring down on lawn and river and trees. Five minutes earlier it had
spread over the landscape a golden bloom of the tint of champagne; now it
was sharp and cold, a clear, penetrating radiance in which colors were
vivid and shadows black. He was in no mood to analyze emotions, or he
might have understood that the fierce throbbing of his heart had
literally thinned the blood in his veins and thus affected even his
sight. He only knew that in this crystal atmosphere the major issues of
life presented themselves with a new and crude force. At any rate, he
made up his mind that the course suggested by truth and honor was the
only one to follow, and that, in itself, was something gained.
By the time Bates returned, accompanied by the village policeman, and two
other men carrying a stretcher, Grant was calmer, more self-contained,
than he had been since that hapless body was dragged from the depths. He
was not irresponsive, therefore, to the aura of official importance which
enveloped the policeman; he sensed a certain uneasiness in Bates; he even
noted that the stretcher was part of the stock in trade of Hobbs, the
local butcher, and ordinarily bore the carcase of a well-fed pig.
These details were helpful. Naturally, Bates had explained his errand,
and the law, in the person of the policeman, was prepared for all
eventualities.
"This is a bad business, Mr. Grant," began the policeman, producing a
note-book, and moistening the tip of a lead pencil with his tongue. Being
a Sussex man, he used the same phrase as Bates. In fact, Grant was
greeted by it a score of times that day.
"Yes," agreed Grant. "I had better tell you that I have recognized the
poor lady. Her name is Adelaide Melhuish. Her residence is in the
Regent's Park district of London."
Robinson, the policeman, permitted himself to look surprised. He was, in
fact, rather annoyed. Bates's story had prepared him for a first-rate
detective mystery. It was irritating to have one of its leading features
cleared up so promptly.
"Oh," he said, drawing a line under the last entry in the note-book,
and writing the date and hour in heavy characters beneath. "Married
or single?"
"Married, but separated from her husband when last I had news of her."
"And when was that, sir?"
"Nearly three years ago."
"And you have not seen her since?"
"No."
"You didn't see her last night?"
Grant positively started, but he looked at the policeman squarely.
"It is strange you should ask me that," he said. "Last night, while
searching for a book, I saw a face at the window. It was that window,"
and four pairs of eyes followed his pointing finger. "The face, I now
believe, was that of the dead woman. At the moment, as it vanished
instantly, I persuaded myself that I was the victim of some trick of the
imagination. Still, I opened the other window, looked out and listened,
but heard or saw nothing or no one. As I say, I fancied I had imagined
that which was not. Now I know I was wrong."
"About what o'clock would this be, Mr. Grant?"
"Shortly before eleven. I came in at a quarter past ten, and began to
work. After writing steadily for a little more than half an hour, I
wanted to consult a book, and lighted a candle which I keep for that
purpose. I found the book, and was about to blow out the candle when I
saw the face."
Robinson wrote in his note-book:--
"Called to The Hollies to investigate case of supposed murder. Body of
woman found in river. Mr. Grant, occupying The Hollies, says that woman's
name is Adelaide Melhuish"--at this point he paused to ascertain the
spelling--"and he saw her face at a window of the house at 10.45 P.M.,
last night."
"Well, sir, and what next?" he went on.
"It seems to me that the next thing is to have the unfortunate lady
removed to some more suitable place than the river bank," said Grant,
rather impatiently. "My story can wait, and so can Bates's. He knows all
that I know, and has probably told you already how we came to discover
the body. You can see for yourself that she must have been murdered. It
is an extraordinary, I may even say a phenomenal crime, which certainly
cannot be investigated here and now. I advise you to have the body taken
to the village mortuary, or such other place as serves local needs in
that respect, and summon a doctor. Then, if you and an inspector will
call here, I'll give you all the information I possess, which is very
little, I may add."
Robinson began solemnly to jot down a summary of Grant's words, and
thereby stirred the owner of The Hollies to a fury which was repressed
with difficulty. Realizing, however, the absolute folly of expressing any
resentment, Grant turned, and, without meaning it, looked again in the
direction of the cottage on the crest of the opposite bank. This time a
girl was leaning out of the dormer window. She had shaded her eyes with a
hand, because the sun was streaming into her face, but when she saw that
Grant was looking her way she waved a handkerchief.
He fluttered his own blood-stained handkerchief in brief acknowledgment,
and wheeled about, only to find P. C. Robinson watching him furtively,
having suspended his note-taking for the purpose.
CHAPTER II
P.C. ROBINSON "TAKES A LINE"
"It will help me a lot, sir," he said, "if you tell me now what you know
about this matter. If, as seems more than likely, murder has been done, I
don't want to lose a minute in starting my inquiries. In a case of this
sort I find it best to take a line, and stick to it."
His tone was respectful but firm. Evidently, P.C. Robinson was not one to
be trifled with. Moreover, for a sleuth whose maximum achievement
hitherto had been the successful prosecution of a poultry thief, it was
significant that the unconscious irony of "a case of this sort" should
have been lost on him.
"Do you really insist on conducting your investigation while the body is
lying here?" demanded Grant, deliberately turning his back on the girl in
the distant cottage.
"Not that, sir--not altogether--but I must really ask you to clear up one
or two points now."
"For goodness' sake, what are they?"
"Well, sir, in the first place, how did you come to find the body?"
"I walked out into the garden after finishing breakfast a few
minutes ago, and noticed the rope attached to the staple, just as
you see it now."
"Did you walk straight here?"
"No. Not exactly. I was--er--curious about the face I saw, or thought I
saw, last night, and looked into the room through the same window. By
doing so I scared Mrs. Bates, who was clearing the table, and she
screamed--"
"Her would, too," put in Bates. "Her'd take 'ee for Owd Ben's ghost."
"You shut up, Bates," said the policeman. "Don't interrupt Mr. Grant."
Grant was conscious of an undercurrent of suspicion in the
constable's manner. He was wroth with the man, but recognized that he
had to deal with narrow-minded self-importance, so contrived again to
curb his temper.
"I am not acquainted with old Ben or his ghost," he said quietly. "I can
only tell you that I went inside to reassure Mrs. Bates, and then
strolled slowly to this very spot. Naturally, I could not miss the rope
and the stable. To my mind, it was not intended that I or anyone else
should miss them. I regarded them as so peculiar that I shouted for
Bates. He came at once, and drew the body out of the water."
"And you recognized the dead woman as the one you saw last night?"
"Yes."
"At about ten minutes to eleven?"
"Yes."
"Is it likely, sir, that any other person saw her in these grounds a
bit earlier?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sir, I can't put it much plainer. Could anybody else have seen her
here, say about 10.15?"
Grant met the policeman's inquiring glance squarely before he answered.
"It is possible, of course," he said, "but most unlikely."
"Were you alone here at that hour?"
Again Grant sought and held that inquisitive gaze, held it until Robinson
affected to consult his notes. There was a moment of tense silence. Then
the reply came with an icy stubbornness that was not to be denied.
"I decline absolutely to be cross-examined about my movements. If you are
unable or unwilling to order the removal of the body, I'll telegraph to
the chief of police at Knolesworth, and ask him to act. Further, I shall
request Dr. Foxton to examine the poor lady's injuries. It strikes me as
a monstrous proceeding that you should attempt to record my evidence at
this moment, and I refuse to become a party to it."