The Hunt Ball Mystery - Magnay, William
THE HUNT BALL MYSTERY
BY SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY, Bt.
Author of "A Prince of Lovers," "The Mystery of the Unicorn," etc., etc.
1918
Contents
Chap
I THE INTRUDER
II THE STAINED FLOWERS
III THE STREAK ON THE CUFF
IV THE MISSING GUEST
V THE LOCKED ROOM
VI THE MYSTERY OF CLEMENT HENSHAW
VII THE INCREDULITY OF GERVASE HENSHAW
VIII KELSON'S PERPLEXITY
IX THE CLOAK OF NIGHT
X AN ALARMING DISCOVERY
XI GIFFORD'S COMMISSION
XII HAD HENSHAW A CLUE?
XIII WHAT GIFFORD SAW IN THE WOOD
XIV GIFFORD'S PERPLEXITY
XV ANOTHER DISCOVERY
XVI AN EXPLANATION
XVII WHAT A GIRL SAW
XVIII THE LOST BROOCH
XIX IN THE CHURCHYARD
XX AN INVOLUNTARY EAVESDROPPER
XXI GIFFORD CONTINUES HIS STORY
XXII HOW GIFFORD ESCAPED
XXIII EDITH MORRISTON'S STORY
XXIV HOW THE STORY ENDED
XXV DEFIANCE
XXVI ISSUE JOINED
XXVII GIFFORD'S REWARD
CHAPTER I
THE INTRUDER
"I'm afraid it must have gone on in the van, sir."
"Gone on!" Hugh Gifford exclaimed angrily. "But you had no business to
send the train on till all the luggage was put out."
"The guard told me that all the luggage for Branchester was out," the
porter protested deprecatingly. "You see, sir, the train was nearly
twenty minutes late, and in his hurry to get off he must have overlooked
your suit-case."
"The very thing I wanted most," the owner returned. "I say, Kelson," he
went on, addressing a tall, soldierly man who strolled up, "a nice thing
has happened; the train has gone off with my evening clothes."
Kelson whistled. "Are you sure?"
"Quite." Gifford appealed to the porter, who regretfully confirmed the
statement.
"That's awkward to-night," Kelson commented with a short laugh of
annoyance. "Look here, we'd better interview the station-master, and have
your case wired for to the next stop. I am sorry, old fellow, I kept you
talking instead of letting you look after your rattle-traps, but I was so
glad to see you again after all this long time."
"Thanks, my dear Harry, you've nothing to blame yourself about. It was my
own fault being so casual. The nuisance is that if I don't get the
suit-case back in time I shan't be able to go with you to-night."
"No," his friend responded; "that would be a blow. And it's going to
be a ripping dance. Dick Morriston, who hunts the hounds, is doing the
thing top-hole. Now let's see what the worthy and obliging Prior can
do for us."
The station-master was prepared to do everything in his power, but
that did not extend to altering the times of the trains or shortening
the mileage they had to travel. He wired for the suit-case to be put
out at Medford, the next stop, some forty miles on, and sent back by
the next up-train. "But that," he explained, "is a slow one and is
not due here till 9.47. However, I'll send it on directly it arrives,
and you should get it by ten o'clock or a few minutes after. You are
staying at the _Lion_?"
"Yes."
"Not more than ten or twelve minutes' drive. I'll do my best and there
shall be no delay."
The two men thanked him and walked out to the station yard, where a
porter waited with the rest of Gifford's luggage.
"There is a gentleman here going to the _Lion_" he said with a rather
embarrassed air; "I told him your fly was engaged, sir; but he said
perhaps you would let him share it with you."
Kelson looked black. "I like the way some people have of taking things
for granted. Cheek, I call it. He had better wait or walk."
"The gentleman said he was in a hurry, sir," the porter observed
apologetically.
"No reason why he should squash us up in the fly," Kelson returned. "I'll
have a word with the gentleman. Where is he?"
"I think he is in the fly, sir."
"The devil he is! We'll have him out, Hugh. Infernally cool." And he
strode off towards the waiting fly.
"Better see what sort of chap he is before you go for him, Harry,"
Gifford said deprecatingly as he followed. He knew his masterful friend's
quick temper, and anticipated a row.
"If you don't mind, this is my fly, sir," Kelson was saying as Gifford
reached him.
"The porter told me it was the _Golden Lion_ conveyance," a strong,
deeply modulated voice replied from the fly.
"And I think he told you it was engaged," Kelson rejoined bluffly.
"I did not quite understand that," the voice of the occupant replied in
an even tone. "I am sorry if there has been any misunderstanding; but as
I am going to the hotel--"
"That is no reason why you should take our fly," Kelson retorted, his
temper rising at the other's coolness. "I must ask you to vacate it at
once," he added with heat.
"How many of you are there?" The man leaned forward showing in the
doorway a handsome face, dark almost to swarthiness. "Only two? Surely
there is no need to turn me out. You don't want to play the dog in the
manger. There is room for all three, and I shall be happy to contribute
my share of the fare."
"I don't want anything of the sort--"
Kelson was beginning angrily when Gifford intervened pacifically.
"It is all right, Harry. We can squeeze in. The fellow seems more or less
a gentleman; don't let's be churlish," he added in an undertone.
"But it is infernal impudence," Kelson protested.
"Yes; but we don't want a row. It is not as though there was another
conveyance he could take."
"All right. I suppose we shall have to put up with the brute," Kelson
assented grudgingly. "But I hate being bounced like this."
Gifford took a step to the carriage-door. "I think we can all three pack
in," he said civilly.
"I'll take the front seat, if you like," the stranger said, without,
however, showing much inclination to move.
"Oh, no; stay where you are," Gifford answered. "I fancy I am the
smallest of the three; I shall be quite comfortable there. Come
along, Harry."
With no very amiable face Kelson got in and took the vacant seat by the
stranger. His attitude was not conducive to geniality, and so for a while
there was silence. At length as they turned from the station approach on
to the main road the stranger spoke. His deep-toned voice had a musical
ring in it, yet somehow to Gifford's way of thinking it was detestable.
Perhaps it was the speaker's rather aggressive and, to a man,
objectionable personality, which made it seem so.
"I am sorry to inconvenience you," he said, more with an air of saying
the right thing than from any real touch of regret. "On an occasion like
this they ought to provide more conveyances. But country towns are
hopeless."
"Oh, it is all right," Gifford responded politely. "The drive is not
very long."
"A mile?" The man's musical inflection jarred on Gifford, who began to
wonder whether their companion could be a professional singer. One of
their own class he certainly was not.
"I presume you gentlemen are going to the Hunt Ball?" he asked.
"Yes," Gifford answered.
"Rather a new departure having it in a private house," the man said.
"Quite a sound idea, I have no doubt Morriston will do us as well--much
better than we should fare at the local hotel or Assembly Rooms."
"Are you going?" They were the first words Kelson had uttered since the
start, and the slight surprise in their tone was not quite complimentary.
It must have so struck the other, seeing that he replied with a touch of
resentment:
"Yes. Why not?"
"No reason at all," Kelson answered, except that I don't remember to have
seen you out with the Cumberbatch."
"I dare say not," the other rejoined easily. "It is some years since I
hunted with them. I'm living down in the south now, and when I'm at home
usually turn out with the Bavistock. Quite a decent little pack, _faute
de mieux_; and Bobby Amphlett, who hunts them, is a great pal of mine."
"I see," Kelson observed guardedly. "Yes, I believe they are quite good
as far as they go."
The stranger gave a short laugh. "They, or rather a topping old dog-fox,
took us an eleven mile point the other day, which was good enough in that
country. Being in town I thought I would run down to this dance for old
acquaintance' sake. Dare say one will meet some old friends."
"No doubt," Kelson responded dryly.
"As you have been good enough to ask me to share your fly," the man
observed, with a rather aggressive touch of irony, "I may as well let you
know who I am. My name is Henshaw, Clement Henshaw."
"Any relation to Gervase Henshaw?" Gifford asked.
"He is my brother. You know him?"
"Only by reputation at my profession, the Bar. And I came across a book
of his the other day."
"Ah, yes. Gervase scribbles when he has time. He is by way of being an
authority on criminology."
"And is, I should say," Gifford added civilly.
"Yes; he is a smart fellow. Has the brains of the family. I'm all for
sport and the open-air life."
"And yet," thought Gifford, glancing at the dark, rather intriguing face
opposite to him, "you don't look a sportsman. More a _viveur_ than a
regular open-air man, more at home in London or Paris than in the
stubbles or covert." But he merely nodded acceptance of Henshaw's
statement.
"My name is Kelson," the soldier said, supplying an omission due to
Henshaw's talk of himself. "I have hunted this country pretty regularly
since I left the Service. And my friend is Hugh Gifford."
"Gifford? Did not Wynford Place where we are going to-night belong to the
Giffords?" Henshaw asked, curiosity overcoming tact.
"Yes," Gifford answered, "to an uncle of mine. He sold it lately to
Morriston."
"Ah; a pity. Fine old place," Henshaw observed casually. "Naturally you
know it well."
"I have had very good times there," Gifford answered, with a certain
reserve as though disinclined to discuss the subject with a stranger. "I
have come down now also for old acquaintance' sake," he added casually.
"I see," Henshaw responded. "Not altogether pleasant, though, to see an
old family place in the hands of strangers. Personally, when a thing is
irrevocably gone, as, I take it, Wynford Place is, I believe in letting
it slide out of one's mind, and having no sentiment about it."
"No doubt a very convenient plan," Gifford replied dryly. "All the same,
if I can retrieve my evening kit, which has gone astray, I hope to enjoy
myself at Wynford Place to-night without being troubled with undue
sentimentality."
"Good," Henshaw responded with what seemed a half-smothered yawn. "Regret
for a thing that is gone past recall does not pay; though as long as
there is a chance of getting it I believe in never calling oneself
beaten. Here we are at the _Lion_."
CHAPTER II
THE STAINED FLOWERS
"What do you think of our acquaintance?" Gifford said as they settled
down in the private room of Kelson, who made the _Golden Lion_ his
hunting quarters.
"Not much. In fact, I took a particular dislike to the fellow. Wrong type
of sportsman, eh?"
"Decidedly. Fine figure of a man and good-looking enough, but spoilt by
that objectionable, cock-sure manner."
"And I should say a by no means decent character."
"A swanker to the finger-tips. And that implies a liar."
"Not worth discussing," Kelson said. "He goes to-morrow. I made a point
of inquiring how long he had engaged his room for. One night."
"Good. Then we shan't be under the ungracious necessity of shaking him
off. I can't tell you how sick I am, Harry, at the loss of my things."
"No more than I am, my dear fellow. If only a suit of mine would fit you.
But that's hopeless."
They both laughed ruefully at the idea, for Captain Kelson looked nearly
twice the size of his friend.
"We'll hope they'll arrive in time for you to see something of the fun at
any rate," Kelson said. "I'm in no hurry; I'll wait with you."
"You will do nothing of the sort, Harry," Gifford protested. "Do you
think I can't amuse myself for an hour or two alone? You'll go off at the
proper time. Absurd to wait till every decent girl's card is full."
"I don't like it, Hugh."
"Nor do I. But it is practically my fault in not looking sharper after my
luggage, and better one should suffer than two."
So it was arranged that Captain Kelson should go on alone and his
guest should follow as soon as his clothes turned up and he could
change into them.
That settled, they sat down to dinner.
"Tell me about the Morristons, Harry," Gifford said. "He is a very good
fellow, isn't he?"
"Dick Morriston? One of the best. Straight goer to hounds and straight in
every other capacity, I should say. You know they used to live at Friar's
Norton, near here, before they bought your uncle's place."
"Yes, I know. What is the sister like?"
"A fine, handsome girl," Kelson answered, without enthusiasm. "Rather too
cold and statuesque for my taste, although I have heard she has a bit of
the devil in her. Quite a sportswoman, and as good after hounds as her
brother. They say she had a thin time of it with her step-mother, and has
come out wonderfully since the old lady died. Lord Painswick, who lives
near here, is supposed to be very sweet on her. Perhaps the affair will
develop to-night. The ball will be rather a toney affair."
"Morriston has plenty of money?"
"Heaps. And the sister is an heiress too. The old man did not nearly live
up to his income and there were big accumulations."
"Which enabled the son to buy our property," Gifford said with a tinge
of bitterness. "Well, it might have been worse. Wynford has not passed
into the hands of some Jew millionaire or City speculator, but has gone
to a gentleman, a good fellow and a sportsman, eh?"
"Yes; Dick Morriston is all that. As the place had to go, you could not
have found a better man to succeed your people."
When the time came to start for the ball Gifford went down to see his
friend off and to repeat his orders concerning the immediate delivery of
his suit-case when it should arrive. Henshaw was in the hall, bulking big
in a fur coat and complaining in a masterful tone of the unpunctuality of
his fly. A handsome fellow, Gifford was constrained to acknowledge, and
of a strong, positive character; the type of man, he thought, who could
be very fascinating to women--and very brutal.
He dropped his rather bullying manner as he caught sight of the two
friends; and, noticing Gifford's morning clothes, made a casually
sympathetic remark on his bad luck.
"Oh, I shall come on when my things arrive, which ought to be soon,"
Gifford responded coldly, disliking the man and his rather obvious
insincerity.
"We might have driven over together," Henshaw said, addressing
Kelson. "But I hardly cared to propose it after the line you took at
the station."
There was an unpleasant curl of the lip as he spoke the words almost
vindictively, as though with intent to put Kelson in the wrong.
But his sneer had no effect on the ex-Cavalryman.
"I am driving over in my own trap," he replied coolly, ignoring the
other's intent. "You will be a good deal more comfortable in a closed
carriage."
"Decidedly," Henshaw returned with a laugh. "I am not so fond of an east
wind as to get more of it than can be helped. And, after all, it is best
to go independently to an affair of this sort. One may get bored and want
to leave early."
Kelson nodded with a grim appreciation of the man's trick of argument,
and went out to his waiting dog-cart. Henshaw's fly drove up as Gifford
turned back from the door.
"I suppose we shall see you towards midnight," he said lightly as he
passed Gifford, his tone clearly suggesting his utter indifference in
the matter.
"I dare say," Gifford replied, and as he went upstairs he heard an
order given for "Mr. Henshaw's fire in number 9 to be kept up against
his return."
Alone in the oak-panelled sitting-room Gifford settled down to wait for
his clothes. He skimmed through several picture-papers that were lying
about, and then took up a novel. But a restless fit was on him, and he
could not settle down to read. He threw aside the book and began thinking
of the old property which his uncle had muddled away, and recalling the
happy times he had spent there from his schooldays onwards. Memories of
the rambling old house and its park crowded upon him. By force of one
circumstance or another he had not been there for nearly ten years, and a
great impatience to see it again took hold of him. He looked at the
clock. At the best, supposing there were no hitch, his suit-case could
hardly arrive for another hour and a half. Wynford Place was a bare mile
away, perhaps twenty minutes' walk; the night was fine and moonlight, he
was getting horribly bored in that room; he would stroll out and have a
look at the outside of the old place. After all, it was only the exterior
that he could expect to find unaltered; doubtless the Morristons with
their wealth had transformed the interior almost out of his knowledge.
Anyhow he would see that later. Just then he simply longed for a sight of
the ancient house with its detached tower and the familiar landmarks.
Accordingly he filled a pipe, put on a thick overcoat and a golf cap and
went out, leaving word of his return within the hour.
But it was a good two hours before he reappeared, and the landlord, who
met him with the news that the missing suit-case had been awaiting him in
his room since twenty minutes past ten, was struck by a certain
peculiarity in his manner. It was nothing very much beyond a suggestion
of suppressed excitement and that rather wild look which lingers in a
man's eyes when he is just fresh from a dispute or has experienced a
narrow escape from danger. Then Gifford ordered a stiff glass of spirits
and soda and drank it off before going up to change.
"Shall you be going to Wynford Place, sir?" the landlord inquired as he
glanced at the clock.
Gifford hesitated a moment. "Yes. Let me have a fly in a quarter of an
hour," he answered.
But it was more than double that time when he came down dressed for
the dance.
The old house looked picturesque enough in the moonlight as he approached
it. All the windows in the main building were lighted up, and there was a
pleasant suggestion of revelry about the ivy-clad pile. Standing some
dozen yards from the house, but connected with it by a covered way, was a
three-storied tower, the remains of a much older house, and from the
lower windows of this lights also shone.
Gifford entered the well-remembered hall and made his way, almost in a
dream, to the ball-room, where many hunting men in pink made the scene
unusually gay. Unable for the moment to catch sight of Kelson, he had to
introduce himself to his host, who had heard of his mishap and gave him a
cheerily sympathetic welcome. Richard Morriston was a pleasant-looking
man of about five or six-and-thirty, the last man, Gifford thought, he
would bear a grudge against for possessing the old home of the Giffords.
"I'm afraid you must look upon me rather in the light of an intruder
here," Morriston said pleasantly.
"A very acceptable one so far as I am concerned," Gifford responded with
something more than empty civility.
"It is very kind of you to say so," his host rejoined. "Anyhow the least
I can do is to ask you with all sincerity to make yourself free of the
place while you are in the neighbourhood. Edith," he called to a tall,
handsome girl who was just passing on a man's arm, "this is Mr. Gifford,
who knows Wynford much better than we do."
Miss Morriston left her partner and held out her hand. "We were so
sorry to hear of your annoying experience," she said. "These railway
people are too stupid. I am so glad you retrieved your luggage in time
to come on to us."
Gifford was looking at her with some curiosity during her speech, and
quickly came to the conclusion that Kelson's description of her had
certainly not erred on the side of exaggeration. She looked divinely
handsome in her ball-dress of a darkish shade of blue, relieved by a
bunch of roses in her corsage and a single diamond brooch. Statuesque,
too statuesque, Kelson had called her; certainly her manner and bearing
had a certain cold stateliness, but Gifford had penetration enough to
see that behind the reserve and the society tone of her welcome there
might easily be a depth of feeling which his friend with a lesser
knowledge of human nature never suspected. An interesting girl,
decidedly, Gifford concluded as he made a suitable acknowledgment of her
greeting, and, I fancy, my friend Harry takes a rather too superficial
view of her character, he thought, as strolling off in search of
Kelson, he found himself watching his hostess from across the room with
more than ordinary interest.
He soon encountered Kelson coming out of a gaily decorated passage which
he knew led to the old tower. He had a pretty girl on his arm, tall and
fair, but with none of Miss Morriston's dignified coldness. This girl had
a sunny, laughing face, and Gifford thought he understood why his friend
had not been enthusiastic over the probable Lady Painswick.
Kelson, receiving him with delight, introduced him, with an air of
proprietorship it seemed, to his companion, Miss Tredworth.
"Have you been exploring the old tower?" Gifford asked.
"We've been sitting out there," Kelson answered with a laugh. "They have
converted the lower rooms into quite snug retreats."
"In my uncle's day they were anything but snug," Gifford observed. "I
remember we used to play hide-and-seek up there."
He spoke with preoccupation, his eyes fixed on a bunch of white flowers
which the girl wore on her black dress. They were slightly blotched and
sprinkled with a dark colour in a way which was certainly not natural,
and Gifford, held by the peculiar sight, looked in wonder from the
flowers to the girl's face.
"You must give Gifford a dance," Kelson said, breaking up the rather
awkward pause.
"I'm afraid my card is full," Miss Tredworth said, holding it up.
Kelson laughed happily. "Then he shall have one of mine."
But Gifford protested. "Indeed I won't rob you, Harry," he declared. "I'm
tired, and should be a stupid partner."
"Tired?" Kelson remonstrated. "Why, you have been resting at the _Lion_
waiting for your things while we have been dancing our hardest."
"Resting? No; I went out for a walk," Gifford replied.
"The deuce you did! Where did you go to?"
"Oh, nowhere particular," Gifford answered rather evasively. "Just about
the town."
CHAPTER III
THE STREAK ON THE CUFF
Hugh Gifford did not stay very long at the dance. He took a mouthful of
supper, and then told Kelson that he had a headache and was going to walk
back to the _Golden Lion_.
Kelson was distressed. "My dear fellow, coming so late and going so
early, it's too bad. This is the best time of the night. I hope the old
place with its memories hasn't distressed you."
"Oh, no," was the answer. "But something has upset me. I'll get back and
turn in. By the way, I don't see that man Henshaw."
"No," Kelson replied casually; "I haven't seen him lately. But then I've
had something better to think about than that ineffable bounder. He was
here all right in the early part of the evening. One couldn't see
anything else."
"Dancing?"
"More or less. Well, if you will go, old fellow, do make yourself
comfortable at the _Lion_ and call for anything you fancy. I'm dancing
this waltz."
Gifford left the dance and went back to the hotel. He seemed perplexed
and worried, so much so that for some time he paced his room restlessly
and then, instead of turning in, he went back to the sitting-room,
lighted a pipe, and settled himself there to await his friend's return.
It was nearly three o'clock when Kelson came in.
"Why, Hugh!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Still up?"
"I didn't feel like sleeping," Gifford answered, "and if I'm to keep
awake I'd rather stay up."
Kelson looked at him curiously. "I hope the visit to your old home hasn't
been too much for you," he remarked with the limited sympathy of a strong
man whose nerves are not easily affected.
"Oh, no," Gifford assured him. "Although somehow I did feel rather out
of it. I have had rather a teasing day, but I shall be all right in the
morning, and am looking forward to a run round the scenes of my
childhood."
"Good," Kelson responded, relieved to think his friend's visit was not
after all going to be as dismal as he had begun to fear. "Well, Hugh," he
added gaily. "I have a piece of news for you."
"Not that you are engaged?"
Something, an almost apprehensive touch, in Gifford's tone rather took
his friend aback.
"Why not?"
"To Miss--the girl you were dancing with?"
Again Gifford's tone gave a check to Kelson's enthusiasm.
It was with a more serious face that he replied, "Muriel Tredworth, the
best girl in England. I hope, my dear Hugh, you are not going to say you
don't think so."
"Certainly not," Gifford answered promptly. "I never saw or heard of her
before to-night."
Kelson laughed uncomfortably. A man in love and in the flush of
acceptance wants something more than a lukewarm reception of the news.
"I'm glad to hear it," he responded dryly. "From your tone one might
almost imagine that you knew something against Muriel."