Kitabı oku: «The Green God», sayfa 3
"What do you make of that, Sir?" inquired the detective.
"It looks as though it had been made by someone entering instead of leaving the room," I replied. "It could not have been made by anyone leaving the room. No one would get out of a window that way."
"Except a woman," said McQuade dryly. "A man would swing his legs over the sill and drop to the roof. It's barely three feet. But a woman would sit upon the sill, turn on her stomach, rest her hands on the sill with her fingers pointing toward the room, and slide gently down until her feet touched the roof beneath." He smiled with a quiet look of triumph.
"The whole thing is impossible," I retorted, with some heat. "There's no sense in talking about how anyone may or may not have got out of the room, when the bolted window proves that no one got either in or out at all."
"Perhaps you think that poor devil in there killed himself," said the detective, grimly. "Somebody must have got in. There is only one explanation possible. The window was bolted after the murder."
"By the murdered man, I suppose," I retorted ironically, nettled by his previous remark.
"Not necessarily," he replied coldly, "but possibly by someone who desired to shield the murderer." He looked at me squarely, but I was able to meet his gaze without any misgivings. "I was the first person who entered the room," I said, earnestly, "and I am prepared to make oath that the window was bolted when I entered."
"Was the room dark?" he inquired.
"It was," I answered, not perceiving the drift of his remarks. "One of the servants brought a candle."
"Did you examine the windows at once?"
"No."
"What did you do?"
"I knelt down and examined the body."
"What was Major Temple doing?"
"I – I did not notice. I think he began to examine the things in Mr. Ashton's portmanteau."
"Then, Mr. Morgan, if, occupied as you were in the most natural duty of determining whether or not you could render any aid to Mr. Ashton, you did not notice Major Temple's movements, I fail to see how you are in a position to swear to anything regarding the condition of the window at the time you entered the room."
"Your suggestion is impossible, Sergeant McQuade. Had Major Temple bolted the window, I should certainly have noticed it. I realize fully the train of reasoning you are following and I am convinced that you are wrong."
The Sergeant smiled slightly. "I do not follow any one train of reasoning," he retorted, "nor do I intend to neglect any one. I want the truth, and I intend to have it." He left the roof hurriedly, and, entering the house we descended to the library, where Major Temple sat awaiting the conclusion of our investigations.
"Well, Mr. Morgan," he inquired excitedly as we came in, "what have you discovered?"
I nodded toward the Sergeant. "Mr. McQuade can perhaps tell you," I replied.
"I can tell you more, Major Temple," said the detective, gravely, "if you will first let me have a few words with Miss Temple."
"With my daughter?" exclaimed the Major, evidently much surprised.
"Yes," answered the detective, with gravity.
"I'll go and get her," said the Major, rising excitedly.
"If you do not mind, Major Temple, I should much prefer to have you send one of the servants for her. I have a particular reason for desiring you to remain here."
I thought at first that Major Temple was going to resent this, but, although he flushed hotly, he evidently thought better of it, for he strode to a call bell and pressed it, then, facing the detective, exclaimed:
"I think you would do better to question Li Min."
"I do not intend to omit doing that, as well," replied McQuade, imperturbably.
We remained in uneasy silence until the maid, who had answered the bell, returned with Miss Temple, who, dismissing her at the door, faced us with a look upon her face of unfeigned surprise. She appeared pale and greatly agitated. I felt that she had not slept, and the dark circles under her eyes confirmed my belief. She looked about, saw our grave faces, then turned to her father. "You sent for me, Father?" she inquired, nervously.
"Sergeant McQuade here" – he indicated the detective whom Miss Temple recognized by a slight inclination of her head – "wishes to ask you a few questions."
"Me?" Her voice had in it a note of alarm which was not lost upon the man from Scotland Yard, who regarded her with closest scrutiny.
"I'll not be long, Miss. I think you may be able to clear up a few points that at present I cannot quite understand."
"I'm afraid I cannot help you much," she said, gravely.
"Possibly more than you think, Miss. In the first place I understand that your father had promised your hand in marriage to Mr. Ashton."
Miss Temple favored me with a quick and bitter glance of reproach. I knew that she felt that this information had come from me.
"Yes," she replied, "that is true."
"Did you desire to marry him?"
The girl looked at her father in evident uncertainty.
"I – I – Why should I answer such a question?" She turned to the detective with scornful eyes. "It is purely my own affair, and of no consequence – now."
"That is true, Miss," replied the Sergeant, with deeper gravity. "Still, I do not see that the truth can do anyone any harm."
Miss Temple flushed and hesitated a moment, then turned upon her questioner with a look of anger. "I did not wish to marry Mr. Ashton," she cried. "I would rather have died, than have married him."
McQuade had made her lose her temper, for which I inwardly hated him. His next question left her cold with fear.
"When did you last see Mr. Ashton alive?" he demanded.
The girl hesitated, turned suddenly pale, then threw back her head with a look of proud determination. "I refuse to answer that question," she said defiantly.
Her father had been regarding her with amazed surprise. "Muriel," he said, in a trembling voice – "what do you mean? You left Mr. Ashton and myself in the dining-room at a little after nine." She made no reply.
Sergeant McQuade slowly took from his pocket the handkerchief he had found in Mr. Ashton's room, and, handing it to her, said simply: "Is this yours, Miss?"
Miss Temple took it, mechanically.
"Yes," she said.
"It was found beside the murdered man's body," said the detective as he took the handkerchief from her and replaced it in his pocket.
For a moment, I thought Miss Temple was going to faint, and I instinctively moved toward her. She recovered herself at once. "What are you aiming at?" she exclaimed. "Is it possible that you suppose I had anything to do with Mr. Ashton's death?"
"I have not said so, Miss. This handkerchief was found in Mr. Ashton's room. It is possible that he had it himself, that he kept it, as a souvenir of some former meeting, although in that case it would hardly have retained the strong scent of perfume which I notice upon it. But you might have dropped it at table – he may have picked it up that very night. It is for these reasons, Miss, that I asked you when you last saw Mr. Ashton alive, and you refuse to answer me. I desire only the truth, Miss Temple. I have no desire to accuse anyone unjustly. Tell us, if you can, how the handkerchief came in Mr. Ashton's room."
At these words, delivered in an earnest and convincing manner, I saw Miss Temple's face change. She felt that the detective was right, as indeed, did I, and I waited anxiously for her next words.
"I last saw Mr. Ashton," she answered, with a faint blush, "last night about midnight."
Her answer was as much of a surprise to me as it evidently was to both Major Temple and the detective.
"Muriel," exclaimed the former, in horrified tones.
"I went to his room immediately after he retired," continued Miss Temple, with evident effort. "I wished to tell him something – something important – before the morning, when it might have been too late. I was afraid to stand in the hallway and talk to him through the open door for fear I should be seen. I went inside. I must have dropped the handkerchief at that time."
"Will you tell us what you wished to say to Mr. Ashton that you regarded as so important as to take you to his room at midnight?"
Again Miss Temple hesitated, then evidently decided to tell all. "I went to tell him," she said, gravely, "that, no matter what my father might promise him, I would refuse to marry him under any circumstances. I told him that, if he turned over the emerald to my father under any such promise, he would do so at his own risk. I begged him to release me from the engagement which my father had made, and to give me back a letter in which, at my father's demand, I had in a moment of weakness consented to it."
"And he refused?" asked the detective.
"He refused." Miss Temple bowed her head, and I saw from the tears in her eyes that her endurance and spirit under this cross-questioning were fast deserting her.
"Then what did you do?"
"I went back to my room."
"Did you retire?"
"No."
"Did you remove your clothing?"
"I did not. I threw myself upon the bed until – " She hesitated, and I suddenly saw the snare into which she had been lead. When she appeared in the hallway at the time of the murder she wore a long embroidered Chinese dressing gown. Yet she had just stated that she had not undressed. McQuade, who seemed to have the mind of a hawk, seized upon it at once.
"Until what?" he asked bluntly.
"Until – this morning," she concluded, and I instinctively felt that she was not telling the truth.
"Until you heard the commotion in the hall?" inquired McQuade, insinuatingly. I felt that I could have strangled him where he stood, but I knew in my heart that he was only doing his duty.
"Yes," she answered.
"Then, Miss Temple, how do you explain the fact that you appeared immediately in the hall – as soon as the house was aroused – in your slippers and a dressing gown?"
She saw that she had been trapped, and still her presence of mind did not entirely desert her. "I had begun to change," she cried, nervously.
"Were you out of the house this morning, Miss Temple, at or about the time of the murder? Were you at the corner of the porch under Mr. Ashton's room?" The detective's manner was brutal in its cruel insistence.
Miss Temple gasped faintly, then looked at her father. Her eyes were filled with tears. "I – I refuse to answer any more questions," she cried, and, sobbing violently, turned and left the room.
McQuade strode quickly toward Major Temple, who had observed the scene in amazed and horrified silence. "Major Temple," he said, sternly, "much as I regret it, I am obliged to ask you to allow me to go at once to Miss Temple's room."
"To her room," gasped the Major.
"Yes. I will be but a moment. It is imperative that I make some investigations there immediately."
"Sir," thundered the Major, "do you mean for a moment to imply that my daughter had any hand in this business? By God, Sir – I warn you – " he towered over the detective, his face flushed, his clenched fist raised in anger.
McQuade held up his hand. "Major Temple, the truth can harm no one who is innocent. Miss Temple has, I fear, not been entirely frank with me. It is my duty to search her room at once – and I trust that you will not attempt to interpose any obstacles to my doing so." He started toward the door, and Major Temple and I followed reluctantly enough. With a growl of suppressed rage the girl's father lead the way to her room to which she had not herself returned. As though by instinct, the detective went to a large closet between the dressing-room and bedroom, threw it open, and after a search of but a few moments drew forth a pair of boots damp and covered with mud, and a brown tweed walking skirt, the lower edge of which was still damp and mud stained. He looked at the Major significantly. "Major Temple," he said, "your daughter left the house, in these shoes and this skirt, some time close to daybreak. The murder occurred about that time. If you will induce her to tell fully and frankly why she did so, and why she seems so anxious to conceal the fact, I am sure that it will spare her and all of us a great deal of annoyance and trouble, and assist us materially in arriving at the truth." As he concluded, sounds below announced the arrival of the police and the divisional surgeon from the town, and, with a curt nod, he left us and descended to the hall.
CHAPTER IV
I ADVISE MISS TEMPLE
I left the room and went down to the main hall. The divisional surgeon, with McQuade and his men had already proceeded to the scene of the tragedy, and as I did not suppose that I would be wanted there, I left the house and started out across the beautiful lawns, now partially covered with the fallen leaves of oak and elm, my mind filled with conflicting thoughts and emotions. As I passed out, I met Miss Temple coming along the porch, wearing a long cloak, and evidently prepared for a walk, so I suggested, rather awkwardly, remembering her look of annoyance during the examination by Sergeant McQuade, that I should be happy to accompany her. Somewhat to my surprise she accepted my offer at once, and we started briskly off along the main driveway leading to the highroad. Miss Temple, of lithe and slender build, was, I soon found, an enthusiastic walker, and set the pace with a free and swinging stride that rejoiced my heart. I dislike walking with most women, whose short and halting steps make accompanying them but an irritation. I did not say anything as we walked along, except to comment upon the change of weather and the beauty of the day, for I felt sure that she would prefer to be left to her own thoughts after the trying ordeal through which she had just passed. She was silent all the way down to the entrance to the grounds, and seemed to feel oppressed by the house and its proximity, but as soon as we set out along the main road toward Pinhoe over which Ashton and I had traveled the evening before, she seemed to brighten up, and, turning to me, said, with surprising suddenness: "Do you believe, Mr. Morgan, that I had any part in this terrible affair? The questions the detective asked me indicated that he had."
"Certainly not," I said. "And, if you will permit me to say so, Miss Temple, I think you would have been wiser had you been entirely frank with him."
"What do you mean?" she asked, indignantly.
I felt disappointed, somehow, at her manner.
"Miss Temple," I said, gently, "you at first refused to admit that you had sought an interview with Mr. Ashton at midnight. I fully understood your reasons for your refusal. It was an unconventional thing to do, and you feared the misjudgment of persons at large, although to me it appeared, in the light of my knowledge of the case, a most natural action. Mr. Ashton still retained the jewel, and, if he gave it up after your warning, he could not have complained of the consequences. But I am sorry, Miss Temple, that you were not as frank about your leaving the house, as he believes you did, early this morning."
"Why does he believe that?" she asked, spiritedly.
"Because, in the first place, he found footprints – the footprints of a woman's shoe, in the gravel walk, from the west corner of the porch to the main entrance. They lead only one way. After questioning you, he searched your room, and found the skirt and shoes which you wore, both wet and covered with mud. The rain did not stop until three or four this morning. The footprints were made after the rain, or they would have been washed away and obliterated by it. For these reasons, he fully believes you were out of the house close to daybreak, which was the time of the murder."
"The brute," said Miss Temple, indignantly, "to enter my rooms!"
"It is after all only his duty, Miss Temple," I replied.
"Well, perhaps you are right. But suppose I did go outside at that time – suppose I had decided to run away from Mr. Ashton, and my father, and their wretched conspiracy against my happiness, what guilt is there in that? I came back, did I not?"
"Why," I inquired, "did you come back?"
She glanced quickly at me, with a look of fear.
"I – I – that I refuse to explain to anyone. After all, Mr. Morgan, I certainly am not obliged to tell the police my very thoughts."
Her persistency in evading any explanation of her actions of the morning surprised and annoyed me. "You will remember, Miss Temple, that I said the footprints lead in one direction only, and that was toward the house. Mr. McQuade does not believe that you left the house in the same way that you returned to it."
"What on earth does he believe then?" she inquired with a slight laugh, which was the first sign of brightness I had seen in her since she left me with a smile the night before. I could not help admiring her beautiful mouth and her white, even teeth as she turned inquiringly to me. Yet my answer was such as to drive that smile from her face for a long time to come.
"He believes this, Miss Temple, or at least he thinks of it as a possibility: Whoever committed the murder reached the porch roof by means of the window at the end of the upper hall, and, after entering and leaving Mr. Ashton's room, descended in some way from the porch to the pathway, and re-entered the house by the main entrance. Your footsteps are the only ones so far that fit in with this theory."
"It is absurd!" said my companion, with a look of terror. "How could the window have been rebolted? Why should the murderer not have re-entered the house in the same way he left it? How does he know that there was anyone upon the roof at all?"
"In answer to the first objection, he claims that someone interested in the murderer's welfare might have rebolted the window upon entering the room. That would of course mean either your father or myself. To the second, that whoever committed the crime feared to enter the hall by the window after the house had been aroused. To the third, there is positive evidence of the presence of someone having been upon the roof, at Mr. Ashton's window."
"What evidence?" She seemed greatly alarmed; her clenched hands and rapid breathing indicated some intense inward emotion.
"The faint print of a hand – in blood, upon the window sill. With these things to face, Miss Temple, you will, I'm sure, see the advisability of explaining fully your departure from the house, and your return, in order that the investigations of the police may be turned in other directions, where the guilt lies, instead of in yours, where, I am sure, it does not." I fully expected, after telling her this, that she would insist upon returning to the house at once and clearing herself fully, but what was my amazement as I observed her pallor, her agitation, the nervous clenching of her hands, increase momentarily as I laid the Sergeant's theory before her! She seemed suddenly stricken with terror. "I can say nothing, nothing whatever," she answered, pathetically, her face a picture of anguish.
I felt alarmed, and indeed greatly disappointed at her manner. Limiting the crime to three persons, one of whom must have been upon the porch roof a little before daybreak, I saw at once that suspicion must inevitably fall upon either Miss Temple or her father. In the first instance – McQuade's theory that Miss Temple herself committed the gruesome deed seemed borne out by all the circumstances, but, if not, there could be but one plausible explanation of her unwillingness to speak: she must have seen the murderer upon the roof, and for that reason rushed back into the house. In this event, however, she would certainly have no desire to shield anyone but her father – and he, in turn might have re-entered the hallway through the window before I had thrown on my clothes and left my room after hearing the cry. He, also, to cover up his crime, had he indeed committed it, might have rebolted the window from within while I was examining the body of the murdered man, as McQuade had suggested. I remembered now that Major Temple had excluded everyone from the room but ourselves, and shut the door as soon as the murder was discovered. To suppose that Miss Temple was the guilty person was to me out of the question. Had she committed the crime, her father would necessarily have been an accomplice, otherwise he would not have bolted the window, and this seemed unbelievable to me. Yet there was the print of the bloody hand, upon the window sill – small, delicately formed, certainly not that of her father. My brain whirled. I could apparently arrive at nothing tangible, nothing logical. There yet remained the one possibility – the Chinaman, Li Min. His hands, small and delicate, might possibly have made the telltale print upon the window sill, but, in that event, why should Miss Temple hesitate to tell of it, had she seen him. The only possible solution filled me with horror. I could not for a moment believe it, yet it insisted upon forcing itself upon my mind: that Miss Temple and Li Min were acting together; that her father, too, was in the plot, as he must have been if he rebolted the window. The thing was clearly impossible, yet if not explained in this way, the Chinaman was clearly innocent, for I believed without question that, had he entered the room and committed the murder, he could in no possible way have bolted the window himself, from without, after leaving it. I walked along in silence, my mind confused, uncertain what to believe and what not, yet, as I looked at the strong, beautiful face of the girl beside me, I could not think that, whatever she might be lead to do for the sake of someone else, she could ever have committed such a crime herself. I also remembered suddenly Major Temple's angry remark, made to Robert Ashton as they stood in the hall after dinner the night before, that he would never allow Ashton to leave the house with the emerald in his possession. Was she shielding her father? Was it he, then, that she had seen upon the roof? We walked along for a time in silence, then, through some subtle intuition dropping the subject of the tragedy completely, we fell to talking of my work, my life in London, and so began to feel more at ease with each other. By the time we had returned to the house, it was close to the luncheon hour, and as I went to my room, I met Sergeant McQuade, in the hall. From him I learned that the divisional surgeon had completed his examination and returned to the town, that the body had been removed to a large unused billiard-room on the ground floor, and that the inquest was set for the following morning at eleven. The detective also said, in response to a question from me, that the two Chinamen who had left Exeter on the morning train had been apprehended in London, upon their arrival, and were being held there pending his coming. He proposed to run up to town the next day, as soon as the inquest was over. A careful and detailed search of Mr. Ashton's room and belongings had failed to reveal either any further evidence tending to throw light upon the murder, or any traces of the missing emerald Buddha.
After luncheon, Sergeant McQuade asked Major Temple to meet him in the library, accompanied by Li Min, and at the Major's request I joined them. The Chinaman was stolidly indifferent and perfectly collected and calm. His wooden face, round and expressionless, betrayed no feeling or emotion of any nature whatsoever. I observed, as did the detective, that his right hand was bound up with a strip of white cloth. He spoke English brokenly, but seemed to understand quite well all that was said to him.
"Li Min," said Major Temple, addressing the man, "this gentleman wishes to ask you some questions." He indicated Sergeant McQuade.
"All light." The Chinaman faced McQuade with a look of bland inquiry.
"Where did you spend last night?" asked the detective suddenly.
"Me spend him with blother at Exeter."
"Where, in Exeter?"
"Flog Stleet."
"What time did you leave this house?"
"P'laps 'leven o'clock, sometime."
"Was it raining?"
"Yes, velly much lain."
"You did not go to bed, then?"
"No, no go to bed, go Exeter."
The Sergeant looked at him sternly. "Your bed was not made this morning. You are lying to me."
"No, no lie. Bed not made flom day before. I make him myself."
The detective turned to Major Temple. "Is this fellow telling the truth?" he asked. "Does he make his own bed?"
"Yes," replied the Major. "The other servants refused to have anything to do with him. They are afraid to enter his room. He cares for it himself."
"What did you do in Exeter?" asked McQuade.
"P'laps talkee some, smokee some, eatee some – play fantan – bimby sleep."
"What's the matter with your hand?" asked the detective suddenly.
"Me cuttee hand, bloken bottle – Exeter."
"What kind of a bottle?"
"Whiskey bottle," answered Li Min, with a childlike smile.
McQuade turned away with a gesture of impatience. "There's no use questioning this fellow any further," he growled. "He knows a great deal more about this affair than he lets on, but there's no way to get it out of him, short of the rack and thumb-screw. Do any of the other servants sleep near him? Perhaps they may know whether or not he left the house last night. Who attends to locking the house up?"
"I have always trusted Li Min," said Major Temple. "He sleeps in a small room on the third floor of the east wing, which has a back stairway to the ground floor. The other house servants sleep on the second floor of the rear extension, over the kitchen and pantries. My daughter generally sees to the locking up of the house."
"Did she do so last night?"
"No. I did so myself. I locked the rear entrance before I retired shortly before midnight."
"After Mr. Ashton had left you to retire?"
"Immediately after."
"Then, if Li Min had left the house by that time, you would not have known it?"
"No, I should not. I heard no sounds in the servants' quarters and presumed they had retired. I sat up with Mr. Ashton, discussing various matters until quite late – perhaps for two hours or more after dinner."
"You were alone?"
"Yes, both my daughter and Mr. Morgan had retired some time before."
"Did you have any quarrel with Mr. Ashton before he left you?"
Major Temple glanced at me with a slight frown. "We had some words," he said, hesitating slightly, "but they were not of any serious consequence. We had a slight disagreement about the price he was to be paid for his services in procuring for me the emerald in addition to the other arrangement, of which I have already told you."
"And the matter was not settled before he left you?"
"No – " the Major hesitated perceptibly and seemed to be choosing his words with the utmost care – "it was not – but we agreed to leave it until the morning."
"You were displeased with Mr. Ashton, were you not? You quarreled violently?"
"I – we did not agree," stammered the Major.
"Did Mr. Ashton threaten to take the stone elsewhere, in case you would not agree to pay his price?"
"He mentioned something of the sort, I believe," said the Major.
"To which you objected strongly?"
"I protested, most certainly. I regarded the stone as my property. He acted as my agent only."
McQuade remained silent for some moments, then turned to Major Temple.
"Major Temple," he said, "I am obliged to go into the town for the remainder of the afternoon, but I shall be back here this evening. I shall leave one of my men on the premises. When I return, I should like very much to have you tell me the complete history of this jewel, this emerald Buddha, which has evidently been the cause of all this trouble. No doubt Mr. Ashton told you the story of his efforts to obtain it, while in China, and of the way in which he succeeded. Possibly, when we have a better understanding of what this jewel may mean to the real owners of it, we may the better understand how far they would go in their efforts to recover it."
"I shall be very happy indeed to do so," said Major Temple. "It is a most interesting and remarkable story, I can assure you."
After McQuade had gone, I strolled about the grounds for the larger part of the afternoon, trying to get my mind off the gloomy events which had filled it all the morning to the exclusion of everything else. I said to Major Temple before I left him that I regretted the necessity of remaining as an uninvited guest at his house pending the inquest, and suggested that I might remove myself and my belongings to Exeter, but he would not hear of it. I strolled into the town, however, later in the afternoon, after trying vainly to make some sketches, and dispatched a telegram to my mother, in Torquay, advising her that I would be delayed in joining her. On my way back I took a short cut over the fields, and found myself approaching The Oaks from the rear, through a bit of woodland, which through neglect had become filled with underbrush. The sun had already set, or else the gloom of the autumn afternoon obscured its later rays, for the wood was shadowy and dark, and as I emerged from it, near a line of hedge which separated it from the kitchen gardens of The Oaks, I observed two figures standing near a gateway in the hedge, talking together earnestly. I came upon them suddenly, and, as I did so, they separated and one of them disappeared swiftly into the shadows of the wood while the other advanced rapidly toward the house. I quickened my steps, and, as the figure ahead of me reached the higher ground in the rear of the house, I saw that it was Li Min. He appeared unconscious of my presence and vanished rapidly into the house. The circumstance filled me with vague suspicions, though I could not tell just why. Instinctively, as I approached the house, I turned toward the west wing, and, as I reached the rear corner of the building, I stepped back on the grass, beyond the gravel walk, to obtain a view of the windows above. As I moved backward over the turf, until I could reach a point where I could see over the edge of the porch roof, I suddenly tripped over an object in the grass and nearly fell. As I recovered myself, I looked to see what it was, and picked up a short, thick iron poker with a heavy octagonal brass knob at one end of it. As I held it in my hand, I realized at once that with such a weapon as this the strange wound in Ashton's head could readily have been made. I examined the pointed prismatic knob carefully, but, beyond being somewhat stained from lying in the wet grass, it showed no other marks of the gruesome use to which I instinctively felt it had been put. Wrapping it carefully in my handkerchief, I carried it to my room, and took the precaution to lock it safely in one of the drawers of the dresser, pending an opportunity to show it privately to Sergeant McQuade upon his return from Exeter.
