“A remarkable thing, Mr. Fransemmery,” he said, “that if Sir Anthony is dead—and I make no doubt of it, for there’s nobody else in the village that they’d toll a minute bell for—he and his elder son should come to their deaths on the same morning! And now, I suppose, the title passes to Mr. Harry Markenmore—of course.”
But Mr. Fransemmery had been thinking on lines of his own, and he shook his head.
“Maybe,” he answered, as if in doubt.
“Aye?” said the Chief Constable. “But why maybe. He’s the next, isn’t he?”
“Well,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “Guy Markenmore, so I’m told, left home seven years ago, and has never been there since—I know that much. Now, the probabilities are that during those seven years, Guy Markenmore married—it’s likely, anyway. And in that case, if he’d a son, the title—and the estates, for I happen to know that the Markenmore property is strictly entailed—will pass to him. That, of course, will have to come out.”
“A lot will have to come out,” muttered the Chief Constable. “That Guy Markenmore has been murdered I haven’t the least doubt! But why! Evidently he has returned to the old place—summoned to see his father, I should think—and here he’s found shot dead, first thing in the morning! It will take some working out. Luckily, I had that man Blick in Selcaster when I heard the news, and I roused him out of his hotel, immediately, and brought him along.”
“Who is Blick?” asked Mr. Fransemmery.
“A C. I. D. man,” replied the Chief Constable. “One of the smartest men they’ve got at New Scotland Yard just now—detective-sergeant already, and likely to rise still higher. He’s been down in Selcaster for a day or two in connection with a case of fraud that’s given us a lot of trouble—now I shall get him switched off on to this affair. From what I’ve seen of him already—and heard of him, previously—he’s all the qualities of a human ferret.”
“He’ll need them, I think,” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “There’s all the semblance of some extraordinary mystery about this morning’s work, and apparently no clue on the spot. But we may hear more presently.”
They were now walking up the drive to the front of the house; as they came within a hundred yards of the terrace they saw a tall man emerge from the shrubberies, approach the front door and enter.
“I shouldn’t wonder if that’s Mr. John Harborough, of Greycloister, the big house on the other side of the village,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I heard from my housekeeper last night that he’s come home at last. Like Guy Markenmore, he’s been away a long time—the same time, indeed. Seven years—hunting, shooting big game, in all parts of the world. I’ve never met him and I suppose you haven’t.”
“Heard of him,” replied the Chief Constable. “Belongs to the big banking firm—Harborough, Chettle, and Fairweather, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but it’s as a sleeping partner,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “He’s never taken any active part in the business. A very rich man, I understand. Well, here we are—and I wish we came on any other matter than this.”
The front door of Markenmore Court stood open, and just inside the inner hall the two new arrivals caught sight of a little group—the tall man they had just seen, an elderly man of professional appearance, and Braxfield.
“Here’s Chilford, Sir Anthony’s solicitor, here already,” whispered the Chief Constable, as he and Mr. Fransemmery advanced without ceremony. “We’d better tell him before letting the boy and girl know. Fortunately I don’t see either of them.”
The three men in the hall gazed at the Chief Constable’s semi-military uniform with evident astonishment; the elderly man came hastily forward. The Chief Constable gave him a warning look and got in the first word.
“Young people anywhere about, Chilford?” he asked. “No? Then let Braxfield take us into some room for a minute or two—to ourselves.” He bent and whispered in the solicitor’s ear. “Some bad news.”
Chilford stared as if unable to understand the communication; he in his turn whispered to Braxfield; the old butler threw open a door and ushered the group into a dimly-lighted room, one of the many in Markenmore Court that were rarely used. He was closing the door on them when the Chief Constable called him back.
“Don’t go, Braxfield,” he said. “Come in—close the door. Am I right in supposing that your old master’s dead?” he continued, motioning the butler to join the group. “Mr. Fransemmery and I heard the death bell, so we thought——”
“Sir Anthony died in his sleep early this morning, sir,” replied Braxfield mournfully. “The exact time I couldn’t say.”
“Well, I want to ask you a question or two, Braxfield,” continued the Chief Constable. “Was Mr. Guy Markenmore here?”
“Here, sir? When his father died? No—no, he was not.”
“Has he been here? Was he here yesterday?”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore, sir—Sir Guy as he is now, to speak correct—was here last night. He was here for a while—left about half-past ten, sir.”
“Left for where?”
“That I can’t exactly say, sir. He had a call to make on some one in the neighbourhood, but I don’t know who the person was. His intention, sir—Sir Guy’s—was to catch the early morning train for London at Mitbourne.”
The Chief Constable glanced at Mr. Fransemmery.
“Markenmore Hollow is on the side of the downs’ path to Mitbourne,” he whispered, in an aside. “You’ve not seen or heard of him since he went out of this house at ten-thirty, then, Braxfield?” he went on, turning again to the old butler. “Heard—nothing?”
“I, sir? No, sir. Neither seen nor heard.”
“What is all this?” asked the solicitor suddenly. “Has something happened?”
“I’d better tell you straight out,” answered the Chief Constable. He glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I don’t want the young people to be alarmed,” he said. “You must break it gently to them, Chilford, as you’re the family solicitor. The fact is, Guy Markenmore’s body has been found, up there on the downs, at the place called Markenmore Hollow. He——”
Braxfield let out a sharp cry. His usually rosy face paled.
“Body!” he exclaimed. “Then——”
“Steady, my friend!” said the Chief Constable. “Keep calm! Yes—he’s dead—and I’m afraid—in fact—there’s no doubt about it—he’s been murdered!”
Braxfield burst into tears. And Mr. Fransemmery, gently taking the old man by the arm, led him away into one of the deep window-places, soothing him. Meanwhile, the Chief Constable rapidly narrated the events of the morning to Chilford and Harborough. The solicitor’s grave face grew still graver.
“You’re sure—from what you’ve seen already—that it’s a case of murder?” he asked at last.
“Haven’t one doubt,” affirmed the Chief Constable. “Murder! We shall have to go deeply into his doings, his whereabouts, between half-past ten last night and early this morning. According to the police-surgeon he was shot about four o’clock. What was he doing?—where was he?—in that interval? You live in Markenmore, Chilford, don’t you?”
“Outskirts,” answered Chilford, “but he never came to see me, if that’s what you’re thinking of. I didn’t know he’d been here, till just now.”
“I suppose he didn’t come to see you, Mr. Harborough?” asked the Chief Constable.
“No,” said Harborough. “Certainly not.”
“I thought you’d probably known each other before he left home,” said the Chief Constable. “Well, there’s a lot to do, Chilford; you’d better go and tell his brother and sister and prepare them. His body will be brought here—presently—and the inquest will be held here. Break it to them—they’ve got to know.”
Chilford nodded, and silently left the room. Braxfield, wiping his eyes, came back.
“You’ll excuse my emotion, gentlemen,” he said. “Forty years’ service in this family, you know—like my own, if I may say so. Come to the morning-room, gentlemen, if you please—there’s a good fire there, by now; this room’s never used, and it’s too cold to stay in.”
The three men followed the old butler across the hall to the room in which Harborough had talked to Harry and Valencia the previous evening. And there, escorted by Chilford, the brother and sister presently joined them. One glance at their faces made the Chief Constable turn to Mr. Fransemmery with a sigh of relief.
“Good!” he whispered. “Cool as cucumbers! Know how to control their feelings!—sure sign of old blood and good breeding that! That’s your sort, Fransemmery—true stuff!”
Then, next minute, he found himself quietly explaining matters to Harry and Valencia, who listened attentively, taking in each of the preliminary details that he could give them.
“At present,” he concluded, looking from one to the other, “the first thing is to find out where your brother was between half-past ten, when, I’m told by your butler, he left here, and early in the morning. You’ve no idea?”
“None,” said Harry. “He told us nothing.”
But Valencia shook her head.
“Scarcely that,” she said. “He told us something. Don’t you remember, Harry—just before he went?”
“Nothing definite,” replied Harry. “I gained no definite idea, anyway.”
“What did he tell you, Miss Markenmore?” inquired the Chief Constable.
“I remember perfectly,” answered Valencia. “He said he must go, because he had a business appointment in the neighbourhood. He said that where he was going, supper would be ready for him. But—that was all.”
“Not a hint as to where he was going—nor as to whom it was to see?”
“None!”
The group presently broke up into sections. Harborough and Mr. Fransemmery drew off into one corner of the room; Chilford and Harry into another; the Chief Constable and Valencia remained on the hearth, talking in low tones. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Braxfield, still lachrymose, announced, in a half-whisper:
“Mrs. Tretheroe!”
Everybody looked round as Mrs. Tretheroe—who had not forgotten the conventions and presented herself in a tailor-made gown of dead black habit-cloth—came rapidly into the room and made for Valencia. But one man shared his observation between her and his immediate company: Mr. Fransemmery, while giving Mrs. Tretheroe and her beauty a quick, admiring glance was sharp enough to see that at sight of her John Harborough not only started, but turned pale, and then red, and then pale again, compressing his firm lips. Another in the room saw all that, too—Valencia.
But Mrs. Tretheroe saw nothing—or seemed to see nothing. She was obviously excited; her cheek had more than its usual glow; her lips were slightly parted; she looked, thought at least three of the men there, as if she had come to receive congratulations rather than to offer condolence. But as she approached Valencia she moulded her mobile face into an expression of decorous sympathy.
“My poor Valencia!” she said in a soft, cooing voice. “Your dear father!—I came at once, the very moment I heard, to tell you and Harry how sorry I am, and to see what I could do. But—you’d expected it, hadn’t you?—and he was so very, very old, to be sure. And another thing—of course, you’ll let Sir Guy know at once—I—the fact is, Valencia, I saw Guy last night after—after I was here, you know—and—well, he’s altered his plans, and the address he gave you in London won’t find him for a few days. But I know where to find him—and hadn’t you better wire him at once? You see——”
She had run on so rapidly that neither Valencia nor any of the men had been able to get in a word. But now, as she was pulling out a scrap of paper from her muff, Harry Markenmore broke in, sharply.
“Stop her, somebody!” he said half-angrily. “Tell her!”
Chilford moved across to the hearth, holding up a hand.
“Mrs. Tretheroe!” he said quietly. “I—the fact is, you are not aware of what has occurred this morning. You’d better hear. It’s not only that Sir Anthony is dead—his son is dead, too. He——”
“Look out!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery, keenly watchful. “She’s going to faint!”
The Chief Constable stretched out a hand. But Mrs. Tretheroe pushed it aside. She had turned pale to her lips; her eyes blazed as she fixed them on Chilford.
“Dead?” she said intensely. “Guy Markenmore! Dead! It’s a lie!”
“Unfortunately, ma’am, it’s the strict truth,” retorted Chilford, as if a little nettled, and not a little scornful. “Mr. Guy Markenmore was found dead this morning, on the way between here and Mitbourne, and there’s no doubt that he was murdered.”
Mrs. Tretheroe gasped and started back against the big table that filled the centre of the room. Leaning heavily against it she lifted a hand towards her throat, as if something began to choke her. Her eyes, growing wild and desperate, fixed themselves on one face after another; finally they rested on Harborough, who was watching her intently. And then, with a cry that was half a scream, she lifted her hand still higher, pointing at him.
“Murdered?” she said. “Guy!—murdered? Then—then—there’s the man who murdered him!—I know it! Dare to say you didn’t, John Harborough!—you know you did! You threatened—seven years ago—to kill him whenever, wherever, you and he next met—and now—now—you’ve done it! Guy?—dead?—I—oh, God—I—I promised—last night—only a few hours ago—to—to marry him! We—Valencia!—we were going to be married—at once!”
“Now she is fainting!” muttered Mr. Fransemmery. “Good God!—what revelations!”
He started forward as Mrs. Tretheroe, with a sharp moan, slid heavily to the ground; with the help of Chilford and Valencia he got her out of the room, and sent Braxfield for the housekeeper. Leaving her and Valencia with Mrs. Tretheroe, he and Chilford went back to the other three men. The Chief Constable, his hands behind him, was leaning against the big mantelpiece; Harborough, very white, faced him from the other side of the table; Harry Markenmore stood a little way off, glancing doubtfully from one to the other.
“An awkward—but a decidedly definite accusation, Mr. Harborough,” the Chief Constable was saying. “She seemed to have no hesitation in making it!”
“You saw that she made it in a moment of intense excitement,” said Harborough. “And of—of grief.”
“It’s precisely in these moments—in my experience—that truth gets blurted out,” observed the Chief Constable drily. “However, as she said it before the lot of us, perhaps you’ll tell me something for your own sake. Did you ever make such a threat as that she spoke of?—did you ever threaten to kill Guy Markenmore, whenever and wherever you next met?”
Chilford gave a dry, deprecatory cough.
“I’m not Mr. Harborough’s solicitor,” he said, “but if I were, I should strongly advise him not to answer that question, Chief Constable. You know.”
“This isn’t a court of law,” retorted the Chief Constable. “It’s a private conversation between gentlemen. As Mrs. Tretheroe said what she did before us, Mr. Harborough has the right to say his say—before us.”
“I will say!” exclaimed Harborough suddenly. “I did make such a threat—years ago. It was made under great provocation—the greatest provocation. But—all that’s died out, long since—I mean the feeling of anger—and so on—has died out in me. If I’d met Guy Markenmore, now—or any time these last four or five years—I’d have shaken hands with him.”
“Good!” said the Chief Constable. He pointed to Harry, and looked at Harborough. “For his—and his sister’s—satisfaction,” he went on, “tell me—when did you last see Guy Markenmore?”
Harborough, too, looked at Harry. And as he looked, Valencia came back into the room. He turned towards her.
“I’ll tell you,” he said quietly. “I’ve never set eyes on Guy Markenmore for seven years. I know nothing whatever of the circumstances of his death—nothing!”
The Chief Constable nodded; the other men made no remark. But Valencia looked at Harborough steadily for a moment; he, too, looked at her; it seemed to Mr. Fransemmery’s keenly watchful eyes that a glance of intelligence passed between them. Then she went up to her brother, tapped him on the arm, and turned to the Chief Constable.
“Aren’t there things to be done?—preparations to make?” she asked. “Will you tell me about them?”
The Chief Constable went off with the brother and sister; Harborough went away, too, without further word; Chilford and Mr. Fransemmery were left alone. Presently they walked out on the terrace, and began to pace up and down, at first in silence.
“I imagine,” said Mr. Fransemmery at last, “that what we heard just now from Mrs. Tretheroe originally arose out of some early love-affair? I suppose Harborough and Guy Markenmore were rivals, eh?”
“Everybody knows that, my dear sir!” answered Chilford. “When Mrs. Tretheroe was Veronica Leighton—her father was Vicar of Markenmore, you know—she was a decided and incorrigible flirt, and she’d no end of young men running after her. But these two were first in the running, and I’ve always felt that it was through her, and because of her, that both of them left home as they did. She either married old Colonel Tretheroe out of pique, or for his money—money, I should say. There’s some mystery about what happened at that time—some strange mystery that’s never been made clear.”
“And now there’s another!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “And—she seems to be in it.”
“Aye!” observed the solicitor with a dry laugh. “She let things out just now. But Markenmore was with her last night. Now, where?—and how long?”
Mr. Fransemmery made no reply. He had caught sight of something, and he lifted a hand, pointing to it. The men carrying Guy Markenmore’s dead body were just emerging from the fringe of wood.