Читать книгу The Crime in the Crypt - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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I AGREED TO answer any summons I might receive from the police and then, assuming a casual air which really covered a breath-taking apprehension, I turned to the doctor, and said:—

“How long, do you judge, has the man been dead?”

As I had confidently expected, this brought further accusing glances and I almost feared Snelgrove was about to order my arrest then and there.

“Why do you ask that?” said the doctor, fixing his penetrating gaze upon me.

“From entirely justifiable interest in the case,” I returned, speaking quietly but giving him a straightforward stare equal to his own.

“Are you a detective?”

“I am not,” I said, and then was unable to resist the impulse to add, “but I am always interested in detective work.”

“Ah, you have the detective instinct,’ so common to young men of your country.”

The tone roused my ire, but I quickly bethought myself that the assertion, even if true, carried no real opprobrium, and I smiled a little as I nodded assent.

“Well,” the doctor said, and I thought he thawed a degree, “it is hard to say accurately, but he was certainly alive less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“You mean this did not happen this morning, then?” I pursued.

“No, I am sure of that. I should say death occurred last evening between six and twelve. That may seem indefinite, but I do not care to set a more specific hour at present.”

“And the weapon?” I went on, determined to press my advantage to its limit.

“Now, Mr. Oakley,” Snelgrove interrupted, “don’t ask so many questions. Don’t get it into your head you can help us in our work. When we want information from you, we’ll ask you for it. Meantime, you’d better keep your finger out of the pie.”

“Certainly,” I said, putting on a slightly amused air, that I felt sure would irritate him. “I’ve no interest in your pie, I’m sure, except as a countryman of this victim of a murderous assault. We have to assume, of course, that the murderer carried his weapon away with him.”

Since the victim had been undeniably shot, and as the bare room in the crypt offered no hiding place, the absence of the weapon made it extremely probable that my assumption was correct.

But it seemed to stir the police to further search, and there was a little furtive hunting around among the broken marbles and bits of stone.

Owing to the hostile attitude shown toward me, I concluded to say nothing of the yellowish grains I had picked up from the floor, and which I knew to be powder grains. I felt justified in this course, for, as I perceived, there were more grains on the floor, quite sufficient to prove a potential clue, if they noticed them.

So, with one further comprehensive glance at the strange scene, I bowed slightly and went out of the room and through the chantry and the chapel, up the dark little staircase, and out of the now empty cathedral into the light of day.

It was about two o’clock, and I went to an inn for luncheon, and then for a long walk before returning to my hotel.

The scene was indelibly photographed on my memory. Never could I forget that low-ceiled, dimly lit vault, with its broken monuments and its coffins, one holding the quiet, composed figure of a dead American.

Had the deceased been an Englishman, I should have been less deeply impressed, but for one of my own countrymen to be done to death on British soil roused all the indignation of which my spirit was capable, and that was a goodly lot.

The weird surroundings, too, the dramatic setting of the scene, the dastardly act of the murderer, all went to make up an inexplicable mystery.

And most amazing of all was the dead man’s attitude.

His body lay as composed and natural as if arranged by a skilful undertaker.

The doctor said he had been killed by the shot, but I reasoned that he might have been shot, and placed in the coffin afterward. For I could predicate no conditions in which a man would deliberately get into a coffin alive.

The matter absorbed me more and more, and I pondered on exchanging my tickets and remaining in Welbury until the affair was explained.

Though I felt grave doubts whether those stupid policemen could ever solve that mystery.

Still, I was, perhaps, misjudging them. I remembered that when roused to activity they got busy to good effect. I also reminded myself that this was the land of Sherlock Holmes and, incidentally, the land of Scotland Yard.

Surely, the English were not dubs in the matter of detection, and all my impulses urged me to make arrangements with Tripp and Hastings to let me stay over another steamer, at least.

At last I turned my steps homeward, wondering how much of the truth had been vouchsafed to our sight-seeing party when they were turned out of the cathedral.

Reaching the Terrace Garden Hotel, a charming place that lived up fully to its attractive name, I went in, and I saw at once, that the news had spread.

But, as might have been expected, it had spread in garbled and exaggerated versions, and the stories told by one and another were so different as to seem narratives of separate occurrences.

“Oh, Mr. Oakley, what became of you? Where were you when we were driven out of the cathedral?”

“Have you heard about the murder? I think that Mr. Glynn was on the steamer with us, coming over. Don’t you remember the man who was everlastingly taking pictures—”

Of course I did! That was why the man in the coffin had seemed vaguely familiar to me. He had been on the steamer with us, and he had been everlastingly aiming his camera at everybody on board.

I had never talked with him, for individual passengers do not look kindly on tourists belonging to parties. But I had seen him a few times in the smoking room or on deck, and I now distinctly remembered that brown-plaid coat.

I turned to the girl who had thus enlightened me.

She was Katherine Brownlee, a rather vivacious young woman, who looked on me as her special and individual property; but as she had a “bespoke” at home, under the Star Spangled Banner, I was willing to let her have her way for the duration of the trip.

“Yes,” I told her, “I do remember, and he is the man. I’m told he was from New Jersey.”

“Who told you? What do you know about it all? Any more than we do? Who killed him, anyway?”

These questions were not from one speaker, but were hurled at me by various members of the Tripp and Hastings bunch, who had gathered in the hall, awaiting tea time.

I suddenly realized that though I had not been bound to secrecy by the men at the crypt, yet it was surely the way of wisdom not to blurt out to these gossipmongers all that I did know of the matter.

“I’ve no idea who killed him,” I said. “Some of the cathedral attendants told me his name, but I’ve only just realized from what Miss Brownlee said that the victim is the Glynn who was on our steamer coming over.”

Taking this to mean that I had no further knowledge of events, they left off questioning me, and returned to their own surmises and conclusions, based on the scantiest and faultiest of data.

When I went up to my room to dress for dinner, I found there some mail and some American newspapers, but I was unable to put the crypt affair out of my mind, and I went down to the dining-room, still deeply absorbed in its consideration.

But I did not want to mull it all over with those chattering girls and those opinionated men. I knew beforehand just what they would say about it, and I wanted a confab with somebody who had some original ideas on the subject.

There was just one man I could think of from whose conversation I could derive any profit, and that was John Clevedon. He, too, had been on the steamer coming over. From him, too, I had stayed away, fearing he would resent advances from a member of a personally conducted tour.

I was probably supersensitive about that matter, for lots of our party made friends with the other passengers who were not conducted, but I couldn’t face the possibility of a snub, so confined my acquaintances to the Tripp and Hastings crowd.

But being a lover of detective fiction, I had noticed that Clevedon was of like tastes. Several times I asked the Library Steward for this or that book only to be told that Mr. Clevedon was reading it and I could have it next.

It was not until the day we landed that, chancing to stand near him as we waited to disembark, I spoke to him of a volume he was carrying, a new and popular detective story.

“Yes,” he had responded, enthusiastically, “it’s great! One of the best. Have you read it?”

I had, and we discussed its fine points with eager interest until separated by the crowding passengers.

I heard no more of Clevedon, none of our party seemed to know him, until a few days before, I had chanced to read in the local paper that he was in Welbury, at the Grand Hotel.

It had passed through my mind that I should like to see him and renew our brief acquaintance, but I had promptly dismissed the thought, feeling that I could not presume upon that short chat we had had on the streamer deck.

But now, I toyed again with the idea.

If Clevedon were really a detection enthusiast, might he not welcome someone with whom to discuss this very mysterious affair of the cathedral?

All through the dinner hour, I thought over the matter, and rose at last from the table with a resolve to try it on, at least.

And so, a few moments later, I started off, in the soft English summer evening, and went in the direction of the Grand Hotel.

“Don’t be a fool,” I admonished myself, as I became aware of a slight chill in my feet, “if he doesn’t want to see you, he won’t. And if he doesn’t like you after he does see you, you can come home again.”

This was logical, to be sure, but still I was a bit embarrassed as I sent my name up to Mr. Clevedon.

The response was that I was to go to his rooms, and so I allowed myself to be led thither.

A knock at his door brought the summons to come in, and in I went.

My host rose and met me with a smile.

“I remember you, Mr. Oakley,” he said. “We crossed on the same boat—”

“Yes,” I said, eagerly, “and you remember, we had a most interesting conversation, just before we landed, about detective stories.”

“Indeed, I do remember. Now, sit down, and let’s chat some more. I can’t offer you my hand, for I’ve had a bad accident.”

I had noticed the bandages as I entered, but I saw now that the matter must be serious, for the hand was in splints and the arm in a sling.

“What happened?” I asked, in sincerest sympathy.

“My own stupidity,” he said, with a rueful smile. “Awful hot last night, you know, and I had an electric fan going. Cooled off toward morning, and I reached out of bed to turn the thing off, and—well, never mind details—but, somehow my forefinger got in the way and—paid the penalty.”

I felt sick all over. I’ve always had a fear of an electric fan, and I said so.

“It’s an obsession with me,” I went on. “I shouldn’t dare have one near me, for I know I’d stick my finger in the thing. Don’t tell me I’m absurd, I know it. But the fact remains, I would do it, and so I take no chances.”

“But I didn’t stick my finger in it,” he cried, again smiling in that resigned, patient way. “I thought the key was on that side of the thing, and it wasn’t.”

“I know—I know. Of course it was an accident with you, but in my case, it would be done on purpose. It’s an ungovernable impulse! I can’t help it. So I don’t ever have one of the infernal things about.”

“I wish I hadn’t,” he said, ruefully. “The doctor says I’m lucky, to get off as well as I did, it might have drawn in the whole hand—oh, forgive me, I’m not going to dilate on it! I say brace up, help yourself to a drink, it’s over there on the table. Now pull yourself together.”

I was thoroughly ashamed of myself, but the horror of his plight chilled my very blood, and I was only too glad to accept his hospitality.

“Now, I’m all right,” I said, after two libations from his decanter, “and I apologize.”

“Not at all. Tell me what brought you here. My mishap isn’t in the evening papers, is it?”

“No,” I said, “but something else is. You’ve heard of the murder in the crypt?”

“Yes, I read of it. Wonderful title, isn’t it? Or, the crime in the cathedral. How’s that?”

“Even better. But I say, Clevedon, you wouldn’t be speaking of it so lightly if you had seen it.”

“Seen it? Did you?”

“Yes. And of all ghastly, picturesque, weirdly mysterious scenes! It had Poe beaten to a frazzle!”

“Tell me about it. How did you come to see it?”

“That’s why I’m here. I noticed on board ship that you read detective stories continually and I wondered if you had what is known as the detective instinct. I never quite dared come and ask you, until this thing happened, and then I concluded to take a chance on your amiability and come over to call.”

“I’m darned glad you did. I’m very fond of sleuth yarns and as I’m travelling alone, I read most of the time. Can’t just at present, though, as I’m having my eyes treated and by a new process. The doctor prophesies that I shall soon see all right, and not have to wear these glasses any more.”

“Fine,” I said, glancing at the glasses Clevedon had on. They were light, rimless affairs, rather becoming than otherwise.

“I’ve worn these for years,” he explained, “ever since I strained my vision over close microscopic work in college. Now, if this specialist is right, I’m going to be able to discard them soon. Then, when my finger heals up, I shall be as good as new. Now, go to it. Tell me all about the crime. And how you chanced to be mixed up in it.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly mixed up in the crime,” I protested.

“And I didn’t quite mean that,” he smiled. “But spill the story.”

Nothing loath, I told him the whole tale of my going down into the crypt, of my finding the dead man there, and all the occurrences afterward.

I could not have desired a more attentive listener. Save for an intelligent question now and then, he listened in silence, but was, I could plainly see, greatly interested in the mystery.

“Who did it?” he cried, as I finished. “We must find out!”

“Not an easy job,” I demurred. “Anyone who could conceive and carry out such an ingenious and deep-laid scheme is not going to be caught too easily.”

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly, “that it was a deep-laid scheme. Why not an impulsive crime? All the slayer needed was a pistol. Perhaps he always carried that, some men do. As you tell it, there’s not a pin’s worth of evidence of the killer’s personality?”

“Not a shred,” I told him. “All the accoutrements seemed to belong to the victim. There were plenty of these.”

“What were they? Go over them again.”

“Hat, overcoat, umbrella, newspaper, camera, guide book,—those were the extraneous lot. And in his pockets were a dozen or more belongings, some with initials or monograms of Warren Glynn.”

“Most interesting case,” Clevedon said, nodding at me in his enthusiasm. “But queer there was absolutely no trace of the murderer. No footprints? fingermarks?”

“Not that I know of. Still, there’s no telling what those police people may dig up. At any rate, there was no weapon left about.”

Suddenly I bethought me of the few grains of powder I had picked up from the floor, but like many amateurs, I had just the bit of vanity needed to make me keep that matter to myself, and I made no mention of it at that time.

“No,” said Clevedon, musingly, “yet it seems as if he must have left some sign. I bet, if I’d been there—beg pardon, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I told him. “I’m the rankest amateur. I’ve no doubt you could dig up evidence that I completely overlooked. Can’t you go over there tomorrow?”

“ ’Fraid not. Doctor for my eyes wants me to keep in the house by daylight, and doctor for my busted finger wants me to lie quiet for two or three days. So if we do any sleuthing, you’ll have to do the outdoor work, and bring back reports and we’ll talk it over.”

“Let’s keep it to ourselves, then,” I suggested.

I was flattered at his readiness to chum with me, and, too, I didn’t want any more to do with the police if I could keep out of it.

“Oh, yes. Probably we can’t get anywhere, anyhow. You would have seen it if there had been any trace of the villain, and since you saw nothing, I’ve no doubt there was nothing to see.”

“I don’t believe there was or is anything to see in the crypt,” I said thoughtfully. “I think we must get at it from the other end.”

“From Glynn’s side,” he said, understanding.

“Yes. Though how we’re to do that, I don’t know. We can’t get access to his rooms.”

“No. Though perhaps you might compass that. Tell them you’re a great American detective, travelling incog, and I’ll bet they’ll let you go in.”

“I doubt it, and I doubt I’d find out anything if I did get in. I think I’m better at talking over a case than at really working it up.”

Clevedon smiled.

“I’m like that,” he said, “but I didn’t think you were. Well, I wish we could get the wretch who did old Warren in. I knew him fairly well, you see.”

“You knew Glynn?”

“Yes. Not intimately at all, but casually, you know. I met him first on the steamer. We all came over on the same boat. He and I chummed a little, and I met him once or twice during the summer. We had a bond in our liking of old books.”

“Old books!” I cried, “that’s my hobby. Detective stories I read for recreation, but old books are really my life work. I’ve hunted them a lot over here, and I’ve been to all the libraries I could find. Libraries and cathedrals are my happy hunting grounds.”

“I hope your hunting has been happier in libraries than in cathedrals,” Clevedon said, suddenly grave. “Yes, Glynn was a collector, but he hasn’t been buying over here. His plan is to browse around and make notes and then go home, and think it all over, and select his favorites. Then he sends for them through an agent.”

“A good way,” I said, thinking it over. “I’ve bought some few, but not great or noble numbers. You see, I’ve been a poor man all my life. And I’m no plutocrat now, but a kindly disposed uncle made me his grateful heir, and at last I could come over here and collect a few odd volumes.”

“I’ve picked up some, too. Some day, soon, you must come round again and give ’em the once over.”

“And I must be going now,” I said, struck with remorse at my thoughtlessness in staying so late.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he smiled, “I’m mighty glad you came over. Do come soon again. Staying here long?”

“No; that is, the crowd goes along on Saturday. I suppose I shall go with them, though I’ve been thinking I’d like to stay here and clear up Glynn’s death.”

“Relation of yours?”

“No, but he’s American born.”

“Yes, and your heart’s in the right place. But after all, can you do any real work on a case like that? In the first place, you admit you’re inexperienced and in the second place, the English police are not overly cordial to uninvited assistants.”

I felt like a rebuked schoolboy, and I said so.

“No, no,” Clevedon said, sensibly, “don’t take it like that. Realize for yourself that you have little if any data to work on—as to the murderer, I mean. Remember that if there are clues to be found, Scotland Yard’s representatives will find them. If you should find out anything, you’d have to follow it up yourself, they’re not receptive of other people’s findings. Altogether, Oakley, while I understand and approve of your spirit, I don’t exactly see you succeeding in your quest.”

“I know you’re right,” I said, slowly. “I’m sorry your injured hand and your impaired vision won’t let you get out and help me—”

“Wait a minute, right there. If I had two good hands and two perfect eyes, what could I do to help? I mean, if there’s anything to be done in the way of sleuthing about, looking for evidence, clues, or what not, you can do that equally well without me. Then, if there’s anything to be gained by talking the case over and using our gray matter, you can come over here and we can just get right down to it. I don’t say we can’t accomplish something, but I do say it will all depend on what material evidence we can dig up. This isn’t, to my mind, a case that can be solved by ratiocination. And, the thing that militates against our getting much in an evidential way, is the fact that though we knew Glynn slightly, we know none of his friends or foes, none of his cronies or enemies. What way can we look? How get a start?”

“You’re right, I feel you are right. But I’ll go home and think the thing over, and if I can get any dope on it at all, I’ll come back to talk it over.”

“Come back, anyway,” said Clevedon, cordially and then I rose to go.