Читать книгу The Caravan Crime - Fergus Hume - Страница 5

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HERE was a pretty kettle of fish, truly. Sitting well back on his heels and flashing the torch every now and then over the expressionless mask of death, Dick considered hesitatingly the strange events of the evening.

They offered unanswerable riddles. The girl who had come so unexpectedly into the glade, and vanished just as unexpectedly, leaving in her place a woman almost thrice her age. Worse still, and still more extraordinary, this woman was dead, and not for long, since the body was yet warm. She also was arrayed in a costly opera cloak. There was blood on her breast, and it required only a brief examination for Dick to determine that she had been shot through the heart. But for what reason, and by whom?

“Confound!” ejaculated Lawson, for the third time that evening, and wondered how he was to extricate himself from the morass into which the worst-tempered of the Three Fates had cast him.

That he was in danger of being arrested he knew very plainly.

Then the instinctive desire of man born of woman to make himself as safe as he well could, asserted itself strongly and stirred him to immediate action. Selwin might arrive with the tobacco at any moment, and it was necessary to shift the body before his official eye could behold it in its present resting place. Wisdom suggested a prompt removal of this damning evidence to some less suggestive locality. With his liberty and life in jeopardy the man’s brain worked with exceeding swiftness: and almost in the moment when the details of the scheme were conceived he found himself carrying the sinister burden down the caravan steps. And, as he bore it across the glade, past the dying fire, past the pond, he thought of the best hiding place. But immediately that thought was displaced by another. He would not hide the body, for if discovered hidden, as it would most certainly be sooner or later with Sarley village so near, the fact of concealment would tell against him. It would be best to lay down his burden somewhere in the wood, so that it might appear that the woman had fallen naturally under the fire of some unknown assailant.

But where? The reply came so rapidly that it was evident his good angel was bestirring on his behalf. The girl had come down the path by the birch tree, so it was possible, even probable, that the elder woman—say her mother—had followed on to guard, or watch. Lawson, mindful of the precious moments flying swiftly, lost no time in nutting his thought into action, and, carrying his uncanny load for some distance up the narrow winding path laid it down gently in a curve of the same. Luckily he had been careful to wrap the opera cloak securely round the body while conveying it to the path, so there was no blood on his grey clothes to incriminate him. Having thus arranged matters he felt assured that, so far as he and the caravan were concerned, no physical evidence was available to connect him with the crime in any way whatsoever.

Before leaving the sinister spot, Dick waved the torch over the still, white face. It was a remarkably handsome countenance, strong in outline, with an aqueline nose, and a determined chin. As the informing life had escaped from the shell, there was no positive expression to reveal character; but Lawson judged from the decisive contours of nose and lips and chin, from the width, and height of the forehead, that the dead woman had been an imperiously dominant human being. He noted that her shoes were thin and ill-adapted to wandering in these rough woodland ways; also that she wore much jewellery on neck and wrists and fingers. Even under the black lace veil, draping her plentiful white hair, twinkled a diamond star, so it was evident that she had been a woman of wealth and good standing. Finally the presence of the gems declared positively that robbery was not the motive for the execution of what seemed to be a purposeless crime.

Naturally enough, Lawson would have preferred to make a more thorough examination in the hope of finding some clue to her name; but there was no time to search exhaustively. He examined himself all over in the gleam of the torch, when he turned away, so as to make sure that all incriminating marks were absent. Also, he made certain that the ground was sufficiently hard and dry to avert the registration of betraying footmarks. The fates proved propitious, and all was safe, so he hastened back to the glade with a sigh of relief that the most gruesome part of his task was over. Stroking his chin meditatively by the fire, he considered his next move with much care and deliberation.

This was plainly to go forth and meet Selwin. He slipped on breeches and boots, and started towards the distant roadway along which he had driven, if would seem, centuries ago. On the way he made up an ingenious tale, likely to account for all discoveries, without bringing him too prominently into the matter. As he made his way out of the glade the church clock told him it was half-past 11.

“Too early,” murmured the schemer, guided through the wood by stray moonbeams, thin, cold, and silver clear. “I shall have to lengthen that time of insensibility when I banged against the tree-trunk. Otherwise Selwin will wonder why I did not give the alarm before.”

The village constable was late on his rounds, and Lawson struck the high road before he met him. The tramp, tramp, tramp of stout boots gave notice of the man’s approach, and at once Dick began to run with such blindfold speed that he cannoned off Selwin into the near hedge.

The policeman whipped out his torch at once, and uttered an exclamation of surprise when he saw the face of the panting fugitive.

Recovering himself, the young man staggered towards the officer, at his last gasp, it would seem. “Selwin!” he grasped an arm, and shot out his words brokenly, breathlessly—“ran—all—the—way. Shot—heard—shot—Long—ago. Shot—shot!”

“Poachers?” queried the constable, on the alert immediately, and steadying him.

The other wiped the perspiration off his face with the back of his hand, and sat down on the roadside, presumably to recover much-wanted breath, “Might be,” he nodded. “Anyhow—shot. I heard one. Would poachers—”

“Oh, they’re all over the place, sir. Give me no end of trouble. When?”

“A quarter to 11.” Dick rose, now quite himself, as he was tired of acting the part of a blown runaway. “I went to bed early”—he hated to tell lies, but it was necessary to do so in the interests of the girl, although, for all he knew, she might be inculpated in the crime—”and found the caravan too hot. So I shoved on my boots and breeches, and took the bedding to the fire. Went to sleep for a time, and woke to find that my horse had slipped his halter; his movement roused me, I guess. In the wood, while looking for him, I heard the shot—quarter to 11, for I heard the clock strike.”

“Where were you at the moment, sir?”

“In the heart of the wood, searching for that infernal horse. When I heard the shot I turned back to see what was doing. In the darkness I came against a tree and went west for the time being.”

“How long?” Selwin flashed his torch, and nodded when he saw the bruise on Lawson’s forehead, continuing the tale.

“There you have me.” Dick held his aching head with both hands. “I dunno. Anyhow, when I came to myself I scouted to find you.”

“Poachers!” chuckled Selwin. “Come along, sir. This is like old times in the wilds. Glad you are with me, sir,” he chuckled again.

Shortly two men were exploring the bush with keen glances everywhere for a possible poacher. Selwin glanced round the glade, and made mental notes in the growing light of the rising moon. He saw that the horse was missing, the caravan door was open, and noted the bedding by the fire. Everything was in keeping with the story, and he scratched his head in a puzzled way. “Seems all right, sir. Sure you ain’t been dreaming?”

“Rot? I was wide awake. Look round carefully.”

The officer obeyed, and nosed about like a hound on the trail, while Dick at his heels urged promptitude and caution. Wishing Selwin to be the finder of the body, Lawson gradually urged him toward the path, believing that he would naturally be on fire to explore it. And this happened, for the policeman shouted discovery while Dick was ostentatiously examining the opposite side of the glade. Lawson raced toward the sound. “Hullo! Where are you?”

“Up this blinking path, sir. Here—here—here!”

“This!” Lawson halted by the birch tree. “Shout again!”

Selwin did so, and Dick sped up the windings quickly, purposely diving to right and left among the brushwood, as if unaware of the geography of the place. He arrived breathless, to find the officer’s torch flashing over the dead face, and the officer himself excited beyond measure.

“Murder, sir. Look at the blood. And a woman.” He looked closer, bending down. “Why, it’s Lady Hamber!” He straightened himself in dismay.

“Lady Hamber,” he repeated solemnly. “Lady Hamber!” Dick echoed the name with equal dismay. He remembered the letter. “Lady Hamber!”—he spoke as solemnly as Selwin had done.