Читать книгу Found Dead - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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It was only natural that, before many hours had passed, the amazing tragedy at Mortmains was the only theme of discussion for many miles around. Long before mid-day, the road leading to the old house was thronged with those anxious to see the scene and to gather all there was connected with the story. Representatives of at least two Press agencies were on the spot as if by magic, and the six o'clock edition of most of the evening papers contained columns on the subject of what was destined to be known far and wide ere long as the Mortmains mystery. It was a quiet time, with nothing more sensational than cricket and racing to fill the daily Press, so that news editors fell upon the happenings in Devonshire with avidity. The story was widely discussed in London and the great towns within a few hours of the preliminary details being flashed over the wires. And in the interim the curious would have to wait, for the simple reason that something like eight and forty hours must elapse between the discovery of the body and the preliminary investigations into the cause of the unfortunate man's death.

It was a full four and twenty hours later before Inspector Gore re-appeared at Mortmains, arriving on this occasion in Dr. Deacon's car. He had nothing very much to say, except that the inquest was fixed to take place in the library at Mortmains on the following morning.

"The coroner will be here at 10 o'clock," he explained to Mortmain. "And the jury is already summoned. I expect you will find it rather a nuisance, Sir John, but in the circumstances, it cannot very well be helped. You will have the house and grounds over-run with people but, seeing that it is a public inquiry, I cannot very well keep them out. But it shan't occur again. There is no occasion why the adjourned inquest should not be held in the village. At the town hall, probably."

"Then you don't expect to finish to-morrow?" Mortmain asked.

"Most assuredly I don't. I have not the least idea, so far, who the man is or where he comes from, and nobody has turned up to inquire for him. In the circumstances, we can only take formal evidence and perhaps get a certificate for the burial of the body. You see, I have still to make a close examination of the dead man and that is why I brought the doctor with me. But, as you know, Sir John, there were no papers on the corpse."

"Yes, I remember that," Mortmain said. "I suppose you don't mind my being with you whilst you are doing this?"

"Oh, not in the least," the inspector said. "It is not likely to lead to anything so far as I can see."

In which conclusion the inspector was right. To begin with, the pockets of the dead man were absolutely empty. No papers of any kind were found on him, no watch or purse, or even any markings on his under-linen. If he had come there that fatal night with any sort of head covering, no sign of such a thing was found either in the library or anywhere about the grounds, although the gardeners made a careful search, lasting for hours. As to the clothes themselves, they were shabby and worn, and evidently the kind that are called "ready to wear," in other words, ready made. But there was a certain suggestion about the cut of them that caused the inspector to nod his head knowingly.

"Not English," he decided. "Those clothes were never brought in an English shop. Look at the shoulders. And, again, look at the man's shoes. They speak for themselves."

"What, precisely do they say?" Mortmain asked.

"Well, 'Hail, Columbia,' I should imagine," the inspector said drily. "Brought in some cheap store in New York or San Francisco. Anyway, I will swear the shoes were."

"Doesn't that rather bear out my theory?" Mortmain said thoughtfully. "I mean my suggestion that this fellow was a book thief, and that he came here to get hold of some of my rarer volumes. In fact, I think I have already proved to you that he could have come here for no other reason. There was the Decameron on the floor and we have evidence to the fact that the ladder must have slipped and flung the thief heavily on those tiles. More than that, most of our rare volumes to-day go to America, where they can be disposed of at a fancy price and no questions asked. I should not be at all surprised if some wealthy American book lover hadn't given the man lying there instructions to come over here and get that particular Decameron. If that is correct, then we can wash out the idea of a murder altogether, and the case resolves itself into one of vulgar theft, which will be very disappointing to the sensation-loving Press, but a common sense deduction, all the same.

"Very likely," the inspector admitted. "And again, very likely not. What do you think, Doctor?"

All this time, Dr. Deacon had been saying nothing. He was on his knees by the side of the corpse with a strong magnifying glass in his hand. With the aid of this he examined the body from head to foot finishing with a very minute inspection of the close-cropped, curly, red hair.

"Um," he said, as if speaking to himself and as if he had quite forgotten the fact that he was not alone. "This is rather curious. Most distinctly curious."

"Have you found anything out?" Mortmain asked.

"I have found everything or nothing," was the enigmatic reply. "Please don't think me rude, but I am always averse from giving an opinion until I am absolutely certain of my ground."

With that, he turned once more to the body and half turning it over, proceeded to examine intently the little mass of congealed blood at the base of the skull.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he said whimsically. "Most extraordinary. Now, how the dickens——"

He broke off abruptly and refused to say anything more.

"But you can't leave it like that," the inspector protested.

"Oh, yes, I can," the doctor smiled. "I suppose I can make an observation like that if I please? My dear police-man, if there is one thing I hate more than another it is making a fool of myself. And if I gratify your very natural curiosity, it is just possible that I shall make a brilliant success in that direction. Whereas, if you leave me alone I may be able to tell you something of the utmost importance, not necessarily to-morrow, but at the adjourned inquest you spoke of. And even then there is the possibility of my being wrong. You go your way and I will go mine and we shall meet in the end all right."

And not a single word more would the man of science say. He turned away from the others and wandered as far as the window looking over the sea. Far down below, at the bottom of the sloping garden, lay the wide stretch of golden sands, and to his left the bold, upstanding peak of granite that was known locally as the Castle Rock. It stood clear of the beach, some hundred feet in height, a bold sentinel, all by itself, with a pathway along the fringe of it leading from the village to the moor and beyond. It was a picturesque and majestic sight in itself and it seemed to fascinate the doctor, though he had seen it scores of times before. There was just the ghost of a smile on his lips as he turned away and approached his companions again.

"I wonder if you would mind answering me a question, Mortmain?" he asked, "just as a matter of form."

"A dozen, if you like," Mortmain smiled.

"Well, it's just this. You go prawning most of these mornings when the tide is low. Which way do you go?"

"Oh, just down the zig-zag path on to the sands and past the Castle Rock out to the far point fringing the next bay. But why do you ask? What has that got to do with it?"

"Yes, that is just what I have to find out," Deacon said. "Very likely nothing of the least importance, but, you never can tell. And, anyhow, as I said just now, I never advance an idea unless I have something sound behind it. And now, Inspector, if you have nothing more to do, I will give you a lift back as far as the village. I don't mind admitting that I am very interested in this case, but I have patients to attend, and I seem to have been neglecting them quite a lot the last day or so."

"Well, I suppose I had better come along," the inspector said reluctantly. "I hoped to find out something tangible this morning but must confess to be just as much in the dark as ever. It looks to me as if I shall have to fall back on Sir John's theory after all. I mean a fatal accident."

"Ah, there I entirely agree with you," Deacon laughed. "After what I have just said, it sounds like a paradox on my part, but you policemen are meeting paradoxes all your life. Now, come long, I really must be moving."

The two went off together, leaving Mortmain to his thoughts. They were not altogether unpleasant thoughts, perhaps, for he smiled a curious sort of smile as he returned to the house and proceeded to the morning-room where the day's papers awaited him. For the present, at any rate, he could not use the library, which was not altogether a pleasing reflection.

He had hardly opened the "Times" before Farthing came to him with the information that a visitor was in the drawing-room, a visitor who would not give her name, but who stated that an interview was required with Sir John on most important business.

He strode angrily into the drawing-room, then as he caught sight of his visitor, started back.

"Margaret," he cried. "Peggy!"

"Jack," the woman murmured. "Jack."

Mortmain froze almost into immobility.

"Why this honour, Mrs. Grimshaw?" he asked icily.