Читать книгу On The Night Express - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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There was sensation enough, and more than enough in the Uppertons mystery to keep the newspapers going in flaming headlines for some considerable time to come. First of all, the murderous outrage upon Bascoe, and then the disappearance of Connie with the natural result that everybody immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was guilty of the crime. The army of reporters that swooped down upon Uppertons had, apparently, settled the matter to their own satisfaction. They had managed to worm out the story of the quarrel in the library and the threat of violence on Connie's part, and these facts, coupled with the murderous attack upon one who appeared to be a respectable citizen, left little doubt of Connie's guilt. And if there was a possible chance that she was the victim of circumstances, then her disappearance had dissipated it for ever.

As the days went on and the best part of a week elapsed, nothing happened to change this opinion. And, strange to say, Bascoe was decidedly better. The shot, apparently, had passed right through his chest without touching a vital spot and an iron constitution was responsible for the rest. Within seventy-two hours of the assault upon him, Bascoe was in a position to give a more or less coherent account of what had happened. Someone had come into the library through the window, which he had neglected to fasten and had shot him pointblank. But when asked to say who that somebody was, Bascoe refused to make a statement. It was as if he was shielding somebody and those near about him were giving him credit for a certain nobility of conduct. He hinted that perhaps a little later on he might be in a position to say more, but for the moment he did not wish to incriminate anybody.

Pressed as to the time when the shot had been fired, he was more definite. He had been stricken down according to his own account, just at the moment when the clock over the stables was striking the hour of eleven. On that point he was perfectly clear and in this he was confirmed by his butler, Joseph Tarrant, who suddenly remembered that he was just getting into bed when the stable clock struck eleven and heard something in the way of a report, of which he took no notice because, on several occasions lately, rabbit poachers had been busy in the neighbourhood. Anyhow, both Tarrant and his employer were firm on the point as to the time when the shot was fired.

By this time, Scotland Yard had taken matters out of the hands of the local police and Inspector Richard Clapp had come down with a view to solving the mystery. He did not appear to be a very formidable individual, being mild of manner and most of his questions sounded innocent and ingratiating. He had arranged to stay in the village for the moment, and, accommodation being limited, Jimmy Marrable had made the suggestion that Clapp should occupy a spare bed which Wimpole had in his cottage. And to this the detective Inspector agreed quite eagerly, so that he and Marrable were on good terms almost from the first.

Jimmy was not entirely disinterested in making this suggestion. He had something to say that might throw a good deal of light on the darkness, but on this point he intended to remain silent until the proper time came. There was one person he took into his confidence, and that was Hugh Gaskell.

Directly, the latter had heard of the tragic happenings at Uppertons, he had come over hot foot, to make inquiries for himself. He was shocked and grieved beyond words. He fretted at his own impotence, but in spite of all appearances to the contrary he declined to believe that Connie had had any sort of hand in the murderous attack on Bascoe.

"But the thing is impossible," he told Jimmy. "Oh, I know all about the revolver and the shot fired from it that nearly brought about a murder. It is useless to deny that the revolver belonged to Connie, but she never used it. It must have been stolen from her, or she must have dropped it, as she told that Inspector of police. Now, my dear chap, can you see Connie coming in through that open window at eleven o'clock at night and deliberately murdering the man to whom she owed so much?"

"Did she owe him all that?" Jimmy asked drily.

"Well, I presume she did from what I have been told. I should say that Bascoe is a bit of a mystery and probably has a past that he would not care to have published to the world. But he appears to have been a friend of Connie's father and he sought her out and offered to make her his heiress when she was having a bit of a struggle to keep herself as a nurse. There may have been a selfish reason for Bascoe doing that but until we know more of the circumstances, we must give the man credit for acting on the square. You agree with that, don't you?"

"More or less," Jimmy said cautiously. "But, mind you, old chap, I have been in pretty close contact with Bascoe for some considerable time and there are things about him I don't like at all. I can't put my hand on anything, but I do know that the fellow was trying to bully poor little Connie into signing some papers which she was not even allowed to read. And when she declined he went off the deep end and behaved to the girl like a veritable blackguard. Nita Keene heard part of what he said. By the way, you know Nita, don't you?"

"Why, of course I do," Hugh said. "I knew her when you two were children together. What a funny mix-up it all is. Here are you, under Bascoe's roof, getting a sort of living by helping him with his painting and Nita comes along to play the parlourmaid, just as if the whole thing was a melodrama."

"Yes, but I managed that," Jimmy pointed out. "It was a case of real wrong 'un of a father trying to marry his daughter to a shady type of city magnate who was helping the old man to make a fortune out of the British public. So when Nita wrote to me and asked me to help her, I found her an opening down here. And I can tell you that Connie was precious glad to have Nita's company. You see, Bascoe keeps very much to himself and has never encouraged his neighbours to call. This means that Connie had no friends till Nita came along. Then I put one or two things together and it occurred to me that Connie was the girl you were looking for. I felt pretty sure of it when I learnt all about those days in Serbia, because we were both out there ourselves on and off, towards the end of the war and it occurred to me that you might be interested. That is why I wrote that long letter to you and why you came here, hot foot."

"Yes, only to discover that you were right," Hugh said. "But I have told you all about that. I told you how I met Connie in the woods at the back of the house and how wildly glad she was to see me. And I told you how, suddenly, she broke away and vanished as if I was some power of darkness. My dear fellow, there is something amazingly wrong about this place, and I shan't rest until I get to the bottom of it."

"Yes, there is something more wrong than you imagine," Jimmy said in an unusually sober tone. "I was discussing the matter with that very friendly bird, Inspector Clapp, an hour or two ago, and he told me the gist of a conversation he had been having with Bascoe. That individual is not in a position to say very much yet, but, for some reason best known to himself, he told the Scotland Yard Jonnie a thumping lie."

"Oh, did he?" Hugh explained. "What was that?"

"I am going to tell you, but you will have to keep it to yourself for the moment. Bascoe declares that the shot was fired at close quarters just as the clock over the stable was striking eleven. To that statement he adheres."

"Well, why not?" Hugh asked. "Didn't somebody tell me that it was confirmed by the butler, Tarrant?"

"Yes, that is all right," Jimmy went on. "But I am going to prove to you that Tarrant made a mistake. I am not suggesting for a moment that he is in the conspiracy, because he is not that type of man and besides, he was butler to the old family who lived at Uppertons before Bascoe bought the place. It is just possible that some poacher outside did fire a shot at about eleven o'clock, but that coincidence has nothing to do with the attack on Bascoe. Now, just keep your mind fixed upon that point that Bascoe was attacked at eleven o'clock precisely. He said so deliberately and I believe that, so far, he is telling the truth. Perhaps, on the other hand, he had some sinister object in mind in fixing the hour definitely at eleven, because he may have wanted to implicate Connie. I mean, implicate her when he came back to his senses. Now. I don't mind telling you the reason why I am in this part of the world at all."

"You have told me already," Gaskell said. "You are painting pictures which Bascoe wants to foist on the public as his own. Rather a foolish vanity in a man of his type, what?"

"Well, there it is. Now, on the night of the attack, I was working in the library on a picture till rather late in the afternoon. I had run over from my cottage in the intervals of nursing my old landlord, and when I left Uppertons to run back again to the cottage, the water colour drawing I was on was in a certain state. I mean, I had got so far with it and suggested to Bascoe that he might put in a few strokes himself. Not long before eleven o'clock that night, I slipped out of the cottage once more to see how Bascoe was getting on. I was only with him a very brief time, but he hadn't touched the sketch when I left Uppertons. That was just before eleven o'clock. And here comes the point. When I came to look at that sketch again after the outrage, I saw that Bascoe had worked upon it by artificial light, and what he had done cannot have occupied him less than half-an-hour."