Читать книгу The Mill House Murder: Being the Last of the Adventures of Ronald Camberwell - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 6

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In the course of my now somewhat lengthy experience I have seen a good many sights which roused me to feelings of loathing and horror, but I have never seen one that so excited my indignation as that which now met my eyes. For as Orris and I drew near the dead man—a man from whom I had parted only two hours before when he was full of all the zest of life!—from where he lay, half-submerged in the edge of the water, I saw that here was no accidental death, but a case of murder. On the right-hand side of his forehead there was a terrible, livid, incised bruise, from which still ran a slight trickle of blood. Some hand had struck him down as he left the last step of the bridge, and the blow had been a fearsome one. For a moment I thought he might have slipped, fallen from the bridge, and dashed his head against the edge of a sharp rock, but a mere glance at the surroundings showed me that this could not have been so. There were no rocks and no stones there—the body had fallen across the soft, waterlogged turf of the bank.

I turned to the chauffeur. At first sight of his master’s dead body he had begun to moan and cry; now he was sobbing unrestrainedly.

“Pull yourself together, my lad!” I said. “We’ve got to act now—there’s been foul play here. Your master’s been struck down by somebody. Now, where are the nearest houses or cottages?”

“There’s some round the corner of the mill,” he blubbered. “They’ll all be in bed—”

“Go there and rouse them out—tell the men to come here,” I said. “Then go to the Mill House and get Mr. Ramsden up. And now—where does the village policeman live?”

“Half-way to the bridge,” he answered. “He’s generally out on his rounds at this time.”

“Get at him, somehow,” I said. “Tell him to get on the telephone to his inspector or to the Superintendent. And listen—are there any friends of Mr. Martenroyde’s living anywhere about here—on this side of the river?”

“Mr. Eddison, his solicitor, lives just beyond the mill,” he replied. “And there’s Dr. Ponsford; he lives near Mr. Eddison.”

“Go to their houses and ask both to come here at once,” I said. “Now keep your head, and remember what I tell you. First some workmen; then the Mill House; then the policeman; then the two gentlemen you’ve mentioned. I want them all here—quick!”

He hurried away, still weeping, and after covering the dead man’s face with a muffler which I had twisted about my neck on leaving the grange, I stood there looking down at the still figure and wondering what enemy had robbed him of life in this vile and dastardly fashion. He had been so lively, so full of animation all the evening, talking, laughing, full of humour even when he was talking business, that I could scarcely comprehend the fact that he lay there at my feet—dead. Yet dead he was, and, I felt sure, murdered. Somebody had lain in wait for him at that end of the bridge, somebody armed with a heavy weapon. I had a long experience of wounds, and I had seen enough of the terrible bruise on James Martenroyde’s forehead and temple to know that the blow which had caused it had driven the life out of him there and then. A blow like that could not be anything but fatal—and he had received it and died. Into which quarter of the black night, the roar of the river in his ears, the wind howling reproaches at him, had the murderer fled?

As I waited, I began to reflect on my own position. It was not a pleasant one, quite apart from the horror of this apparently planned and callous murder. I was unknown to any of the people who would presently come, except to Mrs. John Martenroyde, and all that she would know would be that I had come to Todmanhawe to see her brother-in-law on business. I could not tell anybody what that business was—and yet it suddenly flashed across my mind that there might be—was it possible?—some connection between it and this tragedy. In that case—but all that was something to be considered later on.

Hurrying footsteps and low voices behind me caused me to turn towards the corner of the mill. Out of the darkness came three or four men, two of them carrying lanterns, all of them showing signs of having dressed in haste. The foremost made up to where I stood, gave me a glance of keen inquiry, and dropping on his knees at the dead man’s side, uncovered his face. The next instant he was on his feet, and the other men were ringing him and the body round.

“Nay, nay, nay!” he exclaimed. “Here’s foul work—some devil or other’s had a hand in that—he’s been struck down!” He turned on me, again inspecting me with sharp questioning glances. “Who may you be, mister?” he demanded. “You’re not one of our parts.”

“No,” I replied. “I came to see Mr. Martenroyde on business. When I went to bed he set out to walk round his mill. At midnight he hadn’t returned and his servants called me up. His chauffeur and I came out to look for him, and we found him—as you see.”

“Ay, we see!” he said grimly. “And a nice sight it is, and all! You found him where he is, mister?”

I showed him the exact position on the river-bank in which we had found the body lying. Silently, each made an inspection of it.

“Somebody’s laid in wait for him there,” said one.

“That’s it,” agreed another. “Felled him—and then he’s fallen off this here bridge. A foul job!”

“Hadn’t we better carry the body into one of your cottages?” I suggested. “Or couldn’t we take it into the mill? Can one of you get admission to the mill?”

They made no reply for a minute or two, during which they continued to look at the dead man. Then the man who had first arrived spoke.

“If you take my advice, mister, you’ll do naught till the police come,” he said. “The police—even if it be naught but a village constable—like to have first say in these matters. And I should let the Mill House folk see him, and all. We can shift his body later.”

“Here’s Mrs. John coming,” observed one of the others. “But I don’t see Ramsden.”

Mrs. John Martenroyde came hurrying along, some more workmen with her. She pushed through the group which surrounded her dead brother-in-law and looked down.

“What’s all this?” she demanded. “Who’s done it? Dead?—are you sure he’s dead? Who found him?”

I stepped forward and again explained matters. She stared at me as if half-incredulous of my statement.

“He must have fallen off that bridge,” she said. “We’ve warned him many a time about crossing it on nights like this. The wind’s blown him off, of course.” She turned abruptly on the men. “You’ve heard him warned, haven’t you?” she demanded. “Mr. Ramsden’s often warned him.”

The men made no answer; instead they looked at me.

“I’m afraid Mr. Martenroyde did not come by his death in that way, Mrs. Martenroyde,” I said. “He was struck down—by someone.”

She turned on me almost fiercely.

“Struck down?” she exclaimed. “Who should strike him down? Well, if he was—but now then, you men, why don’t you get him up and carry him under cover somewhere? You can’t leave him lying there.”

“We’re waiting till the policeman comes,” said a man, “and Mr. Ramsden ought to see him, too, before he’s moved.”

“Mr. Ramsden can’t see him, then,” retorted Mrs. Martenroyde. “Mr. Ramsden’s staying the night in Shipton—he went to a dinner there. Get that mill open, some of you, and carry your master in there at once.”

But none of the men—of whom there were by that time some twelve to twenty assembled—showed any signs of obeying these orders. They stood staring, waiting; one or two exchanged whispers.

“Here’s the policeman,” said someone. “And Mr. Eddison and the doctor.”

Once more, when these three arrived, I had to explain my presence and the search for and finding of the dead man. Mr. Eddison, an elderly man, drew me aside.

“James Martenroyde told me yesterday afternoon that he was expecting you, Mr. Camberwell,” he said. “He didn’t tell me why he wanted to enlist your services. Now, did he tell you anything that has any relation to—this?”

I found it difficult to reply to that question: I was already beginning to have some doubts or suspicions—vague and uncertain—of my own.

“May we leave that over for the moment, Mr. Eddison?” I said. “I shall have to tell you or the police, or both, a good deal, I’m afraid.”

“You think this is murder?” he asked. “Not accident?”

I pointed to the doctor, who, by the light of the lanterns, was bending over the body.

“Let us hear what the doctor says,” I answered. “I know what my own opinion is.”

But at that juncture the doctor said nothing except to ask if the dead man could not be carried into the mill. By that time more of the mill-hands had arrived; one was able to open the doors, and presently the body was carried inside and laid on a table in the office. And there Dr. Ponsford made a more careful examination while the rest of us stood about, waiting. At last he turned to where Mr. Eddison, Mrs. John Martenroyde, myself, and two or three of the leading workmen stood near the door.

“Mr. Martenroyde has been struck down by some heavy weapon,” he said. “A loaded stick or something of that sort. Two blows—either of them sufficient to cause death.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Mrs. John spoke, glancing at the sea of faces in the doorway and in the entrance hall of the mill. Her voice, rasping and provocative, sounded a note of something very like aggression.

“That’ll be the work of some of you lot!” she declared. “He had his enemies among you, I know!”

A low murmur among the waiting crowd swelled to a deep growl. One man separated himself from the rest and stepped forward.

“You’ve no call to say aught like that, missis,” he said earnestly. “It’s a foul libel on innocent folk! There isn’t a man in all Todmanhawe that would have laid a finger on Mr. Martenroyde—he was too much respected for that. And you know it, and your sons know it, and all!”

“Ay, well, and I wonder who you are to answer me back?” demanded Mrs. John. “Somebody’s done that, and you’ve had quarrels with him, some of you, more than once, and you’re none such white hens at any time. And you keep your tongue to yourself or I’ll set our Ramsden to talk to you, and he’ll—”

Mr. Eddison laid a hand on the angry woman’s arm, at the same time motioning the men to silence.

“Come, come, Mrs. Martenroyde!” he said. “This isn’t the time or place for that sort of thing. Where are your sons? Where’s Ramsden? Isn’t he at home? And Sugden? They ought to be here.”

“They can’t be where they aren’t, then,” retorted Mrs. John. “Our Ramsden’s staying the night in Shipton, Mr. Eddison; he went to a lodge dinner there, and he’s spending the night with friends instead of coming home. And as for our Sugden, he went back to London yesterday afternoon.”

I saw the man who had protested against Mrs. John’s accusation, and who in obedience to Mr. Eddison had been drawing back to join the others, suddenly stop, staring at Mrs. John as if something she had said had caused him surprise. He looked from her to Mr. Eddison, back again to her, and he was evidently about to speak when a commotion arose at the door of the mill, and glancing in that direction, I saw the head-lights of a big car.

“Here’s the Superintendent!” exclaimed somebody in the crowd. “Superintendent Beverley, from Shipton.”

I knew Beverley. Before his appointment to his present post he had been an inspector in another part of the county in which I had once had a case to deal with, and he and I had worked together for some weeks. Accordingly it was to me that he turned as he came hurrying in.

“No idea I should find you here, Camberwell,” he said. “What is it?”

“You shall know why I’m here later on,” I replied. “What you’re fetched for at present is that Mr. James Martenroyde has been found dead—I found him—on the river-bank close by this mill, and in my opinion he’s been murdered. See the doctor, and then I’ll show you where I found the body.”

He turned to Dr. Ponsford, but before they could go into the room where the dead man lay, Mrs. John stepped forward.

“I want my son Ramsden here,” she said. “Now that his uncle’s gone, Ramsden’s master in this place. Mr. Beverley, couldn’t you send your car back to Shipton to fetch our Ramsden? He’s stopping at Mr. Marriner’s—your man’ll know where Mr. Marriner lives.”

“Yes, I’ll do that for you, Mrs. Martenroyde,” assented Beverley. “That’ll not take long.” He went out to the road, sent his car off, and, coming back, passed into the inner room with the doctor. They were not long in there, and when they came out, Beverley motioned me to follow him outside. “Show me where you found him, Camberwell,” he said. “And tell me all about it—this is a case of murder, without a doubt, from what Ponsford says.”

“I’ll tell you all I know later on, Beverley,” I replied. “At present let’s confine ourselves to the finding of him and how he came to be there. When we’ve attended to that, I should like to tell you and Mr. Eddison how I come to be here at all.”

“I was surprised to see you,” he said. “Mr. Martenroyde sent for you?”

“He sent for me,” I replied.

“Some private business?” he asked.

“Very private business—that’s what I’m going to tell you about,” I said. “I’m already suspecting—I don’t know what.”

I took him down to the end of the weir bridge and to the place on the river-bank at which we had found the body. For some little time we remained there, examining the immediate surroundings by the light of our lanterns. Eventually we went back to the mill. Ramsden Martenroyde had just arrived, a big, strapping, taciturn man of apparently thirty years of age; he, his mother, and Mr. Eddison were discussing the removal of the body to the grange. Presently some of the workmen were called, a bier was improvised, and the removal began; Mrs. John, Ramsden, and Dr. Ponsford accompanied the men carrying the bier. And when they had gone, Mr. Eddison, who was talking quietly to another elderly man who appeared to have dressed hurriedly and had just arrived, signed to Beverley and myself to join him and his companion, whom he presently introduced as Mr. Halstead, a personal friend of James Martenroyde.

“Now let us hear what you have to say, Mr. Camberwell,” he said. “We’ll go into the private office.”

He opened a door close by and switched on the electric light. But before we could enter, the man who had shown his surprise when Mrs. John said that her son Sugden had left for London the previous afternoon came up, evidently anxious to speak.

“Can I have a word or two with you gentlemen?” he said. “It’s important.”