Читать книгу The Finger of Fate and Other Stories - Sapper - Страница 10

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THE inquest revealed nothing that we did not know already. The jury returned a verdict of Accidental Death, tendered their sympathy to the deceased man' family, and added a rider to the effect that steps should be taken immediately to erect a suitable fence round the top of Draxton Quarry. Trent gave his evidence with considerable emotion—as the jury well knew he and Tennant had been friends—and true to what we had arranged he said nothing about the black monk. It was therefore with some surprise that when I went into the Boar's Head for luncheon I was a once tackled on the subject by the landlord.

"It's all over the place, Mr. Mercer," he said "Not as how I holds with that sort of stuff, but you know what folks be round here."

I made some non-committal reply and sought out Tennant.

"Are you surprised?" he said quietly, "I'm not."

"But who started it?" I cried. "You say you've said nothing, and it wasn't me."

"Which narrows the field somewhat—doesn't it?"

And at that moment Trent came in, and I tackled him.

"Good Heavens!" he muttered, "it's spread as quick as that, has it? It was my gross carelessness. Like a fool last night, I forgot to take the papers out of the pocket of my coat when I changed for dinner. And my man must have seen it. Damn the fellow! I'll sack him."

He went out fuming angrily, and-I turned a little curiously to Tennant.

"Why did you say you weren't surprised?" I said.

He smiled enigmatically.

"Those sort of things have a way of coming out," he remarked. "Shall we lunch together?"

And as we were going in a page brought him a telegram. He opened it and gave a grunt of satisfaction as he read the contents. Then he turned to me.

"Would you be good enough to ask me to dinner to-night? And a friend of mine too—a lady."

I stared at him blankly.

"I am aware it sounds a little strange, and my next request will sound stranger still. Does Trent know your family intimately? Your relations, I mean."

"Far from it," I said.

"So you could quite easily invent a niece, shall we say, without him suspecting anything."

"What the devil are you driving at, Tennant?" I cried.

"Because I would like this friend of mine to be your niece. And I shall meet her for the first time at your house. And so will Trent, who I want you to ask to dinner also. Incidentally here he is. Ask him now, please"—his voice was low and urgent"—and mention your niece."

There was something compelling about the man, and I found myself doing as he said.

"Dine," said Trent. Thanks, Mercer, I'd like to. Eight, I suppose."

"There will be a niece of mine there," I remarked. "I don't think you've ever met her. I suppose you wouldn't care to come, Tennant."

"Will it be quite quiet?" he said doubtfully.

"Just us," I answered. "And my niece."

"Thanks very much," he said, "I'll come."

At that moment I happened to glance at Trent, and it seemed to me that he gave a tiny frown. It was gone in an instant, but the impression that he wasn't too well pleased at my inviting Tennant, lingered in my mind. And it was still there when Tennant and the lady arrived at a quarter to eight. All the afternoon I'd been racking my brains trying to think what all the mystery was about, and the instant they came I turned eagerly to Tennant.

He cut short my questions immediately.

"Listen, Mr. Mercer," he said curtly, we haven't got too much time. This is Miss Greyson. You will call her Monica. You are her uncle: so she will call you uncle—what?"

"Most people call me Bill," I said.

"Very good. She .will call you Uncle Bill. She is staying in the house: but that fact must not be alluded to in front of the servants, or they may give it away."

"But," I cried, "what is it all about?"

"With luck you'll know before the evening is out," he said gravely. "Take your cues from us, and if it's urgent—for God's sake jump to it, or it may be too late."

"What may be too late?" I said blankly.

"Monica is taking her life in her hands to-night," was his astounding reply. "Perhaps we all are. Above all—don't forget—not a word to Trent."

And at that moment Trent was announced. In a sort of dream I heard a voice introducing him to Miss Greyson—and realised the voice was my own. In a sort of dream I went in to dinner, and found myself eating what was put in front of me mechanically. Taking her life in her hands. Was I mad—or was he?

After a while I pulled myself together—as host I had to make some pretence at talking—and found they were discussing the photograph.

"If I were you, Trent," Tennant was saying, "I would send that photograph to the Society for Psychical Research."

"Dash it, man," answered Trent, "I couldn't. I've cursed my man's head off for speaking about it at all, and I don't want any more publicity. I mean Mary is in the photo too, as well as poor old Jack. It's incredible how it's spread all over the place so quickly."

"It is without exception the most wonderful spirit photograph I have ever seen," said Tennant. "And it's a thing I'm extremely interested in."

"Are you?" said Trent in surprise. "Somehow I should never have thought it of you."

"Only, of course, as an amateur." He glanced across at the girl. "Forgive the impertinence, Miss Greyson, but surely you are clairvoyante?"

She looked at me with a smile.

"I don't know what Uncle Bill will say about it," she said, "but you're quite right, Mr. Tennant. Only I don't want it talked about in the family, Uncle Bill."

"My dear, I'll say nothing," I said.

"How did you know?" asked Trent curiously.

"My dear fellow," said Tennant, "when you've dabbled in it even as little as I have, you'll recognise it at a glance. There is something in the face—something indefinable and yet quite obvious. I should imagine that Miss Greyson was possessed of remarkable powers."

The girl laughed.

"That, I'm afraid, I don't know. I've not done much of it, and, of course, when one is in a trance one knows nothing."

"It would be interesting to try to-night," said Tennant. "That is to say if Miss Greyson doesn't mind."

Trent fidgetted in his chair.

"I don't know that I'm particularly keen," he muttered. "The black monk is enough for me—at any-rate for the present."

And then for one moment, Tennant stared straight at me, and the unspoken message might have been shouted aloud, so clear was it.

"I think it might be quite amusing," I said. "But of course Monica must decide."

"I don't mind," cried the girl. "If Mr. Trent would sooner not..."

"Oh! I don't mind," he said sullenly.

"I can't guarantee anything," went on the girl. "Sometimes I'm told I simply talk gibberish."

"Naturally," said Tennant quietly. "No medium can ever be certain of getting results."

For a while we stopped on at the dinner table, but the atmosphere was not congenial. Trent sat in moody silence, looking every now and then from under his eyebrows at the girl. And at length Tennant gave me an almost imperceptible movement of the head.

"Shall we go into the other room?" I said. "And then Monica shall take charge."

"Mind you," she repeated with a smile, "I don't guarantee anything."

"I suppose we put out the lights?" I said.

"It's always better," she answered. "Now if you three just sit down, anywhere you like, and keep quite still I'll see what I can do."

And the last thing I noticed as I switched off the lights was Trent's sullen, scowling face. For a while we sat in silence, and I know that my nerves were far from being as steady as I would have liked. That one remark of Tennant's kept ringing in my head—taking her life in her hands. But how? And why the secrecy over Trent?

Suddenly a long shuddering sigh came from the girl, and I sat up tensely.

"She's under," said Tennant in a low voice. "Be careful."

Again silence—and then a man's loud voice—"Peter."

"Good God!" I muttered, "it's Jack."

I could hear Trent's breath come in a quick hiss. "Peter! Peter!"

"Is that you, Jack?" said Tennant quietly.

"Peter! The button. Proof from the button."

"What button, Jack?"

"Proof. Proof." The voice was far away. "He came down to get it."

"Jack, come back, Jack. How are you, old chap?"

"Proof. Peter—no accident. That devil—that devil..."

"Who, Jack—who. Did someone murder you?"

"That devil—that devil—Laurence..."

There came a shrill piercing scream, and a dreadful worrying noise.

"Lights, roared Tennant, and I dashed for the switch. In the room behind, a voice I didn't recognise was muttering harshly again and again:

"Yes—damn you, I did it. I did it, you swine."

On her back, on the floor was Monica Greyson and kneeling over her with his hands clutching her throat was Trent. His face was distorted with fury: there was murder in every line of it. And even as I watched, fascinated with horror, Tennant and another man hurled themselves on him.

"Sand-bag him, Simpson," shouted Tennant. "He'll kill her."

And .the next instant Trent lay still, and Tennant with his arms round the girl was calling for brandy.

"Good enough, Simpson, I think," he said curtly, and the other nodded. "By the way, Mercer—this is Inspector Simpson of Scotland Yard."

"But what does it all mean," I said feebly.

"That that devil murdered Jack in cold blood," he said grimly. "And he's going to swing for it."

Trent, handcuffed by now, had come to, and lay glaring at the speaker.

"You wouldn't have got me but for that cursed girl," he snarled. "A man can't compete against that."

And Tennant laughed.

"It may interest you to know, Laurence Trent, that the whole thing to-night has been a fake from beginning to end. Just as your photograph of the black monk was a fake."