The Postmaster's Daughter Read online

  The Postmaster's Daughter

  by Louis Tracy

  Author of "The Terms of Surrender," "The Wings of the Morning,"etc., etc.

  1916

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

  II. P. C ROBINSON "TAKES A LINE"

  III. THE GATHERING CLOUDS

  IV. A CABAL

  V. THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF

  VI. SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND

  VII. "ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS"

  VIII. AN INTERRUPTED SYMPOSIUM

  IX. HE WHOM THE CAP FITS--

  X. THE CASE AGAINST GRANT

  XI. P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE

  XII. WHEREIN WINTER GETS TO WORK

  XIII. CONCERNING THEODORE SIDDLE

  XIV. ON BOTH SIDES OF THE RIVER

  XV. A MATTER OF HEREDITY

  XVI. FURNEAUX MAKES A SUCCESSFUL BID

  XVII. AN OFFICIAL HOUSEBREAKER

  XVIII. THE TRUTH AT LAST

  CHAPTER I

  THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

  John Menzies Grant, having breakfasted, filled his pipe, lit it, andstrolled out bare-headed into the garden. The month was June, thatglorious rose-month which gladdened England before war-clouds darkenedthe summer sky. As the hour was nine o'clock, it is highly probable thatmany thousands of men were then strolling out into many thousands ofgardens in precisely similar conditions; but, given youth, good health,leisure, and a fair amount of money, it is even more probable that fewamong the smaller number thus roundly favored by fortune looked soperplexed as Grant.

  Moreover, his actions were eloquent as words. A spacious French windowhad been cut bodily out of the wall of an old-fashioned room, and was nowthrown wide to admit the flower-scented breeze. Between this window andthe right-hand angle of the room was a smaller window, square-paned, highabove the ground level, and deeply recessed--in fact just the sort ofwindow which one might expect to find in a farm-house built two centuriesago, when light and air were rigorously excluded from interiors. The twowindows told the history of The Hollies at a glance. The little one hadserved the needs of a "best" room for several generations of Sussexyeomen. Then had come some iconoclast who hewed a big rectangle throughthe solid stone-work, converted the oak-panelled apartment into a mostcomfortable dining-room, built a new wing with a gable, changed afarm-yard into a flower-bordered lawn, and generally played havoc withGeorgian utility while carrying out a determined scheme of landscapegardening.

  Happily, the wrecker was content to let well enough alone after enlargingthe house, laying turf, and planting shrubs and flowers. He found TheHollies a ramshackle place, and left it even more so, but with a new noteof artistry and several unexpectedly charming vistas. Thus, the bigdouble window opened straight into an irregular garden which mergedinsensibly into a sloping lawn bounded by a river-pool. The bank on theother side of the stream rose sharply and was well wooded. Above thecrest showed the thatched roofs or red tiles of Steynholme, which was avillage in the time of William the Conqueror, and has remained a villageever since. Frame this picture in flowering shrubs, evergreens, a fewchoice firs, a copper beech, and some sturdy oaks shadowing the lawn, andthe prospect on a June morning might well have led out into the open anyyoung man with a pipe.

  But John Menzies Grant seemed to have no eye for a scene that would havedelighted a painter. He turned to the light, scrutinized so closely astrip of turf which ran close to the wall that he might have beensearching for a lost diamond, and then peered through the lowermostleft-hand pane of the small window into the room he had just quitted.

  The result of this peeping was remarkable in more ways than one.

  A stout, elderly, red-faced woman, who had entered the room soon aftershe heard Grant's chair being moved, caught sight of the intent face. Shescreamed loudly, and dropped a cup and saucer with a clatter on to aJapanese tray.

  Grant hurried back to the French window. In his haste he did not notice along shoot of a Dorothy Perkins rose which trailed across his path, andit struck him smartly on the cheek.

  "I'm afraid I startled you, Mrs. Bates," he said, smiling so pleasantlythat no woman or child could fail to put trust in him.

  "You did that, sir," agreed Mrs. Bates, collapsing into the chair Granthad just vacated.

  Like most red-faced people, Mrs. Bates turned a bluish purple whenalarmed, and her aspect was so distressing now that Grant's smile wasbanished by a look of real concern.

  "I'm very sorry," he said contritely. "I had no notion you were in theroom. Shall I call Minnie?"

  Minnie, it may be explained, was Mrs. Bates's daughter and assistant,the two, plus a whiskered Bates, gardener and groom, forming the domesticestablishment presided over by Grant.

  "Nun-no, sir," stuttered the housekeeper. "It's stupid of me. But I'm notso young as I was, an' me heart jumps at little things."

  Grant saw that she was recovering, though slowly. He thought it best notto make too much of the incident; but asked solicitously if he might giveher some brandy.

  Mrs. Bates remarked that she was "not so bad as that," rose valiantly,and went on with her work. Her employer, who had gone into the gardenagain, saw out of the tail of his eye that she vanished with a half-ladentray. In a couple of minutes the daughter appeared, and finished theslight task of clearing the table; meanwhile, Grant kept away from thesmall window. Being a young man who cultivated the habit of observation,he noticed that Minnie, too, cast scared glances at the window. When thegirl had finally quitted the room, he laughed in a puzzled way.

  "Am I dreaming, or are there visions about?" he murmured.

  Urged, seemingly, by a sort of curiosity, he surveyed the room a secondtime through the same pane of glass. Being tall, he had to stoopslightly. Within, on the opposite side of the ledge, he saw the tinybrass candlestick with its inch of candle which he had used over-nightwhile searching for a volume of Scott in the book-case lining theneighboring wall. Somehow, this simplest of domestic objects brought athrill of recollection.

  "Oh, dash it all!" he growled good-humoredly, "I'm getting nervy. I mustchuck this bad habit of working late, and use the blessed hours ofdaylight."

  Yet, as he sauntered down the lawn toward the stream, he knew well thathe would do nothing of the sort. He loved that time of peace betweenten at night and one in the morning. His thoughts ran vagrom then.Fantasies took shape under his pen which, in the cold light of morning,looked unreal and nebulous, though he had the good sense to restraincriticism within strict limits, and corrected style rather than matter.He was a writer, an essayist with no slight leaven of the poet, and hadlearnt early that the everyday world held naught in common with thebrooding of the soul.

  But he was no long-haired dreamer of impossible things. Erect andsquare-shouldered, he had passed through Sandhurst into the army, aprofession abandoned because of its humdrum nature, when an unexpectedly"fat" legacy rendered him independent. He looked exactly what he was, ahealthy, clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique that led tooccasional bouts of fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a taste inliterature that brought about the consumption of midnight oil. Thislatter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is far removed from such modern"conveniences" as gas and electricity.

  At present he had no more definite object in life than to watch the troutrising in the pool. He held the fishing rights over half a mile of anoted river, but, by force of the law of hospitality, as it were, thestretch of water bordering the lawn was a finny sanctuary. Once, hehalted, and looked fixedly at a dormer window in a cottage just visibleabove the trees on the opposite slope. Such a highly presentable youngman might well expect to find a dainty feminine form appearing just inthat place, and eke return the greeting of a waved hand. But the windowremained blank--windows refused to yield any information thatmorning--and he passed on.

  The lawn dipped gently to the water's edge, until the close-clipped turfgave way to pebbles and sand. In that spot the river widened anddeepened until its current was hardly perceptible in fine weather. Whenthe sun was in the west the trees and roofs of Steynholme were soclearly reflected in the mirror of the pool that a photograph of thescene needed close scrutiny ere one could determine whether or not itwas being held upside down. But the sun shone directly on the water now,so the shelving bottom was visible, and Grant's quick eye was drawn to arope trailing into the depths, and fastened to an iron staple drivenfirmly into the shingle.

  He was so surprised that he spoke aloud.

  "What in the world is that?" he almost gasped; a premonition of evil wasso strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob ofwater and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily inmidstream.

  Somehow, too, he resisted the first impulse of the active side of histemperament, and did not instantly tug at the rope.

  Instead, he shouted:--

  "Hi, Bates!"

  An answering hail came from behind a screen of laurels on the right ofthe house. There lay the stables, and Bates would surely be grooming thecob which supplied a connecting link between The Hollies and the railwayfor the neighboring market-town.

  Bates came, a sturdy block of a man who might have been hewn out of aSussex oak. His face, hands, and arms were the color of oak, and he movedwith a stiffness that suggested wooden joints.

  Evidently, he expected an order for the dogcart, and stood stock stillwhen he reached the lawn. But Grant, who had gathered his wits, summonedhim with
crooked forefinger, and Bates jerked slowly on.

  "What hev' ye done to yer face, sir?" he inquired.

  Grant was surprised. He expected no such question.

  "So far as I know, I've not been making any great alteration init," he said.

  "But it's all covered wi' blood," came the disturbing statement.

  A handkerchief soon gave evidence that Bates was not exaggerating.Miss--or is it Madam?--Dorothy Perkins can scratch as well as look sweet,and a thorn had opened a small vein in Grant's cheek which bled to asurprising extent.

  "Oh, it is nothing," he said. "I remember now--a rose shoot caught me asI went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to comeand see _this_."

  Soon the two were examining the rope and the staple.

  "Now who put _that_ there?" said Bates, not asking a question but ratherstating a thesis.

  "It was not here yesterday," commented his master, accepting all thatBates's words implied.

  "No, sir, that it wasn't. I was a-cuttin' the lawn till nigh bed-time,an' it wasn't there then."

  Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope.

  "Suppose we solve the mystery," he said.

  "No need to dirty your hands, sir," put in Bates. "Let I haul 'un in."

  In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter.

  "Good Gawd!" he wheezed. At the end of the rope was the body of a woman.

  There are few more distressing objects than a drowned corpse. Onthat bright June morning a dreadful apparition lost little of itsgrim repulsiveness because the body was that of a young andgood-looking woman.

  If one searched England it would be difficult to find two men ofdiffering temperaments less likely to yield to the stress of even themost trying circumstance than Grant and Bates, yet, during some agonizedmoments the one, of tried courage and fine mettle, was equally horrifiedand shaken as the other, a gnarled and hard-grained rustic. It was hefrom whom speech might least be expected who first found his tongue.Bates, who had stooped, straightened himself slowly.

  "By gum!" he said, "this be a bad business, Mr. Grant. Who is she? She'snone of our Steynholme lasses."

  Still Grant uttered no word. He just looked in horror at the poor huskof a woman who in life had undoubtedly been beautiful. She was well butquietly dressed, and her clothing showed no signs of violence. Theall-night soaking in the river revealed some pitiful little femininesecrets, such as a touch of make-up on lips and cheeks, and the darkroots of abundant hair which had been treated chemically to lighten itscolor. The eyes were closed, and for that Grant was conscious of a deepthankfulness. Had those sightless eyes stared at him he felt he wouldhave cried aloud in terror. The firm, well-molded lips were open, asthough uttering a last protest against an untimely fate. Of course, bothmen were convinced that murder had been done. Not only were arms andbody bound in a manner that was impossible of accomplishment by the deadwoman herself, but an ugly wound on the smooth forehead seemed toindicate that she had been stunned or killed outright before being flunginto the river.

  And then, the rope and the staple suggested an outlandish, maniacaldisposal of the victim. Here was no effort at concealment, but rather amaking sure, in most brutal and callous fashion, that early discoverymust be unavoidable.

  The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no assistancefrom his master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on the stripof gravel so that it lay clear of the water.

  "I mum fetch t' polis," he said.

  The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into aspecies of comprehension.

  "Yes," he agreed, speaking slowly, as though striving to measure theeffect of each word. "Yes, go for the police, Bates. This foul crime mustbe inquired into, no matter who suffers. Go now. But first bring a rugfrom the stable. You understand? Your wife, or Minnie, must not be toldtill later. They must not see. Mrs. Bates is not so well to-day."

  "Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick 'un!"

  Bates was recovering from the shock, and prepared once more to take aninterest in the minor features of existence. Among these he countedability to eat as a sure sign of continued well-being in man or beast.

  Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise.

  "I hardly know what I am saying," he muttered. "At any rate, bring a rug.I'll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There can be nodoubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead."

  "Dead as a stone," said Bates with conviction. "Why, her's bin in therehours," and he nodded toward the water. "Besides, if I knows anythink ofa crack on t'head, her wur outed before she went into t'river.... But whoi' t'world can she be?"

  "If you don't fetch that rug I'll go for it myself," said Grant,whereupon Bates made off.

  He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him tospread over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking apath that avoided the house.

  The lawn and river bank of The Hollies could only be overlooked from thesteep wooded cliff opposite, and none but an adventurous boy would everthink of climbing down that almost impassable rampart of rock,brushwood, and tree-roots. At any rate, when left alone with the ghastlyevidence of a tragedy, Grant troubled only to satisfy himself that no onewas watching from the house. Assured on that point, he lifted a corner ofthe rug, and, apparently, forced himself to scrutinize the dead woman'sface. He seemed to search therein for some reassuring token, but foundnone, because he shook his head, dropped the rug, and walked a few pacesdejectedly.

  Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but hadhardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco.

  Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, andthe outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber andundecided aspect.

  More than once he looked up at the attic window of the cottage which haddrawn his eyes before tragedy had come so swiftly to his very feet. But,if he hoped to see anyone, he was disappointed, though, in the event, itproved that his real fear was lest the person he half expected to seeshould look out.

  He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river; birdssang in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to rock inthe shallows; honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in thepostmaster's garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a Junemorning--that which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror layhidden beneath the carriage rug.

  To and fro he walked in that trying vigil, carrying the empty pipe in onehand while, with the other, he dabbed the handkerchief at the cut on hisface. He was aware of some singular change in the quality of the sunlightpouring down on lawn and river and trees. Five minutes earlier it hadspread over the landscape a golden bloom of the tint of champagne; now itwas sharp and cold, a clear, penetrating radiance in which colors werevivid and shadows black. He was in no mood to analyze emotions, or hemight have understood that the fierce throbbing of his heart hadliterally thinned the blood in his veins and thus affected even hissight. He only knew that in this crystal atmosphere the major issues oflife presented themselves with a new and crude force. At any rate, hemade up his mind that the course suggested by truth and honor was theonly one to follow, and that, in itself, was something gained.

  By the time Bates returned, accompanied by the village policeman, and twoother men carrying a stretcher, Grant was calmer, more self-contained,than he had been since that hapless body was dragged from the depths. Hewas not irresponsive, therefore, to the aura of official importance whichenveloped the policeman; he sensed a certain uneasiness in Bates; he evennoted that the stretcher was part of the stock in trade of Hobbs, thelocal butcher, and ordinarily bore the carcase of a well-fed pig.

  These details were helpful. Naturally, Bates had explained his errand,and the law, in the person of the policeman, was prepared for alleventualities.

  "This is a bad business, Mr. Grant," began the policeman, producing anote-book, and moistening the tip of a lead pencil with his tongue. Beinga Sussex man, he used the same phrase as Bates. In fact, Grant wasgreeted by it a score of times that day.

  "Yes," agreed Grant. "I had better tell you that I have recognized thepoor lady. Her name is Adelaide Melhuish. Her residence is in theRegent's Park district of London."

  Robinson, the policeman, permitted himself to look surprised. He was, infact, rather annoyed. Bates's story had prepared him for a first-ratedetective mystery. It was irritating to have one of its leading featurescleared up so promptly.

  "Oh," he said, drawing a line under the last entry in the note-book,and writing the date and hour in heavy characters beneath. "Marriedor single?"

  "Married, but separated from her husband when last I had news of her."

  "And when was that, sir?"

  "Nearly three years ago."

  "And you have not seen her since?"

  "No."

  "You didn't see her last night?"

  Grant positively started, but he looked at the policeman squarely.

  "It is strange you should ask me that," he said. "Last night, whilesearching for a book, I saw a face at the window. It was that window,"and four pairs of eyes followed his pointing finger. "The face, I nowbelieve, was that of the dead woman. At the moment, as it vanishedinstantly, I persuaded myself that I was the victim of some trick of theimagination. Still, I opened the other window, looked out and listened,but heard or saw nothing or no one. As I say, I fancied I had imaginedthat which was not. Now I know I was wrong."

  "About what o'clock would this be, Mr. Grant?"

  "Shortly before eleven. I came in at a quarter past ten, and began towork. After writing steadily for a little more than half an hour, Iwanted to consult a book, and lighted a candle which I keep fo
r thatpurpose. I found the book, and was about to blow out the candle when Isaw the face."

  Robinson wrote in his note-book:--

  "Called to The Hollies to investigate case of supposed murder. Body ofwoman found in river. Mr. Grant, occupying The Hollies, says that woman'sname is Adelaide Melhuish"--at this point he paused to ascertain thespelling--"and he saw her face at a window of the house at 10.45 P.M.,last night."

  "Well, sir, and what next?" he went on.

  "It seems to me that the next thing is to have the unfortunate ladyremoved to some more suitable place than the river bank," said Grant,rather impatiently. "My story can wait, and so can Bates's. He knows allthat I know, and has probably told you already how we came to discoverthe body. You can see for yourself that she must have been murdered. Itis an extraordinary, I may even say a phenomenal crime, which certainlycannot be investigated here and now. I advise you to have the body takento the village mortuary, or such other place as serves local needs inthat respect, and summon a doctor. Then, if you and an inspector willcall here, I'll give you all the information I possess, which is verylittle, I may add."

  Robinson began solemnly to jot down a summary of Grant's words, andthereby stirred the owner of The Hollies to a fury which was repressedwith difficulty. Realizing, however, the absolute folly of expressing anyresentment, Grant turned, and, without meaning it, looked again in thedirection of the cottage on the crest of the opposite bank. This time agirl was leaning out of the dormer window. She had shaded her eyes with ahand, because the sun was streaming into her face, but when she saw thatGrant was looking her way she waved a handkerchief.

  He fluttered his own blood-stained handkerchief in brief acknowledgment,and wheeled about, only to find P. C. Robinson watching him furtively,having suspended his note-taking for the purpose.