The Postmaster's Daughter Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  "ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS"

  The inquest was surprisingly tame after the stirring events which hadled up to it. Indeed, save for two incidents, the proceedings werealmost dull.

  The coroner, a Knoleworth solicitor named Belcher, prided himself onconducting this _cause celebre_ with as little ostentation as he wouldhave displayed over an ordinary inquiry. Messrs. Siddle, Elkin, Tomlinand Hobbs, with eight other local tradesmen and farmers, formed thejurors, and the chemist was promptly elected foreman; no witnesses wereordered out of court; the formalities of "swearing in" the jury and"viewing" the body were carried through rapidly. Almost before Grant hadtime to assimilate these details Superintendent Fowler, who marshalledthe evidence, called his name. The coroner's officer tendered him awell-thumbed Bible, while the coroner himself administered the oath.

  Grant eyed the somewhat soiled volume, and opened it before putting it tohis lips. The action probably did not please the jury. Elkin nudgedTomlin, and sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say:"What did I tell you? The cheek of him!"

  Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instanthis haggard aspect became more noticeable.

  Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. Astranger, whom Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County ChiefConstable. There was a strong muster of police, and the representativesof the press completely monopolized the scanty accommodation for thepublic. To Grant's relief, Doris Martin was not in attendance.

  He told the simple facts of the finding of Adelaide Melhuish's corpse. Aharmless question by the coroner evoked the first "scene" which set thereporters' pencils busy.

  "Did you recognize the body!" inquired Mr. Belcher.

  "I did."

  "Then you can give the jury her name?"

  Before Grant could answer, Ingerman sprang up, his sallow face lividwith passion.

  "I protest, sir, against this man being permitted to identify mywife," he said.

  He was either deeply moved, or proved himself an excellent actor. Hisflute-like voice vibrated with an intense emotion. Thus might Mark Antonyhave spoken when vowing that Brutus was an honorable man.

  "Who are you?" demanded the coroner sharply.

  "Isidor George Ingerman, husband of the deceased lady," came theclear-toned reply.

  "Well, sit down, sir, and do not interrupt the court again," saidthe coroner.

  "I demand, sir, that you note my protest."

  "Sit down! Were you any other person I would have you removed. As it is,I am prepared to regard your feelings to the extent of explaining thatthe witness is not identifying the body but relating a fact within hisown knowledge."

  Ingerman bowed, and resumed his seat.

  For some reason, Grant stared blankly at Furneaux. The latter did notmeet his glance, but put a finger on those thin lips. It might, or mightnot, be a warning to repress any retort he had in mind. At any rate,obeying a nod from the coroner, he merely said:

  "She was a well-known actress, Miss Adelaide Melhuish."

  Mr. Belcher's pen hesitated a little. Then it scratched on. Undoubtedly,he was himself exercising the restraint he meant to impose on others.

  "You are quite sure?" he said, after a pause.

  "Quite."

  "Thank you, Mr. Grant. Wait here until you sign your deposition. Ofcourse, you are aware that this inquiry will stand adjourned, and thewhole matter will be gone into fully at a later date."

  "So I have been informed, sir."

  Ingerman was the next witness. _He_, like a good democrat, kissed thecover of the Bible. The coroner began by giving him some advice.

  "This is a purely formal inquiry, to permit of a death certificate beingissued. You will oblige me, therefore, by answering my questions withoutintroducing any extraneous subject."

  Ingerman adhered to these instructions. Having already shot acarefully-prepared bolt, he meant avoiding any further conflict withthe authorities. His evidence was brief and to the point. The deceasedwas his wife. They were married at a London registrar's office on agiven date, six years ago. His wife acted under her maiden name. Therewas no family.

  The court was well lighted by four long windows in the eastern wall,which each witness faced, so Grant was free to study his avowed enemy atleisure. He thought he made out a crafty underlook in Ingerman which hehad failed to detect the previous night. That slow, smooth voice seemedto weigh each syllable. Such a man would never blurt out an unconsideredadmission. He was a foe to be reckoned with. The subtle malignancy ofthat well-timed outburst was proof positive in that respect.

  The jury, apparently, attached much weight to his words. On some facesthere was an expectancy which merged into marked disappointment when hisevidence came to an end. The foreman alone displayed the judicialattitude warranted by the oath he had taken. Somehow, Grant had faith inMr. Siddle. The man looked intellectual. When spoken to in his shop hismanner was invariably reserved. But that was his general repute inSteynholme--a quiet, uninterfering person, who had come to the village ayoung man, yet had never really entered into its life. For instance, heneither held nor would accept any public office. At first, peoplewondered how he contrived to eke out a living, but this puzzle was solvedby his admitted possession of a small annuity.

  Dr. Foxton, general practitioner, who held undisputed sway in thedistrict, told how he had conducted an autopsy on the body of thedeceased. He found a deep, incised wound on the back of the skull, awound which would have caused death in any event. The instrument usedmust have been a heavy and blunt one. Miss Melhuish was dead or dyingwhen thrown into the river. The body was well nourished, and the vitalorgans sound. Undoubtedly she had been murdered.

  Bates followed, and evoked a snigger by the outspokenness of bluntSussex.

  "I hauled 'um in," he said, "an' knew it wur a dead 'un by the feel ofthe rope."

  The coroner was not curious. He merely wished to put on record the timeand manner in which Mr. Grant summoned assistance.

  Then P. C. Robinson entered the box, and contrived to bring about thesecond "incident."

  He told how, "from information received," he went to The Hollies, andfound Mr. Grant standing near the river with a dead body at his feet.

  "One side of Mr. Grant's face was covered with blood," he went on.

  If the policeman was minded to create a sensation, he certainlysucceeded. A slight hum ran through the court, and then all presentseemed to restrain their breathing lest a word of the evidence should belost. The mention of "blood" in a murder case was a more adroit dodgethan Robinson himself guessed, perhaps. Few of his hearers troubled toreflect that a smudge of fresh gore on Grant's cheek could hardly haveany bearing on the death of a woman whose body had admittedly lain allnight in the river. It sufficed that Robinson had introduced a touch ofthe right color into the inquiry. Even the coroner was worried.

  "Well!" he said testily.

  "I took down his statement, sir," said the witness, well knowing that hehad wiped off Grant's morning score in the matter of Bush Walk.

  "Never mind his statement. That must await the adjourned hearing. Whatdid you do with the body?"

  "Took it to the stable of the Hare and Hounds, sir."

  "Where it was viewed recently by the jury?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "It is the body identified by Mr. Ingerman as that of his wife?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "That will do.... Superintendent Fowler, will this day week at teno'clock suit you?"

  "Yes, sir," said the superintendent.

  "Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen ofthe jury, you must be here punctually."

  "Can't we ask any questions?" cried Elkin, in an injured tone.

  "No. You cannot," snapped the coroner emphatically.

  After a few formalities, which included the reading and signing of thedepositions, the courthouse emptied. The whole thing was over in half anhour. Grant, determined to have a word with the
representative ofScotland Yard, went openly to Furneaux, and asked him to come to TheHollies and join him in a cup of tea.

  "No," was the curt answer. "I'm busy. I'll see you later."

  It was difficult to reconcile the detective's present stand-off mannerwith his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly hintconveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman's interruption.

  Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine. He wassnap-shotted a dozen times by press photographers. One man, backingimpudently in front of him in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped overthe raised edge of a cartway into a yard, and sat down violently.

  The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise.

  "If you want a really good picture of the Steynholme murderer, come to myplace, and I'll give you one," he said.

  The pressman was grateful, because Grant's action had tended to mitigatehis discomfiture.

  "No one but a fool thinks of you as a murderer, Mr. Grant," he said."What I really want is a portrait of 'the celebrated' author in whosegrounds the body was found."

  "Come along, then, and I'll pose for you."

  The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the godsgave. He could not guess that his host was pining for humancompanionship. He could not fathom Grant's disappointment, on reachingThe Hollies, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter Hart.And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered bycompelling his host to talk and act naturally. He enlightened Grant, too,in the matter of inquests.

  "Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers," he said. "The policewill be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thoughtsufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ asolicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any onewhose interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One neverknows how these inquiries twist and turn."

  "Thank you," said Grant, smiling at the journalist's tact. "I'll ordertea to be got ready while you're taking your pictures. By the way, whatsort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?"

  "A pocket marvel," was the enthusiastic answer. "Haven't you heard of himbefore? Well, you wouldn't, unless you followed famous casesprofessionally. He seldom appears in the courts--generally manages towriggle out of giving direct evidence. But I've never known him to fail.He either hangs his man or drives him to suicide. If I committed a crime,and was told that Furneaux was after me, I'd own up and save trouble,because I wouldn't have the ghost of a chance of winning clear."

  "He strikes one as too flippant for a detective."

  "Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they're either disappearingin quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time atPortland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job."

  "Who is 'Winter'?"

  "The Chief Inspector at the 'Yard.' A big, cheerful-looking fellow--fromhis appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a taste forhorses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big 'Un and theLittle 'Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But Heavenhelp any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They'll get him, as sure asGod made little apples."

  "Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall bepleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard thatfat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did itpurposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, theliteral truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose therecaught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning--before Idiscovered the body--and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visiblestill? I saw it to-day while shaving."

  "Yes," said the other, chortling over the "copy" his colleagues weremissing. "The mark is there right enough. Queer how inanimate objectslike a rose-tree can make mischief. I remember a case in which a chestnutin a man's pocket sent him to penal servitude. There was absolutely noevidence against him, except a possible motive, until that chestnut wasfound and proved to be one of a particular species, grown only in acertain locality."

  "How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!" laughed Grant. "Willyour paper publish photographs of the principals in this affair?"

  "I expect so. I've a fine collection--the jury, all in a row--and you,making that speech to the mob."

  "Oh! Will that appear?"

  "By Jove, yes, sir. It was wired off before the inquest opened."

  Grant reddened slightly. His own impetuous action had blurted out to thewhole world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder Furneauxhad warned him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed because ofhis challenge to the village crowd? Well, be it so. He meant, and wouldlive up to, every word of it!

  The afternoon dragged after the pressman's departure. What Grant reallyhungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and himself.But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by storm, he sawno means of realizing his desire. He must, perforce, await the lesstroubled hours of the morrow or next day. Doris would surely give herfather an exact account of the conversation between Grant, Furneaux, andherself that morning, and that greatly perplexed man could hardly fail tosee how unjust was the tittle-tattle of the village.

  So, avoiding Mrs. Bates, whose fell intent it was to ask him what hewanted for dinner, he struck off along the road to Knoleworth, walkedeight miles in two hours, and reached The Hollies about seven o'clock,rather inclined for a meal and much more contented with life.

  Minnie announced that a gentleman "who brought a bag" had been awaitinghim since half-past five, and was now asleep on the lawn! A glance at theaforesaid bag, still reposing in the entrance hall, sent Grant quicklyinto the garden. A long, broad-shouldered person was stretched on awicker chair, and evidently enjoying a nap. A huge meerschaum pipe andtobacco pouch lay on the grass. The newcomer's face was covered by abroad-brimmed, decidedly weather-beaten slouch hat, which, legend had it,was purchased originally in South America in the early nineties, and hadwon fame as the only one of its kind ever worn in the Strand.

  "Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!" shouted Grant joyously.

  The sleeper stirred.

  "No, not another drop!" he muttered. "You fellows must have heads oftriple brass and stomachs of leather!"

  "Get up, you rascal, or I'll spill you out of the chair!" said Grant.

  A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright eyesgazed up into his.

  "Oh, it's you, is it?" drawled a quiet voice. "Why the blazes did yousend for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I'vehad for a week?"

  "But why didn't you let me know you were coming? I would have metthe train."

  "I did. Here's the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had afit when I opened it to show her that I was expected."

  "You wired from Victoria, I suppose?"

  "Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn't Victoriarespectable?"

  Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer inexistence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of rebellionwas raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart post-haste bytrain, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to death fivetimes, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as often.

  "I'm a sort of outlaw. That's why I sought your help," explained Grant.

  "I know all about you, Jack," said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe andfilling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent thehead of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.

  "I felt like a pint of Sussex ale after a hot journey in the train, sohied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me yourreal name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby ofenlightening strangers as to your right place in society."

  "I must interview Elkin."

  "Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I mightbe doing you more harm than good, or I would have given hi
m a thick earthis afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?"

  "Seven o'clock."

  "A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at seven-thirty.Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter 'Hush! I'm Hawkshaw,the detective.' He resembles a cock-sparrow, so I asked him why he didn'tfly in through an attic window. He took my point at once, and remarkedthat he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me officially what becameof Don Ramon de Santander's big pink pearl. It's a queer yarn. There wasa bust-up in Guatemala--"

  "Look here, Wally," broke in Grant anxiously. "Are you serious? DidFurneaux really say he was coming here?"

  "He did, and more--he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted on aspit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens inyour larder."

  "How did you contrive to meet him?"

  "You're a poor guesser, Jack. _He_ met _me_. 'That you, Mr. Hart?' hesaid. 'Mr. Grant's house is the first on the right across the bridge.Tell him'--and the rest of it."

  "Have you warned Mrs. Bates?"

  "Mrs. Bates being?"

  "My housekeeper."

  "No, sir. If she's anything like your housemaid, I'm glad I didn't, orI should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job toreach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in thevillage lockup."

  Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormyinterlude. Precisely at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that "Mr.Hawkshaw" had arrived.

  "Bring him out here," said Grant. "Fetch some sherry and glasses, andgive us five minutes' notice before dinner is served."

  "Please, sir," tittered Minnie, "the gentleman prefers to stay indoors.He said his complexion won't stand the glare."

  "Very well," smiled Grant, rising. "Put the sherry and bitters on thesideboard."

  "Say," murmured Hart, "is this chap really a detective?"

  "Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard."

  "Never more than five feet four, I'll swear. But I wouldn't have missedthis for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. Onewould feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage afew knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a stripof black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away somewhere."

  The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid fordinner. Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkestcorner. His eyes gleamed at them strangely.

  "Can you trust Bates?" he said to Grant.

  It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply:

  "Of course, I can."

  "Tell him to make sure that no one trespasses on your lawn between nowand ten o'clock. Close that window, draw the blind and curtains, andblock that small window, the one through which you saw the ghost."

  "Ye gods!" cackled Hart ecstatically.

  "Why all these precautions?" demanded Grant, rather amused now.

  "I'm supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it wouldweaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines andeating your chicken."

  "By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit onwhich to roast them?"

  "I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled fromLondon by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficientwindow-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of myacquaintance would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And, oneother matter. I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme murderagain before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for eachoffense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of hishearers. _Cre nom d'un pipe_! Three intelligent men can surely discussmore interesting topics while they eat!"