  It was a woman screaming! Not that I’m in the position of having frequently heard men scream. But the feminine note in the voice was apparent to the most careless listener. I hastily threw on a blazer, pulled on a pair of slippers, opened my bedroom door, and came out into the corridor. Everybody’s door seemed to open simultaneously. Leaning over the banisters, it was easy to tell that the screams were coming from the billiard room. We dashed down the staircase, the crowd of us—white-faced and anxious—as men and women are, when suddenly aroused by shock! And as we came to the billiard room door, I was conscious that we were one short—and something told me whom we lacked. I was soon to know for sure. For as I entered the room that held the horror that had brought us flying from our beds I could hear Sir Charles Considine’s voice rising authoritatively above the hum of excitement, “Gentlemen, gentlemen—please—whatever the trouble is—one of you stay outside and keep the ladies from entering.” Across the bottom of the table face downwards, the right arm hanging limply over the side, lay Gerry Prescott. He lay partly on his right shoulder, and it was easy to see how he had met his death. A dagger had been driven fast into the base of his neck, at the top of the spinal cord. The shock hit us all hard, and the chatter of the girls, querulous and interrogative, although just outside the door, seemed vaguely distant. Marshall, the maid, who had given the alarm, stood shaking against the wall, her affrighted eyes staring at the body of poor Prescott. “Get back to your room, Marshall,” said Sir Charles. “I’ll see you again later.” His ordinary pomposity of manner seemed to have deserted him. “What can we do, sir?” said Arkwright. “He’s past all earthly help,” muttered Anthony.—“Been dead, I should say, some hours.” “Terrible, terrible, in my house too,” went on the old man. “I shall never....” “May I suggest, sir, that perhaps Jack and Arkwright should get a doctor and the police here, as quickly as possible?” said Bathurst. “Yes, yes, my boys, excellent!” “And of course we must touch nothing. Look!” He pointed round the room. Then went and whispered in Sir Charles’s ear. “Certainly, Bathurst. Capital suggestion. You and Jack get along, Arkwright. And all the rest of you go, please, to the garden except Mr. Bathurst and Bill Cunningham. No good can be done by crowding round.” Hornby, Barker, Daventry and the others did as they were bid, very pleased I think to get into the wholesome fresh air! And I turned to look at what Anthony had pointed out. Three chairs were overturned on the floor, the other side of the table, and by the side of one lay the poker from the billiard room fireplace. The window at the further end of the room, overlooking the gravel drive that ran along that side of the house was open at the bottom—at least, a couple of feet. Prescott was fully dressed. As far as I could judge in the same clothes as he had worn the previous evening. Dinner jacket, wing collar, bow tie, dress shirt, to my eye exactly as he had dined. An exclamation from Anthony arrested my attention. “What’s he wearing brown shoes for? Eh”—rubbing his hands—“Bill, I fancy I’ve got my chance after all. Do you see that, Sir Charles? Brown shoes! And what is more”—he crowed with excitement—“one hasn’t got a lace.” “My God!” said Sir Charles, “you’re right. Perhaps he dressed in a hurry.” Anthony was shaking his head. “Perhaps,” he muttered, “but——” Sir Charles turned to us, agitation on his face. “It has just occurred to me,” he said, “you don’t think anybody in the house...?” Anthony shook his head again. “It’s a bad business, and I can’t tell you anything till the police come. There are several questions I require answered.” This time it was my turn to provide the sensation. “Sir Charles,” I cried, “look at the dagger! Don’t you recognize it?” He adjusted his pince-nez, and went across to the body. “Good God, Bill! It’s the Venetian dagger off the curio table.” “What’s that?” Anthony’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Your property?” “Been in the family two hundred years. An ancestor of mine brought it from Italy.” “Where was it kept?” “On a table in the drawing-room!” “I don’t like it,” murmured Anthony. “Why was it brought up here?” “I have it,” cried Sir Charles. “It’s burglars after all. Poor Prescott heard them and....” “It’s no good theorizing, Sir Charles ... without facts to go on! When the police come and deal with points that I can’t possibly touch yet ... I may be able to help you.” No sooner had he finished speaking than Jack’s voice was heard outside. “This way, doctor ... in here.” Dr. Elliott entered. Jack followed him. Close on their heels came Arkwright with an Inspector of Police, and a man who was apparently his assistant—in plain clothes. “This is Inspector Baddeley, of the Sussex Constabulary,” said Arkwright. “I was lucky enough to find him at the station.” The Inspector assented. “Good-morning, Sir Charles. Good-morning, gentlemen.” “This is a bad business, Sir Charles,” declared Dr. Elliott. “It hardly seems credible that only yesterday this poor fellow....” He went to the body. The Inspector followed him. “Quite dead, gentlemen—hum—hum—been dead several hours.” The Inspector carefully withdrew the dagger. “Try that for any prints, Roper,” he muttered. “It’s just on the cards.” “Yes, sir,” replied plain clothes; he at once got to work with the “insufflator.” “Then photograph the body from both sides of the room.” Roper retired; to return in a few minutes with a camera. “I think it would be better for you, Baddeley,” declared the doctor, “if you had a good look round before I make my examination. I can do nothing and the cause of death is pretty obvious. The murderer knew his business, too! A blow at that part of the spinal column—effective—and to all intents and purposes instantaneous.” “Very well, Doctor. These gentlemen—Sir Charles?” he queried. “My son, my son-in-law, Captain Arkwright, Mr. Bathurst and Mr. Cunningham, guests and very old friends.” “I understand. All staying here, I presume?” I took a look at him, carefully. Anthony, I observed, was following my example. We saw a man of soldierly bearing, dark hair, closely cut to the head, a small moustache neatly trimmed, two steady blue eyes, and an alert and thoroughly business-like manner that completed a make-up which I was convinced belonged to one who would make no mean opponent for the cleverest criminal. “Is the body exactly as found?” “Exactly,” replied Sir Charles. “Who found him?” “The housemaid. Marshall, by name.” “Time?” “About half-past seven, I should say. You will see her?” “Shortly.” “Room as it was?” “Entirely. Nothing has been touched. We were most careful,” said Sir Charles. “Mr. Bathurst here,” he smiled, “was most insistent on that point.” “Really! Very good of him.” He turned and flung a quick glance in Anthony’s direction. “Thank you,” smiled back Anthony. “I’m rather interested in this sort of situation.” “Yes. A lot of people are till they find one. Roper, get those photographs and I’ll get to work.” Roper, with camera, did his work quickly and quietly. Baddeley went through Prescott’s pockets. “Absolutely empty, gentlemen. He’s fully dressed, too.” “Not quite, Inspector,” said Anthony. “Look at his shoes!” “Good Lord! Fully, but not properly, eh? Tut—tut—extraordinary.” His eyes brightened. “And a lace missing—why, oh why, oh why?” And then authoritatively— “Sir Charles, none of your guests must leave this morning, till I have seen any of them I consider it necessary to.” “As you wish, Inspector. Tell them all, Jack.” Jack Considine slipped out. “Got all you want, Roper?” Baddeley strode across to the window. “Not been touched—eh?” He bent forward—eager—attentive; then leaned out across the window sill. Then I think he sniffed and rubbed his hands together. “We’re progressing, Mr. Bathurst. Don’t you think so?” Anthony joined him and I could see he was puzzled. “You can get on now, Dr. Elliott,” declared Baddeley. “I want to have a look outside. Come along, Roper.” They went out. Sir Charles heaved a sigh of relief. “Most distressing!” he said. “When he was looking at me I felt like a murderer myself. I think we’ll leave Dr. Elliott to his job for a few minutes and go and dress decently.” Anthony lingered for a moment or two, then followed us out. Within a short time he joined me in my bedroom. Like me, he had taken the opportunity to shave and dress. “Sit on the bed, Holmes,” I said, “the tobacco is not in the Persian slipper, but the cigarettes are on the dressing-table.” He took one. “Bill,” he said, “I’m worried. This is a beastly business.” “No clues?” I said. “On the contrary, too many! I can see too much light. It’s part of me to distrust the too-glaringly obvious.” “Dashed if I follow you. Tell me of these clues that have hit you so forcibly.” “Listen then. We have the following indisputable facts: “(1) Prescott is found dead in the billiard room—stabbed with a weapon with which you all appear to be familiar. “(2) There is evidence of a struggle. “(3) The window of the room is wide open—distinctly suggesting the entrance of an outsider—or possibly the exit. “(4) This is most important—he is fully dressed with the exception of the shoes—one of which is minus a lace. And there is mud on those shoes. “(5) His pockets are empty—pointing to robbery. “(6) He was murdered between twelve o’clock and five o’clock—approximately. We shall learn more from the doctor as to that.” He paused. “All very significant. And I have three other clues at the moment which exercise me considerably. Two in what I will term ‘Group A’ and one in ‘Group B.’ That is to say—they don’t exactly fit.” He blew a smoke-ring and shook his head. “What are they?” I queried excitedly. He grinned. “I’m holding ’em for the time being, old son. Don’t be in such a hurry. All good Watsons have patience as their longest suit.” “I can’t see any motive,” I complained. “Find that, Bill, and you’ll be two-thirds of the way to the solution. In a few minutes I’m going to have a good look round. I’m going with Baddeley when he comes back from the garden.” “Where to?” I asked. “Where will he go then?” “Well, if he’s got any sense—and I’m confident he has—to Prescott’s bedroom.” I nodded my head wisely. “To see any——” Sir Charles’s voice outside, broke in upon us without ceremony. “Dr. Elliott wants us all in the billiard room,” he called. “All those of us who were there before.” We accompanied him downstairs. Dr. Elliott seemed to be bursting with importance. “Tell Inspector Baddeley at once—please,” he cried. “Sir Charles, will you please arrange for Baddeley——” “I have already done so, Doctor,” rejoined our host. We waited, expectant. What had the doctor to tell us that we didn’t know? Baddeley entered—Roper following. “Well, Doctor, what’s the excitement? There’s something very interesting outside. The more I see of this case—the more it——” “Sir Charles—Inspector—I have carefully examined the body of this poor young fellow”—he paused dramatically—it was his moment—“and I find that he died not from a stab as we all presumed and supposed, but from asphyxiation! “Gentlemen, he was strangled by something tied tightly round his throat! Look at the peculiar color of his face—look at his tongue!” |
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