The Ashiel mystery: A Detective Story by Mrs. Charles Bryce (red seas under red skies TXT) 📗

an uncommon pattern," said Mark. "It is very old and strong. I think anyone who knew the key would have recognized it all right."

"It is hardly likely that anyone would have found it if they had had to search all through the house for it in the middle of the night," commented Gimblet. "Is there no other way of getting into the library?"

"No, there is only one door."

"How about the window? It was broken; could not anyone have put in a hand, or raised the sash?"

"I don't think anyone could have got in. It isn't a sash window. There are stone mullions and small leaded casements in the old part of the castle where the library is, and I doubt if anyone larger than a child could squeeze through; in fact, a child couldn't; there are iron bars down the middle, which make it too narrow."

"H'm," murmured Gimblet. "I should like to have a look at them. And what was the doctor's report?"

"He said that the injuries to the heart were such that death must have been instantaneous, or practically so."

"Did anything else come out?"

"Nothing, except the evidence against poor old David, I'm sorry to say."

"You haven't told me that yet," said Gimblet. "Go on from when the police arrived on the scene."

"As soon as it was daylight we started off again on our search. But right at the beginning of it, they came upon the footsteps."

"Ah, where were they?"

"The flower-bed outside the library window showed them plainly; the ground beyond that was mossy, and there were no other marks. We divided into two parties, one going west down the side of the loch, and the other north and east over the hills. Till ten o'clock or later we beat the country, searching behind every rock, and going through the woods and bracken in a close line. But we saw no sign of a stranger, and came back at last, dead beat, for food and a rest. When we got back we found that the policeman left in charge had been nosing about, and whiling away his time by collecting the boots of every one in the house and fitting them to the footprints on the flower-bed. As bad luck would have it, David's shooting-boots exactly fitted the marks."

"His shooting-boots?" said Gimblet. "He wouldn't be wearing shooting-boots after dinner."

"That's what he said himself, and there seems no imaginable reason why he should have worn them, unless—" Mark hesitated for a moment, and then went on in a tone perhaps rather too positive to carry complete conviction to a critical ear. "Of course not. He can't have put them on after dinner. The idea is ludicrous. He must have made those footmarks earlier in the day."

"Is that what he himself says?" asked the detective. He had finished eating, and was leaning back in his chair with that air of far-off contemplation which those best acquainted with him knew was habitually his expression when his attention and interest were more than usually roused.

"No," admitted Mark regretfully. "He doesn't. He sticks to it that he'd never been near the flower-bed, with boots, or without them; it's my belief his memory has been affected by the shock of all this. And he would insist on talking to the police, though they warned him that what he said might be used against him. I did all I could to stop him, but it was no good. It really looked as if he was doing his best to incriminate himself."

"How was that? What else did he say?"

"You see," said Mark, "when the Crianan man had got hold of the boots that matched the footprints, he was no end excited by his success. Pleased to death with himself, he was. And he was as keen as mustard on following up his rotten clue. The next thing he did was to want a look at David's guns. Of course we didn't make any objection to that, though if I'd known—well, it's no earthly thinking of that now. So off we all marched in procession to the gun-room, and it didn't take long to see that the only one of the whole lot there that hadn't been cleaned since it was last fired was the Mannlicher David had shot his stag with the day before. The silly ass of a constable took it up and squinted through it as solemn as a judge, and then he just handed it to my cousin, and 'What have you to say to this, Sir David?' says he. Infernal cheek! 'I shot it off yesterday, and haven't had time to clean it since,' said David, and I, for one, could have sworn he was speaking the truth. Why not, indeed? There was nothing improbable about it. But the dickens of the thing was that while we were all out of the house, and he had the place to himself, the policeman had routed out poor Miss Byrne and badgered her for an account of all that had happened the evening before; and she, without a thought of doing harm to any of us—I'm convinced she's as sorry for it now as I am myself—had mentioned incidentally that David had told her, when she saw him half an hour before the murder, that he'd just been cleaning his rifle. She'd told me so, too, as far as that goes, when she passed through the billiard-room on her way to the library. I happened to ask her if she knew what he was up to."

"Decidedly awkward for Sir David," said Gimblet meditatively, "but after all, some one else might have fired off the rifle after he had cleaned it."

Mark shook his head gloomily.

"There are difficulties about that," he said. "It happens that David is very fussy about his guns, always cleans them himself, you know, and won't let another soul touch 'em. And though he keeps them in the gunroom like the rest of us, he's got his own particular glass-fronted cupboard which he keeps the key of himself. My uncle and I share one between us, and generally leave the key in the lock, so that the keeper can get at the guns, which we never bother to clean ourselves. Not so David. Ever since we were boys he's had his own private cupboard, and no one but himself has ever been allowed to open it. We always spent our holidays here, and my uncle let us behave as if we were at our own house. David took out the key for the sergeant to use, and when he was asked if anyone else could have got at the rifle, he replied that it was impossible, as the key had been in his pocket the whole time, except for an hour or two while he was asleep, when it had lain on the table by his bedside."

"Did he deny having told Miss Byrne he had cleaned the rifle?" asked Gimblet.

"Yes; he said he hadn't told her so. It was all very unpleasant, and the police sergeant was as suspicious as you like, by this time. 'What were you doing when the alarm was given?' he asked David. 'I was out in the grounds,' said David, and that was rather a facer for the rest of us, I must confess. He went on to say that he had fancied he saw some one hanging about at the edge of the lawn—which is the opposite side of the house from the library—and gone out to make sure, but he had found no one, though he hunted about for nearly an hour, till he saw lights approaching and fell in with our party of searchers. He said that it was then he first heard what had happened."

Gimblet nodded his head thoughtfully.

"Miss Byrne said she saw him start off to look for some one," he remarked.

"Yes," said Mark eagerly, "there's no doubt he saw a man lurking in the darkness. And it was dark too," he added, "never saw such a black night in my life; I must say it beats me how he could have seen anyone. But his eyes were always rather more useful than mine," he concluded hastily.

"The police, however, seem to have thought it improbable," said Gimblet, "since they arrested your cousin for the murder."

"Stupid brutes!" said Mark viciously. "No, they would have it it was impossible he should have seen anyone. And what clinched it was the unlucky fact that David and my uncle had had a violent row the day before. My uncle shot David's dog; I must say I think it was uncalled for, and poor David was absurdly fond of the beast. He felt very savage about it, and all the ghillies heard what he said to Uncle Douglas."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, a lot of rot. He lost his temper. The idiotic thing he said was, that he'd a good mind to shoot him and see how he liked it. Pure temper, you know. I don't believe David would hurt a hair of his head."

"Well, it was decidedly an indiscreet remark."

"It was imbecile. And of course the police heard all about it from the servants and keepers, and it fitted in only too well with all the rest about the footmarks and his absence from the house at the time, and the rifle and everything. By the by, the bullet was a soft-nosed one which fitted David's rifle; but for that matter it fitted mine—which is a .355 Mannlicher like his—or a dozen others on the loch side. It's a very common weapon on a Scotch forest. But taking one thing with another there was a good deal of evidence against him, so they made up their minds he had done it; and Macross, when he arrived from Glasgow with his myrmidons, agreed with the local idiots, and took him off. I'm certain there must be a mistake somewhere, but so far it seems jolly hard to hit on it. I hope you'll put your finger on the spot."

"I hope so," said Gimblet, but his voice was full of doubt. "It's hard to see how anyone else could have used his rifle after he cleaned it, since he admits that he locked it up and kept the key on him. Yes," he murmured to himself, "the rifle speaks very eloquently. What other interpretation can be put on these facts? I'm sure you must see that yourself," he went on, glancing up at Mark, who was feeling in his pocket for another cigarette. "Sir David told Miss Byrne he had cleaned his rifle; he told the police he then locked it up and that the key had been in his possession ever since. But the rifle was found to have been fired again since he had cleaned it. His only explanation was to contradict what he had previously said to Miss Byrne. Do those facts appear to you to leave any possible loophole of doubt as to his guilt?"

Mark struck a match and lighted his cigarette before he answered. When at length he did so his reluctance was very plain, and his voice full of regret.

"Poor old chap," he said. "I'm afraid he must have done it in some fit of madness. As you say, there is no other imaginable alternative."

Gimblet nodded philosophically.

"Is there anything else?" he asked.

Mark hesitated.

"There's a letter which arrived for Uncle Douglas this morning," he said, "which you may think worth looking at. I daresay it's of no importance, but it struck me as rather odd."

He took a letter out of his pocket and handed it to the detective, who opened it and read as follows:

"Si Milord ne rend pas ce qu'il ne doit pas garder, le coup de foudre lui tombera sur la tête."

There was no signature, nor any date.

Gimblet turned the sheet over thoughtfully. The message was typewritten on a piece of thin foreign paper; the postmark on the envelope was Paris, and the stamps French. He folded it again and replaced it in its cover.

"It seems the usual threatening anonymous communication," he observed.
"Have you any idea who it's from?"

Mark shook his head.

"None," he confessed. "It looks, though, as if my uncle had in his possession something belonging to the writer, doesn't it? Don't you think it might have something to do with the murder?"

"I don't see why the murderer should send a threatening letter after the deed was done," said the detective. "Still less could he have posted it in Paris on the very day the crime was committed."

"No, that's