I am a bachelor with a comfortable income, and, I am ashamed to say, an idler. Work never did really appeal to me. I try to compensate for not working by paying my taxes regularly and being as charitable as I can to people I come across and like, and whom the world seems to treat unjustly.
My father, Richard Ashton, was Colonel in the Blues. I was his only child, for my mother died in bringing me into the world to live at ease and waste my time. When my father died I found myself heir to a small property in Rutland, which I promptly let, and One Hundred and Eighty Thousand pounds safely invested mostly in Consols. Sport in general, especially hunting and shooting, also reading, constitute my favourite forms of recreation. Generally I live in London, where I have a flat in King Street, St. Jamess.
I dont remember what made me do it, but while lunching at the Stags Head I decided that I would take the car out to Houghton Park again. I think I was curious to see if any fresh development had taken place there.
Nobody answered my repeated rings at the front door, so I went round to the back. The door was locked. I rang, and rang again, and knocked. But nobody came.
I walked right round the house. Every window was shut, and apparently fastened. The whole place was as still as death. Then I went to the stables. I could hear the occasional rattle of a headstall chain, but the horses were all locked in.
Having lit a cigar and told my driver to await my return, I sauntered aimlessly up into the woods Houghton Park is one of the most beautifully wooded estates in Rutland, with a lake seven acres in extent hidden away in a delightfully picturesque spot surrounded by pine-grown hills. Several times during the past fortnight I had rambled up into these woods accompanied by Vera, and the association brought her back into my thoughts with renewed vividness. Where was she at that moment? What was she doing? Was she happy? Had any evil befallen her? When should I hear of her again? When should I see her?
These, and many other reflections, came crowding in confusion into my brain. What could be the meaning of this extraordinary mystery, so suddenly created, so unexpected? I had known Sir Charles and Lady Thorold many years, in fact since I was a child. For years they had lived in London in Belgravia. Then, two years previously, they had rented Houghton Park and come to live there. The County people of Rutland are perhaps as conservative as any in England, and, knowing little about Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, who had received their title through political influence before settling in that county, they had not made haste to call.
As soon, however, as it had become known that the new arrivals were extremely rich, also that Sir Charles meant to entertain largely, and was going to hunt, and that the Houghton covers were to be well preserved, the barriers of exclusiveness upon which the old families so pride themselves, had been quickly swept away.
Somewhat out of breath after my slow climb up through the woods, I rested at the top of the hill, from which a glorious view could be obtained of the picturesque landscape of early spring, that unfolded itself as far as sight could reach, a perfect panorama of our beautiful English scenery that Americans so much admire, probably because it affords so striking a contrast to their never-ending prairies and gigantic mountains. Upon the opposite side of the hill on which I stood, deep down in a ravine thick with brambles and undergrowth, the face of the placid lake glistened like a mirror between the budding trees, sparkling here and there with a blinding brightness where the sun shone straight upon it.
A pheasant springing into the air within a yard of me made me jump, and brought my wandering thoughts quickly back to earth. Why had I rambled up here? I could not say. I had walked and climbed in a kind of dream, so deeply was my mind engrossed with thoughts of what had happened and with conjectures as to the future. And now, unconsciously, my attention gradually became centred upon the lake, or rather upon a curious-looking, dark object among the weeds upon its surface, within a stones throw of the bank.
I glanced at my watch. It was barely three oclock. I had nothing at all to do, so decided to make my way down through the undergrowth and find out what this strange object might be.
Yes, I had not been mistaken. The first impression I had formed had been the right one, though I had tried to persuade myself it could not be. I was standing on the bank now, not ten yards from the object, and I could see distinctly what it was. A human body, fully clothed, lay there motionless a mans body, face downward, the head almost submerged.
My first thought was to plunge in and swim out to it and try to rescue the drowning man. But an instants reflection caused me to refrain. The man, whoever he was, must be dead. He had been there a long time, or the head would not have sunk, nor, indeed, would the body have floated.
I made my way as quickly as I could along the footpath on the bank until I reached the boathouse, a hundred yards away. It was locked. With a big stone I shattered the padlock, and in a minute I was rowing towards the body.
With some difficulty I succeeded in hitching the painter round the feet. Having at last done so, I rowed back to the bank, towing the drowned man.
And there I turned the body over. It must have been in the water many hours, probably all night, I saw at once. And directly I saw the face I recognised it, drawn and disfigured though it was.
The drowned man was Thorolds butler, James.
What had happened? Had he fallen into the lake while under the influence of drink? Had he committed suicide? Or had he
Somehow this last reflection startled me. Was it possible there had been foul play?
I had to leave the body there, for I found it impossible to lift it on to the bank without help.
The great house, as the tenantry called it, was still locked when I got back there. Silence still reigned everywhere. The driver of my taxi was fast asleep on his seat.
When I prodded him with my stick he sat up with a start, and apologised.
Get back to Oakham as quickly as you can, I said to him as I stepped into the car and slammed the door.
He turned his starting handle without result. He lifted the bonnet, and for a long time examined the machinery. Then, removing his coat, he wormed himself underneath the car, lying flat upon his back.
When at last he emerged he was red in the face and perspiring freely.
Oh, by the way, sir, he said suddenly, picking up his coat and thrusting his hand into one of its pockets, I think you dropped this.
As he stopped speaking he pulled his hand out and held out to me a little silver flask about four inches square.
I took it, and examined it.
This isnt mine, I said. Where did you find it?
Just there, sir, and he pointed to the ground beside the car.
When I looked at the flask again, I noticed that the tiny shield in the middle was engraved. The engraving was a cipher, which, on scrutinising closely, I made out to be the letters D.P. intertwined.
I unscrewed the stopper and smelt the contents. The smell, though peculiar, was not wholly unfamiliar. Still, for the moment I could not classify it.
Didnt you drop it, sir?
No.
Then perhaps I had better take it, and he held out his hand.
No, Ill keep it you neednt be anxious, I said. I have been staying here, and probably it belongs to somebody in the house, or to somebody who has called.
I fumbled in my pocket and produced two half-crowns, which at once allayed any conscientious squeamishness afflicting the driver at the thought of handing over his treasure-trove to a stranger.
I fumbled in my pocket and produced two half-crowns, which at once allayed any conscientious squeamishness afflicting the driver at the thought of handing over his treasure-trove to a stranger.
But where was Vera? Where, indeed, were the Thorolds?
The chauffeur continued to overhaul his engine and its complicated mechanism. While he was thus engaged I poured a little of the fluid out of the flask, which was quite full. The colour was a dark, transparent brown, almost the shade of old brandy. Somehow I could not help thinking that this flask might
And yet, why should it prove a clue? What reason was there to suppose it had been dropped by the strange visitor on the previous day, the mysterious Smithson?
Hullo, sir, this is curious!
My driver was bending over the machinery he had been examining so closely. His hands, which had previously been in the gear-box resembled a niggers, only they looked more slimy.
What is it? I asked, approaching him.
The plugs have been tampered with. No wonder she wouldnt start. Look.
He was holding out a damaged sparking-plug.
I own a car and, being well acquainted with its intricacies, saw at once that what he said was true. Somebody presumably while he was wandering about the lawns and back premises must have lifted the bonnet and injured the plugs. There was no other solution. The car could not have travelled out from Oakham, or travelled at all, had that damage been done before.
We looked at each other, equally puzzled.
You aint been playing me a trick, sir? he said suddenly, an expression of mistrust coming into his eyes.
Oh, dont be a fool! I answered irritably.
He turned sulky.
Some one as, anyway, he grunted. And its just a chance Ive some spare plugs with me.
He produced his tool-box, rummaged among its contents with his filthy hands, discovered what he wanted, and adjusted them. Then he shut down the bonnet with a vicious bang and set his engine going.
He was about to step on to his seat, when simultaneously a sharp report a good way off and the zip of a bullet close to us made us spring away in alarm.
Together, without uttering a word, we gazed up towards the wood on the hill, where the sound of the report had come from.
Another shot rang out. This time the bullet shattered the car headlight.
Ah! God! the driver gasped. Help! I I
Poor fellow. Those were his last words. Almost as he uttered them there came a third report, and the driver, shot through the head, collapsed into a heap beside the car.
And then, what I saw as I turned sharply, sent a shiver through me.
I held my breath. What further mystery was there?
Surely some great evil had fallen upon the house of the Thorolds.
Chapter Three
The Name of Smithson.
A man was kneeling, facing me, on the outskirts of the wood on the hill, not a hundred yards away. His face was in shadow, and partly hidden by a slouch hat, so that I could hardly see it. The rifle he held was levelled at me he was taking steady aim his left arm extended far up the barrel, so that his hand came near the muzzle the style adopted by all first-class shots, as it ensures deadly accuracy.
I am bound to confess that I completely lost my nerve. I sprang to one side almost as he fired. I had just enough presence of mind left to pick up the driver in my arms even at the risk of my life I couldnt leave him there lift him into the car, and slam the door. Then I jumped on to the driving-seat, put in the clutch in a perfect frenzy of fear lest I myself should be shot at the next instant and the car flew down the avenue.
Twice I heard reports, and with the second one came the sound of a whistling bullet. But it went wide of the mark.
The lodge came quickly into view. It was well out of sight of the wood on the hill where the shots had been fired. I uttered an exclamation as I saw that the big white gate was shut. It was hardly ever shut.
Slowing down, I brought the car to a standstill within a few yards of the lodge, jumped out, and ran forward to open the gate.
It was fastened with a heavy chain, and the chain was securely padlocked.
Shouting failed to bring any one out of the lodge, so I clambered over the gate and knocked loudly at the door. But nobody answered, and, when I tried to open the door, I found it locked.
There seemed to be but one way out of the difficulty. I have said that I am strong, yet it needed all my strength to lift that heavy gate off its hinges. It fell with a crash back into the road, and I managed to drag it away to one side. Then starting the engine again, I set off once more for Oakham all out.
I went straight to the hospital, but a brief examination of the poor fellow sufficed to assure the doctors that the man was already dead. Then I went to the police-station and told them everything I knew how a man giving the name Smithson had called at Houghton Park to see Sir Charles Thorold; how Thorold had repudiated all knowledge of the man; how Sir Charles and Lady Thorold and their daughter, and Lady Thorolds maid, Judith I did not know her surname had suddenly left Houghton, and mysteriously disappeared; how I had, that afternoon, found the house shut up, though I had seen a man disappear from one of the windows; how I had discovered the butlers body in the lake; how my driver had been shot dead by some one hidden in a wood upon a hill, and how other shots had been fired at me by the assassin.
At first the police seemed inclined to detain me, but when I had convinced them that I was what they quaintly termed a bona fide gentleman, and had produced what they called my credentials, these consisted of a visiting card, and of a letter addressed to me at Houghton Park and given them my London address and telephone number, they let me go. I found out afterwards that, while they kept me talking at the station, they had telephoned to London, in order to verify my statements that I had a flat in King Street and belonged to Brookss Club.
The coffee room of the Stags Head Hotel that night was crowded, for it was the night of the Hunt Ball, and every available bed in the hotel had been engaged some days in advance. Those dining were all strangers to me, most of them young people in very high spirits.
Ive kept this table for you, sir, the head waiter said, as he conducted me across the room. It is the best I could do; the other place at it is engaged.
And by a beautiful lady, I hope, I answered lightly, for I knew this waiter to be something of a wag.
No, sir, he answered with a grin, by a gentleman with a beard. A charming gentleman, sir. Youll like him.
Who is he? What is he like?
Oh, quite a little man, sir, with a nervous, fidgetty manner, and a falsetto voice. Ah, he added, lowering his voice, here he comes.
There was a twinkle of merriment in the waiters eyes, as he turned and hurried away to meet the giant who had just entered the room. I dont think I had ever before seen so tall and magnificent-looking a man. He must have stood quite six feet four, and was splendidly built. His dark, deep-set eyes peered out with singular power from beneath bushy brows. He had a high, broad forehead, and thick black hair. His beard, well-trimmed, reached just below his white tie, for of course he was in evening clothes.
There was a noticeable lull in the buzz of conversation as the newcomer appeared, and all eyes were set upon him as he strolled with an easy, swinging gait across the room towards my table. I saw dowagers raise their lorgnettes and scrutinise him with great curiosity, mingled with approval, as he went along.