Detective White & Furneaux: 5 Novels in One Volume. Louis Tracy
of a small annuity.
Dr. Foxton, general practitioner, who held undisputed sway in the district, told how he had conducted an autopsy on the body of the deceased. He found a deep, incised wound on the back of the skull, a wound which would have caused death in any event. The instrument used must have been a heavy and blunt one. Miss Melhuish was dead or dying when thrown into the river. The body was well nourished, and the vital organs sound. Undoubtedly she had been murdered.
Bates followed, and evoked a snigger by the outspokenness of blunt Sussex.
"I hauled 'um in," he said, "an' knew it wur a dead 'un by the feel of the rope."
The coroner was not curious. He merely wished to put on record the time and manner in which Mr. Grant summoned assistance.
Then P. C. Robinson entered the box, and contrived to bring about the second "incident."
He told how, "from information received," he went to The Hollies, and found 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 certainly succeeded. A slight hum ran through the court, and then all present seemed to restrain their breathing lest a word of the evidence should be lost. The mention of "blood" in a murder case was a more adroit dodge than Robinson himself guessed, perhaps. Few of his hearers troubled to reflect that a smudge of fresh gore on Grant's cheek could hardly have any bearing on the death of a woman whose body had admittedly lain all night in the river. It sufficed that Robinson had introduced a touch of the 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 he had wiped off Grant's morning score in the matter of Bush Walk.
"Never mind his statement. That must await the adjourned hearing. What did 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 ten o'clock suit you?"
"Yes, sir," said the superintendent.
"Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen of the 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 the depositions, the courthouse emptied. The whole thing was over in half an hour. Grant, determined to have a word with the representative of Scotland Yard, went openly to Furneaux, and asked him to come to The Hollies 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 manner with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly hint conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman's interruption.
Rather sick at heart, Grant went out into the sunshine. He was snap-shotted a dozen times by press photographers. One man, backing impudently in front of him in order to secure a sharp focus, tripped over the 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 my place, and I'll give you one," he said.
The pressman was grateful, because Grant's action had tended to mitigate his 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 whose grounds the body was found."
"Come along, then, and I'll pose for you."
The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the gods gave. He could not guess that his host was pining for human companionship. He could not fathom Grant's disappointment, on reaching The Hollies, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter Hart. And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered by compelling 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 police will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thought sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a solicitor, I expect, judging from his attitude to-day. In fact, any one whose interests are affected ought to secure legal assistance. One never knows how these inquiries twist and turn."
"Thank you," said Grant, smiling at the journalist's tact. "I'll order tea to be got ready while you're taking your pictures. By the way, what sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?"
"A pocket marvel," was the enthusiastic answer. "Haven't you heard of him before? Well, you wouldn't, unless you followed famous cases professionally. He seldom appears in the courts—generally manages to wriggle 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 disappearing in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at Portland. 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—from his appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a taste for horses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big 'Un and the Little 'Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But Heaven help any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They'll get him, as sure as God made little apples."
"Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did it purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the literal truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there caught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning—before I discovered the body—and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible still? I saw it to-day while shaving."
"Yes," said the other, chortling over the "copy" his colleagues were missing. "The mark is there right enough. Queer how inanimate objects like a rose-tree can make mischief. I remember a case in which a chestnut in a man's pocket sent him to penal servitude. There was absolutely no evidence against him, except a possible motive, until that chestnut was found and proved to be one of a particular species, grown only in a certain locality."
"How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!" laughed Grant. "Will your 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 the whole world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder Furneaux had warned him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed because of his challenge to the village crowd? Well, be it so. He meant, and would live up to, every word of it!
The afternoon dragged after the pressman's departure. What Grant really hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and himself. But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post