Inspector Stoddart's Most Famous Cases. Annie Haynes
an order for a new trial. The spectators poured out with a feeling of having been deprived of the sensation to which they had been looking forward.
Arnold Westerham turned to speak to his colleagues.
Inspector Stoddart rose from the back bench where he had been sitting, with a word to Harbord, then turned through a side door into the wide corridor running the length of the court behind the judge's room. A quiet-looking, little man wearing a large pair of smoke-coloured, horn-rimmed glasses followed him out and stood back with Harbord while several of the counsel who had been engaged on the case, with others who had been spectators, stopped to speak to the inspector.
Among them came Sir Felix Skrine. He smiled as he caught Stoddart's eye.
"I cannot congratulate you on the intelligence of your Swiss witness, inspector."
The inspector smiled too.
"No, he made rather a hash of it, didn't he?"
"Anyway, it is a most unsatisfactory ending,"
Sir Felix concluded. "A terrible ordeal for Wilton to undergo a second time, poor fellow."
"Terrible indeed!" the inspector assented. Then as Skrine passed on, he turned sharply to the man with Harbord. "Well, what do you say, Mr. Rendal?"
The little man took off his horn-rimmed glasses, replacing them with a pair of pince-nez, and became at once again the dapper chemist of Neith Street.
"Yes, inspector," he said at last. "It is as I thought, as I felt sure it would turn out. That is Mr. William Taylor. I could not be mistaken, seeing him so near."
"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Rendal. It is late, but we have very little time, and I want you to come with me. You too, Harbord. The new trial will probably come on in about a fortnight, and before then—"
"Before then?" Harbord echoed.
"We must be in a position to put the real criminal in the dock. We must see Sir George Jevons to-night."
"Sir George Jevons!" Rendal repeated in a tone almost of awe. "You mean in Wilmop Street?"
The inspector nodded.
"The greatest living authority on toxicology. I shall want you, Mr. Rendal, and I have some very exhaustive notes of the late Dr. Bastow's on one of his cases. Then I think, when Sir George Jevons hears what we have to say, we shall have a certain application to make to the Home Office, and things will begin to hum."
Chapter XXIII
"I shall go to bed early tonight, my head aches," Hilary said wearily.
"Take a couple of aspirins. Best thing for headache," Miss Priestley recommended brusquely.
"Oh, I don't know. I don't believe in drugging," Hilary said as she got up. "Good night, Aunt Lavinia, you will excuse me, I know. I really can't keep my eyes open."
"Don't try!" Miss Lavinia advised, giving her niece a perfunctory peck on the cheek. "A night's rest will do you more good than anything."
The two were alone at Rose Cottage. Fee had gone to Dr. Blathwayte's clinic after all. That it had been made possible for him by the sacrifice of some of his aunt's capital was known only to Miss Lavinia herself.
Basil Wilton's second trial was fixed to begin the next week, and so far Hilary had heard of no fresh evidence. She had seen but little of her godfather of late. Today, however, he had been expected at the Manor and she had been surprised to hear nothing of him so far.
Hilary went up to her room now, but she did not feel inclined to sleep. She threw open the window and looked out. The night was a lovely one, moonlight save for the little fleecy clouds that flitted across the sky. The wind was almost warm, there was no suspicion of frost in the air. Altogether the night was more like May than December.
Hilary drew up a chair and laying her head back let the breeze play upon her temples. She had been sitting there for some time, she hardly knew how long, when she was surprised to see people, quite a lot of people, coming along the road from the village.
Heathcote, as a rule, retired early, save in the sunny days of harvest, and nine o'clock, or at the most ten, saw the village given over to darkness and to sleep. Therefore Hilary was all the more astonished to see so many people abroad. Still more was she amazed when they stopped by the lich-gate opposite. In a moment more she saw them walking up to the church. She could not make out how many of them there were, some of them seemed to be walking in the shadow, but she could see that several of them carried curiously shaped burdens.
An intense curiosity took possession of Hilary. Never afterwards could she account for the impulse that made her wrap herself in a long, dark cloak, and pulling on a small black hat steal softly downstairs. She could hear her aunt, who detested going to bed early, moving about her room, which fortunately looked on to the back of the house, as Hilary reflected.. The servants had gone to bed long ago, and their quarters were given up to sleep and darkness. The girl knew the doors would be locked and bolted.
After a moment's hesitation, she let herself out by the French window in the little drawingroom. She kept instinctively in the shadow as she crossed the lawn and went over to the lich-gate. She found this fastened as she had expected. She felt inclined to get over it and was considering the matter, when she heard footsteps coming down the road from the Manor and a man's tall form loomed in sight. It was Sir Felix Skrine! She looked round in despair, he was the last man she desired to see, but no escape was possible: the moon was shining brilliantly. Skrine saw her at once. He stopped.
"Hilary!" he said in amazement. "What on earth are you doing here at this time of night, alone?"
"I came out to see—something surprised me—" Hilary faltered. Then, plucking up courage, "I dare say you saw it too. Was that why you came, Sir Felix?"
"Saw it? Saw what?" Skrine questioned absently. "I came out because I can always think best in the open air. I saw Westerham tonight, and I mean to run up again and see him tomorrow. I want to keep my promise to you, Hilary. I want to help Wilton if I can. And it has struck me that there were several points for the defence that were not made the most of at the last trial. I mean to suggest—"
He stopped short and stood gazing up into the churchyard just as Hilary had been doing a moment before.
"I thought—of course it must have been a mistake, but I thought I saw a light up there."
"Yes, yes!" Hilary said eagerly. "Indeed it is not my fancy. There is one, at least there are several. That is what I thought so extraordinary—why I came out really. Several people, quite a lot, came down from the village; some of them seemed to be carrying things, and they went up into the churchyard. I could not imagine what they were doing or going to do." Sir Felix did not speak for a moment. Then he said quietly:
"A lot of people carrying things. That is rather curious. I will just see you back to the Cottage, and then I will look into this."
Hilary was not paying much attention to him. "What on earth can they be there for?" she cogitated. "There is more than one light. And they are putting something up. It looks like a big piece of tarpaulin. Is it to prevent us seeing what they are doing, I wonder. It is a pretty big sheet, or whatever it is. It quite prevents us seeing the cross on Lady Skrine's grave. I saw it gleaming white in the moonlight when I was at my window. I wonder whether they are trying to get into the church, Sir Felix? Mr. Drury told us the plate was very valuable. Perhaps they are burglars. I don't suppose sacrilege would stop them."
"I don't suppose it would," Sir Felix assented. "You must go home, Hilary—then I can—"
But Hilary was not inclined to be obedient.
"No, I am going to wait here until I know what they are doing. Good gracious, no! I'm not a bit frightened, godfather"—reverting to the old name in her excitement—"girls are not like that nowadays."