The Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley. Tracy Louis
a jury. Avoid busybodies like the plague. Summons only sensible men, who will do as they are told and ask no questions."
"Exactly," said the Inspector; he found Machiavellian art in these simple instructions. How it broadened the horizon to be brought in touch with London!
Winter turned to look for Furneaux. The little man was standing where Mortimer Fenley had stood in the last moment of his life. His eyes were fixed on the wood. He seemed to be dreaming, but his friend well knew how much clarity and almost supernatural vision was associated with Furneaux's dreams.
"Charles!" said the Superintendent softly.
Furneaux awoke, and ran down the steps. In his straw hat and light Summer suit he looked absurdly boyish, but the Inspector, who had formed an erroneous first impression, was positively startled when he met those blazing black eyes.
"Mr. Fenley should warn all his servants to speak fully and candidly," said Winter. "Then we shall question the witnesses separately. What do you think? Shall we start now?"
"First, the boots," cried Furneaux, seemingly voicing a thought. "We want a worn pair of boots belonging to each person in the house and employed on the estate, men and women, no exceptions, including the dead man's. Then we'll visit that wood. After that, the inquiry."
Winter nodded. When Furneaux and he were in pursuit of a criminal they dropped all nice distinctions of rank. If one made a suggestion the other adopted it without comment unless he could urge some convincing argument against it.
"Mr. Fenley should give his orders now," added Furneaux.
Winter explained his wishes to the nominal head of the household, and Fenley's compliance was ready and explicit.
"These gentlemen from Scotland Yard are acting in behalf of Mrs. Fenley, my brother and myself," he said to the assembled servants. "You must obey them as you would obey me. I place matters unreservedly in their hands."
"And our questions should be answered without reserve," put in Winter.
"Yes, of course. I implied that. At any rate, it is clear now."
"Brodie," said Furneaux, seeming to pounce on the chauffeur, "you were seated at the wheel when the shot was fired?"
"Ye – yes, sir," stuttered Brodie, rather taken aback by the little man's suddenness.
"Were you looking at the wood?"
"In a sort of a way, sir."
"Did you see any one among the trees?"
"No, sir, that I didn't." This more confidently.
"Place your car where it was stationed then. Take your seat, and try to imagine that you are waiting for your master. Start the engine, and behave exactly as though you expected him to enter the car. Don't watch the wood. I mean that you are not to avoid looking at it, but just throw yourself back to the condition of mind you were in at nine twenty-five this morning. Can you manage that?"
"I think so, sir."
"No chatting with others, you know. Fancy you are about to take Mr. Fenley to the station. If you should happen to see me, wave your hand. Then you can get down and stop the engine. You understand you are not to keep a sharp lookout for me?"
"Yes, sir."
The butler thought it would take a quarter of an hour to collect sample pairs of boots from the house and outlying cottages. Police Constable Farrow was instructed to bring the butler and the array of boots to the place where the footprints were found, and Bates led the detectives and the Inspector thither at once.
Soon the four men were gazing at the telltale marks, and the Inspector, of course, was ready with a shrewd comment.
"Whoever it was that came this way, he didn't take much trouble to hide his tracks," he said.
The Scotland Yard experts were so obviously impressed that the Inspector tried a higher flight.
"They're a man's boots," he continued. "We needn't have worried Tomlinson to gather the maids' footgear."
Furneaux left two neat imprints in the damp soil.
"Bet you a penny whistle there are at least two women in The Towers who will make bigger blobs than these," he said.
A penny whistle, as a wager, is what Police Constable Farrow would term "unusual."
"Quite so," said the Inspector thoughtfully.
Winter caught Furneaux's eye, and frowned. There was nothing to be gained by taking a rise out of the local constabulary. Still, he gave one sharp glance at both sets of footprints. Then he looked at Furneaux again, this time with a smile.
The party passed on to the rock on the higher ground. Bates pointed out the old scratches, and those made by Farrow and himself.
"Me first!" cried Furneaux, darting nimbly to the summit. He was not there a second before he signaled to some one invisible from beneath. Winter joined him, and the east front of the house burst into view. Brodie was in the act of descending from the car. The doctor had gone. A small group of men were gazing at the wood, but Hilton Fenley and Sylvia Manning were not to be seen.
Neither man uttered a word. They looked at the rock under their feet, at the surrounding trees, oak and ash, elm and larch, all of mature growth, and towering thirty to forty feet above their heads, while the rock itself rose some twelve feet from the general level of the sloping ground.
Bates was watching them.
"The fact is, gentlemen, that if an oak an' a couple o' spruce first hadn't been cut down you wouldn't see the house even from where you are," he said. "Mr. Fenley had an idee of buildin' a shelter on this rock, but he let it alone 'coss o' the birds. Ladies would be comin' here, an' a-disturbin' of 'em."
The detectives came down. Furneaux, meaning to put the Inspector in the right frame of mind, said confidentially —
"Brodie saw me instantly."
"Did he, now? It follows that he would have seen any one who fired at Mr. Fenley from that spot."
"It almost follows. We must guard against assuming a chance as a certainty."
"Oh, yes."
"And we must also try to avoid fitting facts into preconceived notions. Now, while the butler is gathering old boots, let us spend a few profitable minutes in this locality."
After that, any trace of soreness in the inspectorial breast was completely obliterated.
Both Winter and Furneaux produced strong magnifying-glasses, and scrutinized the scratches and impressions on the bare rock and moss. Bates, skilled in wood lore, was quick to note what they had discerned at a glance.
"Beg pardon, gentlemen both, but may I put in a word?" he muttered awkwardly.
"As many as you like," Winter assured him.
"Well, these here marks was made by Farrow an' meself, say about ten forty, or a trifle over an hour after the murder; an' I have no sort o' doubt as these other marks are a day or two days older."
"You might even put it at three days," agreed Winter.
"Then it follows – " began the Inspector, but checked himself. He was becoming slightly mixed as to the exact sequence of events.
"Come, now, Bates," said Furneaux, "you can tell us the day Mr. Robert Fenley left home recently? There is no harm in mentioning his name. It can't help being in our thoughts, since it was discovered that his gun was missing."
"He went off on a motor bicycle last Saturday mornin', sir."
"Can you fix the hour?"
"About half past ten."
"You have not seen him since?"
"No, sir."
"You would be likely to know if he had returned?"
"Certain, sir, unless he kem by the Roxton gate."
"Oh, is there another entrance?"
"Yes, but it can't be used, 'cept by people on foot. The big gates are always locked, and the road has been grassed