THE CRYSTAL BEADS MURDER (Murder Mystery for Inspector Stoddart). Annie Haynes
looked like a wraith as she flitted from one bush to another and finally gained the low wall that overlooked the Dutch garden. A flight of steps led down to the garden and from there, through a hand gate at the side of the rosery, a path went straight to the summer-house.
It all, looked horribly dark and gloomy, Anne thought, as she closed the gate. She waited uncertainly for a minute. All around her she caught the faint multitudinous sounds of insect life that go on incessantly in even the quietest night. Already the leaves were beginning to fall. They lay thick upon the path and rustled under her feet; in the distance she caught the cry of some night-bird. Then nearer at hand there was a different sound. She stopped and cowered against a tree, listening. What was it? It could not be the cracking of a twig, footsteps among the withered leaves, the dead pine-needles that lay thick on the ground? It could not be anybody watching her--following her? Then a sudden awful sense of fear assailed her, a certainty that something evil was near her. For the time she was paralysed as she caught blindly at a low branch. She listened, shivering from head to foot. Yes, undoubtedly she could hear light footsteps, with something sinister, it seemed to her, about their very stealthiness. Yet, as the moon shone out from behind a passing cloud, there was nothing to be seen, no sign of any living thing or any movement. All was quiet, and as she stole softly to the summer-house, casting terrified glances from side to side, she did not see a figure standing up against the trunk of a tall pine near at hand, a face that peered forward, watching her every movement.
She had expected to find Saunderson waiting for her--she told herself that he must be--but there was no one to be seen, and somewhat to her surprise the door of the summer-house was nearly closed. She stopped opposite; there was something sinister, almost terrifying, to her in the sight of that closed door, in the absence of any sound or movement. At last very slowly she went forward, halting between every step. Surely, surely, Saunderson must be waiting for her?
"Mr. Saunderson," she whispered hoarsely, "are you there?"
There came no faintest sound in answer; yet surely, surely she could catch the faint smell of a cigarette?
Very softly, very gingerly she pushed open the door.
"This," said Inspector Stoddart, tapping a paragraph in the evening paper as he spoke, "is a job for us."
Harbord leaned forward and read it over the other's shoulder.
"Early this morning a gruesome discovery was made by a gardener in the employ of Lord Medchester at Holford Hall in Loamshire. In a summer-house at the back of the flower garden he found the body of a man in evening-dress. A doctor was summoned and stated that the deceased had been shot through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous and must have taken place probably eight or nine hours before the body was discovered."
"Look at the stop press news." Stoddart pointed to the space at the side.
"The body found in the summer-house at Holford has been identified as that of a Mr. Robert Saunderson, who had been one of Lord Medchester's guests for the races at Doncaster but had left Holford the following day."
"Robert Saunderson," Harbord repeated, wrinkling his brows. "I seem to know the name, but I can't place him. Isn't he a racing man?"
"He would scarcely be a friend of the Medchesters if he wasn't," Stoddart replied, picking up the paper and staring at it as if he would wring further information from it. "Regular racing lot they belong to. Oh, I have heard of Saunderson. A pretty bad hat he was. He had a colt or two training at Oxley, down by Epsom. Picked up one or two minor races last year, but he's never done anything very big. Medchester's horses are trained at Burford's, East Molton. Lord Medchester's a decent sort of chap, I have heard. Anyway, a victory of his is always acclaimed in the North. He generally does well at Ayr and Bogside, and picks up a few over the sticks. Rumour credits him with an overmastering desire to win one of the classic races. His wife is a funny one--I fancy they don't hit it off very well. His trainer, Burford, is a good sort. His engagement to a cousin of Lord Medchester's was announced the other day."
"Not much of a match for her, I should say."
"Oh, quite decent. Burford makes a good thing out of his training. He's a second son of old Sir William Burford and half-brother of the present baronet. This Saunderson was pretty well known in London society too, and I have heard that he was one of Lady Medchester's admirers. I believe he was an American."
"Anyway, so long as he wasn't English, he wouldn't have much difficulty in getting on in London society," Harbord remarked sarcastically. "A bachelor too, wasn't he?"
"As far as anyone knows," Stoddart answered.
A copy of "Who's Who" lay on the table. He pulled it towards him. "'Saunderson, Robert Francis,'" he read. "'Born in Buenos Aires 1888. Served in the Great War as an interpreter on the Italian frontier. Invalided out in May 1917. Clubs, Automobile, Junior Travellers.'"
"H'm! Not much of a dossier--wonder why they put him in?" Harbord remarked.
"No; more noticeable for what it leaves out than for what it puts in," Stoddart agreed.
"Well, I have received an S.O.S. from the Loamshire police, so you and I will go down by the night express to Derby. From there it is a crosscountry journey to Holford. Take a few hours, I suppose."
"I wonder what Saunderson was doing in that neighbourhood when he had left the Hall?" Harbord cogitated.
Stoddart shrugged his shoulders.
"I dare say we shall find out when we get there."
Chapter III
"This is the principal entrance, I suppose," Stoddart said, stopping before the lodge at Holford, and looking up the avenue of oaks that was one of the chief attractions of the Hall.
As he spoke a small two-seater pulled up beside them and two men sprang out. One of them Stoddart had no difficulty in recognizing as the local superintendent of police; the other, a tall, military-looking man, he rightly divined to be the Chief Constable, Major Logston.
The Major looked at the two detectives.
"Inspector Stoddart, I presume. I was hoping to catch you. I missed you at the station--had a break-down coming from home. This is a terrible affair, inspector."
"I have only seen the bare account in the papers," Stoddart said quietly. "Before we go any further I should very much like to hear what you can tell us."
"I shall be glad to give you all the details I can," Major Logston said, entering the gates with him and leaving the superintendent to bring up the rear with Harbord in the two-seater.
"Of course we have had quantities of those damned reporters all over the place." the Major began confidentially. "But we have told the beggars as little as possible, and now we are not allowing them within the gates."
The inspector nodded.
"Quite right, sir. Reporters are the very devil, with what they pick up and what they invent. They've helped many a murderer to escape the gallows."
"I entirely agree with you." The Chief Constable paused a minute, then he said slowly, "This Robert Saunderson had been staying at Holford quite recently. He had been one of the house-party for the races, you know, inspector, for the St. Leger. But he left the next day like most of the other guests, and deuce knows why he came back. An under-gardener--Joseph Wilton by name--was clearing up rubbish and such-like for one of those bonfires that always make such a deuce of a stink all over the place at this time of the year. He was round about the summer-house and, glancing inside, was astounded to see a man lying on the floor. He went in, as he says, to find if one of the gentlemen had been 'took ill,' and discovered that he was dead and cold. He gave the alarm to his fellow-gardeners and then he and another man went up to the Hall to acquaint Lord Medchester with his discovery; Medchester went back with them, imagining Wilton had exaggerated, and was amazed and horrified to find not only that Wilton's story was too