Annie Haynes Premium Collection – 8 Murder Mysteries in One Volume. Annie Haynes
flask, caught sight of them. He hurried across.
“A terrible thing, this, Sir Arthur—terrible! I—really I don’t know what to say about it. Accustomed as I am to seeing a good deal of the seamy side of life, I was not prepared for this; and it has upset me more than I can tell you.”
He was moving away, but Arthur buttonholed him.
“You know what they are saying, doctor—that it is Nurse Marston? But—”
“It is Nurse Marston safe enough, Sir Arthur. I attended her for an illness three years ago and I can’t be mistaken. She is in her uniform too, and wearing her chatelaine—only the notebook is missing. Yes, it is poor Mary Marston; and if I could get hold of the scoundrel who put her in that tree”—his hands working nervously—“I am an old man, but it would go hard if I couldn’t—”
“How could she get there—” Arthur was beginning, and as he spoke four men with a stretcher passed them and made their way to the stricken oak.
Dr. Grieve turned to them, and Sir Arthur watched them with fascinated eyes as they carefully raised the body and laid it on the stretcher. As they moved off on their way to the village mortuary, followed by the police superintendent, Dr. Grieve looked round.
“Who would have thought there was that great hollow in the old Lovers’ Oak, Sir Arthur?” he said.
The young man raised himself with a start and glanced across; the proud old tree that had been for years the delight and the trysting-place of Lockford sweethearts presented a sorry spectacle now. One great branch had been torn from the parent tree and lay maimed and broken on the ground, and the big hollow right down the great trunk was plainly visible. Standing there with its gaping, open wound it looked like an accusing witness of the crime and of the secret which the hand of Heaven had brought to light.
“I suppose that if we had ever thought about it at all we might have guessed that it would be hollow.”
“Somebody knew, anyhow,” the doctor said grimly. “Well, well, poor thing, her troubles are over!”
Garth Davenant moved forward to the tree and examined it, the policeman left in charge walking round with him.
“Who could it have been? How was it done? He must have been a pretty strong man to get her up there alone,” Arthur remarked.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“As to how it was done it is impossible to say at present; there will have to be an autopsy.”
Sir Arthur’s bewilderment and horror seemed to increase.
“For a woman to be done to death outside the Manor, with a houseful of people, as you may say, within earshot, seems to be incredible!”
“Yes, it does!” the doctor assented. “I’m not so sure that it was outside the house, either, mind you, Sir Arthur,” he added significantly.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, so far as I can see there is nothing to indicate that she had left the house when she came by her death—nothing at this first cursory examination, you understand. She had on her house shoes and her indoor uniform. She could not have gone far out of the house in such a fashion, if indeed she went at all.”
Even by the uncertain light of the lanterns, the old man could see that Sir Arthur’s face was white to the lips.
“That could not be, doctor,” he said passionately, answering the meaning underlying the speech. “I tell you that it was absolutely impossible that such a deed could have been done in our house.”
“What about the screams Miss Dorothy heard?” the old man inquired meaningly. “I am afraid that everything points to the poor thing’s being made away with inside the Manor House on the night of the 6th of June.”
“I do not believe it,” asserted Sir Arthur emphatically. “I can’t imagine that anybody could be killed in a few minutes in the small library. Besides, you see what is implied in your theory, doctor—the murderer must have been in the house.”
“An inmate for the time being, certainly,” the doctor acquiesced. “But do not call it my theory, Sir Arthur. I shall be only too delighted if a different deduction can be drawn from the facts.”
“I will have a different deduction drawn if I have anything to do with it,” Arthur said quickly. “I shall telegraph to town first thing in the morning for the best detective to be had. Garth, I say,” raising his voice, “do stop looking at that tree and come here and see what you think of this idea of Dr. Grieve’s. He says he believes that this—this atrocious thing was done in the Manor—in the house itself. What do you say to that?”
“Now, now, my dear sir,” the doctor remonstrated as he struggled into his overcoat, “please do not put words into my mouth. I said that I saw no indications of her having been outside the Manor that night in her dress. Neither did I.”
“Which means exactly what I said,” retorted Sir Arthur hotly. “What do you think, Garth?”
Davenant did not answer for a moment; his face looked haggard and strained.
“I—I hardly know what to think,” he said at last, pausing between each word, while his eyes wandered restlessly back to the Lovers’ Oak. “In fact, I fancy I have been far too much shocked by the whole affair to have formed any very definite ideas as yet. Are you waiting longer, doctor? There seems to be nothing to stay for.” The policemen were dispersing the loiterers, who in awestricken groups were wending their way homewards.
“Nothing!” Dr. Grieve turned with the two young men.
Garth held his cigar-case towards him.
“Please help yourself, doctor.”
“No thanks. Not to-night!” Dr. Grieve’s manner was brusque.
Davenant looked at him in some surprise.
“Why, doctor, I have heard you say that a smoke was the best thing for the nerves.”
“Yes,” the old man said gruffly as they reached the waiting conveyances, and he prepared to get into his brougham, “but I don’t feel like it now, Mr. Davenant. I dare say I shall have a whiff of pipe before I turn in.”
“Obstinate old man!” Arthur ejaculated as he and Garth drove off. “Now he will put into people’s heads that this horrible deed was done in the Manor, which, as I tell him, is an impossibility. If that notion is to get about there is no knowing what harm may be done to Hilda, just as she is recovering too. She has such a sensitive nature, poor girl; and my mother—But how could it have been done, Garth? Do you think she stepped out of doors and some wandering tramp—”
“I don’t imagine so,” Garth said shortly. “But—Good heavens!”
A sudden turn in the road had brought them within sight of Mrs. Marston’s cottage, and by the light of the moon, which was now shining brightly, they could see a group of villagers surrounding the old woman at the garden-gate.
As Garth pulled up the horse there was a chorus of exclamation, but one weak, quavering voice made itself heard above the rest.
“Mr. Garth! Mr. Garth, you will have heard—”
With a muttered word or two of apology, Garth threw the reins to Arthur and jumped out.
“I have heard, nurse”—going back to the name of his childish days—“and I cannot tell you how grieved I am for you.”
“They have killed her—my Mary!” the poor woman wailed. “I knew that—my dreams had told me. She has been so near me all this time; and now they have carried her past the cottage—her own little home—and they’ve took her to the mortuary, and they say I’m not to see her—not me, her mother. I will, for all of them!” and she made a few steps forward.
Garth put his arm round her; then he turned to Arthur.