“I said a frame-up,” repeated Harley, quietly. “An American term, but one which will be familiar to you.”
“Good God!” muttered the detective, “you have turned all my ideas upside down.”
“What may be termed the
“Geographically impossible?” I said, in a hushed voice, for Harley had truly astounded me.
“Geographical is the term, Knox. I admit that the discovery of the rifle beneath the floor of the hut appalled me.”
“I could see that it did.”
“It was the crowning piece of evidence, Knox, evidence of such fiendish cleverness on the part of those who had plotted Menendez’s death that I began to wonder whether after all it would be possible to defeat them. I realized that Camber’s life hung upon a hair. For the production of that rifle before a jury of twelve moderately stupid men and true could not fail to carry enormous weight. Whereas the delicate point upon which my counter case rested might be more difficult to demonstrate in court. To-night, however, we shall put it to the test, and there are means, no doubt, which will occur to me later, of making its significance evident to one not acquainted with the locality. The press photographs, which I understand have been taken, may possibly help us in this.”
Bewildered by my friend’s revolutionary ideas, which explained the hitherto mysterious nature of his enquiries, I scarcely knew what to say; but:
“If it’s a frame-up, Mr. Harley,” said Wessex, “and the more I think about it the more it has that look to me, practically speaking, we have not yet started on the search for the murderer.”
“We have not,” replied Harley, grimly. “But I have a dawning idea of a method by which we shall be enabled to narrow down this enquiry.”
It must be unnecessary for me to speak of the state of suppressed excitement in which we passed the remainder of that afternoon and evening. Dr. Rolleston called again to see Madame de Stamer, and reported that she was quite calm. In fact, he almost echoed Val Beverley’s words spoken earlier in the day.
“She is unnaturally calm, Mr. Knox,” he said in confidence. “I understand that the dead man was a cousin, but I almost suspect that she was madly in love with him.”
I nodded shortly, admiring his acute intelligence.
“I think you are right, doctor,” I replied, “and if it is so, her amazing fortitude is all the more admirable.”
“Admirable?” he echoed. “As I said before, she has the courage of ten men.”
A formal dinner was out of the question, of course; indeed, no one attempted to dress. Val Beverley excused herself, saying that she would dine in Madame’s room, and Harley, Wessex, and I, partook of wine and sandwiches in the library.
Inspector Aylesbury arrived about eight o’clock in a mood of repressed irritation. Pedro showed him in to where the three of us were seated, and:
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said he, “here I am, as arranged, but as I am up to my eyes in work on the case, I will ask you, Mr. Harley, to carry out this experiment of yours as quickly as possible.”
“No time shall be lost,” replied my friend, quietly. “May I request you to accompany Detective-Inspector Wessex and Mr. Knox to the Guest House by the high road? Do not needlessly alarm Mrs. Camber. Indeed, I think you might confine your attention to Mrs. Powis. Merely request permission to walk down the garden to the hut, and be good enough to wait there until I join you, which will be in a few minutes after your arrival.”
Inspector Aylesbury uttered an inarticulate, grunting sound, but I, who knew Harley so well, could see that he felt himself to be upon the eve of a signal triumph. What he proposed to do, I had no idea, save that it was designed to clear Colin Camber. I prayed that it might also clear his pathetic girl-wife; and in a sort of gloomy silence I set out with Wessex and Aylesbury, down the drive, past the lodge, which seemed to be deserted to-night, and along the tree-lined high road, cool and sweet in the dusk of evening.
Aylesbury was very morose, and Wessex, who had lighted his pipe, did not seem to be in a talkative mood either. He had the utmost faith in Paul Harley, but it was evident enough that he was oppressed by the weight of evidence against Camber. I divined the fact that he was turning over in his mind the idea of the frame-up, and endeavouring to re-adjust the established facts in accordance with this new point of view.
We were admitted to the Guest House by Mrs. Powis, a cheery old soul; one of those born optimists whose special task in life seems to be that of a friend in need.
As she opened the door, she smiled, shook her head, and raised her finger to her lips.
“Be as quiet as you can, sir,” she said. “I have got her to sleep.”
She spoke of Mrs. Camber as one refers to a child, and, quite understanding her anxiety:
“There will be no occasion to disturb her, Mrs. Powis,” I replied. “We merely wish to walk down to the bottom of the garden to make a few enquiries.”
“Yes, gentlemen,” she whispered, quietly closing the door as we all entered the hall.
She led us through the rear portion of the house, and past the quarters of Ah Tsong into that neglected garden which I remembered so well.
“There you are, sir, and may Heaven help you to find the truth.”
“Rest assured that the truth will be found, Mrs. Powis,” I answered.
Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat, but Wessex, puffing at his pipe, made no remark whatever until we were all come to the hut overhanging the little ravine.
“This is where I found the rifle, Detective-Inspector,” explained Aylesbury.
Wessex nodded absently.
It was another perfect night, with only a faint tracery of cloud to be seen like lingering smoke over on the western horizon. Everything seemed very still, so that although we were several miles from the railway line, when presently a train sped on its way one might have supposed, from the apparent nearness of the sound, that the track was no farther off than the grounds of Cray’s Folly.
Toward those grounds, automatically, our glances were drawn; and we stood there staring down at the ghostly map of the gardens, and all wondering, no doubt, what Harley was doing and when he would be joining us.
Very faintly I could hear the water of the little stream bubbling beneath us. Then, just as this awkward silence was becoming intolerable, there came a scraping and scratching from the shadows of the gully, and:
“Give me a hand, Knox!” cried the voice of Harley from below. “I want to avoid the barbed wire if possible.”
He had come across country, and as I scrambled down the slope to meet him I could not help wondering with what object he had sent us ahead by the high road. Presently, when he came clambering up into the garden, this in a measure was explained, for:
“You are all wondering,” he began, rapidly, “what I am up to, no doubt. Let me endeavour to make it clear. In order that my test should be conclusive, and in no way influenced by pre-knowledge of certain arrangements which I had made, I sent you on ahead of me. Not wishing to waste time, I followed by the shorter route. And now, gentlemen, let us begin.”
“Good,” muttered Inspector Aylesbury.
“But first of all,” continued Harley, “I wish each one of you in turn to look out of the window of the hut, and down into the Tudor garden of Cray’s Folly. Will you begin, Wessex?”
Wessex, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and staring hard at the speaker, nodded, entered the hut, and kneeling on the wooden seat, looked out of the window.
“Open the panes,” said Harley, “so that you have a perfectly clear view.”
Wessex slid the panes open and stared intently down into the valley.
“Do you see anything unusual in the garden?”
“Nothing,” he reported.
“And now, Inspector Aylesbury.”
Inspector Aylesbury stamped noisily across the little hut, and peered out, briefly.
