of things, they can’t be sure of their deductions. Don’t you think so?”
“It all depends on the nature of the evidence on which one forms one’s judgment,” I answered.
“Nonsense!” he cried. “I’m lawyer enough to know that there’s nothing in the world so misleading as circumstantial evidence. Never was.”
“Why? Have you ever seen men hanged on it?”
“Hanged? People have been supposed to be eternally lost on it,” his face turned grey again. “I don’t know how it is with you, but my consolation is that God must know. He
“That’s what the murderer and the suicide can always hope – I suppose.”
“I have expressed myself clumsily as usual. The facts as God knows ’em – may
“What links?” I asked carelessly, while twins in a perambulator got out of our line of fire.
“A potty little nine-hole affair at a Hydro in the Midlands. My cousins stay there. Always will. Not but what the fourth and the seventh holes take some doing. You could manage it, though,” he said encouragingly. “You’re doing much better. It’s only your approach shots that are weak.”
“You’re right. I can’t approach for nuts! I shall go to pieces while you’re away – with no one to coach me,” I said mournfully.
“I haven’t taught you anything,” he said, delighted with the compliment.
“I owe all I’ve learned to you, anyhow. When will you come back?”
“Look here,” he began. “I don’t know your engagements, but I’ve no one to play with at Burry Mills. Never have. Why couldn’t you take a few days off and join me there? I warn you it will be rather dull. It’s a throat and gout place – baths, massage, electricity, and so forth. But the fourth and the seventh holes really take some doing.”
“I’m for the game,” I answered valiantly, Heaven well knowing that I hated every stroke and word of it.
“That’s the proper spirit. As their lawyer I must ask you not to say anything to my cousins about Holmescroft. It upsets ’em. Always did. But speaking as man to man, it would be very pleasant for me if you could see your way to–”
I saw it as soon as decency permitted, and thanked him sincerely. According to my now well-developed theory he had certainly misappropriated his aged cousins’ monies under power of attorney, and had probably driven poor Agnes Moultrie out of her wits, but I wished that he was not so gentle, and good-tempered, and innocent- eyed.
Before I joined him at Burry Mills Hydro, I spent a night at Holmescroft. Miss M’Leod had returned from her Hydro, and first we made very merry on the open lawn in the sunshine over the manners and customs of the English resorting to such places. She knew dozens of hydros, and warned me how to behave in them, while Mr and Mrs M’Leod stood aside and adored her.
“Ah! That’s the way she always comes back to us,” he said. “Pity it wears off so soon, ain’t it? You ought to hear her sing ‘With mirth, thou pretty bird.’ ”
We had the house to face through the evening, and there we neither laughed nor sang. The gloom fell on us as we entered, and did not shift till ten o’clock, when we crawled out, as it were, from beneath it.
“It has been bad this summer,” said Mrs M’Leod in a whisper after we realized that we were freed. “Sometimes I think the house will get up and cry out – it is so bad.”
“How?”
“Have you forgotten what comes after the depression?”
So then we waited about the small fire, and the dead air in the room presently filled and pressed down upon us with the sensation (but words are useless here) as though some dumb and bound power were striving against gag and bond to deliver its soul of an articulate word. It passed in a few minutes, and I fell to thinking about Mr Baxter’s conscience and Agnes Moultrie, gone mad in the well-lit bedroom that waited me. These reflections secured me a night during which I rediscovered how, from purely mental causes, a man can be physically sick; but the sickness was bliss compared to my dreams when the birds waked. On my departure, M’Leod gave me a beautiful narwhal’s horn, much as a nurse gives a child sweets for being brave at a dentist’s.
“There’s no duplicate of it in the world,” he said, “else it would have come to old Max M’Leod,” and he tucked it into the motor. Miss M’Leod on the far side of the car whispered, “Have you found out anything, Mr Perseus?”
I shook my head.
“Then I shall be chained to my rock all my life,” she went on. “Only don’t tell papa.”
I supposed she was thinking of the young gentleman who specialized in South American rails, for I noticed a ring on the third finger of her left hand.
I went straight from that house to Burry Mills Hydro, keen for the first time in my life on playing golf, which is guaranteed to occupy the mind. Baxter had taken me a room communicating with his own, and after lunch introduced me to a tall, horse-headed elderly lady of decided manners, whom a white-haired maid pushed along in a bath-chair through the park-like grounds of the Hydro. She was Miss Mary Moultrie, and she coughed and cleared her throat just like Baxter. She suffered – she told me it was the Moultrie castemark – from some obscure form of chronic bronchitis, complicated with spasm of the glottis; and, in a dead flat voice, with a sunken eye that looked and saw not, told me what washes, gargles, pastilles, and inhalations she had proved most beneficial. From her I was passed on to her younger sister, Miss Elizabeth, a small and withered thing with twitching lips, victim, she told me, to very much the same sort of throat, but secretly devoted to another set of medicines. When she went away with Baxter and the bath-chair, I fell across a major of the Indian army with gout in his glassy eyes, and a stomach which he had taken all round the Continent. He laid everything before me; and him I escaped only to be confided in by a matron with a tendency to follicular tonsilitis and eczema. Baxter waited hand and foot on his cousins till five o’clock, trying, as I saw, to atone for his treatment of the dead sister. Miss Mary ordered him about like a dog.
“I warned you it would be dull,” he said when we met in the smoking-room.
“It’s tremendously interesting,” I said. “But how about a look round the links?”
“Unluckily damp always affects my eldest cousin. I’ve got to buy her a new bronchitis-kettle. Arthurs broke her old one yesterday.”
We slipped out to the chemist’s shop in the town, and he bought a large glittering tin thing whose workings he explained.
“I’m used to this sort of work. I come up here pretty often,” he said. “I’ve the family throat too.”
“You’re a good man,” I said. “A very good man.”
He turned towards me in the evening light among the beeches, and his face was changed to what it might have been a generation before.
“You see,” he said huskily, “There was the youngest – Agnes. Before she fell ill, you know. But she didn’t like leaving her sisters. Never would.” He hurried on with his odd-shaped load and left me among the ruins of my black theories. The man with that face had done Agnes Moultrie no wrong.
We never played our game. I was waked between two and three in the morning from my hygienic bed by Baxter in an ulster over orange and white pyjamas, which I should never have suspected from his character.
“My cousin has had some sort of a seizure,” he said. “Will you come? I don’t want to wake the doctor. Don’t want to make a scandal. Quick!”
So I came quickly, and led by the white-haired Arthurs in a jacket and petticoat, entered a double-bedded room reeking with steam and Friar’s Balsam. The electrics were all on. Miss Mary – I knew her by her height – was at the open window, wrestling with Miss Elizabeth, who gripped her round the knees. Her hand was at her throat, which was streaked with blood.
“She’s done it. She’s done it too!” Miss Elizabeth panted. “Hold her! Help me!”
“Oh, I say! Women don’t cut their throats,” Baxter whispered.
“My God! Has she cut her throat?” the maid cried, and with no warning rolled over in a faint. Baxter pushed her under the washbasins, and leaped to hold the gaunt woman who crowed and whistled as she struggled towards the window. He took her by the shoulder, and she struck out wildly.
“All right! She’s only cut her hand,” he said. “Wet towel – quick!”
