“I thought it tiresome, myself. My errand to Queen Charlton did not in any way concern Beverley Brandon.”
“Of course not! I didn’t suppose—Sir, since you didn’t kill him, and I didn’t, who—who did, do you suppose? For he did not merely trip and fall, did he? There is that bruise on his forehead, and he was lying face upwards, just as you saw him. Someone struck him down!”
“Yes, I think someone struck him down,” agreed Sir Richard.
“I suppose you do not know who it might have been, sir?”
“I wonder?” Sir Richard said thoughtfully.
Piers waited, but as Sir Richard said no more, but stood looking frowningly down at Beverley’s body, he blurted out: “What ought I to do? Really, I do not know! I have no experience in such matters. Perhaps you could advise me?”
“I do not pretend to any very vast experience myself, but I suggest that you should go home.”
“But we can’t leave him here—can we?”
“No, we can’t do that. I will inform the magistrate that there is—er—a corpse in the wood. No doubt he will attend to it.”
“Yes, but I don’t wish to run away, you know,” Piers objected. “It is the most devilish, awkward situation, but of course I don’t dream of leaving you to—to explain it all to the magistrate. I shall have to say that it was I who found the body.”
Sir Richard, who knew that the affair was one of extreme delicacy, and who had been wondering for several minutes in what way it could be handled so as to spare the Brandons as much humiliation as possible, did not feel that the entry of Piers Luttrell into the proceedings would facilitate his task. He cast another of his searching looks over the young man, and said: “Your doing so would serve no useful purpose, I believe. You had better leave it to me.”
“You know something about it!”
“Yes, I do. I am on terms of—er—considerable intimacy with the Brandons, and I know a good deal about Beverley’s activities. There is likely to be a peculiarly distasteful scandal arising out of this murder.”
Piers nodded. “I was afraid of that. You know, sir, he was not at all the thing, and he knew some devilish odd people. A man came up to the house, enquiring for him only yesterday—a seedy sort of bully: I dare say you may be familiar with the type. Beverley did not like it above half, I could see.”
“Were you privileged to meet this man?”
“Well, I saw him: I didn’t exchange two words with him. The servant came to tell Beverley that a Captain Trimble had called to see him, and Beverley was so much put out that I—well, I fear I did rather wonder what was in the wind.”
“Ah!” said Sir Richard. “The fact that you have met Trimble may—or may not—prove useful. Yes, I think you had better go home, and say nothing about this. No doubt the news of Beverley’s death will be conveyed to you tomorrow morning.”
“But what shall I tell the constable, sir?”
“Whatever he asks you,” replied Sir Richard.
“Shall I say that I found Beverley here, with you?” asked Piers doubtfully.
“I hardly think that he will ask you that question.”
’But will he not wonder how it came about that I did not miss Beverley?”
“Did you not say that Beverley gave it out that he was retiring to bed? Why should you miss him?”
“To-morrow morning?”
“Yes, I think you might miss him at the breakfast-table,” conceded Sir Richard.
“I see. Well, if you feel it to be right, sir, I—I own I would rather not divulge that I was in the wood to-night. But what must I say if I am asked if I know you?”
“You don’t know me.”
“N-no. No, I don’t, of course,” said Piers, apparently cheered by this reflection.
“That is a pleasure in store for you. I came into this neighbourhood for the purpose of—er—making your acquaintance, but this seems hardly the moment to enter upon a matter which I have reason to suspect may prove extremely complicated.”
“You came to see
“If,” said Sir Richard, “you will come to see me at the “George” to-morrow—a very natural action on your part, in view of my discovery of your guest’s corpse—I will tell you just why I came to Queen Charlton in search of you.”
“I am sure I am honoured—but I cannot conceive what your business with me may be, sir!”
“That,” said Sir Richard, “does not surprise me nearly as much as my business is likely to surprise you, Mr Luttrell!”
Chapter 9
Having got rid of Piers Luttrell, who, after peering at his watch surreptitiously, and several times looking about him as though in the expectation of seeing someone hiding amongst the trees, went off, rather relieved but much bewildered, Sir Richard walked away to rejoin Pen and the unknown lady. He found only Pen, seated on the bank with an air of aloof virtue, her hands folded primly on her knees. He paused, looking her over with a comprehending eye. “And where,” he asked in conversational tones, “is your companion?”
“She chose to go home,” responded Pen. “I dare say she grew tired of waiting for you to come back.”
“Ah, no doubt! Did you by any chance, suggest to her that she should do so?”
“No, because it was not at all necessary. She was very anxious to go. She said she wished she had not come.”
“Did she tell you why she had come?”
“No. I asked her, of course, but she is such a silly little missish thing that she would do nothing but cry, and say she was a wicked girl. Do you know what I think, Richard?”
“Probably.”
“Well, it’s my belief she came to meet someone. She seems to me exactly the sort of female who would feel romantic just because there is a full moon. Besides, why else should she be here at this hour?”
“Why indeed?” agreed Sir Richard. “I apprehend that you have little sympathy to spare for such folly?”
“None at all,” said Pen. “In fact, I think it’s silly, besides being improper.”
“You are severe!”
“I can tell by your voice that you are laughing at me. I expect you are thinking of my climbing out of a window. But
“Fustian,” nodded Sir Richard. “Did she disclose the identity of her lover?”
“No, but she said her own name was Lydia Daubenay. And no sooner had she told me that than she went off into another taking, and said she was distracted, and wished she had not told me. Really, I was quite glad when she decided to go home without waiting for you.”
“Yes, I had rather gathered the impression that her company was not agreeable to you. I suppose it hardly signifies. She did not appear to me to be the kind of young woman who could be trusted to bear a still tongue in her head.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Pen thoughtfully. “She was so frightened I quite think she may not say a word about the adventure. I have been considering the matter, and it seems to me that she must be in love with someone whom her parents do not wish her to marry.”
“That,” said Sir Richard, “seems to be a fair conclusion.”
“So that I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she conceals the fact that she was in the wood to-night. By the way, was it the stammering-man?”
“It was, and Miss Daubenay was right in her suspicion: he is dead.”
Miss Creed accepted this with fortitude. “Well, if he is, I can tell you who killed him. That girl told me all over again how it happened, and there is no doubt that the other man was Captain Trimble. And he did it to get the
