There was the sound of subdued voices rising from the hall below, as a door was opened. Then feet were heard on the stairs and Richard came in, looking fine-drawn and exhausted. He glanced round the room and said instantly, “Where is Laura?” Miles said that she and Ruth were with the grandmother, who had wished to be quiet.
Amy asked, “What is happening now? Do those men want to see any of us?”—and her glance indicated Brand.
Richard replied, in preoccupied tones, “They will let us know. At present they want the room to themselves. They have examinations to make. Of course, no one will go out.”
And, turning, he left them again.
Part IV
Aftermath of a Crime
1
Ross Murray, the sergeant in charge of the King’s Poplars Mystery, was a man of remarkable personal history and outstanding personality. Born and brought up in circumstances of comfort and luxury, in anticipation of stepping eventually into the shoes of his father, Lord H——, he learned by chance, at the age of eighteen, that he had no right to that honourable name. H——, taxed with written proof in his wife’s writing, stiffened, turned white as death, but did not attempt to deny the truth.
“You’ve always known, sir?”
“Before you were born.”
“Yet you’ve treated me as your son?”
“There was no choice. In law a man’s wife can only bear his children.”
“Meaning you were responsible for me?”
“In law you are my son. I repeat, there was no choice. As Catholics, divorce was impossible.”
“And you accepted me as your heir?”
“You are my heir.”
“No, sir. Philip’s your heir. And if anything happened to him, there’d be Robin.”
“What are you proposing to do?”
“I must clear out, sir, and find my own niche. If there is any purpose in things at all, we must all have some particular place in the scheme of things. I thought mine was here, but it isn’t. There’s one thing. My father…”
Lord H——’s face was riven with a kind of anguished shame.
“I can tell you very little. He was younger than your mother, and not entirely of her class. He was, I believe, very attractive, and she assures me that they attempted to be honourable. Pure ill-fortune threw them together in compromising circumstances, and apparently it was too much for both of them. Your mother wanted a divorce—of course, I couldn’t agree to that. I believe she never saw your father again.”
Ross’s brows drew together, but he said nothing. He thought, “What a welter of suffering. How damnably they must both have been hurt, and yet they never showed a spasm. My God, there’s something to be proud of!”
H—— interrupted his meditations to ask how he proposed to avoid scandal. He could hardly abdicate in Philip’s interest without causing a great deal of comment.
Ross said, “I think, sir, you had better let me go abroad. It’s so much easier to die there. No official investigations, no public funeral, no awkward questions. Swamp fever—something convenient of that sort. It involves a certain amount of duplicity, I know, but at least it wouldn’t mean a lifetime of it, as any other plan would.”
“And Philip?”
“Oh, he and Robin would have to know the truth. It would leak out a bit, I daresay, but we can trust the discretion of our friends. Besides, there probably are people alive now who know the facts.”
H—— lifted his hand and touched the young man’s shoulder. “Believe me, Ross, I am more than ready to forget all this. I forgot it eighteen years ago. I’ve never let myself think about it. Stay here and inherit. You aren’t of my blood, but I should sleep sound enough knowing the place was in your hands.”
But Ross refused; he had his own philosophy of life, and he insisted that he had yet to discover his personal vocation. He carried out his suggestion simply and with despatch. As he remarked, it would cause far less comment for him to vanish now, when there was no question of a successor to the estate, than to go after H——’s death, when all manner of ugly rumours would lift their heads.
Which explained why, several years later, there came to King’s Poplars Manor House, to investigate the mystery of its owner’s death, a man strikingly resembling the eldest son of Lord H——, who had died in such tragic circumstances in Africa in his nineteenth year.
2
From a stile in one of the fields he traversed on his way to the Manor, a short cut normally marked by a footpath but to-day concealed by the heavy snowfall, Ross saw the house bleak against the hillside. It stood solitary, like some accursed building, halfway up the barren slope. To-day it was softened by the snow that still enveloped everything, but he could imagine that, even in the warmth of summer, it bore an aloof appearance, as if it were for ever cut off from the friendly companionship of men. It was curiously built, on two floors that contained, however, an unusual amount of space, though the general appearance of the exterior was narrow and furtive. The roof was very steep and dark; the windows were set flush with the walls, and were too close under the eaves, giving the place a sinister and somehow dishonest aspect. Ross was reminded of a peculiarly haunting aquatint he had once seen, called “The Evil House,” that had stirred his imagination
