“Not a scrap of anything,” answered the policeman, handing the book over to his sergeant, and proceeding to search further. “We’d best to see if there’s any footprints about.”
“You’d better examine that path, then,” said Garthwaite. “You’ll find no prints on all this pine-needle stuff—naught to go by, anyway—it’s too thick and soft. But he must have come along that path, one way or another—I’ve met him walking in here of an evening, more than once.”
The doctor, who had exchanged a word or two with the sergeant, turned to Cotherstone.
“Wasn’t he a tenant of yours?” he asked. “Had the cottage at the top of the Shawl here. Well, we’d better have the body removed there, and someone should go up and warn his family.”
“There’s no family,” answered Cotherstone. “He’d naught but a housekeeper—Miss Pett. She’s an elderly woman—and not likely to be startled, from what I’ve seen of her.”
“I’ll go,” said Bent. “I know the housekeeper.” He touched Brereton’s elbow, and led him away amongst the trees and up the wood. “This is a strange affair!” he continued when they were clear of the others. “Did you hear what Dr. Rockcliffe said?—that whoever had done it was familiar with that sort of thing!”
“I saw for myself,” replied Brereton. “I noticed that cord, and the knot on it, at once. A man whose neck was tied up like that could be thrown down, thrown anywhere, left to stand up, if you like, and he’d be literally helpless, even if, as the doctor said, he had the use of his hands. He’d be unconscious almost at once—dead very soon afterwards. Murder?—I should think so!—and a particularly brutal and determined one. Bent!—whoever killed that poor old fellow was a man of great strength and of—knowledge! Knowledge, mind you!—he knew the trick. You haven’t any doubtful character in Highmarket who has ever lived in India, have you?”
“India! Why India?” asked Bent.
“Because I should say that the man who did that job has learned some of the Indian tricks with cords and knots,” answered Brereton. “That murder’s suggestive of Thuggeeism in some respects. That the cottage?” he went on, pointing to a dim light ahead of him. “This housekeeper, now?—is she the sort who’ll take it quietly?”
“She’s as queer a character as the old fellow himself was,” replied Bent, as they cleared the wood and entered a hedge-enclosed garden at the end of which stood an old-fashioned cottage. “I’ve talked to her now and then when calling here—I should say she’s a woman of nerve.”
Brereton looked narrowly at Miss Pett when she opened the door. She carried a tallow candle in one hand and held it high above her head to throw a light on the callers; its dim rays fell more on herself than on them. A tall, gaunt, elderly woman, almost fleshless of face, and with a skin the colour of old parchment, out of which shone a pair of bright black eyes; the oddity of her appearance was heightened by her headdress—a glaring red and yellow handkerchief tightly folded in such a fashion as to cover any vestige of hair. Her arms, bare to the elbow, and her hands were as gaunt as her face, but Brereton was quick to recognize the suggestion of physical strength in the muscles and sinews under the parchment-like skin. A strange, odd-looking woman altogether, he thought, and not improved by the fact that she appeared to have lost all her teeth, and that a long, sharp nose and prominent chin almost met before her sunken lips.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Mr. Bent?” she said, before either of the young men could speak. “Mr. Kitely’s gone out for his regular bedtime constitution—he will have that, wet or fine, every night. But he’s much longer than usual, and—”
She stopped suddenly, seeing some news in Bent’s face, and her own contracted to a questioning look.
“Is there aught amiss?” she asked. “Has something happened him? Aught that’s serious? You needn’t be afraid to speak, Mr. Bent—there’s naught can upset or frighten me, let me tell you—I’m past all that!”
“I’m afraid Mr. Kitely’s past everything, too, then,” said Bent. He looked steadily at her for a moment, and seeing that she understood, went on. “They’re bringing him up, Miss Pett—you’d better make ready. You won’t be alarmed—I don’t think there’s any doubt that he’s been murdered.”
The woman gazed silently at her visitors; then, nodding her turbaned head, she drew back into the cottage.
“It’s what I expected,” she muttered. “I warned him—more than once. Well—let them bring him, then.”
She vanished into a side-room, and Bent and Brereton went down the garden and met the others, carrying the dead man. Cotherstone followed behind the police, and as he approached Bent he pulled him by the sleeve and drew him aside.
“There’s a clue!” he whispered. “A clue, d’ye hear—a strong clue!”
V
The Cord
Ever since they had left the house at the foot of the pine wood, Brereton had been conscious of a curious psychological atmosphere, centring in Cotherstone. It had grown stronger as events had developed; it was still stronger now as they stood outside the dead man’s cottage, the light from the open door and the white-curtained window falling on Cotherstone’s excited face. Cotherstone, it seemed to Brereton, was unduly eager about something—he might almost be said to be elated. All of his behaviour was odd. He had certainly been shocked when Garthwaite burst in with the news—but this shock did not seem to be of the ordinary sort. He had looked like fainting—but when he recovered himself his whole attitude (so, at any rate, it had seemed to Brereton) had been that of a man who has just undergone a great relief. To put the whole thing into a narrow compass, it seemed as if Cotherstone appeared to be positively pleased to hear—and to find beyond doubt—that Kitely was dead. And now,
