The debris of the dessert still covered the table, but the men did not advance far into the room. John stood aside as the others went in, and entering the last, closed the door behind him, and stood with his back against it.
“Now,” he said, turning sharply upon Samuel Prodder, “what is this business?”
“I’m afraid it’s sooicide—or—or murder,” answered the sailor gravely. “I’ve told this good gentleman all about it.”
This good gentleman was Colonel Maddison, who seemed delighted to plunge into the conversation.
“Yes, my dear Mellish,” he said eagerly; “our friend, who describes himself as a sailor, and who had come down to see Mrs. Mellish, whose mother he knew when he was a boy, has told me all about this shocking affair. Of course the body must be removed immediately, and the sooner your servants go out with lanterns for that purpose the better. Decision, my dear Mellish, decision and prompt action are indispensable in these sad catastrophes.”
“The body removed!” repeated John Mellish; “the man is dead, then.”
“Quite dead,” answered the sailor; “he was dead when I found him, though it wasn’t above seven minutes after the shot was fired. I left a man with him—a young man as drove me from Doncaster—and a dog—some big dog that watched beside him—howling awful, and wouldn’t leave him.”
“Did you—see—the man’s face?”
“Yes.”
“You are a stranger here,” said John Mellish; “it is useless, therefore, to ask you if you know who the man is.”
“No, sir,” answered the sailor, “I didn’t know him; but the young man from the Reindeer—”
“He recognized him?”
“Yes; he said he’d seen the man in Doncaster only the night before; and that he was your—trainer, I think he called him.”
“Yes, yes.”
“A lame chap.”
“Come, gentlemen,” said John, turning to his friends, “what are we to do?”
“Send the servants into the wood,” replied Colonel Maddison, “and have the body carried—”
“Not here,” cried John Mellish, interrupting him—“not here; it would kill my wife.”
“Where did the man live?” asked the colonel.
“In the north lodge. A cottage against the northern gates, which are never used now.”
“Then let the body be taken there,” answered the Indian soldier; “let one of your people run for the parish constable; and you’d better send for the nearest surgeon immediately, though, from what our friend here says, a hundred of ’em couldn’t do any good. It’s an awful business! Some poaching fray, I suppose.”
“Yes, yes,” answered John quickly; “no doubt.”
“Was the man disliked in the neighbourhood?” asked Colonel Maddison; “had he made himself in any manner obnoxious?”
“I should scarcely think it likely. He had only been with me about a week.”
The servants, who had dispersed at John’s command, had not gone very far. They had lingered in corridors and lobbies, ready at a moment’s notice to rush out into the hall again, and act their minor parts in the tragedy. They preferred doing anything to returning quietly to their own quarters.
They came out eagerly at Mr. Mellish’s summons. He gave his orders briefly, selecting two of the men, and sending the others about their business.
“Bring a couple of lanterns,” he said; “and follow us across the Park towards the pond in the wood.”
Colonel Maddison, Mr. Lofthouse, Captain Prodder, and John Mellish, left the house together. The moon, still slowly rising in the broad, cloudless heavens, silvered the quiet lawn, and shimmered upon the treetops in the distance. The three gentlemen walked at a rapid pace, led by Samuel Prodder, who kept a little way in advance, and followed by a couple of grooms, who carried darkened stable-lanterns.
As they entered the wood, they stopped involuntarily, arrested by that solemn sound which had first drawn the sailor’s attention to the dreadful deed that had been done—the howling of the dog. It sounded in the distance like a low, feeble wail: a long monotonous death-cry.
They followed that dismal indication of the spot to which they were to go. They made their way through the shadowy avenue, and emerged upon the silvery patch of turf and fern, where the rotting summerhouse stood in its solitary decay. The two figures—the prostrate figure on the brink of the water, and the figure of the dog with uplifted head—still remained exactly as the sailor had left them three-quarters of an hour before. The young man from the Reindeer stood aloof from these two figures, and advanced to meet the newcomers as they drew near.
Colonel Maddison took a lantern from one of the men, and ran forward to the water’s edge. The dog rose as he approached, and walked slowly round the prostrate form, sniffing at it, and whining piteously. John Mellish called the animal away.
“This man was in a sitting posture when he was shot,” said Colonel Maddison, decisively. “He was sitting upon this bench.”
He pointed to a dilapidated rustic seat close to the margin of the stagnant water.
“He was sitting upon this bench,” repeated the colonel; “for he’s fallen close against it, as you see. Unless I’m very much mistaken, he was shot from behind.”
“You don’t think he shot himself, then?” asked John Mellish.
“Shot himself!” cried the colonel; “not a bit of it. But we’ll soon settle that. If he shot himself, the pistol must be close against him. Here, bring a loose plank from that summerhouse, and lay the body upon it,” added the Indian officer, speaking to the servants.
Captain Prodder and the two grooms selected the broadest plank they could find. It was moss-grown and rotten, and straggling wreaths of wild clematis were entwined about it; but it served the purpose for which it was wanted. They laid it upon the grass, and lifted the body of James Conyers on to it, with his handsome face—ghastly and horrible in the fixed agony of sudden death—turned upward to the moonlit sky. It was wonderful how mechanically and quietly they went to work, promptly and silently obeying the colonel’s orders.
John Mellish and Mr. Lofthouse searched the
