The Bungalow Mystery (2 page)

Miss Chilton went on with her knitting.

“I was afraid you would find it a bother, Roger. I told you so when the idea was first mentioned, if you remember?”

This well-meant remark only had the effect of deepening her nephew's irritation. He rose.

“Well, anyhow, I am not going to bother any more about it to-night. There's a new article in the
Lancet
I must look at.”

“Roger”—Miss Chilton's subdued, rather plaintive voice stopped him before he reached the door—“I suppose Zoe is sure to be here in time for lunch to-morrow?”

“I suppose so. By rights she ought to have come to-night. One day won't be enough for getting her part up, and so I told her; but one may as well talk to the wind as to Zoe, when she has made up her mind.”

He did not wait for any of the further questions which he saw coming, but made his escape with all possible speed and betook himself down the long passage that led to his consulting-room.

Dr. Roger Lavington had only been settled in the village of Sutton Boldon for the past six months, but he was already beginning to doubt whether he had made a wise choice of a locality in which to begin life on his own account, and to think regretfully of the time he had passed in the metropolis, with his uncle, Dr. Lavington, Zoe's father, when he was at the hospital.

The village folk were inclined to look askance at the young doctor, and to regard his new-fangled theories with suspicion; he found it difficult to contend with their ignorance and apathy. Of late a new factor had been added to the situation; an old college friend of his—the Rev. Cyril Thornton—had been presented to a living a few miles away, and had brought his sister to keep house. Somewhat against his will Lavington had found himself drawn into the little circle of gaiety which had been created by the advent of the new clergyman. Thornton was so determined to have him that he told himself it was really less trouble to give way than to refuse; some amateur theatricals in aid of the building fund were the young vicar's latest idea, and he had not rested until he had obtained Roger Lavington's unwilling promise to help.

Only five days before that fixed for the performance, a great misfortune had befallen the little band of performers; the girl who was to take the second lady's part—one on which, in a great measure, the success of the whole thing depended—had fallen suddenly ill, and it was impossible on the spur of the moment to supply her place from the neighbourhood. In her despair Elsie Thornton had appealed to Lavington; she had often heard him speak of his cousin's powers as an actress; she begged him to ask her to come to their assistance now. Lavington had yielded unwillingly, and Zoe had promised to do her best; but she had delayed her arrival until the day of the performance itself, and the rest of the troupe were in despair, fearing that the one complete dress rehearsal—which was all that was possible under the circumstances—would be altogether inadequate to their needs.

Lavington himself was by no means word perfect; but, as he lighted his pipe and turned to his writing-table, he resolved to put the whole matter out of his mind, philosophically concluding that he would manage to get through somehow.

He was deeply immersed in the records of a case which was interesting him considerably, when there was a knock at the door. His strongly marked eyebrows nearly met in a frown as he called out:

“Come in!”

“I shouldn't have ventured to disturb you, sir, only; being as it was marked ‘Immediate,' I thought—” the house-parlourmaid remarked apologetically as she handed him a letter on a salver.

“Quite right!” he said, as he took it, his scowl deepening as he saw that the bold black handwriting was that of his cousin Zoe.

“More directions, I suppose,” he ejaculated,
sotto voce
, as he tore it open and the servant withdrew. “I really wish Zoe—What the deuce!” He stopped short and stared blankly at the note in his hand.

Miss Zoe Lavington's communication was characteristically brief:

Lavington gave a long whistle of dismay.

“What on earth is to be done now? They can't get anybody to take the part at a moment's notice, that's certain. The whole thing will have to be put off, and Thornton and his sister will be frantic. Well, I suppose”—hoisting himself out of his comfortable chair with a sigh—“I must go and break it to them.”

He went over to the cupboard, and, taking out a box of cigars, filled his case; as he did so he heard footsteps hurrying up the gravel walk leading to the surgery door, and a loud clamouring ring at the bell.

He threw the door open; a woman, hatless, her uncovered grey hair floating wildly about her face, her eyes wild and frightened, almost flung herself upon him.

“You'll come, sir—you must come at once!” she cried, catching desperately at his arm as if afraid he would escape her, her breath breaking forth in long strangulating sobs between her words, as she tried to pour out her story. “It—it is the master—he is dying—dead! Oh, hurry, hurry!”

In an instant Lavington became the brisk business-like doctor.

“What is the matter?”

“I—I don't know!” The woman shuddered, casting furtive, frightened glances into the shadows around. “He was quite well at tea-time. But now he is lying on the floor—and there is blood—”

Her voice died away in a wail of anguish.

“Ah!” The doctor turned quickly to an open drawer and took out lint and bandages, together with a case of instruments and a small portable medicine-case. “Now, my good woman, calm yourself,” he said authoritatively. “Where is your master?”

The woman looked at him in astonishment.

“I thought you would know, sir,” she said in a more natural tone. “He—he is next door—at The Bungalow.”

“The Bungalow.” The doctor drew in his lips as, the woman running to keep pace with his long strides, he hurried down the little drive that led to his front gate. That there were curious rumours about the tenant of The Bungalow—a middle-aged artist, apparently possessed of considerable means, who had had the bad taste to refuse absolutely to make any acquaintances—it would have been impossible to live for six months in Sutton Boldon without knowing. The gossips had decided that his disinclination for society argued a disreputable past and, being completely in the dark with regard to his antecedents, had proceeded to invent various discreditable stories which might account for his hermit-like preference for his own society.

Lavington himself had rarely seen his neighbour, an occasional glimpse in the garden having been hitherto his only opportunity, and as he entered the long, low room leading out of the passage he was surprised to see how massive the frame of the man was who was stretched upon the floor, how large and well-formed his limbs.

The doctor's face was grave as he knelt down and made a cursory examination, the woman, meanwhile, standing in the doorway watching him with ashen face and wide-open dilated eyes.

At last he looked up.

“I can do no good here. He must have died instantaneously!”

A sort of quiver passed over the white face of the woman in the doorway.

“I can't think how he came to do it,” she said hoarsely. “It wasn't as if he had any trouble. He always said—”

“You are making a mistake, my good woman,” the doctor checked her sternly as he rose. “This is no case of suicide. Your master has been murdered!”

“Murdered!” With a cry the woman shrank back and put up her hand to her eyes. “Ah, no, no! He—”

“He has been shot through the brain. And there is no sign of the pistol from which the shot was fired—that alone would be conclusive,” said the doctor grimly. “But the position of the wound shows that it could not have been self-inflicted. I should say, probably, robbery was the motive: you can see that his pockets have been rifled.”

“What!” The housekeeper started violently. “They were not when I was here. They cannot be!”

“Look for yourself.”

The doctor pointed to the prostrate figure. One of the coat-pockets was turned inside out; two or three envelopes and a cigar-case lay on the carpet.

The woman uncovered her face, her eyes looked wild and staring. She glanced fearfully round, at the open door behind her, at the darkness beyond.

“I did not see—I did not know! Who—”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

“That we have to find out. The first thing to be done is to let the police know. Is there anyone in the house whom you can send?”

She shook her head.

“I did for him altogether. He was never one to care for many folks about him.”

“Then the question resolves itself into this: Will you stay here while I go, or shall I—”

“I—I daren't, sir!” the housekeeper broke in, her agitation becoming almost unbearable. “It is as much as I can do to stay in the house when you are here. I should go mad if I was left alone with him!”

Lavington glanced at her coldly: something in her emotion impressed him unfavourably. For a moment the idea of sending her to his house for help occurred to him, but the thought of the shock to his aunt restrained him.

“Then I will stay here and you must go,” he said shortly. “Be as quick as you can, please.”

The woman waited for no second bidding; she turned through the door, and Roger heard her running swiftly down the garden path outside.

Left alone, he looked down once more at the dead man. Who was the assassin, he wondered, who had stolen in from the darkness? Was it a thief, tempted by the thought of the gold that he might find? Or was it some one who had been once friend or foe of the dead man? But the blank, silent face before him could not answer his questions; there was nothing more to be done, and he was about to turn to the door when a faint fluttering sigh caught his ear. He paused and looked round. Everything was silent; apparently he and the dead man were the only occupants of the room; but Roger's trained eye caught an almost imperceptible movement of one of the thick window curtains.

He sprang forward and flung the curtain aside. Then he stood as if thunderstruck. Opposite, crouching against the wall, a small packet in her arms, her eyes wide open, dilated apparently in the last extremity of terror, was a young girl, looking almost a child as the lamplight fell on her white face and gleaming, dishevelled hair.

Lavington stared at her in utter amazement.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he questioned at last.

The stiff lips moved, but no words came; the brown eyes gazed back at him with the dazed, uncomprehending stare of a child.

Roger put out his hand and caught her arm.

“Why are you here? What have you done?”

With a hoarse cry the girl wrenched herself free and threw herself on her knees before him.

“Help me! Help me! I must get away. If anyone comes—if anyone knows—I shall die.”

Lavington looked down into the anguished, tear-filled eyes, at the trembling lips, hardening his heart by a supreme effort.

“If you haven't done anything wrong there is nothing to be afraid of,” he said.

But the great terrified eyes, raised so imploringly, had caught the momentary softening in his, and a gleam of hope crept into them. Slowly, falteringly, the girl raised herself, and faced him, steadying herself by the framework of the French window.

“I—perhaps I have done wrong,” she said slowly, her throat twitching convulsively, one slender, ungloved hand still clutching the parcel to her breast, the other clenching and unclenching itself nervously, the delicate almond-shaped nails leaving cruel marks on the rosy palm. “But this will be worse than death. If—if you have a mother—a sister—for their sakes you will let me go!”

Her eyes wandered to the open door; she made a step towards it. Still, Lavington did not move aside, though the stern lines of his mouth had relaxed somewhat. Her appeal had touched a soft place in his heart. He had passionately loved his dead mother; she and the tiny sister who had died just as she had learnt to lisp his name were enshrined in his Holy of holies. What would they bid him do, if the dead could speak, he wondered? Then he recollected how his mother had always been on the side of mercy; his extended hand dropped.

With a sigh of relief the girl slipped by. At the same moment the echo of excited voices reached them from the distance, the sound of heavy measured footfalls. The girl halted and then turned back.

“It is too late! Oh, help me! Hide me! Save me! I am frightened—frightened—for the love of heaven!”

All Lavington's compassion was roused by the very forlornness of her attitude, by her despairing cry. He glanced round. Had he indeed left it too late? Was there no way of saving her even yet—this girl who had cried to him for help?

A sudden thought struck him; he stepped to the French window and opened it softly.

“See,'' he said, taking something from his pocket, as with a swift grateful glance she slipped through. “The garden will be searched, and all round will be watched; you cannot get away. But if you go across the lawn, step over the low fence and go up to that door next to the window where you will see a bright light, you can let yourself in with this latchkey. Stay quietly in my consulting-room until I come to you, and do not open the door to anyone.”

He had no time for more, no means of finding out whether she understood or not. Like a frightened rabbit she scudded across the lawn; and when he turned round, after closing the window, the burly form of the village constable stood in the doorway.

“This 'ere seems a bad job, sir.”

“It is indeed.” To his intense disgust, as the man's small bright eyes watched him curiously, Lavington felt that his colour was changing. “It is impossible from the nature and the direction of the shot that it could have been self-inflicted,” he went on, recovering his matter-of-fact, professional manner with an effort.