The Bungalow Mystery (28 page)

“Dr. Lavington had!” Collins, unable to follow the judge's line of thought, was growing more and more bewildered.

“Why, of course!” Sir William was idly drawing a plan of The Bungalow on a stray piece of drawing-paper.

“If he had had a grain of common-sense when he found her hiding behind the window-curtains—as it appears she did when she heard he was coming—he would have said to her, ‘My good girl, did you kill this man or did you not?' And when he had heard how she found Rheinhart he would have told her that she must stand her ground and tell the police. Instead of which, he hurries her off, takes her into his house, passes her off as his cousin, persuades her to act in those abominable theatricals so that the whole countryside may have an opportunity of identifying her; and goodness knows what he would have done next, if I had not fortunately appeared on the scene and carried her off. Upon my word, when I first heard the story I thought it looked as though he wanted to fix suspicion upon her, and for that reason, among others, I put him down among my four hypothetically guilty persons.”

Collins was drumming his fingers absently on the tablecloth, his mind busy with the judge's theory. He looked up now.

“Dr. Lavington! Oh, I think he is out of the question, Sir William.”

“Not at all,” snapped the judge. “According to his own theory he was sitting alone in his consulting-room when he was summoned by the housekeeper; if he had had a quarrel with Rheinhart nothing would have been easier for him than to have gone to The Bungalow, walked in at the open door or window, and shot Rheinhart. I don't say he did, mind you—I don't think he did—but he went down as one of the four. Then came a name that never seems to have occurred to the police, and yet one would have thought that it was perfectly obvious. I allude to Mrs. McNaughton—or Miller, as she calls herself—the housekeeper. Now you have my four, Collins—what do you say to them?”

“I hardly know.” The detective hesitated. “Until last Tuesday I should have thought that there were only two to be considered. Now I do not feel quite so certain.”

“You are an honest man, Collins!” The judge glanced at him approvingly. “And you don't mind owning that you make a mistake occasionally like the rest of us. Well, to proceed: having put aside two out of the four, that left the other two to be dealt with. Well, I don't mind telling you that at first I thought the odds lay rather against the doctor; his conduct seemed so extraordinary for a sensible man. But there was the question of a motive; as far as that went I was at a standstill with both of them—until Tuesday, that is to say; then I found my motive.” Comprehension was slowly dawning in Collins's eyes.

“You mean that Mrs. von Rheinhart—”

“I mean that Mrs. von Rheinhart's recognition by her mother supplied my clue,” finished the judge. “We have been told how Mrs. Miller mourned for her lost daughter, how she had vowed vengeance on the man who had taken her away. I had an interview with Courtenay on Tuesday evening and told him what a fool he had been making of himself. It seems he had taken it for granted that Daphne was the murderess. She, knowing that Elizabeth had heard his voice, thought it was he. A pretty kettle of fish they made of it between them. Elizabeth went up to the Manor to warn him he was in danger and to beg of him to go away, while he, in order to save Daphne as he thought, sent an anonymous letter to the police as good as accusing himself. You know that, I suppose?”

“Yes, we knew that,” the detective assented.

“I thought so. Well, I questioned Sir James as to his interview with Rheinhart. He told me that Rheinhart had written to him boasting that he had been Daphne Luxmore's lover, that he had told him if he came to The Bungalow that night he would find her in his rooms. There can be no doubt this is the revenge which Rheinhart had planned. It miscarried in a measure, because Courtenay arrived on the scene too early. Rheinhart's assertions as to his relations with Daphne he absolutely refused to believe, and threatened to administer summary chastisement. Rheinhart, however, insisted on him seeing the letters and, though he refused to read them, he recognized Daphne's handwriting. He recognized, also, that Rheinhart was the man whom he had seen with Alice Miller in Florence, and taxed him with it. That, if the housekeeper could have overheard it, would supply our motive.”

“Yes, if—” Collins's tone was still doubtful. “Does Sir James say Rheinhart was all right when he left him, Sir William?”

“Perfectly. After hearing his story I thought it over, and went down on Wednesday to interview the Wilsons. I thought I should like to hear Mrs. Wilson's version of her husband's story. I wonder whether you have heard of her brother, the lad who has fits?”

“I think I have heard Wilson mention him,” the detective said doubtfully.

“I saw him too!” Sir William went on. “I found that he had his first attack on the night of The Bungalow murder, just after the crime was committed. He has been fit for little since; ‘a poor thing,' his sister called him. I asked to see him—it struck me that he might be useful to me—and after exercising a little patience, I got his story from him. A very interesting story. I should like you to hear it, Mr. Collins.” He touched the bell.

“Why, you don't mean that he—I declare I never thought of that!” the detective began excitedly.

Sir William motioned him to be silent; as the door opened a tall, comely-looking young woman, whose pleasant face was overclouded now by distress, entered. She was closely followed by a thick-set, loutish-looking youth, who glanced at the two men in evident trepidation.

Sir William pulled forward a chair.

“Sit down, Mrs. Wilson. Now, Edward, my boy, I want you to tell that gentleman what you saw on the night that Mr. von Rheinhart was shot.”

Edward shuffled his feet about uneasily, and glanced appealingly at the judge. Mrs. Wilson laid her hand on his arm.

“Speak up, Ned. Nobody is cross with you. The gentleman only wants to know the truth. He's frightened, sir. I'm sure there isn't a more obedient boy in general.”

“I'm sure he is a good boy,” Sir William assented gently. “You were in the garden, Edward; now tell us what you saw.”

“I had been walking about a bit, looking for our Polly, sir. I got up to the hedge between the doctor's and Mr. von Rheinhart's, hearing voices and not being very sure where they came from. At last I made out it was two men in The Bungalow, quarrelling. At last they got that loud and angry, and me being curious, I got over the hedge, which wasn't very high, and went near the windows. Before I got up, though, a tall man came out, in such a temper that he brushed up against me almost without seeing me. Mr. von Rheinhart, he came out and shouted something after him—I didn't make out what. Then he went back and closed the windows, but didn't draw the blinds down. As he was fastening the clasp a woman came into the room. I knew her; it was the housekeeper. She—she—”

The lad stopped; his fate twitched painfully; he jerked his elbows up and down.

“Now, now, Ned!” His sister put her arm through his. “You go on. It will soon be over, and then we will go right away home. You are a good boy for telling the truth. Come!”

Her touch and voice had a soothing effect: the boy grew calmer.

“She was in a rare way about something; I could make that out, sir. She was talking that fast and waving her arms about. Once she went up to Mr. von Rheinhart as if she would hit him, and he laughed at her. Then she caught something up from the table and pointed it at him. The next moment there was a loud bang and Mr. von Rheinhart fell back. She—she jumped about, sir. Her face looked awful. That—that is all I can remember, please, sir; something seemed to go wrong in my head then, but I s'pose I got back to the house somehow.”

“Ah, poor lad, that you did.” Mrs. Wilson interposed, getting up and drawing her cloak round her. “That was a bad night's work for us, sir. He was as bright a lad as you ever see till then, sir, though a bit mischievous. Now—”

“Ah, well, he will be better now that he has got that off his mind,” Sir William interposed kindly. “You have been a good boy, Ned and I am much obliged to you. Good afternoon, Mrs. Wilson; good afternoon, my boy. Well, Collins—” as the door closed behind the two—“what do you say to this?”

“Say, sir? Why, that me and Spencer must have been a couple of blind asses never to have thought of this before!” The detective's tone was one of hearty self-contempt. “I can't imagine how it was it never came into my head!”

“Well, it wasn't easy to make it out until after Monday's recognition,” Sir William conceded. “I don't think that you have been much to blame, Collins. The question is, what is to be done next? I say, search the Manor, and see whether we can find any incriminating proof among Mrs. Miller's possessions. Your warrant will cover that, I imagine?”

“I suppose so,” the detective said thoughtfully. ‘‘It is a question that hasn't come my way before. But I think we might stretch a point.”

“And at once,” said Sir William Bunner emphatically. “Before any notion of this boy's story reaches the housekeeper. It is sure to get about, now the sister knows of it. Never was a woman born, I believe, capable of keeping such a secret to herself.”

“Ay, and we ought to have other evidence,” Collins agreed. “This lad is a doubtful sort of witness; sure to break down or have a fit at the sight of the judge or jury; we couldn't get a conviction without corroboration. With your leave, Sir William, I'll telephone to Spencer—he is at the village police-station here to-day—and will tell him to go up to the Hall with a couple of policemen and the warrant, and I'll walk over and join them.”

“I'll come with you myself, Collins,” Sir William declared, rising. “I want to see this business through.”

It was October 1st; autumn was setting in early; already there was a touch of frost in the air; the evening was beginning to draw in as the two men entered the park. They crossed the grass, keeping in sight of the avenue, and looking behind now and then for sight of the police from the village. Sir William was pointing out the various points at which, in his judgment, the boy's story would need confirmation, when suddenly the keen-sighted detective touched him.

“Do you see that, sir? It looks to me like her— Mrs. Miller.”

“What!” Sir William paused and adjusted his pince-nez. “It is Mrs. Miller,” he declared. “What is she up to? No good from the look of her. We must keep her in sight, Collins.”

Mrs. Miller was moving along in a curious, secretive manner, keeping in the shade of the trees and glancing about her from side to side. The two men turned and followed her down, treading softly and keeping at a safe distance.

She walked on, quickening her pace from time to time until she came in sight of an opening amidst the trees, from which a view of the village could be obtained. Then she stopped and fumbled in the bosom of her dress.

Suddenly Sir William uttered a sharp exclamation—the detective was before him. He sprang forward and caught the woman's arm. Something bright slipped from her hand and fell on the grass at her feet as she fought and wrestled with Collins.

The detective's strong arms held her firmly.

“Not so fast, not so fast, Mrs. Miller. Sir William, might I trouble you to glance at that pistol? Ah, I thought so!” as the judge picked it up and looked at it, raising his eyebrows as he saw the initials on the silver mount. “The very weapon we have been looking for so long—the one with which Rheinhart was shot. I think it will clinch matters for us, sir.”

“I think so,” the judge acquiesced gravely.

Mrs. Miller ceased to struggle; she stood motionless, quiescent, in her captor's grasp. Her white face was blotched with weeping, her reddened eyelids quivering automatically. Her upper lip twitched to one side, leaving the yellow, prominent teeth exposed. As Sir William spoke, she turned to him imploringly.

“Ah, let me do it, sir, let me do it. They will let him out then, and then perhaps Alice will forgive. He was her husband, you see, sir, and I never knew it. There isn't anything left for me to do but to die!”

“Among Mrs. Miller's effects at the Manor, labelled to be opened ‘immediately,' we found the following.” Inspector Spencer handed up a paper to the magistrates, amid the breathless silence of the crowded court.

It had been a day of surprises. No hint of the discoveries made by Sir William Bunner had been suffered to leak out previously, and their disclosure had been the more dramatic. Apparently, the one person who was most unmoved when Sir William Bunner and the detective were giving evidence was the prisoner himself. Only the very closest observer would have noticed the beads of perspiration on his brow, the nervous grip of his hands.

The crowd, the witnesses who had been called to give evidence as to Courtenay's movements, the magistrates themselves, had listened with supreme amazement to the gradual unfolding of the mystery of The Bungalow murder. Now that the key was in their hands, the solution seemed so simple, so obvious; so much that had looked dark and sinister was shown to be capable of an absolutely innocent interpretation. Their interest reached its culminating point when, after Edward Plummer had repeated his evidence—stumblingly indeed, but in a fashion that unmistakably bore the stamp of truth—after Sir William Bunner and Detective Collins testified to finding Mrs. Miller on the very brink of committing suicide with the pistol with which Maximilian von Rheinhart was shot, and to her words when they seized her, Inspector Spencer had entered the witness-box and detailed his search among the housekeeper's property, and the discovery of the papers which he now placed in the magistrate's hands.

The chairman opened the envelope, and glanced over the contents with his colleagues; then he looked at the barrister for the prosecution.