The Stowmarket Mystery by Louis Tracy (best classic books of all time TXT) 📕

“No. He told me she laughed at him, and invited him to witness the trying on of a fancy dress costume, the ‘Queen of Night,’ which she wore at a bal masqué the night he was murdered.”

“When did she get married?”

“Last January, at Naples, very suddenly, and without the knowledge of any of her relatives.”

“She had been living at Beechcroft nearly a year, then?”

“Yes, she went South in the winter. The reason she gave was that the Hall would be depressing on the anniversary of her brother’s death. She had become most popular in the district. Helen is very fond of her, and was quite shocked to hear of her marriage. The local people do not like Signor Capella.”

“Why?”

“It is difficult to give a reason. Miss Layton does not indulge in details, but that is the impression I gather from her letters.”

Hume paused, and Brett shot a quick glance at him.

“Finish what you were going to say,” he said.

“Only this—Helen and I have mutually released each other from our engagement, and in the same breath have refused to be released. That is, if you understand—”

The barrister nodded.

“The result is that we are both thoroughly miserable. Our respective fathers do not like the idea of our marriage under the circumstances. We are simply drifting in the feeble hope that some day a kindly Providence will dissipate the cloud that hangs over me. Ah, Mr. Brett, I am a rich man. Command the limits of my fortune, but clear me. Prove to Helen that her faith in my innocence is justified.”

“For goodness’ sake light another cigarette,” snapped the barrister. “You have interfered with my line of thought. It is all wriggly.”

Quite a minute elapsed before he began again.

“What caused the trouble at Mrs. Eastham’s ball?”

“I think I can explain that. It seems that Alan’s father told him to get married—”

“Told him!”

“Well, left instructions.”

“How?”

“I do not know. I only gathered as much from my cousin’s remarks. Well, it was not until his final home-coming that he realised what a beautiful woman the jolly little girl he knew as a boy had developed into. She was just the kind of wife he wanted, and I fancy he imagined I had stolen a march on him. But he was a thoroughly straightforward, manly fellow, and something very much out of the common must have upset him before he vented his anger on me and Helen.”

“Have you any notion—”

“Not the least. Pardon me. I suppose you were going to ask if I guessed the cause?”

“Yes.”

“It is quite unfathomable. We parted the best of friends in London, although he knew all about the engagement. We met again at 6 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, and he was very short with me. I can only vaguely assume that some feeling of resentment had meanwhile been working up in him, and it found expression during his chat with Helen in the conservatory.”

“Did you use threats to him during the subsequent wrangle?”

“Threats! Good gracious, no. I was angry with him for spoiling Miss Layton’s enjoyment. I called him an ass, and said that he had better have remained away another year than come back and make mischief. That is all. Mrs. Eastham was far more outspoken.”

“Indeed. What did she say?”

“She hinted that his temper was a reminiscence of his Southern birth, always a sore point with him, and contrasted me with him, to his disadvantage. All very unfair, of course, but, you see, she was the hostess, and Alan had upset her party very much.”

“So you walked home, and resolved to hold out the olive branch?”

“Most decidedly. I was older, perhaps a trifle more sedate. I knew that Helen loved me. There were no difficulties in the way of our marriage, which was arranged for the following spring. Indeed, my second trial took place on the very date we had selected. It was my duty to use poor Alan gently. Even his foolish and unreasonable jealousy was a compliment.”

Brett threw the scrap-book on to the table. He clasped his hands in front of his knees, tucking his heels on the edge of his chair.

“Mr. Hume,” he said slowly, gazing fixedly at the other, “I believe you. You did not kill your cousin.”

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“Thank you,” was the quiet answer.

“You hinted at some supernatural influence in relation to this crime. What did you mean?”

“Ah, that is the unpublished part of the affair. We are a Scots family, as our name implies. The first Sir Alan Frazer became a baronet owing to his services to King George during the ’45 Rebellion. There was some trouble about a sequestered estate—now our place in Scotland—which belonged to his wife’s brother, a Hume and a rebel. Anyhow, in 1763, he fought a duel with Hume’s son, his own nephew by marriage, and was killed.”

“Really,” broke in Brett, “this ancient history—”

“Is quite to the point. Sir Alan the first fought and died in front of the library at Beechcroft.”

The barrister commenced to study the moulding in the centre of the ceiling.

“He was succeeded by his grandson, a little lad of eight. In 1807, after a heavy drinking bout, the second Sir Alan Hume-Frazer cut his throat, and chose the scene of his ancestor’s duel for the operation.”

“A remarkable coincidence!”

“In 1842, during a bread riot, the third baronet was stabbed with a pitchfork whilst facing a mob in the same place. Then a long interval occurred. Again a small child became the heir. Three years ago the fourth baronet expired whilst the library windows were being opened to admit the litter on which he was carried from the hunting-field. The fate of the fifth you know.”

Brett’s chair emitted a series of squeaks as he urged it closer to the wall. At the proper distance he stretched out his leg and pressed an electric bell with his toe.

“Decanters and syphons, Smith,” he cried, when the door opened.

“Which do you take, whisky or brandy, Mr. Hume?” he inquired.

“Whisky. But I assure you I am quite serious. These things—”

“Serious! If my name were Hume-Frazer, nothing less than a runaway steam-engine would take me to Beechcroft. I have never previously heard such a marvellous recital.”

“We are a stiff-necked race. My uncle and cousin knew how strangely Fate had pursued every heir to the title, yet each hoped that in his person the tragic sequence would be broken. Oddly enough, my father holds that the family curse, or whatever it is, has now exhausted itself.”

“What grounds has he for the belief?”

“None, save a Highlander’s readiness to accept signs and portents. Look at this seal.”

He unfastened from his waistcoat his watch and chain, with a small bunch of pendants attached, and handed them to Brett. The latter examined the seal with deep interest. It was cut into a bloodstone, and showed a stag’s head, surmounted by five pointed rays, like a crown of daggers.

“I cannot decipher the motto,” he said; “what is it?”

“Fortis et audax.”

“Hum! ‘Strong and bold.’ A stiff-necked legend, too.”

He reached to his bookcase for Burke’s “General Armoury.” After a brief search, he asked:

“Do you know anything about heraldry?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Then listen to this. The crest of your, house is: ‘A stag’s head, erased argent, charged with a star of five rays gules.’ It is peculiar.”

“Yes, so my father says; but why does it appeal to you in that way?”

“Because ‘erased’ means, in this instance, a stag’s head torn forcibly from the body, the severed part being jagged like the teeth of a saw. And ‘gules’ means ‘red.’ Now, such heraldic rays are usually azure or blue.”

“By Jove, you have hit upon the old man’s idea. He contends that those five blood-coloured points signify the founder of the baronetcy and his four lineal descendants. Moreover, the race is now extinct in the direct succession. The title goes to a collateral branch.”

Brett stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“It is certainly very strange,” he murmured, “that the dry-as-dust knowledge of some member of the College of Heralds should evolve these armorial bearings with their weird significance. Does this account for your allusion to the supernatural?”

“Partly. Do not forget my dream.”

“Tell it to me.”

“During the trials, my counsel, a very able man, by the way—you know him, of course, Mr. Dobbie, K.C.—only referred to the fact that I dreamed my cousin was in some mortal danger, and that my exclamation ‘He is murdered!’ was really a startled comment on my part induced by the butler’s words. That is not correct. I never told Mr. Dobbie the details of my dream, or vision.”

“Oh, didn’t you? Men have been hanged before to-day because they thought they could construct a better line of defence than their counsel.”

“I had nothing to defend. I was innocent. Moreover, I knew I should not be convicted.”

The barrister well remembered the view of the case taken by the Bar mess. Even the redoubtable Dobbie was afraid of the jury. His face must have conveyed dubiety with respect to Hume’s last remark, for the other continued eagerly:

“It is quite true. Wait until I have concluded. After the footman brought the whisky and soda to the library that night I took a small quantity, and pulled an easy-chair in front of the fire. I was tired, having travelled all the preceding night and part of the day. Hence the warmth and comfort soon sent me to sleep. I have a hazy recollection of the man coming in to put some coal on the fire. In a sub-conscious fashion I knew that it was not my cousin, but a servant. I settled down a trifle more comfortably, and everything became a blank. Then I thought I awoke. I looked out through the windows, and, to my astonishment, it was broad daylight. The trees, too, were covered with leaves, the sun was shining, and there was every evidence of a fine day in early summer. In some indefinite way I realised that the library was no longer the room which I knew. The furniture and carpets were different. The books were old-fashioned. A very handsome spinning-wheel stood near the open window. There was no litter of newspapers or magazines.

“Before I could begin to piece together these curious discrepancies in the normal condition of things, I saw two men riding up the avenue, where the yew trees, by the way, were loftier and finer in every way than those really existing. The horsemen were dressed in such strange fashion that, unfortunately, I paid little heed to their faces. They wore frilled waistcoats, redingotes with huge lapels and turned-back cuffs, three-cornered hats, and gigantic boots. They dismounted when close to the house. One man held both horses; the other advanced. I was just going to look him straight in the face when another figure appeared, coming from that side of the hall where the entrance is situated. This was a gentleman in very elegant garments, hatless, with powdered queue, pink satin coat embroidered with lace, pink satin small-clothes, white silk stockings, and low shoes. As he walked, a smart cane swung from his left wrist by a silk tassel, and he took a pinch of snuff from an ivory box.

“The two men met and seemed to have a heated argument, bitter and passionate on one side, studiously scornful on the other. This was all in dumb show. Not a word did I hear. My amazed wits were fully taken up with noting their clothes, their postures, the trappings of the horses, the eighteenth century aspect of the library. Strange, is it not, I did not look at their faces?”

Hume paused to gulp down the contents of his tumbler. Brett said not a word, but sat intent, absorbed, wondering, with eyes fixed on the speaker.

“All at once the dispute became vehement. The more stylishly attired man disappeared, but returned instantly with a drawn sword in his hand. The stranger, as we may call him, whipped out a claymore, and the two