The Ponson Case

by

Freeman Wills Crofts

Contents

Chapter I.
Mystery at Luce Manor

The dying sun of a July evening shone rosily on the old Georgian house of Luce Manor, mellowing the cold grey of the masonry, bringing out with soft shadow its cornices and mouldings, and softening and blurring its hard outlines. A fine old house, finely set on the summit of a low hill, and surrounded by wonderful old trees, it seemed to stand symbolical of the peace, security, and solid comfort of upper-class rural England.

This impression was not lessened by the outlook from the terrace in front. Below, and already shadowed by the trees beyond from the sun’s rays, was a small Dutch garden, its walks and beds showing up faintly in the gathering gloom. To the right the drive swept off in an easy curve until it disappeared between two rows of beeches, celebrated in all the county round for their age and size. At the side of the house, and reached through a rose pergola, was the walled English garden, with its masses of colour, its laden bushes, and its range of glass houses. In front, beyond the lawn, whose oaks and elms stood singly like sentinels guarding the house, the country rolled away to a line of distant hills, while to the left, an opening in the trees gave a glimpse of the Cranshaw River, with behind a near horizon of tree-covered slopes.

Within, in a large room panelled in black oak, the master of the house sat at dinner. He was alone, the only other members of the household, his wife and his daughter Enid, being from home on a visit. Sir William Ponson, a self-made man, had retired from business some ten years before our story opens and, selling his interest in the large ironworks of which he was head, had bought Luce Manor and settled down to end his days in the rôle of a country squire. Though obviously a nouveau riche, and still retaining the somewhat brusque manners of his hard, northern upbringing, he had nevertheless been received with more cordiality into the local society than usually happens in such cases. For Sir William, though he had thus risen in the social scale, remained a simple, honourable, kindly old man, a little headstrong and short tempered perhaps, but anxious to be just, and quick to apologise if he found himself in the wrong.

It was seldom that Sir William partook of a solitary meal. He was fond of society, and kept open house for all who cared to visit him. He had rented some shooting, and though the fishing in the river was not good, it at least was fishing. The tennis courts were always in perfect condition, and there was a sporting golf course at the neighbouring town of Halford. But it spoke well for Sir William that, of all his acquaintances, those whom he liked best to welcome were his old, somewhat unpolished business friends from the north, by few of whom these pursuits were properly appreciated. In this he had the full sympathy of his wife, a stout, placid lady of uncertain age, who ruled over his household with leisurely, easy-going sway.

Enid Ponson, their only daughter, a young woman of some thirty summers, was a favourite everywhere. Not exactly beautiful, she was yet good to look at, with her pale complexion, dark eyes, and winning smile. But it was her wonderful charm that endeared her to those with whom she came in contact, as well as the sweetness and kindliness of her disposition. That she was unmarried was only explained by the fact that the man to whom she had been engaged had been killed during the Great War. Enid and her father were close comrades and allies. She adored him, while Sir William’s chief thought was centred in his daughter, upon whom he thought the sun rose and set.

When the family were alone it was Sir William’s custom after dinner to join his wife and Enid in the music room, where for hours the latter would sing and play, while her father smoked cigar after cigar, and the elder woman placidly knitted or crocheted. But tonight, being entirely alone, he retired at once from the table to his library, where he would sit, reading and smoking, till about ten or later he would ring for Parkes, the butler, to bring him his nightly tumbler of hot punch.

But ten came, and half past ten, and eleven, and there was no ring.

‘Boss is late tonight, Mr Parkes,’ said Innes, Sir William’s valet, as he and the butler sat in the latter’s room over a bottle of Sir William’s old port, and a couple of Sir William’s three and sixpenny cigars.

‘Sir William is behind his usual hour,’ admitted the butler in a slightly chilly tone. Innes had followed his master from the north and was, as Mr Parkes put it, ‘well in’ with him. The butler therefore thought it politic to be ‘well in’ with Innes, and was usually affable in a condescending way. But the latter’s habit of speaking of Sir William as ‘the boss,’ grated on Parkes’s sensitive ears.

The two chatted amicably enough, and under the influence of wine and tobacco time passed unnoticed until once again the clock struck.

‘That’s half-past eleven,’ said Parkes. ‘I have never known Sir William so late before. He is usually in bed by now.’

‘ “Early to bed, early to rise,” ’ quoted the valet. ‘There’s no accounting for tastes, Mr Parkes. I’d like to see you or me going to bed at ten-thirty and getting up at six when we needn’t.’

‘I don’t hold with unnecessarily early hours myself,’ the other agreed, and then, after a pause: ‘I think I’ll go and see if he wants anything. It’s not like him to retire without having his punch.’

‘Whatever you think, Mr Parkes, but for me, I could do here well enough for another hour or more.’

Without replying, Parkes left the room. Reaching the library door, he knocked discreetly and then entered. The electric lights were switched on and everything looked as usual, but the room was empty. The butler moved on, and opening a door which led to the smoking room, passed in. The lights were off here, as they were also in the billiard room, which he next visited.

‘He must have gone up to bed,’ thought Parkes, and returning to his room, spoke to Innes.

‘I can’t find Sir William about anywhere below stairs, and he hasn’t had his punch. I wish you’d have a look whether he hasn’t gone to bed.’

The valet left the room.

‘He’s not upstairs, Mr Parkes,’ he said, returning a few moments later. ‘And he’s not been either so far as I can see. The lights are off and nothing’s been touched.’

‘But where is he? He’s never been so late ringing for his punch before.’

‘I’m blessed if I know. Maybe, Mr Parkes, we should have another look round?’

‘It might be as well.’

The two men returned to the library. It was still empty, and they decided to make a tour of the lower rooms. In each they switched on the lights and had a look round, but without result. Sir William had disappeared.

‘Come upstairs,’ said Parkes.

They repeated their search through music room, bedrooms, dressing-rooms, and passages, but all to no purpose. They could find no trace of their master.

Mr Parkes was slightly perturbed. An idea had recurred to him which had entered his mind on various previous occasions. He glanced inquiringly at the valet, as if uncertain whether or not to unburden his mind. Finally he said in a low tone:

‘Has it ever struck you, Innes, that Sir William was apoplectic?’

‘Apoplectic?’ returned the other. ‘Why, no, I don’t think it has.’

‘Well, it has me, and more than once. If he’s annoyed he gets that red. I’ve thought to myself when he has got into a temper about something, “Maybe,” I’ve thought, “maybe some of these days you’ll pop off in a fit if you’re not careful.” ’

‘You don’t say, Mr Parkes,’ exclaimed Innes, in a tone of thrilled interest.

‘I do. I’ve thought it. And I’ve thought too,’ the butler went on impressively, ‘that maybe something like this would happen: that we’d miss him, and go and look, and find him lying somewhere unconscious.’

‘Bless my soul, Mr Parkes, I hope not.’

‘I hope not too. But I’ve thought it.’ Mr Parkes shook his head gravely. ‘And what’s more,’ he went on after a few moments, ‘keeping this idea in view, I doubt if our search was sufficiently comprehensive. If Sir William had fallen behind a piece of furniture we might not have seen him.’

‘We could go round again, Mr Parkes, if you think that.’

This proposition appealing favourably to the butler, a second and more thorough search was made. But it was as fruitless as before. There was no trace of Sir William.

And then the valet made a discovery. Off the passage leading to the library was a small cloak-room. Innes, who had looked into the latter, now returned to the butler.

‘He’s gone out, Mr Parkes. A soft felt hat and his loose black cape are missing out of the cloakroom.’

‘Gone out, is he? That’s not like him either. Are you sure of that?’

‘Certain. I saw the coat and hat no longer ago than this evening just before dinner. They were hanging in that room then. They’re gone now.’

The passage in which they were standing, and off which opened the smoking room, library, billiard room and this cloakroom, ran on past the doors of these rooms, and ended in a small conservatory, from which an outer door led into the grounds. The two men walked to this door and tried it. It was closed, but not fastened.

‘He’s gone out sure enough,’ said Parkes. ‘I locked that door myself when I went round after dinner.’

They stepped outside. The night was fine, but very dark. There was no moon, and the sky was overcast. A faint air was stirring, but hardly enough to move the leaves. Everything was very still, except for the low, muffled roar of the Cranshaw waterfall, some half mile or more away.

‘I expect he’s stepped over to Hawksworth’s,’ said Parkes at last. ‘He sometimes drops in of an evening. But he’s never been so late as this.’

‘Maybe there’s a party of some kind on, and when he turned up they’ve had him stay.’

‘It may be,’ Parkes admitted. ‘We may as well go in anyway.’

They returned to the butler’s room, and resumed their interrupted discussion.

Twelve struck, then half-past, then one.

Innes yawned.

‘I wouldn’t mind how soon I went to bed, Mr Parkes. What do you feel like?’

‘I don’t feel sleepy,’ the other returned, and then, after a pause: ‘I don’t mind confessing I am not quite easy about Sir William. I would be glad he had returned.’

‘You’re afraid—of what you were saying?’

‘I am. I don’t deny it. I feel apprehensive.’

‘Supposing we were to get a couple of lanterns and have a walk round outside?’

The butler considered this suggestion.

‘I am of opinion better not,’ he said at last. ‘If Sir William found us so engaged, he would be very annoyed.’

‘Maybe you’re right, Mr Parkes. What do you suggest?’

‘I think we had better wait as we are a while longer. Take another cigar, and make yourself comfortable.’

As both men settled themselves in easy chairs, the conversation began to wane, and before the clock struck again their steady breathing showed that each had adopted the most efficient known way of passing monotonous time.

About six o’clock the butler awoke with a start. He felt cold and stiff, and for a moment could not recall what had happened. Then, remembering, he woke the valet.

‘Six o’clock, Innes. We had better go and see if Sir William has returned.’

They retraced their round of the previous night, but everything was as before. They could find no trace of their master.

‘It’s daylight,’ went on Parkes, when their search was complete. ‘We might have a walk out now, I think.’

Leaving by the small conservatory door at the side of the billiard-room wing, they walked down the drive. The sun had just risen—a glorious, ruddy ball in the clearest of blue skies, giving promise of a perfect day. Everything was delightfully fresh. The sparkling dew-drops made the scene fairylike, and the clean, aromatic smell of the trees and earth was in their nostrils. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the air was full of the songs of birds, with, like a mighty but subdued dominant pedal, the sullen roar of the distant fall.

After passing between the two rows of magnificent beeches, whose branches met over the drive, they reached the massive iron gates leading on to the road. These, as was usual at night, were closed, but not locked.

There being no sign of the missing man, they retraced their steps and took a narrow path which led, through a door in the wall surrounding the grounds, to the same road. This door was also closed, but unlocked. Here again their quest was fruitless.

Returning to the house they made a more general survey, visiting the terrace and formal Dutch garden below, the rose pergola, the glass house, and the various arbours—all those places in which a sudden whim might have induced the master of these delights to smoke or stroll in the pleasant evening air. But all to no purpose. Sir William Ponson had vanished.

Parkes looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes past seven. He was beginning a remark to Innes when the latter suddenly slapped his thigh and interrupted.

‘I’ll lay you a sovereign to five bob, Mr Parkes, I know where the boss is. He’s gone in to Mr Austin’s, and he’s kept him all night.’

Austin Ponson was Sir William’s son. In many ways he was a disappointment to his father. On leaving Cambridge he had moved to chambers in London, ostensibly to read for the bar. But though he had read, it was not law, and after a couple of years of wasted time, and a scene with his father, he had dropped the pretence of legal work and turned himself openly to the pursuit of his own special interests. Finding the boy was determined to go his own way, Sir William had decided discretion was the better part of valour, and withdrawing his opposition to Austin’s plans, had instead enabled him to carry them out, increasing his allowance to £1000 a year. Austin was extremely clever and versatile. Something of a dreamer, his opinions and ideals irritated his practical father almost beyond endurance. He was a Socialist in politics, and held heterodox views on the relations of capital and labour. He read deeply on these subjects, and wrote thoughtful articles on them for the better class papers. He had produced a couple of social problem novels which, though they had had small sales, had been well reviewed. But his chief study and interest was natural history, or rather that branch of it relating to the life and habits of disease-bearing insects. To facilitate research work in this direction, he had thrown up his London chambers and, partly because his relations with his father were too strained to live with him with any pleasure, and partly because the latter’s residence in Gateshead was unsuitable for his hobby, he had taken a house with a good garden near Halford. That was eleven years ago, and he had lived there with an elderly couple—butler and housekeeper—ever since. Though caring nothing for society, he was not unpopular among his neighbours, being unassuming in manner, as well as kindly and generous in disposition. When his father had signified his intention of retiring, Austin had suggested the former’s taking Luce Manor, which was then for sale. The two had agreed to sink their differences, and by avoiding controversial subjects, they continued on good though not very cordial terms. When, therefore, Innes suggested Sir William had gone to visit his son, Parkes could not but agree this might be the truth.

‘It’s not like him all the same,’ the butler went on, ‘he never would walk two miles at night when he could have had a car by just ringing for it.’

‘He’s done it, I bet, all the same,’ returned Innes, ‘I’ll lay you what you like. There was something on between them.’

‘What do you mean?’ Parkes asked sharply.

‘Why, this. I didn’t tell you what I heard—it wasn’t no business of mine—but I’ll tell you now. You remember Mr Austin dining here last Sunday evening? The boss, as you know, had the hump all day, but Mr Austin when he came first was as sweet as you please. After dinner they went to the library. Well, sir, I was passing the door about half-past nine or maybe later, and I heard their voices inside. I judged they were having a bit of a row. I heard Mr Austin shouting, “My God, sir, she isn’t!” and then I heard the mumble of Sir William’s voice, but I couldn’t hear what he said. Well, that was all of that. Then about half-past ten, when Mr Austin was leaving, I was in the hall, and got him his coat, and he was just sort of green about the gills, as if he had been laid out in the ring. He’s always pleasant enough, but that night he took his coat and hat as if I was a blooming hat-stand, and out to the car without a word, and a look on his face as if he’d seen death. And Sir William hasn’t been the same since either. Oh yes! I guess they’ve had some sort of a dust up.’

Parkes whistled.

‘About the girl?’ he said, with a sharp glance.

‘So I thought. Miss Lois Drew may be a very nice young lady, and I don’t say she’s not, but she’s hardly the kind of daughter-in-law the old man would be looking out for.’

‘It’s a fact, Innes. You’re right. Now if it had been my Lady Evelyn, things would have been different.’

‘You bet,’ said the valet.

The men’s allusion was to a subject of common gossip in Halford. Austin Ponson was universally believed to be in love with the daughter of the local bookseller. And as universally, it was assumed that such a match would have the determined opposition of Sir William.

‘I think we might send in to Mr Austin’s, and find out,’ went on Parkes after a pause. ‘If he’s there no harm’s done, and if not, why, it might be just as well to tell Mr Austin.’

‘Well, I’ll go in and see him if you think so.’

‘I would be glad. Hughes can run you in in the small car.’

Some twenty minutes later Innes rang at the door of a pleasant looking little villa on the outskirts of Halford.

‘Is Mr Austin about yet, Mrs Currie?’ he asked, as an elderly woman, with a kindly, dependable face, answered.

‘He’s not down yet, Mr Innes. Will you come in?’

The valet answered her question with another.

‘Sir William didn’t call last night, I suppose?’

‘Sir William? No, Mr Innes, I haven’t seen Sir William for over a month.’

‘Well, I’ll come in, thank you, and when Mr Austin’s ready I’d like to see him.’

‘I’ll tell him you’re waiting.’

When some twenty minutes later Austin Ponson came into the room, Innes looked at him in some surprise. As a rule Austin was a man of easy and leisurely manners, suave, polished, and unhurried. He had an air of comfortable and good-humoured contentment, that made him a pleasant and soothing companion. But this morning he was strangely different. His face was pale, and dark circles below his eyes pointed to his having passed a sleepless night. His manner was nervous, and Innes noticed his hand shaking. When he spoke it was abruptly and as if he were upset.

‘Good morning, Innes. You wanted to see me?’

‘Sorry for troubling you so early, sir, but Mr Parkes sent me in with a message.’

‘Yes?’

‘It was to ask if you knew anything of Sir William, sir. He went out late last night without saying anything about it, and he has not turned up since, and Mr Parkes was a little anxious about him in case he might have met with an accident.’

A look almost of fear appeared in the other’s eyes.

‘And how should I know anything about him?’ he answered quickly, and Innes noticed that his lips were dry. ‘He did not come here. Have you tried at Mr Hawksworth’s or Lord Eastmere’s? He has dropped in to see them often in the evening, hasn’t he?’

‘That is so, sir, but we thought we had better consult you before raising an alarm. As you say, sir, Sir William has often gone over to these places in the evening, but never without saying he would be late, and he never stopped all night.’

‘Oh well, I expect he’s done it this time. But you had better go round and see. Stay, I’ll go with you myself. Wait a few minutes while I get some breakfast.’

Twenty minutes later they were on the road. They called at the two houses mentioned, but at neither had anything been heard of Sir William. It was nearly nine when they reached Luce Manor. Parkes hurried to meet them.

‘Any news, Parkes?’ asked Austin as he entered the house. He had recovered his composure, and seemed more at ease.

‘No, sir,’ replied the butler, ‘but we’ve made a discovery—just before you came.’

Again the flash of something like fear showed in the other’s eyes. He did not speak, and Parkes went on:

‘About ten minutes ago, sir, Smith, the under-gardener, who is boatman also, came up here asking for Sir William. I saw him, and he said he had just discovered that one of the boats was missing—stolen, he said. I kept him, sir, in case if you came back with Innes you might like to speak to him.’

Austin Ponson’s face paled as if this news was a shock.

‘Good Heavens! Parkes,’ he stammered, ‘you don’t mean to suggest—’

‘I thought, sir,’ resumed the butler smoothly, ‘that maybe Sir William had taken a sudden notion to go over and see Dr Graham. Sometimes, as you know, sir, gentlemen like to consult a medical man privately. He might have rowed himself across the river for a short cut.’

Austin seemed relieved.

‘Yes, yes, quite possible,’ he said. ‘But we ought to make sure. Run round, Innes, will you, in the car and find out.’

‘Will you see Smith, sir?’ asked the butler when Innes had gone.

Austin seemed to awake out of a reverie.

‘Yes—oh yes, I suppose so,’ he answered. ‘Yes certainly. Bring him in.’

A small, stout man, with a short brown beard stepped up. He was, he explained, boatman as well as under-gardener, and it was his custom each morning to visit the boathouse, give the boats a run over with a cloth, brush the cushions, and leave everything ready in case a boat might be required during the day. On this morning he had reached the boathouse as usual, and was surprised to find the door unlocked. Entering, he had at once noticed that the water gate connecting the basin in the house with the river was fully open, and then he saw that the Alice, the smallest of the skiffs, was missing. A glance at the rack had shown that the oars and rowlocks had also gone. He had looked round generally, but could not find any other trace of disturbance. He had immediately come up to the house to inform Sir William.

Austin Ponson had listened carefully to the man’s statement, and he now asked a question:

‘You say you were surprised to find the boathouse door unlocked. I have been at the boathouse scores of times, and I never knew it to be locked. Why should it have been locked then?’

‘I lock it, sir,’ the man replied, ‘every night at dusk. Every morning I open it, and it stays open through the day.’

‘And did you lock it last night?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘About what time?’

‘About 8.00 or 8.30, I should think.’

‘Who else has a key?’

‘No one but Sir William, sir.’

Austin turned to the butler.

‘Do you know where he keeps this key?’

‘In the drawer of his writing table, sir.’

‘See if you can find it now.’

In a few moments Parkes returned. Several keys, each attached to its neatly lettered block of wood, were in the drawer, but that of the boathouse door was missing.

‘That will do, thank you, Smith,’ Austin went on, then, when the man had withdrawn, he turned to the butler. He still seemed nervous and upset.

‘It seems pretty clear Sir William has gone out on the river; now what on earth would he do that for? I wish that man would come back from the doctor’s.’

‘He won’t be long, sir. Say ten minutes there and ten back, and five to make inquiries. He should be here in five or six minutes.’

In about that time Innes returned. Sir William had not called at Dr Graham’s.

Austin and Parkes exchanged troubled glances. The same terrible idea which had been in their minds since the discovery of the missing boat was forcing itself to the front.

The River Cranshaw was a broad and sluggish stream at Halford, and for the two miles or so of its course to the point where it passed Luce Manor. But just below Sir William’s grounds there was a curious outcrop of rock, and the waters had cut for themselves a narrow channel down which, when the river was full, they raced at ever increasing speed till they reached the Cranshaw Falls. Here they leaped over a ledge of rock, not very deep—not, in fact, more than four or five feet—but the river bed at the foot, and for some distance downstream, was so full of huge boulders that the waters danced and swirled, and were churned into a mass of foam as great as might have been expected from a fall of five or six times the height. A dangerous place at which there had been more than one accident. On the last occasion, some twenty years earlier, a party of a man and two girls had allowed themselves to drift into the narrow channel, and in spite of their frantic efforts, their boat had been carried over and all were drowned. The bodies, two of them frightfully disfigured, were found in the smooth water below the rapids. As at the present time, there had just been a severe thunderstorm followed by torrential rain over the whole country, the river was in flood, and the fear that a similar fate might have overtaken Sir William was only too reasonable.

For a few moments none of the men spoke. Then Austin, pulling himself together with an effort, said in a low tone, ‘We must go down the river, I’m afraid. Better bring Smith.’

The four men walked to the boathouse, and then turning downstream, continued their course along the bank. Soon they came to the rocky ground where, from 300 feet or more in width, the river narrowed in to about sixty. There was a strong fresh, and the water seethed and eddied as its speed increased, while the roar of the fall grew louder.

Just above the fall a two-arched bridge carried a road across the river, a huge rock in midstream parting the current, and bearing the masonry pier. Here the men divided, the butler and Smith crossing to the opposite bank, and Austin and the valet remaining on the Luce Manor side. Then they pushed on till they reached the fall itself.

The river was even higher than they had realised, almost as high as during the winter rains. It went over the ledge in a smoothly-burnished curve, then plunging into the mass of boulders, was broken into a thousand whirling eddies, all seething beneath leaping masses of foam. As the men looked at it their hearts sank. A skilful Canadian lumberman on a raft or in a strong, seaworthy boat might have negotiated the place in safety, but for an elderly business man like Sir William, in a frail skiff, only one end seemed possible.

Slowly they walked on, examining with anxious eyes the swirling flood. And then at last they saw what they were in search of. Near the end of the rapids, where the river had quieted down to a more even flow, the bow of a boat was sticking up out of the water against a rock. Hastening forward they caught their breath as they saw a little farther downstream a dark shapeless object, lying almost submerged in a backwater. It was the body of a man.

It was obvious that nothing in the nature of help could be given, as the man must have been dead long since. The body was on the Luce Manor side of the river, and Parkes and Smith hurrying round, the four stepped into the pool, and with reverent care lifted it out and laid it on the grass. One glance at the face was enough. It was that of Sir William Ponson.

Chapter II.
A Sinister Suggestion

For some moments the men stood, reverent, and bareheaded, looking down at the motionless form. The face was disfigured, the left cheek from the ear to the mouth being cut and bruised, evidently from contact with a boulder. The left arm also was broken, and lay twisted at an unnatural angle with the body.

At last Austin made a move. Taking out his handkerchief, he stooped and reverently covered the dead face.

‘We must send for the police, I’m afraid.’ He spoke in a low tone, and seemed deeply affected. ‘You go, Innes, will you? Take the large car and run them back to the bridge. You had better bring Dr Ames too, I suppose, and a stretcher. Also send this wire to Mr Cosgrove. We’ll wait here till you come.’

He scribbled a telegram on a leaf of his pocket book:

‘To Cosgrove Ponson, 174B Knightsbridge, London.—Terrible accident. My father drowned in river. Tell my mother at Lancaster Gate, then come.—Austin.’

Cosgrove Ponson was the only son of Sir William’s younger brother, and was consequently cousin to Austin and Enid. These three with Lady Ponson were now the only living members of the family. Cosgrove was a man of about five-and-thirty who had inherited some money from his father, and lived the careless life of a man about town. Though he had never got on well with Austin, he had been a favourite of Sir William’s, and had spent a good deal of time, on and off, at Luce Manor.

When the valet had gone Austin sat down on a rock and, leaning his head in his hands, seemed to give himself up to profound meditation. The others, uncertain what to do, withdrew to a short distance, not liking either to intrude, or, after what Austin had said, to leave altogether. So they waited until after about an hour Innes reappeared, and with him Dr Ames, a sergeant of police, and two constables carrying a stretcher.

‘Innes has told us, Mr Ponson. A truly terrible affair!’ said the doctor, with real sympathy in his voice. He shook hands with Austin, while the sergeant saluted respectfully.

‘I’m afraid, doctor, you can do nothing. He was dead when we found him.’

‘Ah, I imagined so from what your man said.’ Dr Ames knelt down and lifted the handkerchief from the battered features. ‘Yes, you are right. He has been dead for some hours.’ He replaced the handkerchief, and rose to his feet. ‘I suppose, Mr Ponson, you will have him taken to Luce Manor? There is no reason why that should not be done at once.’

‘I was only waiting for the stretcher.’

The doctor nodded and took charge.

‘Your stretcher, sergeant,’ he said.

The remains were lifted on, and slowly the melancholy little procession started. Before they left, the sergeant asked who had made the tragic discovery, and was shown exactly where the body had been found. One constable was left with instructions to see that no one touched the boat, and the sergeant and the other policeman walked with the party, taking their turns in carrying the sad burden. After Austin had instructed the butler to hurry on and prepare for them at the house, no one spoke.

When the body had been laid on the bed in Sir William’s room, and the little excitement caused by the arrival had subsided, the sergeant approached Austin Ponson.

‘Beg pardon, Mr Ponson,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to make a report about this, and I’m bound to ask a few questions. I hope, sir, you won’t mind?’

‘Of course not, sergeant. I understand you must do your duty.’

‘Thank you, sir. May I ask then if you can explain how this accident occurred?’

‘No more than you can, sergeant. I only know that Innes, Sir William’s valet, came to my house when I was dressing this morning, to know if Sir William was with me. He said he had gone out after dinner last night without leaving any message, and they didn’t know where he was. I came back with Innes, and they had just then learnt that the boat was missing. We thought perhaps my father had rowed across the river to see Dr Graham, and I sent round to inquire, but when we learnt he hadn’t been there we began to fear the worst. We therefore went down the river to see if we could find anything.’

‘And when, sir, did you see him last?’

‘On Sunday evening—three days ago. I dined here, and left about ten or later.’

‘And was he in his usual health and spirits then?’

‘Yes, I noticed nothing out of the common.’

‘And he said nothing then, or indeed at any time, that would explain the matter?’

‘Not a thing. He seemed perfectly normal in every way.’

‘Very strange affair, sir, where he could have been going to. Was he skilful with a boat?’

‘No, I should say not. He could row a little, but not well. He did not specially care for it. I rarely knew him to go out for pleasure.’

‘Thank you, sir. With your permission I will see now what Mr Parkes and the other men can tell me.’

He heard the butler’s story, then Innes’s and lastly Smith’s. He was a young and intelligent officer, and was anxious to send in a complete explanation of the tragedy in his report, but he was almost equally desirous not to inconvenience or offend Austin Ponson, whom he supposed would succeed Sir William and become a magistrate and a leading man in the district. Though he had admired Sir William and was genuinely shocked and sorry about the accident, yet he was human, and he could not but recognise the affair gave him a chance of coming under the special notice of his superiors.

Up to a certain point he was clear in his own mind what had occurred. Sir William had left his house sometime between 8.45 and 11.30 the previous evening, and had gone down to the boathouse with his key, entered, opened the water gate and taken out the Alice. In the darkness, and probably underestimating the amount of fresh in the river, he had allowed himself to be carried into the narrow channel. Once there he had practically no chance. The place was notoriously dangerous.

So much was plain enough, but the sergeant was bothered by the question, what had Sir William gone out for? No one had as yet thrown any light on this.

Calling Dr Ames, who, not having had any breakfast, was just finishing a somewhat substantial snack in the dining-room, the sergeant explained that he wished to go through Sir William’s pockets, if the doctor would come and assist him. They accordingly made their way upstairs and began their search.

The pockets contained just those articles which a man in Sir William’s position would naturally be expected to carry, with one exception. Besides the bunch of keys, handkerchief, watch, cigar-case, money and such like, there was a very singular object—nothing more nor less than a small-sized six-chambered Colt’s revolver, unloaded. There were no shells, either full or empty, and the barrel was clean, showing it had not been fired.

‘By Jove! Sergeant,’ Dr Ames exclaimed in a low tone. ‘That’s surprising.’

‘Surprising, sir? I should just think so! You never know, sir, about anybody. Sir William was the last man, I should have said, to go about armed.’

‘But he wasn’t armed, sergeant,’ rejoined the doctor. ‘A man with a revolver is not armed unless he has something to fire out of it. That’s no more an arm than any other bit of old iron.’

The sergeant hesitated.

‘That’s so, sir, in a way, of course. Still—you can hardly think of anyone carrying an empty revolver. I expect he must have had the habit of carrying shells, but by some oversight forgot them yesterday.’

‘Possibly. There doesn’t seem to be much else of interest anyway.’

‘No, sir, that’s a fact.’ The sergeant, having emptied all the pockets, began laboriously to make a list of the articles he had found. Dr Ames had taken up a small diary or engagement book, and was rather aimlessly turning over the sodden leaves. Suddenly he gave an exclamation.

‘Look here, sergeant,’ he whispered. ‘Here’s what you have been wanting.’

There was a division in the book for each day of the year, with notes of engagements or other matters in most. At the bottom of the space for the previous day—the portion which would probably refer to the evening—was written the words: ‘Graham, 9.00 p.m.’

‘There it is,’ went on Dr Ames. ‘That’s where he was going last night. He evidently intended to consult Dr Graham privately. As it was too far to walk round by the road, and he didn’t want to get a car out, he thought he would take a short cut by rowing across the river.’

The sergeant made a gesture of satisfaction.

‘You have it, sir. That’s just what he’s done. I don’t mind saying that was bothering me badly. But now, thanks to you, sir, the whole thing is cleared up. I’ll go over to Dr Graham’s directly, and see if I can’t learn something about it from him.’

‘I have an operation in an hour and I must go back to Halford, but I’ll come out again in the afternoon, and have another look at the body. If you call in with me tonight I’ll let you have the certificate.’

‘There’ll have to be an inquest, of course, sir.’

‘Of course. It should be arranged for tomorrow.’

‘It’ll be for the coroner to fix the time, but I would suggest eleven or twelve. I’ll call round tonight anyway sir, and let you know.’

Taking Smith, the gardener-boatman, and the constable who had helped to carry the body, the sergeant returned to the site of the accident. The river was falling rapidly, and with some trouble the four men succeeded in getting the damaged boat ashore. Smith identified it immediately as the Alice. A careful search in the neighbourhood brought to light the rudder and bottom boards—each split and torn from the rocks. But there was no sign of the oars or rowlocks.

It was useless, the sergeant thought, to look for the rowlocks. They would be at the bottom of the river. But the oars should be recoverable. Sending the two men downstream to search for them, he himself took the Argyle, which Austin had left for the convenience of the police, and drove to Dr Graham’s. That gentleman had not heard the news and was profoundly shocked, but when the sergeant went on to ask his question, he denied emphatically that there had been any appointment for the previous evening. Sir William, he stated, was a personal and valued friend, and they had often visited at each other’s houses, but he had never met the deceased in a professional capacity. He believed Dr Ames was Sir William’s medical adviser.

‘But, of course,’ Dr Graham concluded, ‘it is quite possible he may have wished to consult privately. He knows I am usually to be found in my study about nine, and he may have intended to walk up unobserved by the path through the shrubbery, come to the study direct, and enter by the French window.’

‘Very likely, sir,’ returned the sergeant, as he thanked Dr Graham and took his leave.

His next visit was to the coroner, who also was much shocked at the news. After some discussion the inquest was arranged for twelve o’clock the following morning, provided this would suit the chief constable of the district, who might wish to be present.

‘It will be a purely formal business, I suppose, sergeant?’ the coroner observed as the other rose to take his leave. ‘There are no doubtful or suspicious circumstances?’

‘None, sir. The affair is as clear as day. But, sir, I have been thinking the question may arise as to whether boating should not be prohibited altogether on that stretch of the river.’

‘Possibly it should, but I think we may leave that to the jury.’

The sergeant saluted and withdrew. Again taking the car, he reached the police station as the clocks were striking half-past two. Going to the telephone, he rang up the chief constable—to whom he had telephoned immediately on hearing of the accident—and reported what he had learnt. The official replied that he would be over in time for the inquest.

An hour later the two constables who had been sent to search the lower reaches of the river arrived at the police station. They had found the missing oars, and had taken them to Luce Manor, where they had been identified by Smith, the boatman. They had, it appeared, gone ashore close beside each other nearly a mile below the falls, and two points about the affair had interested the men. First, the oars had been washed up on the left bank, while the other things had been deposited on the right, and second, while all the latter were torn and damaged by the rocks, neither oar was injured or even marked.

‘What do you make of that, Cowan?’ the sergeant asked when these facts had been put before him.

‘Well, I’ll tell you what the boatman says, and it seems right enough. You know that there road bridge above the falls? There’s two arches in it. Well, Smith says he’ll lay ten bob the boat went through one arch and the oars the other. That would look right enough to me too, because the right side is more shallow and more rocky than the other, and more likely for to break anything up. The left side is the main channel, as you might say, and the oars might get down it without damage. At least, that’s what Smith says, and it looks like enough to me too.’

‘H’m,’ the sergeant mused, ‘seems reasonable.’ The sergeant knew more about sea currents than river. He had been brought up on the coast, and he had learnt that tidal currents having the same set will deposit objects at or about the same place. It seemed to him likely that a similar rule would apply to rivers. The body, boat, rudder, and bottom boards had all gone ashore at one place. The oars also were found not far apart, but they were a long way from the other things. What more likely than the boatman’s suggestion that the two lots of objects had become sufficiently divided in the upper reach to pass through different arches of the bridge? This would separate them completely enough to account for the positions in which they were found. Yes, it certainly seemed reasonable.

And then another idea struck him, and he slapped his thigh.

‘By Jehosaphat, Cowan!’ he cried, ‘that’s just what’s happened, and it explains the only thing we didn’t know about the whole affair. Those oars went through the other arch right enough. And why? Why, because Sir William had lost them coming down the river. That’s why he was lost himself. I’ll lay you anything those oars got overboard, and he couldn’t find them in the dark.’

To the sergeant, who was not without imagination, there came the dim vision of an old, grey-haired man, adrift, alone and at night, in a light skiff on the swirling flood—borne silently and resistlessly onward, while he struggled desperately in the shrouding darkness to recover the oars which had slipped from his grasp, and which were floating somewhere close by. He could almost see the man’s frantic, unavailing efforts to reach the bank, almost hear his despairing cries rising above the rush of the waters and the roar of the fall, as more and more swiftly he was swept on to his doom. Almost he could visualise the tossing, spinning boat disappear under the bridge, emerge, hang poised as if breathless for the fraction of a second above the fall, then with an unhurried, remorseless swoop, plunge into the boiling cauldron below.… A horrible fantasy truly, but to the sergeant it seemed a picture of the actual happening.

But why, he wondered, had both the oars taken the other arch? It would have been easier to explain the loss of one. With an unskilful boatman such a thing not unfrequently occurred. But to lose both involved some special cause. Possibly, he thought, Sir William had had some sudden start, had moved sharply, almost capsizing the boat, and in making an involuntary effort to right it had let go with both hands.

He was still puzzling over the problem when a note was handed him which, when he had read it, banished the matter of the oars from his mind, and turned his thoughts into a fresh direction. It ran:

Luce Manor, Thursday.—Please come out here at once. An unfortunate development has arisen.—Walter Ames.

Without loss of time the sergeant took his bicycle and rode out the two miles to Luce Manor. Dr Ames was waiting impatiently, and drew the officer aside.

‘Look here, sergeant,’ he said. ‘I’m not very happy about this business. I want a post-mortem.’

‘A post-mortem sir?’ the other repeated in astonishment. ‘Why, sir, is there anything fresh turned up, or what has happened?’

‘Nothing has happened, but’—the doctor hesitated—‘the fact is I’m not certain of the cause of death.’

The sergeant stared.

‘But is there any doubt, sir—you’ll excuse me, I hope—is there any doubt that he was drowned?’

‘That’s just what there is—a doubt and no more. A post-mortem will set it at rest.’

The sergeant hesitated.

‘Of course, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘if you say that it ends the matter. But it’ll be a nasty shock for Mr Austin, sir.’

‘I can’t help that. See here,’ the doctor went on confidentially, ‘some of the obvious signs of drowning are missing, and he has had a blow on the back of the head that looks as if it might have killed him. I want to make sure which it was.’

‘But might he not have got that blow against a rock, sir?’

‘He might, but I’m not sure. But we’re only wasting time. To put the matter in a nutshell, I won’t give a certificate unless there is a post-mortem, and if one is not arranged now, it will be after my evidence at the inquest.’

‘Please don’t think, sir, I was in any way questioning your decision,’ the sergeant hastened to reply. ‘But I think I should first communicate with the chief constable. You see, sir, in the case of so prominent a family—’

‘You do what you think best about that, but if you take my advice you’ll ask the Scotland Yard people to send down one of their doctors to act with me.’

‘Bless me, sir! Is it as serious as that?’

‘Of course it’s serious,’ rapped out the doctor. ‘Sir William may have been drowned, in which case it’s all right; or he may not, in which case it’s all wrong—for somebody.’

The sergeant’s manner changed.

‘I’ll go immediately, sir, and phone the chief constable, and then, if he approves, Scotland Yard. Where will you be, sir?

‘I have my work to attend to; I’m going home. You’ll find me there any time during the evening. And look here, sergeant. I’d rather you said nothing about this. There may be nothing at all in it.’

‘Trust me, sir,’ and with a salute the officer withdrew.

He rode rapidly back to Halford, and once again calling up the chief constable, repeated what Dr Ames had said.

The two men discussed the matter at some length, and it was at last decided that the chief constable should ring up the Yard and ask the opinion of the Authorities about sending down a doctor. In a short time there was a reply. Dr Wilgar and Inspector Tanner were motoring down, and would be at Luce Manor about eight o’clock. The sergeant went round to tell Dr Ames, and it was arranged that the latter should meet the London men there. In the meantime the sergeant was to see Austin Ponson, and break the disagreeable news to him.

This programme was carried out, and shortly after ten o’clock five men met at the police station at Halford. There were the medical men, Inspector Tanner, the sergeant, and Chief Constable Soames, who had motored over.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the latter, when the preliminary greetings were past, ‘we are met here under unusual and tragic circumstances, which may easily become more serious still.’ He turned to the doctors. ‘You have completed the post-mortem, I understand?’

‘We have,’ replied Dr Wilgar.

‘And are you in agreement as to your conclusions?’

‘Completely.’

‘Perhaps then you would tell us what they are?’

Wilgar bowed to Dr Ames, and the latter replied:

‘The first moment I glanced at the body the thought occurred to me that it had not exactly the appearance of a drowned man. But at that time I did not seriously doubt that death had so occurred. When, however, I came to make a more careful examination, the uncertainty again arose in my mind. There was none of the discolouration usual in such cases, and the wounds on the side of the face did not look as if they had been inflicted before death. But, as a result of the long continued washing they had had, I could not be certain of this. When in addition I discovered a bruise on the back of the head which might easily have caused death, I felt I would not be justified in giving a certificate without further examination.’

The chief constable bowed and Dr Wilgar took up the story.

‘When I saw the corpse I quite agreed with my colleague’s views, and we decided the post-mortem must be carried out. As a result of it we find the man was not drowned.’

His hearers stared at him, but without interrupting.

‘There was no water in the lungs or stomach,’ went on Dr Wilgar. ‘The wounds on the face occurred after death, and were doubtless caused by the boulders in the river, but the cause of death was undoubtedly the blow on the back of the head to which my colleague has referred.’

‘You amaze me, gentlemen,’ the chief constable remarked, and a similar emotion showed on the sergeant’s expressive face. Inspector Tanner, a fair haired, blue eyed, clean-shaven man of about forty, merely looked keenly interested.

‘Do I understand you to say that the late Sir William was killed before falling into the river?’ went on Mr Soames.

‘There is no doubt of it.’

‘That means, I take it, that he was flung out of the boat in such a way that the back of his head struck a rock, killing him before he dropped into the stream?’

‘We do not think so, sir,’ Dr Wilgar answered. ‘In that case he would certainly have swallowed water. Besides, the blow was struck square on with a blunt, smooth-surfaced implement. The skin was not cut as a boulder would have cut it. No, we regret to say so, but the only hypothesis which seems to meet the facts is that Sir William was deliberately murdered.’

‘Good gracious, gentlemen, you don’t say so!’ The chief constable seemed shocked, while the sergeant actually gasped.

‘I am afraid, and Dr Ames agrees with me, that there is no alternative. The blow on the back of the head was struck while Sir William was alive, and it could not have been self inflicted. It would have been sufficient to kill him. The other injuries occurred after death, and it is certain he was not drowned. There is no escape from the conclusion that I have stated. On the contrary, there is every reason to believe a deliberate and carefully thought out crime has been committed. Though it is hardly our province, it seemed to us the whole episode of the boat and the river was merely an attempt to hide the true facts by providing the suggestion of an accident. And I may perhaps be permitted to say that had a less observant and conscientious man than my colleague been called in, the ruse might easily have succeeded.’

‘You amaze me, sir,’ exclaimed Mr Soames. ‘A terrible business! I knew the poor fellow well. I met him in Gateshead before he moved to these parts, and we have been good friends ever since. A sterling, good fellow as ever breathed! I cannot imagine anyone wishing him harm. However, it shows how little we know’… He turned to Inspector Tanner. ‘I presume, Inspector, you came here prepared to take over the case?’

‘Certainly, sir; I was sent for that purpose.’

‘Well, the sooner you get to work the better. And now about the inquest. With the medical evidence there can be but one verdict.’

‘I think, sir,’ observed Tanner, ‘that with your approval it might be wiser to hold that evidence back. It might put some one on his guard, who would otherwise give himself away. I should suggest formal evidence of identification, and an adjournment.’

‘Very possibly you are right, Inspector. What reason would you give for that procedure?’

‘I would say, sir, that it is desirable on technical grounds that some motive for Sir William’s taking out the boat should be discovered, and that the inquest is being adjourned to enable inquiries on this point to be made.’

‘Very well. I shall see the coroner and arrange it with him. It is not of course necessary for me to remind you of the importance of secrecy,’ and with a bow Chief Constable Soames took his leave, and the meeting broke up.

‘Come along round and have some supper at the George,’ Inspector Tanner invited the sergeant. ‘I’ve got a private room, and I want a talk over this business.’

The sergeant, flushed with the honour, and delighting in his feeling of importance, accepted, and the two went out together.

An hour later they lit up their pipes, and Tanner listened while the sergeant told him in detail all he knew of the affair. Then the Inspector unrolled a large-scale map he had brought, and spread it on the table.

‘I want,’ he said, ‘to learn my way about. Just come and point out the places on the map. Here,’ he pointed as he spoke, ‘is Halford, a place of, I suppose, 3000 inhabitants.’ The sergeant nodded and the other resumed. ‘This road running through the town from north to south is the main road from Bedford to London. Now, let’s see. Going towards London it crosses the Cranshaw River at the London side of Halford, and for about a mile both run nearly parallel. Then at the end of the mile, what’s this? A lane leading from the road to the river?’

‘Yes, that’s what we call the Old Ferry. It’s a grass-grown lane through trees, and there’s a broken-down pier at the end of it.’

‘H’m. Then the river bears away towards the south-east; while the road continues almost due south. Luce Manor is here in this vee between them?’

‘Yes, that’s it, sir.’

‘I see. Then at the end of Luce Manor, a cross road runs from the Bedford-London road eastwards, crossing the river just above the falls and leading to Hitchin?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s right.’

‘So that the Luce Manor grounds make a triangle bounded by the main London road, the cross road to Hitchin and the river.’

The Inspector smoked in silence for some minutes. Then, rolling up the map, he went on:

‘Now I want to learn my dates, and also what weather you have been having. This is Thursday night, and it was, therefore, Wednesday night or early this morning the affair happened. Now what about the weather?’

‘We’ve had a lot of rain lately. It was wet up to last Monday. In the afternoon it cleared up, and it has been fine since—that is, here. But farther up the country there has been a lot of thunder and heavy rain. That has left the river full for this time of year.’

‘Wet up till Monday afternoon, and fine since, I see. Well, sergeant, I think that’s about all we can do tonight. By the way, could you lend me a bicycle for the morning?’

‘Certainly, I’ll leave it round now,’ and with an exchange of good-nights the men separated.

Chapter III.
Hoaxed?

As soon as it was light next morning Inspector Tanner let himself out of the hotel, and taking the sergeant’s bicycle, rode out along the London Road. It was again a perfect morning, everything giving promise of a spell of settled weather. The dew lay thick on the ground, sparkling in the rays of the rising sun, which cast long, thin shadows across the road. Not a cloud was in the sky, and though a few traces of mist still lingered on the river, they were rapidly disappearing in the growing heat. From the trees came the ceaseless twittering of birds, while from some unseen height a lark poured down its glorious song. The roads had dried up after the recent rains, but were not yet dusty, and as the Inspector pedalled along he congratulated himself on the pleasant respite he was likely to have from London in July.

He crossed the Cranshaw River, and gradually diverging from it, rose briskly through the smiling, well-wooded country. About a mile from the town a grass-grown lane branched off to the left, leading, he presumed, back to the river at the Old Ferry. From it began the stone wall which bounded the Luce Manor grounds, and he passed first the small door at the end of the footpath from the house, and then the main entrance. A little farther, some two miles from the town, he reached the cross roads and, turning to the left and still skirting the Manor lands, arrived after a few minutes at the two-arched bridge which crossed the Cranshaw immediately above the falls. Here he hid the bicycle among some bushes, then stepping on to the bridge, he looked around.

The river had greatly fallen, as he could see from the high water mark along the banks. But even now it was running fast, and swirled and eddied as it raced through the archways beneath. Below the falls the two distinct channels were visible, and Tanner could understand how objects passing through the right arch would almost inevitably get among the boulders and be smashed up, while those carried through the other might slip downstream uninjured.

In the opposite direction the river curved away between thinly-wooded banks, and on those banks the Inspector decided his work must begin. From the medical evidence it had seemed clear to him that Sir William Ponson had first been murdered, the body afterwards being placed in the boat. With the ground in the soft condition produced by the recent rains, this could hardly have been done without leaving traces. He must therefore search for those traces in the hope of finding with them some clue to the murderer’s identity.

Not far from the bridge there was a gate in the Luce Manor wall, leading from the road into the plantation of small trees which fringed the river. He passed through, and getting down near the water’s edge, began to walk upstream, scrutinising the ground for footprints. As he expected, most of the bank was still soft from the rain, but where he came to hard or grassy portions or where the rock out-cropped, he made little detours till he reached more plastic ground beyond. It was during one of these deviations, some quarter of a mile from the bridge, that he made his first discovery.

At this point a small stream entered the river, and the ground for some distance on each side had been trampled over by cattle coming to drink. The brook, which was not more than a couple of yards wide by a few inches deep, was crossed by a line of rough stepping-stones. The Inspector, looking about, saw that several persons had recently passed over. Their tracks converged like a fan at each end of the stones. Here, he thought, is where Austin Ponson and the butler, valet and boatman walked when searching for the body.

But Tanner was a painstaking and conscientious man. He never took probabilities for granted and, therefore, at the approaches to the stepping-stones, he set himself to check his theory by separating out the four prints for future identification. It gave him some trouble, but he presently found himself rewarded. Instead of there being four different prints, there were five. Four men had walked together down the river; the fifth had crossed slightly diagonally to the others, and had gone upstream. In all cases where the steps of this fifth man coincided with others the former were the lower, showing that their owner had passed up before the others came down. He had worn boots with nailed soles, and his steps were smaller and closer together than any of the others. Tanner deduced a small-sized man of the working classes.

He was about to move on, when, looking up the little tributary, he saw another line of steps crossing it some thirty yards above the stones. These were heading downstream, and the owner had evidently not troubled to diverge to the stones, but had walked right through the water. The soil at the place was spongy, and the tracks were not clear, but Tanner, by following them back, was able to identify them as those of this same fifth man.

The Inspector at first was somewhat puzzled by the neglect of the stepping-stones. Then it occurred to him that one of two things would account for it. Either the downward journey had been made at night when the unknown could not see the stones, or he had been too perturbed or excited to consider where he was going. And Tanner could not help recognising that anyone hastening from the scene of the murder would in all probability show traces of just such agitation.

He continued his search of the bank, seeing no traces of an approach to the river, but finding here and there prints of the four men going downstream, and of the fifth leading in both directions.

About a hundred yards before he reached the boathouse a paling went up at right angles to the river, separating the rough, uncared for bank along which he had passed from the well-kept lawn he was approaching. The grass on this latter was cut short, and looking up under the fine oaks and beeches studded about, he could see the façade of the house. A gravel path connected the two buildings, leading from the Dutch garden in front of the terrace straight down to the door of the boathouse. From the latter point another path branched off at right angles to the first, running upstream along the river bank. This, Tanner remembered from his examination of the map, afterwards curved round to the left, and joined the narrow walk from the house at the road gate. A third short path ran round the boathouse, and terminated in a flight of broad landing steps, leading down into the river.

A careful search of the ground near the boathouse revealed occasional impressions on the closely cut sward. The Inspector spent over an hour moving from point to point, and was at last satisfied as to what had taken place. The four men whom he had assumed were Austin and the servants, had evidently come down the path from the direction of the house. They had turned to the right before reaching the boathouse, thus approaching the river diagonally, and had crossed the paling bounding the lawn close to the water’s edge. These men had walked together and the tracks were exactly in accordance with the statement of their movements they had made to the sergeant.

The fifth man had crossed the paling almost at the same place as the others—it was the obviously suitable place—but instead of turning up towards the house, his steps led direct to the boathouse! Another line of the same steps led back from the boathouse to the fence—in neither case continuously, but here and there, where the grass was thin. And at two points along these tracks the Inspector gave a chuckle of satisfaction. At one there was a perfect impression of part of the right sole, and at another of the remainder and the heel. Tanner decided he must take plaster casts of these prints before they became blurred.

Passing the boathouse—he felt that marks in it, if any, would keep—he continued his careful search of the bank above flood level. Very painstaking and thorough he was as he gradually worked his way up, but no further traces could he find. At last after a good hour’s work he reached the Old Ferry. Here the track approaching the ruined pier was hard; and he recognised that, shut in as it was by trees, it would have made an ideal place for disposing of the body. He thought he need hardly expect traces above this, but, as he wished to cross the river, and he could do so no nearer than the London road bridge at Halford, he continued along the bank, still searching. Then, reaching the bridge, he crossed and worked in the same way down the left bank till he reached the other bridge at the Cranshaw Falls. When the work was completed, he felt positive the body could only have been set adrift at either the boathouse or the Old Ferry.

It was now eleven o’clock, and he had been at it for over five hours. Taking the bicycle, he rode back into Halford, where he had a hurried meal. Then he left again to attend the inquest at Luce Manor.

A long, narrow room, with oak-panelled walls, and three deep windows, had been set aside for the occasion. Round the table, which ran down the centre, sat the jury, looking self-conscious and important. At the head was the Coroner, and near him, but a little back from the table, were Austin and Cosgrove Ponson, Dr Ames, the butler, valet, boatman, sergeant, and a few other persons. As Tanner entered and slipped quietly to a seat, the Coroner was just rising to open the proceedings.

He made a brief speech deploring the unhappy event which had robbed their neighbourhood of so worthy and so useful a man as Sir William, and expressing on his own behalf and that of those present the sympathy which they felt for the surviving members of the family. Then he lamented the fact that the law required an inquest, and promised that on his part at least the proceedings should be conducted so as to give the least possible amount of annoyance and pain. Partly on that account, and partly because the authorities for technical reasons required some information which there had not as yet been time to obtain, he did not propose to complete the inquest that day, but after formal evidence of identification had been taken he would adjourn the proceedings to a more convenient date.

The speech was cleverly worded. While it stated nothing explicitly, its whole suggestion was that as every one knew an accident had happened, further inquiry must be mere waste of time. He touched but slightly on the adjournment, proceeding at once to call the roll and swear in the jury.

While he was speaking Tanner ran his sharp eyes over the faces of those present, memorising their features, and noting their demeanour. There sat Parkes, the butler, solemn and ponderous, surveying the scene with grave and decorous interest. Innes, sharp-eyed and alert, seemed to be watching the proceedings with an eye for flaws in the Coroner’s law. Smith, the gardener-boatman, somewhat overawed with his surroundings, was evidently there, a plain man, to tell a plain man’s tale. After registering a mental picture of each, Tanner’s gaze passed on, but when it reached Austin Ponson it halted and remained steady.

The son and nephew were seated together. There was a considerable similarity in their appearance. Of middle height, both had blue eyes, clear complexions, and clean-shaven chins. Their features were not unlike, but Austin was stouter, and seemed younger, and more easy going. Cosgrove looked as if he had lived hard. He was thin, and lines radiated from the corners of his eyes while the hair near his temples showed slightly grey. He had the indefinable stamp of a society man, which Austin lacked. But both were well looking enough, and would have passed unnoticed among any crowd of well-dressed Englishmen of the upper classes.

But it was not on these points of superficial resemblance that Tanner’s gaze rested. He was a reader, so far as he was able, of hearts. And it was the expressions of the cousins which had specially attracted his attention.