Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926

Each voice was raised against the interloper when crime stained the last inheritors of the great house

I

In an orchard where the apple blossom rose out of a flood of bluebells a hammock was slung. In the hammock lay a creature the same size all the way along, like a slug, a slug wearing gray tweed and fair hair.

To this scene of peace entered with sprightly grace, like an actor manager to his love scene, the chief of the criminal investigation department, the Hon. Sidney Lomas. He approached the hammock, put up his eyeglass, and gazed tenderly at the still body.

In it one blue eye opened. “Reginald, my dear fellow,” said Lomas with affection and patted him. “How goes it?”

Reggie Fortune squirmed, revealing a face of delicate complexion and brushed back his tumbled hair. “Can aught atone?” he murmured. “Lomas, you have waked me up. That was my after-lunch sleep. And it isn’t time for tea.” He sighed deeply and looked at Lomas with large, reproachful eyes. “You have no heart, Lomas. I believe you actually want me to work.”

“Oh, no. We’re doing splendidly without you. There’s nothing to do. I only came over to see how you were getting on.”

“The patient is going on as well as can be expected, but cannot yet sleep more than twenty-four hours in the day.”

Mr. Fortune was, in fact, recovering his strength after the blood poisoning which he acquired in his work as medical expert for the crown upon the historic crime of the abominable Armenian, Comnenus. For his convalescence that majestic woman novelist, Mrs. Hamilton Chapone, lent him her cottage on the Wessex downs and there you behold him living the simple life in beautiful isolation — with his own cook!

At tea in the sun lounge, which looks across five miles of smiling fields to the sea, he ate cream cakes pensively while Lomas dallied with an anchovy sandwich and explained how he came. The chief constable of Wessex had asked him for advice, so he combined business with pleasure, the chief constable with Reggie Fortune.

Mr. Fortune looked at the empty plate, Mr. Fortune sucked cream from a finger and sighed. “Is there a constable in Wessex?” said Mr. Fortune, dreamily. “Why?”

“He hasn’t much to do or he wouldn’t have bothered me with this. A husband has left his wife, Reginald. That’s all.”

“In Wessex?” said Mr. Fortune. “Nasty fellow.”

“I don’t know the local rules, but it’s not a crime.”

“Depends on the wife. Who are they?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Julian Brase.”

“Brase? One of our good old county families, what? Genuine antique, aren’t they?”

“Oh, prehistoric. So’s the estate. Julian Brase, heir of all the ages and a lot of land mortgaged up to the treetops, married an Australian heiress two years ago. She paid off the debt and they’ve been living down here putting the place to rights. The county didn’t take to Mrs. Brase.

“They think she’s rather free and a good deal too easy. Julian Brase is a limp fellow — the sort of stuff these old families finish in. A week ago the Brases were due to dine at the rectory. Mrs. Brase sent a note to say her husband was ill. The rector’s wife called at Brase Hall next day with kind inquiries.

“Mrs. Brase was very short with her. Said he had gone to London on business. Brase has a brother somewhere near, ex-army man, little place of his own, breeds Pekingese, that sort of fellow. The rector’s wife set him on to call. Mrs. Brase was very short with him, too.

“Told him Julian had gone off for a holiday and left no address. The brother thought it over for a day or two and then came to the county police and said it was queer. The rector’s wife seems to have stirred him up. The chief constable didn’t think much of it, but he put some men on and they found out that nobody had seen Julian go away.

“You know what a country station is. The local magnate gets noticed. Julian wasn’t. And the Brase chauffeur swore he didn’t go in one of his own cars. Then the chief constable began to sit up and take notice. He asked me what to do about it. I said, have the lady seen by an inspector and shaken up. So an inspector called, and Mrs. Brase told him her husband had gone to the devil and turned him out. The inspector thought her peevish.”

“Not one of our good liars,” said Mr. Fortune sadly. “He was ill. He had gone to London. He had gone on a holiday. He had gone to the devil.”

“Quite feminine,” Lomas smiled. “Quite conjugal. They’ve had a row and the lady didn’t want it known.”

“Yes. Yes. Does it seem to you that explains anything? When was the missing husband missed?”

“My dear fellow!” Lomas looked at him with sympathy. “I told you, you know. A week ago. When they were due to dine at the rectory and Mrs. Brase said he was ill.”

“I know you told me,” said Mr. Fortune, a little petulant, a little shrill. “I mean when was he last seen? Who saw him?”

“Oh, I haven’t gone into it,” Lomas waved it away. “It’s no matter.”

Mr. Fortune sat up. “He’s reported missing when he has an outside engagement. He’s said to be gone and no one saw him go. But it’s no matter.”

“My dear fellow! He had legs when last heard of. He could have walked to Kingford or Highbury — say, four miles and both busy stations. He might have picked up a car on the road. We know nothing about it.”

“That’s what I’m pointing out, Lomas.”

“Yes, I see. Quite. But, my dear Reginald, why so earnest? We’re not taking it up, you know. I only told you to amuse you. You mustn’t let it bother your head.”

“Don’t soothe me,” Mr. Fortune cried. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Of course not,” Lomis smiled at him with paternal affection. “In the pink. Extremely pink, to be frank. Well, when we have anything you shall hear all about it. I must really be going, you know.”

Of which he had no intention, but as he did intend he made Reggie Fortune’s hospitable conscience smart and he was persuaded to dine and sleep and was promised one of Elise’s supremes and some Montrachet of nobility.

II

The dinner was all that Mr. Fortune’s fancy painted, but afterward as they sat on either side a fire of old apple wood Lomas was called to the telephone. He came back humming a love song of musical comedy. Mr. Fortune looked at him reproachfully. “You said I should hear when you had anything, Lomas,” he complained.

“Confound you,” Lomas frowned — and laughed. “Well, it is something. Mrs. Brase has bolted.”

“Well, well,” said Reggie Fortune.

“She went off by the London train today. When the police heard of it she was clear away. No trace the London end. They went up to Brase Hall. She had told the servants she was never coming back. That’s all.”

“And very interestin’, too,” Reggie murmured and reached for a cigar.

“No,” said Lomas with decision. “You’ve had quite enough. Go to bed and sleep, Reginald. It isn’t your case.”

“Oh, I shall sleep all right,” said Mr. Fortune. “You really are soothing, you know.”

Though Lomas has an European fame for late rising, Reggie Fortune was later next morning. He appeared dreamy and benign, as Lomas drew to the end of breakfast, praised the beauties of nature, and gave a lecture on sausages with an excursus on the right kind of marmalade to eat after them.

It was at this point that the telephone asked for Lomas again.

When he was done with it he found Reggie extended peaceful with a large cigar. “May I ring for my car?” he said, and did so.

“Are you taking up the case, Lomas?” Reggie smiled.

An official solemnity rebuked him. “Julian Brase has been found,” Lomas announced. “This morning his body was found in his own park. The county police have asked for our assistance. Of course this alters the whole case.”

“Dear Lomas,” Reggie chuckled. “Has he been moved?”

“I told them to touch nothing. I am going over at once. I’ve telephoned for Bell.”

“Me, too,” said Reggie Fortune, and rolled out of his chair.

The car bore them away by the road at the foot of the downs.

“I feel rather criminal, Reginald,” Lomas apologized. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned the case to you.”

“I wouldn’t be out of it for the world.”

“You’re really not yourself, you know. It’s not like you to be so keen.”

“It’s not like your usual cases, Lomas.”

“Isn’t it?” said Lomas gloomily.

“Well, look at it. He was missing a week ago. His wife bolted yesterday. He was found this morning. Not quite normal crime, Lomas, old thing. Very odd sequence.”

“We don’t know that it is a crime.”

“No. No. Slight flavor of the late Dr. Crippen upside down. But nothing definite. No base imitation.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder.”

“You thought there was something queer last night.”

Reggie chuckled. “Aha! The mysterious, sinister figure of the rector’s wife.”

Lomas, with some heat, declined to know what he meant.

Where the downs break into a cluster of hills, Brase Hall stands gray in a hollow and takes the valley and one sheltering hill for its park. The car turned in at a gate guarded by two stone bears of the Brase arms and one policeman.

The latter stopped them, saluted Lomas’s name, said the inspector was waiting for them and they must turn off the drive and take the track up the hill and they could not miss him. “Very efficient, Reginald,” Lomas smiled. But Reggie only grunted in reply.

The lower slopes of the park bore mighty trees of beech and ash, but when they turned and climbed the track led over bare turf. On the wind-swept breast of the hill nothing moved, the turf bore no marks, but that of the old gray track by which they climbed and another coming to meet it on a long slant from the blue smoke where a village nestled.

They came in sight of the circle of stunted beech that marked the summit. There stood two cars and some men.

One of them hurried forward. “Mr. Lomas, sir? I’m Inspector Warnham,” he was bullnecked and brisk. “Only waiting for you to move him.”

“Quite right. This is Mr. Fortune, inspector, our medical expert.”

“I’ve got a doctor here, sir. He says it’s quite a clear case. Man was shot in the head.”

“Sounds conclusive,” Reggie murmured.

The inspector nodded. “Yes, sir. Pretty clear. You’d like to speak to Dr. Harcourt? Here we are.”

Dr. Harcourt, a voluble fellow, could tell Mr. Fortune all about it in a sentence and took twenty, but they came to the body at last.

Julian Brase lay on his face in the ring of beech trees, a slight body in brown tweed on the brown leaves. He might have been asleep but for his stiffness, but for the dark stain which came from his head down his face and neck. Reggie knelt beside him and looked long, moved his cap and the head bent closer, while above him Dr. Harcourt discoursed, telling him what he should see with growing impatience.

Reggie rose slowly and stood surveying the landscape. “Extensive view, what?” he murmured and wandered away.

“What about it, Fortune?” Lomas called.

Reggie turned and strolled toward him. “Well, the man was shot by a revolver fired close to the left temple and died some days ago.” He looked curiously at Inspector, Warnham. “Any questions?”

“Why did they bring him to the top of a hill to shoot him?” said Lomas.

The inspector nodded. “Ah, that’s got it, sir.” He lowered his voice. “This place here was the favorite walk of Mrs. Brase. Kind of haunt of hers,” he gave the aspirates a sinister emphasis.

“Who put you on to it?”

“Well, sir, when we heard Mrs. Brase had bolted we made arrangements to search the place. There was talk in the village as Mr. Brase might be somewhere in the park and some said as Mrs. Brase was often up here. I couldn’t tell you who said it first.”

Reggie smiled wearily. “The rector’s wife, Lomas,” he said, and again wandered away.

“It might be or it mightn’t,” the inspector was offended. “Does the gentleman want to do any more, sir?” He stared angrily at Reggie’s back.

“I’m afraid he wants to do a lot more,” said Lomas, and went after him while the inspector and the doctor conferred and agreed that Mr. Fortune was too clever by half.

It is not the impression that he is wont to make. He has been heard to apologize for his work on the case, confessing he was not in his best form. Lomas, following him as he drifted hither and thither among the trees, thought that such aimless delay was sadly unlike him.

He came to a stand on the edge of the hill where the tracks met, and looked again at the extensive view. Lomas put a hand on his shoulder. “Always jolly where the chalk ends, isn’t it?” Reggie murmured.

“My dear fellow! Do you feel up to this?” Lomas said anxiously.

“Yes, I think so,” Reggie smiled.

Inspector Warnham arrived to ask if Mr. Fortune wished to be present at the post mortem. Reggie contemplated him with dreamy eyes. “Oh, ah! Where does that track go to?” He pointed to the one by which they had not come.

“That one? Down to Brase. The village,” the inspector snapped.

“Where the rector’s wife is,” Reggie murmured. “You didn’t come up that way?”

“No, sir, we didn’t. Would you come along, please? Dr. Harcourt’s in a hurry.”

III

Reggie stared at him in a mild surprise and strolled down the village track. He came back to find the body already in a car and the doctor fuming, but he lingered about the place where it had lain. “Perhaps you’ll join me at Hors-bury, Mr. Fortune,” the doctor cried, and drove away.

Mr. Fortune rose from the ground. “And that’s that,” he murmured.

Inspector Warnham and his men climbed into their car and departed and still Reggie wandered among the trees.

“What is it, Reginald?”

“Hasty, don’t you think, a little hasty?”

“Why, there’s nothing more here.”

Reggie stared at him with large vague eyes. “No. Nothing here. Come on.” They walked to their car and Reggie sank down in his seat with a sigh. “Let her out, Lomas, or they’ll hang somebody before we get there.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. A horrid case, Lomas. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. Let her go. No paltry caution.”

In his office at Horsbury the chief constable of Wessex presided over a conference. He was a colonel of the old school, and he had a good deal to say which was not relevant, and Inspector Warnham reported what they all knew, and Lomas, who had been re-enforced by his lieutenant, Superintendent Bell, smoked many cigarettes.

The afternoon was thus far spent when they were interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Fortune. “I hope I don’t intrude?” he murmured, as Lomas introduced him.

“Come in, doctor, come in,” said the chief constable. “We’re waiting for the medical evidence.”

“Well, the dead man had lived rather fast. Not a very nice man.”

“We’ve got nothing against him, doctor,” said the inspector.

“Lived a man’s life, eh, what?” the chief constable chuckled.

“Yes. He was feeling like that. He was shot in the left temple at close quarters by a service revolver. Death was immediate. And he died some days ago.”

“Say a week?” the inspector asked sharply.

“Quite possible. Oh, is that a map of the place?” Reggie bent over the table. “Six inch ordnance? Good!” Superintendent Bell made room for him and he sat down to it.

“Service revolver,” the inspector repeated. “Sure of that, doctor?”

Bell snorted. Lomas laughed. Reggie looked up and gazed mildly at Inspector Warnham. “Oh, I think so, I think so,” he said, and produced a small box wherein on cotton wool lay a revolver bullet. “Any objection?”

“That’s all right,” the inspector rubbed his hands. “Service revolver. Mr. Brase went through the war, sir.” He turned to the chief constable. “There’d be a service revolver of his handy.”

“It wasn’t suicide, you know,” Reggie murmured.

“I bet it wasn’t,” the inspector grinned. “We’ll have a hunt for that revolver, sir.”

“Yes. Yes. Might have a look for the cartridge case, too,” said Reggie. “Did you notice it wasn’t there?”

“What do you mean?” the inspector cried.

“The blood wasn’t there, either.”

“Blood! He’d bled down all his face and neck.”

“Yes. Yes. And not a drop on the ground. Very tidy of him.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, doctor.”

“He wasn’t killed where you found him dead.”

Bell smiled benevolently. “Now you’ve got something, Warnham.”

“God bless my soul!” said the chief constable. “You mean to say his body was carried up there?”

“I shall say at the inquest he wasn’t killed where you found him.”

“What’s the sense of that?” the inspect tor frowned.

“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow! You supply the sense. I only produce the facts.” Mr. Fortune bent again over the map.

“Cherchez la femme, what, what?” said the chief constable. “That’s the thing, Warnham.”

“Well, well,” said Reggie, and lay back in his chair and gazed at them as they began to devise the hunt for Mrs. Brase, then sighed and left them to it.

IV

Thus they arrived in the musty but seventeenth century sitting room reserved for them before the case was spoken of again. Then Reggie swaying before the fire with his cigar said: “Well, what about Mrs. Brase?” Bell handed him a photograph.

“Oh, my aunt!” he murmured. It showed a woman tall and strongly built, a woman who might be handsome, but was given by photography a haggard and restless aspect.

“They say she don’t take well, but this is like her. Striking face, sir.”

“Striking!” Lomas chuckled. “That’s the word, Bell.”

“Yes. But you can’t hang her for her face.”

“It will rather prepare the public mind, though,” Lomas said.

“This isn’t the photograph we’re circulating, Mr. Fortune,” Bell explained. “But they’re all alike.”

“Oh, photograph and description to all police stations. Warrant, too?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“You surprise me.”

“Spoke very sarcastic,” Lomas smiled. “Reginald, you’re being superior. It hurts my trustful nature. What’s the matter?”

“You’re all so hasty.”

Lomas shrugged. “The woman ran away. We’ve got to run after her.”

“What’s the case against Mrs. Brase?”

“That’s what I want her to tell me.”

“Charge her first, find the evidence afterward.”

Bell shook his head. “She shouldn’t have run, Mr. Fortune.”

“One murdered husband is a prima facie case,” Lomas said mildly. “I want to hear her explanation. She’s given four, you know. He was ill. He’d gone to London. He’d gone on a holiday. He’d gone to the devil. And all the while he was dead.”

“The case against her is that the rector’s wife don’t like her, the county don’t like her, the county police don’t like her and the county inspector is God’s own ass.”

“My dear fellow, somebody killed the husband. We must ask her for her views about that. It’s only decent. He was shot at her door.”

“You think so?” said Reggie. “I’m going to swear he wasn’t killed in the park.”

Bell whistled. Lomas sat up. “This isn’t quite nice of you, Regginald,” he said. “Not even in the park? Evidence grown a little, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. I had found sand in the blood clot. I didn’t know the park was all chalk.”

“A little subtle, a little thin, isn’t it?” Lomas frowned. “Anything more?”

“No. That’s the lot. But it don’t fit Mrs. Brase.”

“I don’t know. It might do very well. I’ve got a sleeve, too, Reginald. There was a man down in the village a month ago, painting or pretending to paint. Mrs. Brase said he was an old friend. She played at art in Paris before she was married. They were together a good deal. It was talked about. Warnham says it made bad blood between her and her husband.”

“The rector’s wife again,” said Reggie.

“I dare say. Brase has a brother, too, you know.”

“Yes. Yes. Lots of nice friends for Mrs. Brase. Was the artist down here when Brase was missed?”

“No evidence.”

“Rector’s wife draws the line somewhere. Who is the mysterious artist?”

“Used the name of Alford. Big fellow. Spoke with some sort of a twang. Foreign in his ways, they say.”

“Big fellow. And she’s big, too,” Reggie murmured. His round face was lined with melancholy. “I wonder.”

“You mean they could have carried him up there between them, sir?” said Bell.

Reggie gazed at him. “It could be. Sorry, Lomas. My error. You’ll have to find them. Nasty case.” He rose like a very tired man and lounged out.

“Not himself, Mr. Lomas,” Bell shook his head. “Not up to it yet, he isn’t.”

But the morning brought Reggie down in his usual amiable placidity, only a little silent and dreamy. He woke up when Lomas spoke of going back to town. “Yes. You go and find them. Leave me Bell.”

“My dear fellow! Are you staying? There is nothing more for you, is there?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know the place. I don’t know anything. Leave me Bell. I want him to protect me. I’m afraid of this fierce inspector.”

Lomas went off with a laugh. “All right. Don’t let him hang the rector’s wife, Bell.”

The methods of Mr. Fortune seemed to Superintendent Bell uncommonly frivolous. They took a car, they put it up at an inn two miles from Brase Hall, they walked out not to the place where the body was found, but by a rambling route to the village of Brase.

On the way, they talked with every human creature they met, in the village they had to wander about like trippers, admiring a cottage here and there, going over the church with the sexton, drinking beer with the landlord of the inn.

Superintendent Bell admired, not for the first time, Mr. Fortune’s ability to make anybody talk to him, but found the innumerable conversations remote from the crime.

V

When they came out of the inn Mr. Fortune smiled. “Well, what do you make of it all, Bell?”

“Sir?” Bell stared.

“They all like Mrs. Brase. And nobody cares a damn about him.”

“Now, you put it like that,” Bell said slowly.

But Reggie slid back from his wondering eyes into the porch of the inn. “Look at that. Go and talk to him. Don’t say I’m here.” Bell was left staring at the police car which stood by the rectory gate. He obeyed orders.

When the inspector and his car were out of sight, Reggie joined him again. “Warnham’s been up searching the hall with Brase’s brother,” Bell reported. “Found nothing much. No pistol. Some old letters to her, signed Tim. He says that’s this artist chap. But he can’t get any proof the man was here last week. That’s what he went to the rectory about. He’s made up his mind Mrs. Brase hasn’t gone abroad. He’s found her passport.”

“Passport!” said Reggie with contempt. “Well, well. There’s some brains somewhere, but not in Warnham. One of the bulldog breed. Muddled case, isn’t it?”

“He’s not what I’d call bright, sir. But he’s working the only clews he’s got.”

Reggie stopped. “Oh, Bell! Oh, my Bell!” he said sadly. “He hasn’t even begun.”

“No, sir. Where would you begin?”

“When was the dead man last seen alive? Who saw him? Where was he?”

“I reckon Mrs. Brase is the one to tell us that.”

“Oh, my aunt! Of course, the murderer saw him last. But there must be somebody here who saw him last but one. Who was it and where was he?”

“Well, sir, Warnham’s got it pretty close. Brase was alive at the Hall at lunchtime on that day of the rector’s dinner. He didn’t sleep at the Hall that night. He must have been killed between lunch and dinner time. That’s near enough.”

“My only aunt!” Reggie gasped. “Nothing strike you about that, Bell? No? But it’s all sand down here and it’s all chalk in the park. He was killed on sand, you know.”

Bell thought it out. “That’s neat, sir,” he said with respect. “You mean I ought to look about in the village for some one who saw him that afternoon?”

“Not you. No. You’re too conspicuous. But I think we’ll have one of your bright boys down.”

“Harland, sir. He can sketch. Like this artist chap. I’ll phone for him when we get back to Horsbury.”

They had indented for Sergeant Harland, they were sitting over tea when Inspector Warnham’s car drew up at the inn. He entered with a grin. “Hello, doctor. Taking it easy? I’ve got something for you. I’ve got the pistol. Would that do the trick?”

Reggie looked at it curiously. “It’s a service revolver.”

“I know that, thank you,” the inspector laughed.

“Where did you find it?”

“Up there where we found tire body.”

Reggie looked curiously a him. “Splendid,” said Reggie. “Did you find the cartridge case, too?”

“Nothing else about. But there’s been one shot fired.”

“Yes. I noticed that.”

“When I couldn’t find Mr. Brase’s revolver in the house I thought I’d go and have another look on the hill. There it was, lying among the leaves, you know. I don’t wonder I didn’t notice it before. We were in the devil of a hurry.”

“Yes. You were in a hurry. Is this Brase’s revolver?”

“Got his initials on it anyway,” the inspector laughed. “J. B., see?”

“Yes. Better get his brother to identify it.”

“He has,” said the inspector triumphantly. “I took it straight down to him at his place. He knew it at once. He saw Mr. Brase put those marks on it himself. That’s good enough, eh?” he laughed. “There we are, superintendent. You find Mrs. Brase for us and we’ll do the rest.” He bustled out.

Mr. Fortune lit a cigar and sank deep into his chair.

“Looks as if he was really killed up there, sir,” said Bell sadly.

Mr. Fortune turned on him a slow, benign smile. “Some error,” he murmured gently. “Some error.”

VI

Bell had trouble with his pipe. He had met that smile before. It was wont to lead to action. But it did not. Mr. Fortune seemed to have lost his grip.

The telephone called. Lomas was speaking. Lomas wanted to know what was doing about the inquest. “Don’t mind me,” Mr. Fortune said. Bell conferred with Warnham and suggested to Mr. Fortune that they should begin to-morrow, give evidence of identification, and adjourn. “Yes,” Mr. Fortune murmured. “Make ’em all happy.”

In the morning he declined, amiable but quite firm, to attend that inquest. But while it was being held in the parish room at Brase, he appeared in the silent village, he spent some time there and chatted with the young artist who was sketching that picturesque bit by the rectory.

Superintendent Bell came back to the White Bull to find him at tea and politely ready to hear all about everything. Bell had many grievances. He hated all inquests and all coroners, and these two he pronounced conspicuously evil in their evil kind.

“This old fellow, sir, he as good as told his jury at the start Mrs. Brase did the murder. Nice sort of justice. Nice for the police, too. Telling her we’ve got a case when we haven’t got her!”

“Very fair all round,” said Reggie. “Who identified the body? The rector’s wife?”

“She was there all right. Telling everybody how Mr. and Mrs. Brase were always quarreling. The brother, Roger Brase, was called to identify. Just swore to the body. The old coroner was going to ask him something, but I made Warnham get up and stop that.”

“Well, well. What’s Roger Brase like?”

“Smallish chap, dark, looks sporting. Gone the pace in his time, I should say.”

“As like his brother as no matter.”

“Yes, sir, so they say.”

Again the telephone interrupted them. “Mr. Lomas, sir,” Bell reported. “You’d better hear yourself.”

And Reggie heard this: “Is that you, Reginald? Congratulate me. I’ve found her. She’s at St. Ives. My idea entirely. I thought she might be in some artist colony, so I tried them all. She’s at St. Ives.”

“Splendid,” said Reggie. “In her own name? Fancy that. Found the man too?”

“He’s been there all the winter. Left a week ago, Reginald. We’re after him. But we’ll make sure of her. Warnham’s sending down a man with a warrant to-night. What did you say?”

“I said ‘God save the king!’ ” said Mr. Fortune, and rang off. But when he came back to Bell the superintendent saw again that slow, benign smile forming. What he said was of startling irrelevance. “Any views about Warnham, Bell? I mean to say, is he playing the game?”

“Sir? I’ve got nothing against him. He’s got twenty years’ service. Absolutely straight, I should say.”

“Well, well. There’s no hurry,” Mr. Fortune murmured.

The next morning he went up to town, declaring that he was in need of edible food. When he came back Bell found that they had been re-enforced by his car and his chauffeur and factotum, Sam. Late in the evening Mrs. Brase was brought to Hors-bury and charged with the murder. Bell, who attended that ceremony, reported that she didn’t turn a hair and didn’t say a word.

She was brought before the magistrates in the morning. Reggie went to see that end found Lomas going into the court. “Come down to see your triumph, Lomas? How nice and human of you.”

“So glad to find you here, Reginald,” Lomas smiled. “I was afraid you were losing interest in the case.

“Oh, we’re all here. Look, there’s the rector’s wife.”

What Lomas was going to answer was hushed by the coming of the magistrates. Mrs. Brase was put into the dock, a large stately woman, who stared straight before her. Her face had the pallor of ivory, but she showed no fear nor any other emotion. “More chin than brow,” Lomas whispered.

“Yes. She married Brase,” said Reggie.

She was charged with murder. She said she was not guilty. The clerk asked her if she had counsel. “You have not given me time,” she said quietly. There were murmurs of consultation. The counsel for the public prosecutor arose — they would not take it far that day — every facility would be given — and Inspector Warnham went into the box.

It had been reported to the police that Julian Brase was missing. He had called on Mrs. Brase, who told him that her husband had gone to the devil. He called the next day and she had left home. He searched the house and park and found Julian Brase shot. He later found on the spot a revolver marked “J. B.”

The prosecution proposed to adjourn.

“I wish to say—” Mrs. Brase began.

“Better not, better not,” said the old chairman.

“I wish to say that my husband was alive when I saw him last. It was in my room at the Hall. He asked me for money. There was nothing new about that. I refused him. He went out of the room and I never saw him again. I don’t know what became of him.”

With that, with another admonition to consult a solicitor, the bench adjourned and she was led away.

Reggie was outside the court, watching the spectators depart. There were many cars. It was difficult to attract his attention. Lomas came up with him as he was chatting with his own chauffeur. “Don’t shun me, Reginald.”

“Dear Lomas! Did I ever?” Reggie drew him away. “But I want you. I want you to get that pistol for me.”

“Good God!” said Lomas. “You never mentioned the pistol before.”

“No,” said Reggie. “Not before. Come on. Talk pretty to Warnham.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Fire it,” said Mr. Fortune.

They turned in to the police headquarters. The chief constable and Inspector Warnham were, in a decent official way, very pleased with themselves and had to say so and let Lomas knew that they thought he had done quite well. It was not good for a ruffled temper.

Lomas was curt. “I don’t see the end of the case yet. Where’s the revolver? Mr. Fortune wants to make some experiments.”

“The revolver? Mr. Roger Brase will swear to that,” said Warnham sulkily.

“Did he see it fired?” said Reggie.

“Of course he didn’t see it fired. What do you mean, doctor?”

“Well, I mean several things. I mean it wasn’t there when we found the body.”

“You couldn’t see it, so it wasn’t there.”

“Yes. I couldn’t see it, so it wasn’t there,” said Reggie, mildly.

“But it was there and I found it.”

“That’s what’s so interesting,” said Reggie. “Isn’t it, Lomas?”

“It’s going to be damned awkward for somebody,” Lomas frowned.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” the inspector cried.

“Well, how did it get there, for instance?” said Reggie, watching him. He was very red. “Are there any other service revolvers about in Brase? And who — well, never mind. The revolver, please.”

VII

They went off with it, hearing the inspector lift up his voice as the door closed. Reggie loitered. Reggie had to go into a tobacconist’s. While he was being critical of the local cigars, the inspector’s car drove past furiously. “God bless him!” Reggie smiled. “He has his uses. Come on, Lomas.”

“Why didn’t you raise this before?”

“Oh, I have my uses, too,” said Reggie.

In the yard of the White Bull — it is the only comfortable part of that inn — stand several lock-up garages. Reggie led the way into one and fastened the doors. “We have here,” he pointed to a corner, “a bundle of cotton wool with a sandbag behind it. If the gentleman will satisfy himself there is no deception—”

“Get on,” said Lomas.

“The revolver is that handed us by Inspector Warnham, certified to belong to the dead man, still containing five cartridges. Are you ready?”

The garage reverberated as he fired five shots into the bundle. “We now collect the cartridge cases and the bullets.” It took some time. “Five in all. Come on.” He marched Lomas up to their room.

Bell stood there poring over some small sheets of paper. “I say, Mr. Fortune—” he began.

“One moment. One moment. We now examine our bullets under a magnifying glass of low power and we find that — in between the regular grooves — they exhibit two scratches—”

“You don’t want a glass to see ’em,” Lomas grumbled.

“Caused by some small faults in the barrel of the J. B. revolver. We now compare the bullet which killed J. B. And find-only one scratch — quite different.”

“Good Gad!” said Lomas.

“The provisional conclusion is that Julian Brase was not shot with the revolver placed where his body was found.”

“Provisional!” Lomas cried.

“God bless my soul!” said Bell. “Here, Mr. Fortune — you ought to hear this.”

“What’s your trouble, Bell?”

“It’s a report from Harland, sir. He’s found a chap who goes round the villages with a cart selling china. Always calls at Brase on Mondays. He says that on the Monday Julian Brase was first missed he saw him go into his brother’s house in the afternoon. Quite definite. Harland says he makes a good witness.”

“Yes. I thought Mrs. Brase was telling the truth,” said Reggie. “That fits. Julian asked her for money after lunch. He went down to tell brother Roger she wouldn’t give it him — and brother Roger identifies a pistol that was found where he was found dead.”

“But it was brother Roger reported him dead, sir.”

“Well, brother Roger and the rector’s wife. Strong, determined woman. Brother Roger’s been a little coy all through, don’t you think? He hasn’t exactly thrust himself on us. He only talks to Warnham. Stay at home fellow. Yet he has a car — though he didn’t come in it this morning.”

“What do you mean?” said Lomas quickly.

But Reggie held up his hand. Some one was coming heavily upstairs. The door opened to reveal a policeman. “Mr. Lomas, sir? The chief constable says would you step around immediate?”

Lomas beckoned to Reggie. In the outer office they passed a large man fidgeting impatiently under the gaze of curious policemen. The chief constable, purple of face, was conferring with a uniformed inspector.

“Ha, Lomas! Good. Here’s a new development. That artist fellow, Mrs. Brase’s flame, has turned up. We’ve got him sitting out there now. He came in as bold as brass, and asked if it was true Mrs. Brase was charged with her husband’s murder. Seen all this stuff in the papers, he said. The inspector here asked him what business it was of his. He says he has a statement to make that will clear her.”

“Well, he’ll have to make it, colonel,” said Lomas.

“Quite so. Just my view. Bring him in. You’ll take down what he says, Jordan.” The large man was brought. “Now, sir, who are you and where do you come from?”

“Timothy Arnold. Paris last. I live at St. Ives. Who are you?”

“The chief constable of Wessex, sir.”

“You’ve put Mrs. Brase in the dock for murder?”

“Ha. Has Mrs. Brase been communicating with you, sir?”

“Mrs. Brase didn’t know where I was.”

“I dare say,” the chief constable laughed, and turned to Lomas. “I dare say, eh?”

Lomas shrugged. “Mrs. Brace was charged with murder this morning,” he said. “Do you want to say anything about it?”

“I’m here to say she didn’t kill the man.”

“You want to give evidence for the defence?”

“No, sir. I’ve come to give myself up. I shot her husband.”

The chief constable breathed hard. Lomas put up his eyeglass. “Be careful,” he said. “That is a confession of murder. What you say can be used against you.”

“That’s what I’m here for. I’m an old friend of Mrs. Brase. I hadn’t seen her since she married till this spring. I was down here sketching. I found her husband was a drunken, gambling brute, giving her a hell of a life. I couldn’t stand for it.

“I came back and found him alone up there in the park, and shot him and cleared out to Paris. I never thought any man would be fool enough to put it on Mrs. Brase. She — why, she never hurt anything. She couldn’t. Then I saw in the papers what you were up to, and here I am.”

“Did you bring your pistol with you?” said Reggie.

“No, sir. That’s in the Channel. You can go and dive for it.”

“What sort of pistol was it?”

“My army pistol,” Arnold laughed. “What do you think?”

Reggie lay back in his chair.

A silence was broken by the inspector laboriously reading out the record of the confession. “Will you sign that, Arnold?”

“Sure.”

“Very well. You’ll be detained while we make inquiries.” They watched him march out. “That’s a sportsman,” Lomas said.

“Damme, sir,” cried the chief constable, “I always thought Mrs. Brase had a man with her in the business.”

“She hadn’t, according to Arnold,” Reggie objected. “She wasn’t in it at all. He clears her.”

The chief constable laughed. “Don’t you believe it, doctor. They’re both in it. The eternal triangle, eh, what? They wanted the husband out of the way.”

“Oh, my head!” Reggie murmured. “Either you believe him or you don’t. Better make up your mind which. A jury won’t do both. Even juries have their limits.” He turned; Inspector Warnham had come in. “Hello, Warnham. Roger Brase still swearing to the pistol?”

VIII

Warnham glared at him. “Yes, doctor, I have been to see Mr. Roger Brase,” he said sulkily. “And he says that was Mr. Julian’s pistol, and there never was any other at the Hall.”

“Wash out, Warnham; wash out,” the chief constable waved his hand. “Never mind that pistol. We’ve got a confession,” and he told of it with glee.

Inspector Warnham struggled to reorganize his ideas. “Yes, sir, there was a lot of talk about Mrs. Brase and this artist fellow. I did always have a notion he was in it. But what about the pistol I found?”

“Yes. You’ll want some new evidence,” Reggie smiled.

Lomas stood up as one having authority.

“Arnold’s story must be tested,” he announced. “I’ll arrange for inquiries about his movements at St. Ives and in Paris. You must see if you can find any trace of his being here. Let’s have a scheme ready for the morning.”

They went back to the inn, and Reggie stretched himself upon two chairs. “Well meaning man,” he murmured. “Did it all for the best.”

“Who do you mean?” said Lomas testily.

“Oh, all of them. The old colonel the hasty Warnham, T. Arnold, artist. All meaning so well.”

“You’re helpful, aren’t you?” said Lomas. “It’s a cursed mess of a case. Here, Bell, let’s get to business.” Superintendent Bell, listening in sad surprise to this bad temper, was told of the confession, and required to concert measures for the discovery of Arnold’s movements. And Mr. Fortune watched and listened. But he seemed to be listening for something else.

It did not come till after dinner; it came with the purr of a car and the quick step of Sam the chauffeur. Reggie sprang up to meet him. “Anything happened?”

“Quite a lot, sir. Harland and me been watching Roger Brase’s place, like you said. Warnham came over there this afternoon, and was inside for a while and went away. Roger Brase saw him off and walked about in the grounds a bit. After dark he came out again.

“Walked down to that bit of rough ground behind. Knelt down and stuffed something into a rabbit hole. Kicked the earth out of it and went back to the house. Then we got onto it, and this is what he was burying.” He held out another service revolver.

Reggie took it. “Sand, Lomas, old thing,” he smiled. “Lots of sand. He shook the revolver over a sheet of paper.”

“Of course there’s sand,” said Lomas. “The thing’s been in a rabbit hole.”

“Yes. But this is the right sort of sand. The sand that was in Julian Brase’s blood. Service revolver. Marked R. B. Empty. Barrel not foul. But a trifle of sand about. Just clean it, Sam. Another little experiment is indicated.”

“There’s no cartridges,” Lomas objected.

“Oh, I have some. I thought we might get a little more shooting.”

Again they went to the garage, switched on the light, and shut themselves in. “Ordinary service ammunition, Lomas. No deception. We now load and fire. Six bullets, Sam.”

In the upper room he laid them on the table and sat down and bent over one with the magnifying glass. But Lomas was quicker. “Good Gad!” he said softly. “The single scratch.”

Reggie examined them one by one, slowly, minutely. “Yes. One scratch,” he said at last, and compared them with the bullet that killed Julian Brase. “Which is the same scratch. And that’s that.” He lay back in his chair and smiled. “There’s your case, Lomas.”

And again Lomas said, “Good Gad!”

“Yes. I always told you Warnham had his uses.”

“What the devil has Warnham got to do with it?”

“He went out and told Roger there was some catch about the revolver. So Roger thought he’d better put his out of the way. And here we are.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bell. “But what about this fellow Arnold?”

“Oh, Arnold! He’s irrelevant. He’s picturesque. He only wanted to hang himself to save Flora Brase. He believes she did it, of course. I dare say, she’ll forgive him.”

Lomas said something about Mr. Arnold. Lomas went out to wrestle with a chief constable who was incredulous, bewildered, and at last anxious to oblige. For the rest of that night Sergeant Harland kept watch on the house of Roger Brase.

Early in the morning Inspector Warnham called there once again and arrested Roger Brase as the murderer of his brother. It was reported by the accompanying constable that their drive back to Horsbury was like hell, so wild were the reproaches of Roger Brase at Warnham’s false friendship, so fiercely morose Inspector Warnham.

Taking the morning air at the door of the White Bull, Mr. Fortune and Superintendent Bell watched that car pass. “Not a nice man, Bell,” said Mr. Fortune, and went into breakfast.

“I’ve been wondering what set him on to do murder, sir.”

“Well, go back to the beginning. The two of them, Julian, the heir to an estate that was loaded with debt; Roger, the younger brother. Both of ’em went the pace. Julian catches an heiress. His marrying clears the estate, but if he had a child that would cut Julian out.

“He didn’t, and there was plenty of money going. Roger came in for his share. Then the wife found out her husband was a wrong ’un, and money got scarce. You heard her say Julian wanted money and she turned him down. Julian went off to tell brother Roger. No more money out of Julian’s wife.

“But if Julian was to die, the estate, the cleared estate, would come to Roger. Julian and Mrs. Julian were known to be quarreling. There was Arnold in the offing. If Julian was murdered, lots of the best people, like the rector’s wife, would suspect Mrs. Brase. It ought to be pretty easy to put it on her. That’s how it looked to Julian. So he shot. A clever fellow. Quite clever fellow. But a little timid.”

“Timid, sir?” Bell gasped.

“Well, it was all going nicely, but he wasn’t comfortable. He had to get Julian’s revolver and put it up on the hill. His error. His gross error.”

“He’d have got away with it if these Wessex police had handled the case.”

“Yes. I wonder how many clever fellows do get away with it?”

At this point Lomas, who loves not breakfast, arrived to contemplate in horror the relics on the table.

“Just reconstructing the crime, Lomas,” Reggie smiled.

“My God!” said Lomas reverently, and drank a cup of coffee with visible effort.

“Fresh air and gentle exercise,” Reggie advised him, “and you won’t know yourself at lunch. Come on. I’m going to Brase.”

Some village folk gaped from the road at the shut windows and drawn blinds of Roger Brase’s house. “Want to go in, sir?” Bell said as Reggie stopped the car.

“I want to go into the garage.”

Superintendent Bell, introducing himself to the frightened housekeeper, asked for the key. Mr. Brase — had no key. The garage stood in a shrubbery away from the house. A little experiment on the lock by Bell persuaded it to open. Reggie pulled the dust sheet off the little car within.

“Sturton Mandeville, two seater, Gorham tires. You’ll find marks to fit that on the track from the village through the park. Open the doors wide, will you? Yes. There are blood stains on the seat and the floor. I thought he was very coy with his car.”

“Do you think the man was killed in here, sir?”

“Oh, no, no! Remember the sand. No. On that afternoon Julian came to the house, and our china merchant saw him go in. Nobody saw him go out. Where did he go? To see the grounds? Let us see brother Roger’s grounds. They walked across a tennis lawn, through the garden, and beyond the garden into rough ground where heather and furze grew amid broken patches of sand.”

Here Sam joined them. “Want to see where he hid the pistol, sir? This way.” He led them on, explaining volubly.

But Reggie wandered off by himself. They found him in a little hollow, contemplating a clump of gorse. “Look. Something has lain in there.” The bushes were twisted and broken. “Something that left threads on the gorse.” He collected them carefully.

“Brown woollen threads. And Julian was in brown tweed.” He moved to and fro and stirred the loose sand, peered here and there, stooped and picked up a cartridge case. “Service ammunition. Marked by the ejector with a deep nick similar to that in the cartridges fired from brother Roger’s revolver. Well, well!”

He smiled serene. But suddenly his smile faded. “Oh, my aunt! Look!” A woman was coming — a plump, important woman in black, at full speed. “The rector’s wife! Mr. Lomas will now explain himself to the rector’s wife.” He fled.