It was not Elsie Maynard’s first visit to London, but her visits had been so few that London had presented itself to her as a vast labyrinth1 of streets, shops and houses. The prevailing2 impression of all previous visits was that, since it was a simple matter to get lost involuntarily in the labyrinth, it would be a simple matter for any one to disappear voluntarily and remain hidden from search. But on this occasion, when there was need for secrecy3 as to her visit and its object, she fancied the vast city to be full of prying4 eyes.
It seemed improbable that among the thousands of people she met in the streets there would not be some one who knew her. There might be some one watching her—some one who had received a telephone message regarding her journey by train from Ashlingsea. To disappear from some one who was watching her seemed to be impossible, for among the throng5 of people it was impossible to single out the watcher.
From Victoria Station she took a tube ticket to Earl’s Court, so as to give the impression to any one who was following her that her destination was in the west of London. She inspected closely all the people who followed her into the carriage. She alighted at South Kensington and changed to the Piccadilly tube. She got out at Holborn and then took a bus to Aldgate. She walked along to the junction6 of Whitechapel Road and Commercial Road, where she took a tram. After a short journey by tram along Commercial Road she got out and walked along the south side of the street, keeping a look out for the names of the side streets.
When she reached Quilter Street she turned down it, and eventually stopped at the door of No. 23. It was a short street with a monotonous7 row of houses on each side. At one side of the corner where it joined Commercial Road was a steam laundry, and at the other side a grocer’s which was also a post office. The faded wrappings of the tinned goods which had been displayed for many months in the windows were indicative of the comparative poverty of the locality. In the ground-floor windows of most of the houses were cardboard notices showing that tailoring was the craft by which the inhabitants earned their bread. It was here that a great deal of the work sent out by tailors’ shops in the City was done, and the placards in the windows proclaimed a desire for work from chance customers whose clothes needed repairs and pressing.
There were dirty ragged8 children playing in the gutters9, and dirty slatternly women, with black shawls over their heads and shoulders and jugs10 in their hands, were to be seen hurrying along the pavement for milk and beer. Although Miss Maynard had taken care not to dress herself elaborately for her journey to London, she was aware that her appearance before the door of No. 23 was attracting some attention among the women standing11 at their doors and gossiping across area railings. When the door was opened by a girl in her early teens who had her sleeves rolled up and was wearing a piece of sacking as an apron12, Miss Maynard entered hurriedly and closed the door after her.
“Yes,” replied the girl.
“Is he in now?”
“Yes, he told me he was expecting a lady to call. Are you her?”
“Yes.”
“First floor—front,” said the girl, jerking a dirty thumb in the direction of the stairs as an indication to her visitor that she could find her way up unaided.
But before she had reached the top of the stairs the door of the front room on the first floor was opened, and the man she had come to see appeared on the stairs to welcome her. He clasped her hands eagerly and led her to his room, closing the door carefully behind him. For a moment he hesitated and then placed his arms around her. Her head fell back on his shoulder and he pressed his lips to hers in a long lingering kiss.
Arnold Brett was a young man of spare build whose military training had taught him to keep his shoulders well back. He had a slight black moustache, and his hair, which was carefully brushed down on his head, was raven14 black in colour. His aquiline15 nose seemed to emphasize the sharpness of his features; the glance from his dark eyes was restless and crafty16.
“Darling, I knew you would come,” he said. He released her, but only for the purpose of taking her again in his arms and kissing her.
“But why are you here?” she asked, giving a glance at the impoverished17 furniture—the narrow bed with its faded counterpane, the cheap chest of drawers, the dressing-table with a cracked mirror, the dirty window curtains and the single wooden chair.
“Before God, I swear I had nothing to do with it, Elsie,” he exclaimed passionately18.
It was a relief to hear him declare his innocence19. Even if he had spoken without emphasis she would not have doubted his word. It was because her belief in his innocence deepened the mystery of his reason for hiding that she repeated:
“But why are you here?”
“Do you believe me?” he asked. Between lovers faith counts for much more than reason.
“Of course I do.”
“I knew you would,” he said. “It is because I know you were true that I asked you to come. I am beginning to think that perhaps I made a great mistake in running away. But I was unnerved by the accident. I was thrown out of the car and I must have been unconscious in the road for more than an hour. And, recalling how poor Frank had met his death, it seemed to me that there was a diabolical20 scheme on foot to murder me as well. Perhaps I was wrong. Tell me everything. Do the police suspect me? Have they a warrant out for me? Did you go to the farm that night? I have sent out for a newspaper each day, but the London newspapers have said very little about the murder. All I have seen is a couple of small paragraphs.”
She was more immediately concerned in the discovery that he had been thrown out of a motor-car and injured than in his thirst for information about the murder at Cliff Farm. She was solicitous21 as to the extent of the injury he had suffered, the length of time he had been unconscious, and his movements after he came to his senses on the lonely road. Not only were her feminine sympathies stirred by the thought of the sufferings of the man she loved, but by the fear that the accident must have affected22 his mind temporarily and prompted him to hide himself.
He was too impatient for her news to spare time for more than a vague disconnected account of the accident. He assured her that he was all right again, except for a cut on the head which he showed her. It was on her news more than on anything else that the question of his return to Staveley depended.
She told him in response to his questions that the murder had created a sensation. Every one was talking about it. The Staveley Courier had published a two column account of the tragedy with details about the victim and the eccentricities23 of his grandfather in later years. Stress was laid, in the newspaper account of the story, on the rumour24 that old Joseph Lumsden had buried his money after the war broke out, and on the disappointment of the legatees whose legacies25 could not be paid at his death because the money could not be found. The police, it was stated, had questioned these legatees as to their movements on the night of the murder. The theory of the police seemed to be that the murder had been committed by some one who had heard about the buried money and believed it was hidden in the house, or thought the victim had known where it was hidden.
She told him that Scotland Yard had sent down a detective to investigate the crime, and that Mr. Crewe, the famous private detective, was also working on it.
“Crewe!” he exclaimed in dismay. “Who has brought him into it?”
“He happened to be staying at Staveley with Sir George Granville on the night of the murder, and when Mr. Marsland rang up his uncle, Sir George Granville, from the Ashlingsea police station to say he was all right, and to tell Sir George about the murder, Mr. Crewe was naturally interested in it. He took up the case on his own initiative because his host’s nephew discovered the body.”
“I can’t follow you,” he said. “Who is Mr. Marsland?” He started back with a look of terror in his eyes. “My God, you don’t mean Captain Marsland? That is who it is; that is who it is! I knew I was right.”
“Arnold, what is the matter?” she exclaimed, rising to her feet and putting a hand on his shoulder. “You look dreadful.”
“Captain Marsland,” he muttered. “Captain Marsland come to life again.” He raised his clenched26 hand and shook it slowly as if to give impressive emphasis to his words. “That is the man who shot poor Frank. I knew I was right.”
“Impossible.”
He turned on her fiercely.
“Impossible,” he echoed. “Who are you to say it is impossible? What do you know about it or about him? Perhaps you are in love with him?”
“Don’t be foolish, Arnold,” she said sternly. “The Mr. Marsland I am speaking of is not a captain—at least, he does not wear uniform, and I have not heard any one call him ‘captain.’ At any rate, it is impossible for him to have killed Frank Lumsden. I was at the farm before he was, and poor Frank’s dead body was upstairs all the time I was there, though I did not know it.”
“All the time you were there? When did you get there?”
“About six o’clock—just as the storm came on.”
“Six o’clock? And was there no one at the house when you got there?”
“No one.”
“You saw no trace of anyone having been there?”
“No. I found the key of the door in the lock and naturally I thought that Frank had left it there—that you and he were inside. You remember that you told me to be there about six o’clock, and that you and Frank would be there before then.”
“Yes. That was the arrangement, but—well, never mind that, Elsie, now; tell me your story.”
“I opened the door and walked in,” she said. “I called out ‘Is there anybody in?’ but I got no answer. I thought then that you and Frank were in one of the sheds, and I sat down in the sitting-room27, expecting you would be back in a moment. I took the key out of the door so as to make you knock in order to get in. The rain was just commencing then, but it had been blowing hard for half an hour. About ten minutes after I had been in the sitting-room there was a knock at the front door. Naturally I thought it was you. I rushed to open it and as I flung it back I asked what had kept you so long. But the man on the door step was a stranger—this Mr. Marsland.”
“What is he like?” asked Brett quickly.
“He is rather good-looking; fair-haired and fair-skinned and blue-eyed—the Saxon type. He is about medium height—not quite so tall as you.”
“How old is he?”
“Quite young—about 26 or 27, I should say.”
“Does he wear glasses—gold-rimmed eye-glasses?”
“He was not wearing them then, but he does wear them as a rule. I think he told me subsequently that he had lost a pair while he was riding along—blown off by the wind.”
“What explanation did he give of his visit?”
“He had been riding across the downs from Staveley and had lost his way in the storm. His horse was lame28 and when he saw the house he decided29 to seek shelter.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Of course I did—then.”
“Do you believe him now?”
“I don’t know, Arnold, after what you have said. He may have been there before I was—it may have been he who left the key in the door.”
“I am sure of it.”
“He came in and sat down—he certainly acted as if he had never been in the house before. I do not know how long we were in the sitting-room—perhaps twenty minutes. We did not talk very much. I was busy trying to think what had become of you and Frank. I thought it best to tell him as little as possible, so I made up a story that I had found the door open and had walked in with the intention of taking shelter until the storm was over. I said nothing about the key. I began to get a little nervous as we sat there listening to the storm. I was upset about you.”
“Go on,” he said impatiently, as she paused.
“Presently we heard a crash upstairs—it was like breaking glass or china. Mr. Marsland said he would go upstairs and see what it was. I determined30 to go with him, as I was too frightened by that time to stay alone. On one of the stairs he picked up Grandfather Lumsden’s cryptogram31. I felt then that Frank had been there, and that something dreadful had happened. We went upstairs, and there we found Frank’s dead body in the arm-chair. I thought at first that he had been taken ill after you and he got there that afternoon, and that he had died alone while you were away trying to get a doctor. But Mr. Marsland said he had been shot. Poor Frank! What a dreadful end.”
“What time did you leave?”
“We left almost at once. That would be about a quarter to seven. He went to Ashlingsea police station to report the discovery of the body. I asked him not to drag me into it—not to tell the police that I had been at the farm. I thought that was the best thing to do until I saw you—until I found where you had been.”
“Quite right, Elsie—everything you do is right, my dear girl. And while you and this Marsland were at the farm I was just recovering consciousness on the Staveley road after a bad smash. It was after five o’clock before I left Staveley; I had told Frank I would leave about three o’clock, but I was delayed by several things. He told me he would come along the road to meet me. I was driving along the road fairly fast in order to reach the farm before the storm broke, and I must have been dazed by a flash of lightning. The next thing I remember was being awakened32 by the rain falling on my face as I lay unconscious beside the car, which had been overturned.”
“Were you badly hurt, dear?”
“I was badly shaken and bruised33, but the only cut was the one on my head. I didn’t know what to do at first. I thought I would walk back to Staveley and tell them at the garage about the car. But finally I decided to go on to the Cliff Farm, as it was so much nearer than Staveley, and then go to Staveley by train in the morning. It must have been nearly eight o’clock when I reached the farm and found the front door open.”
“We locked it,” she interposed. “That is, Mr. Marsland did: he told me that he was sure he heard the lock click.”
“It was open when I got there—wide open,” he persisted.
“Then Mr. Marsland was right. The murderer was in the house while we were there. The crash we heard was made by him, and after we went away he bolted and left the hall door open.”
“The murderer was in the house while you were there,” he said. “There is nothing more certain than that. The murderer was Captain Marsland.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said.
“Wasn’t it he who put the idea into your head, after you had left the house, that the murderer might have been upstairs all the time?”
“Yes, it was.”
“And he told you that he had slammed the hall door when he left? You didn’t see him close it?”
“No, I was waiting for him down the path. After seeing poor Frank I felt too frightened to stay in the house.
“Marsland left the door open, but told you he had closed it, his object being to give the police the impression that it had been left open by some one who left the house after he did. But I closed it when I left—I distinctly remember doing so.”
“If Marsland didn’t kill him, who did?”
“Any one may have done so. A tramp, for instance, who had broken into the house and was there when Frank came home.”
“Do tramps in this country carry revolvers?”
“Not usually. But since the war many of the men discharged from the army do.”
“There you’ve said it. Many of the officers who have been discharged carry revolvers, but not the men. They have got used to doing it. At the front only officers carry revolvers. And Marsland is an officer—a captain. He was a captain in the London Rifle Brigade, in the battalion35 to which Frank and I belonged.”
“Oh!” There was a note of dismay in the exclamation36 of surprise. “Does he know you, Arnold?”
“I was not one of his company, but of course he knows me.”
“Did he know Frank? Do you think he knew Frank when he saw his dead body in the room?”
“Of course he knew Frank. Frank was in his Company.”
“He did not say anything to me about this as we walked home,” said Elsie thoughtfully. “And perhaps he has not told the police. It is very strange.”
“There is nothing strange about it. He had good reasons for saying nothing.”
“You think he shot Frank? Why should he commit such a crime?”
“My dear Elsie, strange things happen in war. Frank told me something about Captain Marsland, and as soon as you mentioned his name it all came back to me. But we thought he was dead. Frank told me he was killed at the front—a stray bullet or something.”
“What was it that Frank told you about him? I must know.”
“Marsland sent a man to certain death to get him out of the way. One night he sent Frank and another man—Collingwood, I think Frank said his name was—as a listening patrol. They had to crawl up near the German trenches38 and, lying down with their ears to the ground, listen for sounds in the German trenches which might indicate that the Germans were getting ready to make an attack. While they were out this fellow Collingwood told Frank his history. Collingwood had a sort of premonition that he would not get back alive, and he took Frank into his confidence. He said he knew that Marsland had sent him out in the hope that the Germans would get him. It appears that Collingwood and Marsland were both in love with the same girl, and she preferred Collingwood, though her parents didn’t approve of him. Collingwood was a gentleman, like a great many more of the rankers in Kitchener’s Army. He gave Frank a letter to this girl, and her photograph, and asked Frank to see that she got them if he himself was killed. And killed he was that night—through the treachery of Marsland. While they were listening they heard the Germans getting ready for an attack. They crept back to warn their comrades, but there was no one to warn. The trench37 had been evacuated39. When Marsland sent Frank and Collingwood out as a listening patrol he had an order in his pocket to vacate the trench, as it had been decided to fall back half a mile to a better position. He thought he was sending Collingwood and Frank to their death. Collingwood was killed. The Germans attacked before he and Frank could get away, but Frank, as you know, was taken prisoner. I was taken prisoner the same day, but at a different sector40 about a mile away. Subsequently Frank and I met as prisoners—and after being tortured by the Germans we got away.”
“And did Frank deliver Collingwood’s letter to the girl?”
“No, that is the sad part of it. The Germans took all his papers from him and he never saw them again. He did not know the address of the girl or even her name.”
“It was a dreadful thing for Captain Marsland to do,” she murmured.
“A great many dreadful things have been done out there,” he said. “I’ll tell you my idea of how this murder was committed. Marsland thought Frank had been killed by the Germans. After riding across the downs beyond Staveley he met Frank, who was walking along the road to meet me. He stopped Frank and pretended to be very friendly to him. They talked over old times at the front, Marsland being anxious to know how Collingwood had died and whether Collingwood had any idea that he had been sent to his death. As there was no sign of my car, Frank turned back with Marsland to the farm. While they were in the house Frank let slip the fact that Collingwood had confided41 in him before he died. Perhaps Marsland became aware of it through an effort on Frank’s part to get from him the name of the girl to whom Collingwood had been practically engaged.
“No doubt there were angry words between them; and Marsland, in order to save himself from being exposed by Frank to the regimental authorities, and to the girl, shot him dead. That would be a few minutes before you reached the farm. When you reached the house Marsland had gone outside to remove traces of the crime—perhaps to burn something or to wash blood-stains from his hands or clothing at the pump. He left the key in the door so that he could enter the house again. When he found the key gone he was confused: he was not certain whether he had placed the key in the lock. He did not believe that any one had entered the house, but to make sure on that point he knocked. He was surprised when you opened the door, but he played his part so well that you did not suspect he had been in the house before. As you had not discovered the body, he thought it best that you and he should discover it together. That would be less suspicious, as far as he was concerned, than for you to go away without discovering it. Had you betrayed any suspicion that you thought he was the murderer he would have shot you too, and then made off.”
“But his horse was there,” she said. “It was quite lame. He could not have ridden away on it; and to leave it behind was to leave the police a convincing clue that he had been to Cliff Farm.”
“I was forgetting about his horse,” said Brett. “It was the fact that his horse was there which made him knock after he saw the key had been taken from the door. He had to brazen42 it out.”
“The police have no suspicion of him, so far as I can ascertain,” said the girl.
“We must direct their attention to him,” was the reply.
“No, that would be injudicious. My instinct was right in telling me to get out of sight when I saw Frank’s dead body. It was after you left the house with Marsland that I got there. The door was open as I said—Marsland left it open purposely, and told you a lie about closing it. I went upstairs, as I couldn’t see Frank about below, and when I saw him dead I felt immediately that his murder was but the continuation of some black deed in France. I knew instinctively44 that if I didn’t disappear I should be the next victim. And so I should be if Marsland knew how much I know about him. The man is a cold-blooded villain45, who thinks nothing of taking human life. If I went back to Staveley and accused him, he would take steps to put me out of the way. We must get him arrested for the murder, and when he is under lock and key I’ll come back to Staveley and tell the police all I know about him.”
“But how can we get the police to arrest him unless you first tell them all you know?” she asked.
“We must find a way,” he said thoughtfully.
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1
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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cryptogram
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| n.密码 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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evacuated
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| 撤退者的 | |
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sector
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| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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