CHAPTER XIX
A Surprise was awaiting Gaylor when he returned from Harrogate and handed in his report. A gun-maker in London had called at Scotland Yard and stated that he had sold a Smith & Wesson revolver, calibre .32 with a box of 50 cartridges, to Ian Barr in the month of August, two years before the tragedy in Riding Wood. The man, whose name was Jonas Sailes, and whose shop was in the Strand, was in a small way of business, and had no assistants except his young son, who had but lately been taken from school to serve customers while the father was laid up after a slight operation. This operation had been upon the eyes, and Sailes had been kept in a dark room for a fortnight. During that time he heard no news from the outside world, and his son, who had no great interest in life except sport, paid no particular attention to the details of the Hereward murder. On his recovery, seeing the name of Mr. Ian Barr in connection with the affair, the elder Sailes remembered the name, consulted his books, and found the purchase of the weapon and cartridges recorded.
This was a strong piece of evidence against Barr, and together with what Gaylor had learned from Miss Maunsell, things began to look black against the wanted man. All the evidence so far was purely circumstantial, but there was a good deal of it, and it vas necessary that Sir Ian Hereward's late steward should be found before the inquest, which had been adjourned again for a fortnight in the hope of unearthing him at home or abroad.
"Cupid" Gaylor had done rather well in the case so far, and he meant to do still better. He had a rooted idea that, if he had been on the spot immediately after the tragedy, the murderer would be already in the hands of the police; but it would be a still greater score if, after others had done their best in vain, the brilliancy of his detective talent should throw light into dark places.
No objection had, or could have, been made to the going abroad of Colonel Sir Ian Hereward, or Miss Verney; but they were both pledged to return for the inquest in a fortnight's time. After that, it would depend upon circumstances, over which those two important witnesses might or might not have control, whether they left England again immediately, or remained there.
Meanwhile Scotland Yard did not intend to lose sight of the ex-officer and the late companion of his murdered wife. Sir Ian's movements were more or less "under observation," but it was considered essential to observe those of Miss Verney more minutely. A young man, a friend of Gaylor's, with some French blood in his veins and a perfect French accent at the tip of his tongue, was detailed to "shadow" the young lady. He was to follow her everywhere; to know what visits she received and what excursions she made; and as the English police was in touch with the French, the post-office authorities wherever she went would be accommodating. This espionage was to be conducted in such a way, however, as to leave the girl under the impression that she was free as air until her return to England for the inquest.
As a matter of fact, she had expected and feared that she might be watched, and though Miss Ricardo's arguments were consoling, Nora had determined from the first to be ceaselessly on guard. She felt that eyes would be upon her always; yet for certain reasons the prospect of going to France, of all countries, filled her with joy. She would be careful; nevertheless, a thing which she desired greatly to happen might somehow happen, without bringing harm to any one, but only good.
The dreaded word "police" was constantly in her mind, yet the "police" was for the girl a vague, looming monster, Argus-eyed, and with the many hands of a Briareus. She did not think of separate entities; and though Nora was aware that a detective had wormed from little Poppet Barnard information which had brought Kate Craigie and her footman-lover into ugly prominence, it did not occur to her that the same man might assume vast importance in her own life. If she had heard Gaylor's name at the inquest in connection with Poppet, she had forgotten it, and all her fears as well as her hopes were for the moment transferred to France. With Miss Ricardo she stopped in Paris for one night only, and then went on to Chamounix. The quaint little place, with its vast white background of Mont Blanc, was beautiful to them both—to Terry, who had lived for years in India; to Nora, who had never been out of England—and they stayed there two or three days longer than they had intended. But this change of plan was not wholly on account of their delight in Chamounix. Terry had the idea of driving by pleasant stages to St. Pierre de Chartreuse; and, having received an answer to a letter posted in Paris, Nora Verney asked a great favour of Miss Ricardo. It was largely because of the granting of this favour that the two were delayed in Chamounix; and meantime Gaylor was exceedingly busy at Riding St. Mary.
He arrived there the day after his return from Harrogate, and made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was a detective, engaged upon the business which filled the minds of every one in the neighbourhood. But he did try, with his agreeable manner and pleasant looks, to hypnotize people into the belief that detectives were not the repulsively cunning creatures pictured in penny fiction.
He looked like a good-natured, happy boy, and it was his métier to impress upon all those with whom he associated that he was precisely what he seemed, and no more. His dimples and blue eyes were worth a great deal to him, in creating this impression; and soon the villagers and peasants of the neighbourhood began to regard it as a huge joke that such a jolly youth as Gaylor should be a member of the London police force. They liked talking with him, and spoke out their opinions and theories more freely than they would to a person whose age and dignity they had need to respect.
The first thing that Gaylor did on coming down to pursue his investigations near Riding St. Mary, was to go straight to the Home Farm of Riding Wood and call on Mrs. Barnard. It was about tea time, and Tom Barnard was in the house. Both looked at the detective with cold disapproval, as he presented himself at the door, for they recognized him at once as the man who had cajoled their little girl, behind their backs, into making statements which had got friends of theirs into trouble. They had seen him on the second day of the inquest, when Poppet's evidence had been taken; and now Tom's first words, gruffly spoken, were: "Well, what's up now, Mr. Detective?"
"I've come to tell you that I'm sorry if you think me a sneak," said Gaylor frankly. "I had to do it, you know. Once you're in my line, it isn't what you like doing, but what it's your duty to do. And now I've been sent down here again, to see what I can find out."
"You've found out all there is to find out in this house," replied Rose, quite sharply for her.
"Oh, I know that," "Cupid" assured her. "It isn't business that's brought me to you, though it has to the neighbourhood. I want nothing more nor less than to make my peace with that dear little girl of yours. I thought she was just about the best thing in the shape of a child I'd ever seen. Look what I've brought her—with my humblest apologies for the past, and hopes of making up for it in the future."
Then he opened a long box wrapped in paper, which he had been carrying under his arm, and revealed to the eyes of Rose and her daughter Poppet such a doll as few country-bred children have ever seen.
It lay asleep in its box, its golden head on a silk pillow trimmed with lace. Not only had it real hair, waving and curling to its waist, but the dark eyelashes on its shut lids were real, too. Its smiling red lips were slightly open, showing several tiny, even, white teeth, and as Gaylor lifted it up, at the same time manipulating some spring or string hidden under the dress of pink silk, muslin and lace, it said "Papa," "Mamma," as it opened large brown eyes.
Poppet, who had not dared to speak to the "nice grown-up" whom she had heard reviled by her family, could not restrain a cry of wonder and delight. Even Rose gave a little unsophisticated "Oh!" of admiration for the Parisian beauty; and when the detective held out the box and doll to Poppet, as a peace offering, she had not the heart to deny the child the possession of such a treasure.
The little girl, lost in joy, clasped the glorious beauty to her bosom; and Gaylor's appealing, dimpled smile chased all animosity from the breasts of father and mother. It was true, as he said, he had acted in the pursuance of duty, and he did appear to be a kind-hearted, agreeable young fellow. He was enchanted with Poppet's pleasure, and vowed again that this time he had no "ulterior motives." He was so engaging and boyish, that Rose offered him tea, and both she and Tom enjoyed the chat into which he drew them, without their knowing that they had been drawn. He told the Barnards that he would have to remain in the country for some time, very likely till the inquest came on again, and asked their advice, in a simple, friendly way, as to lodgings. At present he was staying in the village inn, but it was hardly worthy the name of inn, and he was not very comfortable. Where would Mrs. Barnard advise him to apply?
Rose mentioned several cottages where lodgers were occasionally taken in the summer, but there was some objection to each one, the most desirable rooms being already occupied. At last, when the list was exhausted, Gaylor ventured: "I suppose you couldn't possibly have me here? Any sort of room would do for me, and I'd promise to make as little trouble as possible. I've taken the greatest fancy to Poppet, and to the place, and I should be as happy as a cricket in any corner you could give me. Besides, Mr. Barnard being a friend of Sir Ian Hereward's, you might both feel as though in a way you were helping the police on in their search for the murderer, if you allowed one of them to do his duty from your house. I should have some good games with little Miss Poppet here, in my spare moments."
Rose was completely taken aback, and Tom would have refused at once, if Poppet had not flown to the young man, and nestled between his knees.
"Oh, shouldn't I love to have you live in our house!" she exclaimed. "You'd play with me, and tell me stories, wouldn't you?"
That I would; and I know some grand stories, too," Gaylor boasted. "Mrs. Barnard, do say 'yes.'"
And somehow, Rose did eventually say "yes," why, she hardly knew, any more than Tom knew why he did not object to the decision. The young man certainly had a way with him!
That same evening, the detective became a member of the Barnard's family circle. His "corner" was a pleasant, oak-beamed room, with dimity-curtained, diamond-paned windows. His meals he took with the Barnards, and was so gay and good-natured that no one less grim than Diogenes could have hardened his heart against him. He was always ready to help Rose, when Tom was engaged in farm work, or to take Poppet for a walk in the woods, a pleasure Rose had no time to give the child on most days, until after the tea hour. Catechisms after these excursions assured Poppet's mother that the "nice grown-up" had been putting no more sly questions, but that, instead, the child's companion had told her fairy stories, or taught her how to spell words and do amusing little sums in arithmetic. Even Poppet's unfriendly little fox terrier, which invariably barked at strangers, and had objected to Gaylor, as to everybody else, on his first appearance, yielded to the charm, and became the detective's devoted adherent. Jacky made the third in all the woods walks, and enjoyed himself hugely, nosing into rabbit warrens and other private dwelling-places of retiring forest folk. To any one who had watched these excursions with curiosity, it might have seemed that there was some method in them. The young man took the child and the dog a different walk each day; and the walks were in concentric circles, leaving very little ground in the woods uncovered. Whenever Jacky excited himself over a rabbit-hole or other object of interest, Gaylor was all sympathy. If the fox terrier were inclined to dig, "Cupid" helped him, telling a fascinating tale to Poppet the while; the story of a fairy Jacky had seen disappearing into a burrow, having hastily assumed the form of a bunny—or some other fancy equally alluring to an imaginative little being like Margaret Barnard.
One morning, not very far from the top of the hill where the View Tower stood, the emotional Jacky bored his sharp nose, in a state of great nervous excitement, among the gnarled roots of a tree, exposed by the cutting away of thick masses of bracken, which had been done by order of the police immediately after the murder of Lady Hereward.
No creature less energetic and keen of scent than a fox terrier would have suspected the existence of a rabbit-hole under the low arches of the beech tree's gray roots, but Jacky was certain of its existence, and Gaylor encouraged him, as usual.
"Good dog! Have him out!" he cried, as Jacky wildly clawed, and pawed, and nosed his way through the labyrinth of root-barriers. "He knows," the young man explained to Poppet, "that a stolen fairy treasure-chest has been buried there by a wicked gnome, for fairies talk to dogs in dreams. Now, I'll just see if I can reach that treasure-chest with my hand."
"You've never found anything of the fairies yet," Poppet said, reproachfully, "except some of their jewels, which they'd turned into stones before you touched them."
"Even those were better than nothing," argued Gaylor, "and you never know what you ll have the luck to come across next time."
"I'm always afraid, when you stick your hand into places like that, that a snake will jump out and bite you," said Poppet.
"Snakes and rabbits don't live together so far as I've heard," returned Gaylor. "Jove! I ve got hold of something this time, for sure!" He began extricating his arm from the twisting embrace of the tree-roots, and an instant later Poppet saw that he had pulled out of the hole a metal thing, caked with earth; quite a small thing which he could almost hide in his hand. "Oh, what's that?" she asked eagerly.
"Nothing that would interest you much, I'm afraid," replied the detective, slipping the thing into one of his coat pockets, and carefully covering it over with the flap, as he pushed the thwarted fox terrier gently away.
"But you have turned quite pink, as if you were interested," said the child. "You might tell me what it is. It looks like one of Dad's tools."
That's all it is; a kind of tool," answered Gaylor. "But I'm fond of tools, and you're not. That's one of the differences between us, you see. Perhaps it was a tool of the wicked gnome's, that he opened the fairy chest with, and left when he'd got all the treasure." Gaylor pulled out his watch and looked at it. "Why it's time we were trotting home!" he exclaimed, as if surprised at the lateness of the hour. "And if you like, when we get back, I'll sketch you a picture of the gnome at the bottom of the rabbit-hole, opening the treasure-chest; only you must leave me alone in my room while I do it. I never could make pictures with any one watching me."
So they walked down to the farmhouse, the man and the child, with Jacky trotting at their heels or darting ahead on some quest or other; and Gaylor told Poppet the best story he had invented yet, which was saying a good deal, as he had a magnificent talent in verbal fiction. But all the time he was thinking of what he had found, and congratulating himself on the success of his plans. He had remembered the fox-terrier, and the innocent tales of its cleverness in finding rabbit holes, told by the little girl during their first conversation together; and it was the recollection of that childish boasting which had given him the idea of lodging at the Home Farm. Known, as he already was in the neighbourhood, a marked man since his evidence given at the inquest, he could not have wandered freely about the woods with a strange dog, had he continued to stop at the inn in his own character, as Gaylor, the man from Scotland Yard. He would have been followed and watched by curious people, and any discovery he might have made would have been known to others almost as soon as to himself. Or, if he had adopted some disguise, his actions as a stranger would have been regarded with suspicion.
From the first, Gaylor had said to himself: "If I were the murderer, and had any fear that for some reason or other I might be eventually suspected, I wouldn't try to get rid of the revolver at home, or near home. I'd hide it in some place as close as I could to the scene of the murder, before I'd gone far away. And if I had my wits about me, I wouldn't just trust to the bracken to hide it. I'd think that it would be looked for there, and found when the bracken was cut down, as it would surely be. I'd fear bloodhounds, too, and try to put the thing in a place where my trail, if once they got on it, would be crossed by some other strong scent. What could be better for such a hide than a rabbit warren, if I could find one, or knew already where to find one? And if I were a person familiar with the woods, I might very likely know where to find one."
Gaylor had argued in this fashion, and he had begun with the opinion that a terrier would be a useful companion. To this theory and its later development, little Poppet Barnard owed a great many pleasant hours and delightful stories which she would never forget.
On reaching home, after the adventure of the rabbit hole, the child told Rose all about the fairy chest stolen by the wicked gnome, and prattled on about something unearthed by Gaylor, which he had said was not at all interesting. But Poppet, eagerly awaiting the sketch promised at dinner time, made so little of the discovery that Rose attached no importance to it, not guessing that, locked in his bedroom upstairs, Gaylor was at that very moment engaged in examining the weapon which, in all probability, had put an end to Lady Hereward's life.
It was a small neat revolver of .32 calibre, and only two of the six cartridges had been discharged. Four were left, and caked round the muzzle was something of a dark reddish colour, which looked like dried blood. Particles of pale brown earth adhered to this mass, as if they had stuck to it while it was still comparatively fresh and semi-liquid. But the fact that the revolver should be bloodstained was singularly suggestive to the mind of the detective. Evidently the murderer, having fired the two shots, and seen his victim fall, had either dropped his weapon, and her blood had stained it, or else he had coolly laid it on the floor near the body while he stripped the dead Lady Hereward of her rings, her bracelets and her other jewelry.
The next step for the detective was to learn whether this revolver which he had found was the one sold by Sailes to Ian Barr; and after the Barnards midday dinner, which he shared with them, he went up to London with his treasure, carefully wrapped in paper, in his pocket. The gunmaker recognized the weapon as that which Mr. Barr had bought from him; and, as Gaylor expressed it to himself, there was "one more nail in the coffin" of Ian Barr.