Chapter 3

The Tragedy of Birlstone

Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificant
personality and to describe events which occurred before we arrived
upon the scene by the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards.
Only in this way can I make the reader appreciate the people concerned
and the strange setting in which their fate was cast.

The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of
half-timbered cottages on the northern border of the county of Sussex.
For centuries it had remained unchanged; but within the last few years
its picturesque appearance and situation have attracted a number of
well-to-do residents, whose villas peep out from the woods around.
These woods are locally supposed to be the extreme fringe of the great
Weald forest, which thins away until it reaches the northern chalk
downs. A number of small shops have come into being to meet the wants
of the increased population; so there seems some prospect that
Birlstone may soon grow from an ancient village into a modern town. It
is the centre for a considerable area of country, since Tunbridge
Wells, the nearest place of importance, is ten or twelve miles to the
eastward, over the borders of Kent.

About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for its
huge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part of this
venerable building dates back to the time of the first crusade, when
Hugo de Capus built a fortalice in the centre of the estate, which had
been granted to him by the Red King. This was destroyed by fire in
1543, and some of its smoke-blackened corner stones were used when, in
Jacobean times, a brick country house rose upon the ruins of the feudal
castle.

The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-paned
windows, was still much as the builder had left it in the early
seventeenth century. Of the double moats which had guarded its more
warlike predecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up, and served
the humble function of a kitchen garden. The inner one was still there,
and lay forty feet in breadth, though now only a few feet in depth,
round the whole house. A small stream fed it and continued beyond it,
so that the sheet of water, though turbid, was never ditchlike or
unhealthy. The ground floor windows were within a foot of the surface
of the water.

The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains and
windlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The latest tenants
of the Manor House had, however, with characteristic energy, set this
right, and the drawbridge was not only capable of being raised, but
actually was raised every evening and lowered every morning. By thus
renewing the custom of the old feudal days the Manor House was
converted into an island during the night—a fact which had a very
direct bearing upon the mystery which was soon to engage the attention
of all England.

The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening to
moulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession of
it. This family consisted of only two individuals—John Douglas and his
wife. Douglas was a remarkable man, both in character and in person. In
age he may have been about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, a
grizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and a wiry, vigorous
figure which had lost nothing of the strength and activity of youth. He
was cheery and genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his manners,
giving the impression that he had seen life in social strata on some
far lower horizon than the county society of Sussex.

Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his more
cultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among the
villagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attending
their smoking concerts and other functions, where, having a remarkably
rich tenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an excellent song.
He appeared to have plenty of money, which was said to have been gained
in the California gold fields, and it was clear from his own talk and
that of his wife that he had spent a part of his life in America.

The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and by
his democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utter
indifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at every
meet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to hold his
own with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he distinguished
himself also by the fearlessness with which he reentered the building
to save property, after the local fire brigade had given it up as
impossible. Thus it came about that John Douglas of the Manor House had
within five years won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.

His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;
though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger who
settled in the county without introductions were few and far between.
This mattered the less to her, as she was retiring by disposition, and
very much absorbed, to all appearance, in her husband and her domestic
duties. It was known that she was an English lady who had met Mr.
Douglas in London, he being at that time a widower. She was a beautiful
woman, tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger than her
husband; a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the contentment of
their family life.

It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best, that
the confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, since the
wife was either very reticent about her husband’s past life, or else,
as seemed more likely, was imperfectly informed about it. It had also
been noted and commented upon by a few observant people that there were
signs sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, and
that she would display acute uneasiness if her absent husband should
ever be particularly late in his return. On a quiet countryside, where
all gossip is welcome, this weakness of the lady of the Manor House did
not pass without remark, and it bulked larger upon people’s memory when
the events arose which gave it a very special significance.

There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was,
it is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time of
the strange happenings which will now be narrated brought his name
prominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of Hales
Lodge, Hampstead.

Cecil Barker’s tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in the
main street of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and welcome
visitor at the Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the only
friend of the past unknown life of Mr. Douglas who was ever seen in his
new English surroundings. Barker was himself an undoubted Englishman;
but by his remarks it was clear that he had first known Douglas in
America and had there lived on intimate terms with him. He appeared to
be a man of considerable wealth, and was reputed to be a bachelor.

In age he was rather younger than Douglas—forty-five at the most—a
tall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved, prize-fighter
face, thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of masterful black eyes
which might, even without the aid of his very capable hands, clear a
way for him through a hostile crowd. He neither rode nor shot, but
spent his days in wandering round the old village with his pipe in his
mouth, or in driving with his host, or in his absence with his hostess,
over the beautiful countryside. “An easy-going, free-handed gentleman,”
said Ames, the butler. “But, my word! I had rather not be the man that
crossed him!” He was cordial and intimate with Douglas, and he was no
less friendly with his wife—a friendship which more than once seemed to
cause some irritation to the husband, so that even the servants were
able to perceive his annoyance. Such was the third person who was one
of the family when the catastrophe occurred.

As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of a
large household to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames, and
Mrs. Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of some
of her household cares. The other six servants in the house bear no
relation to the events of the night of January 6th.

It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the small
local police station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the Sussex
Constabulary. Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door and
pealed furiously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had occurred at the
Manor House, and John Douglas had been murdered. That was the
breathless burden of his message. He had hurried back to the house,
followed within a few minutes by the police sergeant, who arrived at
the scene of the crime a little after twelve o’clock, after taking
prompt steps to warn the county authorities that something serious was
afoot.

On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the drawbridge
down, the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state of
wild confusion and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddling
together in the hall, with the frightened butler wringing his hands in
the doorway. Only Cecil Barker seemed to be master of himself and his
emotions; he had opened the door which was nearest to the entrance and
he had beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At that moment there
arrived Dr. Wood, a brisk and capable general practitioner from the
village. The three men entered the fatal room together, while the
horror-stricken butler followed at their heels, closing the door behind
him to shut out the terrible scene from the maid servants.

The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in the
centre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing gown, which
covered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his bare feet.
The doctor knelt beside him and held down the hand lamp which had stood
on the table. One glance at the victim was enough to show the healer
that his presence could be dispensed with. The man had been horribly
injured. Lying across his chest was a curious weapon, a shotgun with
the barrel sawed off a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear that
this had been fired at close range and that he had received the whole
charge in the face, blowing his head almost to pieces. The triggers had
been wired together, so as to make the simultaneous discharge more
destructive.

The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendous
responsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. “We will touch
nothing until my superiors arrive,” he said in a hushed voice, staring
in horror at the dreadful head.

“Nothing has been touched up to now,” said Cecil Barker. “I’ll answer
for that. You see it all exactly as I found it.”

“When was that?” The sergeant had drawn out his notebook.

“It was just half-past eleven. I had not begun to undress, and I was
sitting by the fire in my bedroom when I heard the report. It was not
very loud—it seemed to be muffled. I rushed down—I don’t suppose it was
thirty seconds before I was in the room.”

“Was the door open?”

“Yes, it was open. Poor Douglas was lying as you see him. His bedroom
candle was burning on the table. It was I who lit the lamp some minutes
afterward.”

“Did you see no one?”

“No. I heard Mrs. Douglas coming down the stair behind me, and I rushed
out to prevent her from seeing this dreadful sight. Mrs. Allen, the
housekeeper, came and took her away. Ames had arrived, and we ran back
into the room once more.”

“But surely I have heard that the drawbridge is kept up all night.”

“Yes, it was up until I lowered it.”

“Then how could any murderer have got away? It is out of the question!
Mr. Douglas must have shot himself.”

“That was our first idea. But see!” Barker drew aside the curtain, and
showed that the long, diamond-paned window was open to its full extent.
“And look at this!” He held the lamp down and illuminated a smudge of
blood like the mark of a boot-sole upon the wooden sill. “Someone has
stood there in getting out.”

“You mean that someone waded across the moat?”

“Exactly!”

“Then if you were in the room within half a minute of the crime, he
must have been in the water at that very moment.”

“I have not a doubt of it. I wish to heaven that I had rushed to the
window! But the curtain screened it, as you can see, and so it never
occurred to me. Then I heard the step of Mrs. Douglas, and I could not
let her enter the room. It would have been too horrible.”

“Horrible enough!” said the doctor, looking at the shattered head and
the terrible marks which surrounded it. “I’ve never seen such injuries
since the Birlstone railway smash.”

“But, I say,” remarked the police sergeant, whose slow, bucolic common
sense was still pondering the open window. “It’s all very well your
saying that a man escaped by wading this moat, but what I ask you is,
how did he ever get into the house at all if the bridge was up?”

“Ah, that’s the question,” said Barker.

“At what o’clock was it raised?”

“It was nearly six o’clock,” said Ames, the butler.

“I’ve heard,” said the sergeant, “that it was usually raised at sunset.
That would be nearer half-past four than six at this time of year.”

“Mrs. Douglas had visitors to tea,” said Ames. “I couldn’t raise it
until they went. Then I wound it up myself.”

“Then it comes to this,” said the sergeant: “If anyone came from
outside—_if_ they did—they must have got in across the bridge before
six and been in hiding ever since, until Mr. Douglas came into the room
after eleven.”

“That is so! Mr. Douglas went round the house every night the last
thing before he turned in to see that the lights were right. That
brought him in here. The man was waiting and shot him. Then he got away
through the window and left his gun behind him. That’s how I read it;
for nothing else will fit the facts.”

The sergeant picked up a card which lay beside the dead man on the
floor. The initials V.V. and under them the number 341 were rudely
scrawled in ink upon it.

“What’s this?” he asked, holding it up.

Barker looked at it with curiosity. “I never noticed it before,” he
said. “The murderer must have left it behind him.”

“V.V.—341. I can make no sense of that.”

The sergeant kept turning it over in his big fingers. “What’s V.V.?
Somebody’s initials, maybe. What have you got there, Dr. Wood?”

It was a good-sized hammer which had been lying on the rug in front of
the fireplace—a substantial, workmanlike hammer. Cecil Barker pointed
to a box of brass-headed nails upon the mantelpiece.

“Mr. Douglas was altering the pictures yesterday,” he said. “I saw him
myself, standing upon that chair and fixing the big picture above it.
That accounts for the hammer.”

“We’d best put it back on the rug where we found it,” said the
sergeant, scratching his puzzled head in his perplexity. “It will want
the best brains in the force to get to the bottom of this thing. It
will be a London job before it is finished.” He raised the hand lamp
and walked slowly round the room. “Hullo!” he cried, excitedly, drawing
the window curtain to one side. “What o’clock were those curtains
drawn?”

“When the lamps were lit,” said the butler. “It would be shortly after
four.”

“Someone had been hiding here, sure enough.” He held down the light,
and the marks of muddy boots were very visible in the corner. “I’m
bound to say this bears out your theory, Mr. Barker. It looks as if the
man got into the house after four when the curtains were drawn, and
before six when the bridge was raised. He slipped into this room,
because it was the first that he saw. There was no other place where he
could hide, so he popped in behind this curtain. That all seems clear
enough. It is likely that his main idea was to burgle the house; but
Mr. Douglas chanced to come upon him, so he murdered him and escaped.”

“That’s how I read it,” said Barker. “But, I say, aren’t we wasting
precious time? Couldn’t we start out and scout the country before the
fellow gets away?”

The sergeant considered for a moment.

“There are no trains before six in the morning; so he can’t get away by
rail. If he goes by road with his legs all dripping, it’s odds that
someone will notice him. Anyhow, I can’t leave here myself until I am
relieved. But I think none of you should go until we see more clearly
how we all stand.”

The doctor had taken the lamp and was narrowly scrutinizing the body.
“What’s this mark?” he asked. “Could this have any connection with the
crime?”

The dead man’s right arm was thrust out from his dressing gown, and
exposed as high as the elbow. About halfway up the forearm was a
curious brown design, a triangle inside a circle, standing out in vivid
relief upon the lard-coloured skin.

“It’s not tattooed,” said the doctor, peering through his glasses. “I
never saw anything like it. The man has been branded at some time as
they brand cattle. What is the meaning of this?”

“I don’t profess to know the meaning of it,” said Cecil Barker; “but I
have seen the mark on Douglas many times this last ten years.”

“And so have I,” said the butler. “Many a time when the master has
rolled up his sleeves I have noticed that very mark. I’ve often
wondered what it could be.”

“Then it has nothing to do with the crime, anyhow,” said the sergeant.
“But it’s a rum thing all the same. Everything about this case is rum.
Well, what is it now?”

The butler had given an exclamation of astonishment and was pointing at
the dead man’s outstretched hand.

“They’ve taken his wedding ring!” he gasped.

“What!”

“Yes, indeed. Master always wore his plain gold wedding ring on the
little finger of his left hand. That ring with the rough nugget on it
was above it, and the twisted snake ring on the third finger. There’s
the nugget and there’s the snake, but the wedding ring is gone.”

“He’s right,” said Barker.

“Do you tell me,” said the sergeant, “that the wedding ring was _below_
the other?”

“Always!”

“Then the murderer, or whoever it was, first took off this ring you
call the nugget ring, then the wedding ring, and afterwards put the
nugget ring back again.”

“That is so!”

The worthy country policeman shook his head. “Seems to me the sooner we
get London on to this case the better,” said he. “White Mason is a
smart man. No local job has ever been too much for White Mason. It
won’t be long now before he is here to help us. But I expect we’ll have
to look to London before we are through. Anyhow, I’m not ashamed to say
that it is a deal too thick for the likes of me.”