The Childerbridge Mystery

"What did he say to you?" he enquired at last, his voice shaking with the anxiety he could not control or hide.

"He said that he wanted to see you, and that he would do so if he had to wait at the gates for a year."

"And he will," said Standerton bitterly; "that man will hunt me to my grave. I have been cursed with him for thirty years, and do what I will I cannot throw him off."

James approached his father, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.

"Father," he began, "why won't you let me share your trouble with you? Surely we should be able to find some way of ridding ourselves of this man?"

"No, there is no way," said Standerton. "He has got a hold upon me that nothing will ever shake off."

"I will not believe, father, that he knows anything to your discredit," cried Jim passionately.

"And you are right, my lad," his father replied. "He knows nothing to my discredit. I hope no one else does; but – but there – do not ask any more. Some day I will tell you the whole miserable story. But not now. You must not ask me. Believe me, dear lad, when I say that it would be better not."

"Then what will you do?"

"See him, and buy him off once more, I suppose. Then I shall have peace for a few months. Do you know where he is staying?"

"At the 'George and Dragon,'" Jim replied.

"Then I must send a note down to him and ask him to come up here," said Standerton. "Now go and dress. Don't trouble yourself about him."

All things considered, the dinner that night could not be described as a success. William Standerton was more silent than usual, and his son almost equalled him. Alice tried hard to cheer them both, but finding her efforts unsuccessful, she also lapsed into silence. A diversion, however, was caused before the meal was at an end. The butler had scarcely completed the circuit of the table with the port, before a piercing scream ran through the building, followed by another, and yet another.

"Good heavens! What's that?" cried Standerton, as he sprang to his feet, and hurried to the door, to be followed by his son and daughter.

"It came from upstairs, sir," said the butler, and immediately hurried up the broad oak staircase two steps at a time. His statement proved to be correct, for, on reaching the gallery that runs round the hall, he found a maid-servant lying on the floor in a dead faint. Jim followed close behind him, and between them they picked the girl up, and carried her down to the hall, where she was laid upon a settee. The housekeeper was summoned, and the usual restoratives applied, but it was some time before her senses returned to her. When she was able to speak, she looked wildly about her, and asked if "it was gone?" When later she was able to tell her story more coherently, it was as follows.

In the fulfilment of her usual duties she had gone along the gallery to tidy Miss Standerton's bedroom. She had just finished her work, and was closing the door, when she saw, standing before her, not more than half-a-dozen paces distant, the little hump-backed ghost, of which she had so often heard mention made in the Servants' Hall. It looked at her, pointed its finger at her, and a second later vanished. "She knew now," she declared, "that it was all over with her, and that she was going to die. Nothing could save her." Having given utterance to this alarming prophecy, she indulged in a second fit of hysterics, on recovering from which she was removed by the butler and housekeeper to the latter's sitting-room, vowing as she went that she could not sleep in the house, and that she would never know happiness again. Having seen her depart, the others returned to the dining-room, and had just taken their places at the table once more, when there was a ring at the front door bell, and in due course the butler entered with the information that a person "of the name of Murbridge" had called and would be glad to see Mr. Standerton. James sprang to his feet.

"I told him he was not to come near the place," he said. "Let me go and see him, father."

"No, no, my boy," said Standerton. "I wrote to him before dinner, as I told you I should, telling him to come up to-night. Where is he, Wilkins?"

"In the library, sir," the butler replied.

"Very well. I will see him there."

He accordingly left the room.

A quarter of an hour later James and Alice heard Murbridge's voice in the hall.

"You dare to turn me out of your house?" he was saying, as if in a fit of uncontrollable rage. "You forbid me to speak to your son and daughter, do you?"

"Once and for all, I do," came Standerton's calm voice in reply. "Now leave the house, and never let me see your face again. Wilkins, open the door, and take care that this man is never again admitted to my house."

Murbridge must have gone down the steps, where, as Wilkins asserted later on, he stood shaking his fist at Mr. Standerton.

"Curse you, I'll make you pay for this," he cried. "You think yourself all-powerful because of your wealth, but whatever it costs me, I'll make you smart for the manner in which you've treated me to-night."

Then the door was closed abruptly, and no more was seen of him.

William Standerton's usually rubicund face was very pale when he joined his son and daughter later. It was plain that the interview he had had with Murbridge had upset him more than he cared to admit. Alice did her best to console him, and endeavoured to make him forget it, but her efforts were a failure.

"Poor old dad," she said, when she bade him good-night. "It hurts me to see you so troubled."

"You must not think about it then," was the answer. "I shall be myself again in the morning. Good-night, my girl, and may God bless you."

"God bless you, father," the girl replied earnestly.

"I do wish you'd let me help you," said Jim, when he and his father were alone together. "Why did you not let me interview that man?"

"It would have done no good," Standerton replied. "The fellow was desperate, and he even went so far as to threaten me. Thereupon I lost my temper and ordered him out of the house. I fear we shall have more trouble with him yet."

"Is it quite impossible for you to tell me the reason of it all?" James asked, after a moment's hesitation.

"Well, I have been thinking it over," said his father, "and I have come to the conclusion that perhaps it would be better, much as it will pain you, to let you know the truth. But not to-night, dear lad. Let it stand over, and I will tell you everything to-morrow. Now good-night."

They shook hands according to custom, and then departed to their respective rooms.

Next morning James was about early. He visited the Stables and the Home Farm, looked in at the kennels, and was back again at the home some three-quarters of an hour before breakfast. As he crossed the hall to ascend the stairs, in order to go to his own room, he met Wilkins coming down, his face white as death.

"My God, sir," he said hoarsely, "for mercy's sake come upstairs to your father's room."

"What is the matter with him?" cried James, realising from the butler's manner that something terrible had happened.

But Wilkins did not answer. He only led the way upstairs. Together they proceeded along the corridor and entered the Squire's bedroom. There they saw a sight that James will never forget as long as he lives. His father lay stretched out upon the bed, dead. His eyes were open, and stared horribly at the ceiling, while his hands were clenched, and on either side of his throat were discoloured patches.

These told their own tale.

William Standerton had been strangled.

CHAPTER IV

It would be almost impossible to describe in fitting words the effect produced upon James Standerton, by the terrible discovery he had made.

"What does it mean, Wilkins?" he asked in a voice surcharged with horror. "For God's sake, tell me what it means?"

"I don't know myself, sir," the man replied. "It's too terrible for all words. Who can have done it?"

Throwing himself on his knees beside his father's body, James took one of the cold hands in his.

"Father! father!" he cried, in an ecstasy of grief, and then broke down altogether. When calmness returned to him, he rose to his feet, clasped the hands of the dead man upon the breast, and tenderly closed the staring eyes.

"Send for Dr. Brenderton," he said, turning to Wilkins, "and let the messenger call at the police-station on the way and ask the officer in charge to come here without a moment's delay."

The man left him to carry out the order, and James silently withdrew from the room to perform what he knew would be the saddest task of his life. As he descended the stairs he could hear his sister singing in the breakfast-room below.

"You are very late," she said, as he entered the room. "And father too. I shall have to give him a talking-to when he does come down."

Then she must have realised that something was amiss, for she put down the letter which she had been reading, and took a step towards him. "Has anything happened, Jim?" she enquired, "your face is as white as death." Then Jim told her everything. The shock to her was even more terrible than it had been to her brother, but she did her best to bear up bravely.

The doctor and the police officer arrived almost simultaneously. Both were visibly upset at the intelligence they had received. Short though William Standerton's residence in the neighbourhood had been, it had, nevertheless, been long enough for them to arrive at a proper appreciation of his worth. He had been a good supporter of all the Local Institutions, a liberal landlord, and had won for himself the reputation of being an honest and just man.

"I sympathise with you more deeply than I can say," said the doctor, when he joined Jim in the library after he had made his examination. "If there is anything more I can do to help you, I hope you will command me."

"Thank you," said Jim simply, "there is not anything however you can do. Stay! There is one question you can answer. I want you to tell me how long you think my father has been dead?"

"Several hours," replied the medical man. "I should say at least six."

"Is there any sort of doubt in your mind as to the cause of his death?"

"None whatever," the other replied. "All outward appearances point to the fact that death is due to strangulation."

At that moment the police officer entered the room.

"I have taken the liberty, Mr. Standerton," he said, "of locking the door of the room and retaining the key in my possession. It will be necessary for me to report the matter to the Authorities at once, in order that an Inquest may be held. Before I do so, however, may I put one or two questions to you?"

"As many as you like," Jim replied. "I am, of course, more than anxious that the mystery surrounding my father's death shall be cleared up at once, and the murderer brought to Justice."

"In the first place," said the officer, "I see that the window of the bedroom is securely fastened on the inside, so that the assassin, whoever he was, could not have made his entrance by this means. Do you know whether your father was in the habit of locking his door at night?"

"I am sure he was not. A man who has led the sort of life he has done for fifty years does not lock his bedroom door on retiring to rest."

"In that case the murderer must have obtained access to the room through the house, and I must make it my business to ascertain whether any of the windows or doors were open this morning. One more question, Mr. Standerton, and I have finished for the present. Have you any reason to suppose that your father had an enemy?"

Jim remembered the suspicion that had been in his mind ever since he had made the ghastly discovery that morning.

"I have," he answered. "There was a man in Australia who hated my father with an undying hatred."

"Forgive my saying so, but a man in Australia could scarcely have committed murder in England last night."

"But the man is not in Australia now. He was here yesterday evening, and he and my father had a quarrel. The man was ordered out of the house, and went away declaring that, whatever it might cost, he would be revenged."

"In that case it looks as if the mystery were explained. I must make it my business to discover the whereabouts of the man you mention."

"He was staying at the 'George and Dragon' yesterday," said Jim. "By this time, however, he has probably left the neighbourhood. It should not be difficult to trace him, however; and if you consider a reward necessary, in order to bring about his apprehension more quickly, offer it, and I will pay it only too gladly. I shall know no peace until this dastardly crime has been avenged."

"I can quite understand that," the doctor remarked. "You will have the sympathy of the whole County."

"And now," said the police officer, "I must be going. I shall take a man with me and call at the 'George and Dragon.' The name of the person you mentioned to me is – "

"Richard Murbridge," said Jim, and thereupon furnished the officer with a description of the man in question.

"You will, of course, be able to identify him?"

"I should know him again if I did not see him for twenty years," Jim answered. "Wilkins, the butler, will also be glad to give you evidence as to his coming here last night."

"Thank you," the officer replied. "I will let you know as soon as I have anything to report."

The doctor and the police agent thereupon bade him good-day and took their departure, and Jim went in search of his grief-stricken sister. The terrible news had by this time permeated the whole household, and had caused the greatest consternation.

"I knew what it would be last night," said the cook. "Though Mr. Wilkins laughed at me, I felt certain that Mary Sampson did not see the Black Dwarf for nothing. Why, it's well known by everybody that whenever that horrible little man is seen in the house death follows within twenty-four hours."

The frightened maids to whom she spoke shuddered at her words.

"What's more," the cook continued, "they may talk about murderers as they please, but they forget that this is not the first time a man has been found strangled in this house. There is more in it than meets the eye, as the saying goes."

"Lor, Mrs. Ryan, you don't mean to say that you think it was the ghost that killed the poor master?" asked one of the maids, her eyes dilating with horror.

"I don't say as how it was, and I don't say as how it wasn't," that lady replied somewhat ambiguously, and then she added oracularly: "Time will show."

In the meantime Jim had written a short note to his sweetheart, telling her of the crime, and imploring her to come to his sister at once. A servant was despatched with it, and half-an-hour later Helen herself appeared in answer.

"Your poor father. I cannot believe it! It is too terrible," she said to her lover, when he greeted her in the drawing-room. "Oh! Jim, my poor boy, how you must feel it. And Alice, too – pray let me go to her at once."

Jim conducted her to his sister's room, and then left the two women together, returning himself to the dead man's study on the floor below. There he sat himself down to wait, with what patience he could command, for news from the police station. In something less than an hour it came in the shape of a note from the inspector, to the effect that Murbridge had not returned to the "George and Dragon" until a late hour on the previous night, and that he had departed for London by the train leaving Childerbridge Junction shortly before five o'clock that morning. "However," said the writer, in conclusion, "I have wired to the Authorities in London, furnishing them with an exact description of him, and I have no doubt that before very long his arrest will be effected."

With this assurance Jim was perforce compelled to be content. Later came the intimation from the Coroner to the effect that the Inquest would be held at the George and Dragon Inn on the following morning.

Shortly after twelve o'clock Wilkins entered the study with the information that a person of "the name of Robins" desired to see his master on an important matter, if he would permit him an interview.

"Show him in," said Jim, forming as he did so a shrewd guess as to the man's business.

A few moments later a small, sombrely-dressed individual, resembling a Dissenting minister more than any one else, made his appearance in the room.

"Mr. Standerton, I believe," he began, speaking in a low, deep voice, that had almost a solemn ring about it.

"That is my name," the other replied. "What can I do for you?"

"I am a Scotland Yard detective," the stranger replied, "and I have been sent down to take charge of the case. I must apologise for intruding upon you at such a time, but if the murderer is to be brought to justice, no time mast be lost. I want you to tell me, if you will, all you can about the crime, keeping nothing back, however trivial you may consider it."

James thereupon proceeded to once more narrate what he knew regarding the murder. He discovered that the detective had already been informed as to the ominous suspicion that had attached itself to Murbridge.

"The first point to be settled," he said, when James had finished, "is the way in which the man got into the house. You have not cross-questioned the domestics upon the subject, I suppose?"

James shook his head.

"I have been too much upset to think of such a thing," he answered. "But if you deem such a proceeding necessary, you are, of course, quite at liberty to do so. Take what steps you think best; all I ask of you is to find my father's murderer."

"I presume you heard nothing suspicious during the night?"

"Nothing at all. But it is scarcely likely that I should do so, as my room is in another part of the house."

"Who is responsible for the locking up at night?"

"The butler, Wilkins."

"Has he been with you any length of time?"

"We ourselves have only been a few months in England," Jim replied, "but since he has been in our service we have found him a most careful and trustworthy man. There cannot be any shadow of suspicion against him."

"Very likely not," the detective answered. "But in my profession we often find criminals in the most unlikely quarters. Mind you, sir, I don't say that he had anything to do with the crime itself. It is not outside the bounds of possibility, however, that his honesty may have been tampered with, even to the extent of leaving a window unfastened, or a door unlocked. However, I have no doubt I shall soon learn all there is to be known about Mr. Wilkins."

When he had asked one or two other important questions, he withdrew to question the servants. From the account James received of the examination later, it would not appear to have been a very successful business.

Wilkins asserted most positively that he had made every door and window in the house secure before retiring to rest. He was as certain as a man could be that no lock, bolt, or bar had been moved from its place during the night, and the housekeeper corroborated his assertions. The detective's face wore a puzzled expression.

"I've been round every flower-bed outside the windows," he said to the police inspector, "and not a trace of a footprint can I find. And yet we know that Murbridge was away from the inn at a late hour, and there's evidence enough upstairs to show that somebody made his way into Mr. Standerton's room between midnight and daybreak. Later I'll go down to the village and make a few enquiries there. It's just possible somebody may have met the man upon the road."

He was as good as his word, and when he returned to the Manor House at a late hour he knew as much about Richard Murbridge's movements on the preceding evening as did any man in the neighbourhood.

Jim dined alone that night, though it would be almost a sarcasm to dignify his meal with such a name. He had spent the afternoon going through his father's papers, in the hope of being able to discover some clue that might ultimately enable him to solve the mystery concerning Murbridge. He was entirely unsuccessful, however. Among all the papers with which the drawers were filled, there was not one scrap of writing that could in anyway enlighten him. They were the plain records of a successful business man's career, and, so far as Murbridge was concerned, quite devoid of interest. I do not think James Standerton ever knew how much he loved his father until he went through that drawer. The neat little packets, so carefully tied up and labelled, spoke to him eloquently of the dead man, and, as he replaced them where he had found them, a wave of intense longing to be revenged on his father's cowardly assassin swept over him. He was in the act of closing the drawer, when there came a tap at the door, and Wilkins entered to inform him that the detective had returned and was at his service, should he desire to see him.

"Show him in, Wilkins," said James, locking the drawer of the table, and placing the key in his pocket as he spoke.

The butler disappeared, to return a few moments later accompanied by the individual in question.

"Well, Mr. Robins," said Jim, when they were alone together, "what have you discovered?"

"Nothing of very much importance, sir, I am afraid," the other replied. "I have found out that Murbridge left the park by the main gates almost on the stroke of half-past eight last night. I have also discovered that he was again seen within a few minutes of eleven o'clock, standing near the small stile at the further end of the park."

"I know the place," Jim replied. "Go on! What was he doing there!"

"Well, sir," continued the detective, "that's more than I can tell you. But if he were there at such an hour, you may be sure it was not with any good intention. I have made enquiries from the keepers, and they have informed me that it is quite possible to reach the house by the path that leads from the stile without being observed."

"It winds through the plantation," said Jim, "and it is very seldom used. Lying outside the village as it does, it is a very roundabout way of reaching the house. What have they to say about him at the inn?"

"Not very much, sir. But what little they do say is important. The landlord informs me that immediately after his arrival in the village he began to ask questions concerning the Squire. There is no doubt that your father was his enemy, and also that Murbridge cherished a bitter grudge against him. He did not tell the landlord who he was, or what his reasons were for being in the neighbourhood. It is certain, however, that had your father not been living here he would not have come near the place. On receipt of Mr. Standerton's letter, he set off for the house, and did not return to the inn until a late hour. In point of fact, it was between twelve and one o'clock when he did come in. The landlord is unable to give the exact time, for the reason that he was too sleepy to take much notice of it. He does remember, however, that Murbridge was in a very bad temper, and that he was excited about something. He called for some brandy, and moreover stated that his holiday was at an end, and that he was leaving for London by the early train next morning. This he did. That is as far as the landlord's tale goes. It seems to me that, unless we can prove something more definite against him than the evidence we have been able to obtain up to the present moment, it will be difficult to bring the crime home to him."

"But we must prove more," cried Jim, with considerable vehemence. "I am as certain in my own mind as I can be of anything that he was the man who killed my father, and if it costs me all I am worth in the world, and if I am compelled to spend the rest of my life in doing it, I'll bring the crime home to him somehow or another. It is impossible that he should be allowed to take that good, honest life, and get off scot free."

"I can quite understand your feelings, sir," said the detective, "and you may rest assured that, so far as we are concerned, no stone shall be left unturned to bring the guilty man to justice. Of course it is full early to speak like this, but if you will review the case in your own mind, you will see that, up to the present, there is really nothing tangible against the man. We know that he hated your father, and that he stated his intention of doing him a mischief, and also that on the night he uttered this threat the murder was committed. From this it would appear that he is responsible for it. But how are we to prove that he got into the house? No one saw him, and there are no suspicious footprints on the flower-beds outside. At the same time we know that he did not return to the inn until a late hour, and that, when he did, he was in an excited state. Yet why should he not have gone for a walk, and might not his excitement be attributed to resentment of the treatment he received at your father's hands? I am very much afraid it would be difficult to induce a Jury to convict on evidence such as we are, so far, able to bring against him. However, we shall hear what the Coroner has to say to-morrow. In the meantime, if you do not require my presence longer, I will return to the inn. It will be necessary for me to be early astir to-morrow."