“i will tell no one,” he replied.
“it seems to me as if the storm is abating,” said sir george granville to his week-end guest.
he moved a piece on the chess-board and then got up from his chair and went to the window to listen to the rain on the glass.
his guest was so intent on the chess-board that he did not reply. sir george granville remained at the window, his attention divided between watching for his opponent’s next move and listening to the storm.
sir george’s opponent was a young man; that is to say, he was under forty. he was evidently tall, and his well-cut clothes indicated that he possessed the well-built frame which is the natural heritage of most young englishmen of good class. but his clear-cut, clean-shaven face suggested that its owner was a man of unusual personality and force of character. it was a remarkable face which would have puzzled the student in physiognomy. the upper portion was purely intellectual in type, the forehead broad, and the head well-shaped, but the dark eyes, with a touch of dreaminess and sadness in their depths, contrasted strangely with the energy and determination indicated by the firm mouth and heavy lower jaw.
the guest moved a piece and then looked at his host.
“you are not yourself to-night, sir george,” he said. “i think we had better finish this game some other time, or cancel it.”
sir george walked over to the table and looked at the position on the chess-board.
“perhaps it would be better to cancel it,” he said, “though it is generous on your part to offer to do so, with a piece to the good and the threatening development of your pawns on the queen’s side. but i am off my game to-night. i am too worried about that nephew of mine to give you a good game.”
“it is a bad night to be out,” said the guest. “but surely he would find shelter somewhere in the downs.”
“he may have met with an accident. he must have seen this storm coming. he should have been home hours ago in any case.”
“putting aside the possibility of an accident, the fact that he hasn’t turned up in the storm indicates that he has found shelter,” said the guest. “he is waiting until the storm is over.”
“but on the downs there are so few places where one can obtain shelter except at a shepherd’s cottage.”
sir george sat down in an arm-chair near the fire and invited his guest to take the chair on the other side. the room they were in was a large one, expensively furnished in black oak. the small chess-table with the chess-board and men had been placed near the large table in the centre of the room for the benefit of the light, but the autumn night was chilly, and the fire comfortable, and an open box of cigars and spirit-stand close by enhanced the appearance of indoor comfort. after his guest had declined a drink, sir george mixed himself a whisky and soda and settled himself in an easy chair. his guest lit a cigar.
they had been seated in front of the fire but a few minutes when the sound of the telephone bell was heard in the hall. sir george jumped to his feet with an alacrity that was surprising in a man of his weighty figure.
“perhaps that is harry,” he said to his guest as he hurried into the hall.
the guest lit another cigar and leaned back in his chair as he awaited the return of his host. the length of time sir george was at the telephone would indicate to some extent the nature of the conversation. an absence of over a minute would suggest good news, and that his host was desirous of obtaining the full measure of it. to the surprise of the guest, five minutes elapsed without any sign of the return of his host. that the telephone conversation should have lasted so long seemed improbable.
the guest, with a delicate regard for what was due to a host, tried to keep his active mind from speculating on the nature of the news by telephone that was keeping sir george away. he got up to examine the paintings on the wall, but found little in them to claim his attention. nearly a quarter of an hour had elapsed since the telephone bell had rung. with a smile the guest returned to his chair. he had alighted on a solution of his host’s long absence: sir george had received good news and had gone upstairs to announce it to his wife.
lady granville was the second wife of sir george, and was many years his junior. the baronet was sixty-four, and in spite of the fact that he was an experienced man of the world, whose wealth enabled him to get his own way, he was easily managed by his beautiful young wife.
sir george, with a passion for chess and a predilection for a quiet life, had at the instance of his wife, taken a big house on the front at the fashionable resort of staveley and had plunged into its social gaieties. that afternoon he had revolted to the extent of excusing himself from accompanying her to a garden fête in aid of the funds of the red cross by declaring that he must stay at home to welcome his guest, who was to motor down from london. lady granville had gone unaccompanied to the fête, and on her return home had adopted the wifely revenge of retiring to rest early, on the grounds that she had a severe headache.
when sir george returned to his guest he was in a happy state of mind.
“it was he, crewe,” he exclaimed.
“and nothing wrong?” asked crewe.
“no, nothing wrong with him,” was the reply. “but he has had the most extraordinary adventure—gruesome, in fact.”
“gruesome?” the tone in which crewe repeated the word showed that his interest had been aroused.
“well, you might not call it gruesome, crewe, as you have had so much to do with gruesome tragedies, but the fact of the matter is the boy seems to have discovered a murder.”
“a murder?”
“that is how the police look at it, he says. harry rang me up from the police station at ashlingsea—a fishing village about twelve miles from here along the coast. his horse went lame and he was caught in the storm. he came across an old farm-house and went there for shelter, but he found the house was empty. he got in somehow, and on going upstairs found the dead body of a young man—the owner of the farm. lumsden the owner’s name is; quite a boy, that is to say, something under thirty. cliff farm is the name of the place. i know it well—i have often passed it while out motoring.”
“how was he killed—did your nephew say?”
“shot.”
“the dead body was there and the house empty,” said crewe, in a meditative voice. “that looks as if the police will not have much difficulty in picking up the scent. the fact that he would be alone could not have been known to many people.”
“i suppose not. i do not profess to be quite clear about everything harry told me because i was so pleased to hear his voice and so astonished at his adventure. i went straight upstairs and told my wife. i know she was anxious about harry though she said nothing before retiring—that is her way. of course i only told her that harry was safe. i said nothing about a murder because it would upset her. but, as i was saying, this young lumsden, according to what harry has learned from the police sergeant at ashlingsea, lived alone. he didn’t farm his land: he was a bit of a recluse.”
“how far away is his farm?” asked crewe.
“about nine or ten miles from here. what about motoring over in the morning?”
“can we pick up your nephew? i should like to hear his account at first hand.”
“we can go over to ashlingsea first and bring him back to the farm with us. he is staying at an inn there, but i can get the ashlingsea police station, from where harry rang up, to let him know that we will be over for him in the car in the morning.”
crewe nodded. sir george mixed himself another whisky and soda, and lit a cigar. crewe also lit a cigar, and then they settled themselves in front of the fire for a chat before retiring.
the tie between the great crime investigator and his host was chess. sir george granville had been in the front rank of english chess-players when crewe disappointed the chess world by suddenly retiring from match chess, at the outset of a brilliant career, in order to devote his wonderful gifts of intuition and insight to crime detection. his intellect was too vigorous and active to be satisfied with the sedate triumphs of chess; his restless temperament and vital force needed a wider and more vigorous scope.
but, despite the wide fame he had won as a criminologist, chess enthusiasts still shook their heads when his name was mentioned, as people are wont to do when they hear the name of a man of brilliant parts who has not made the most of his life. it was nothing to them that crewe had achieved fame in the rôle he had chosen for himself; that the press frequently praised him as a public benefactor who had brought to justice many dangerous criminals who would have escaped punishment but for his subtle skill. these were vain triumphs for a man who had beaten turgieff and the young south american champion, and had seemed destined to bring the world’s championship to england.
the chess tie between crewe and sir george granville had long ago strengthened into mutual regard. sir george liked and admired crewe, though he did not understand the depths of his character. crewe respected the baronet for the shrewd ability with which he controlled his large interests, and the fact that he had never allowed his career as a business man to warp the kindliness of his nature or interfere with the natural generosity of his disposition.
they talked of various things: of chess, at first, as is inevitable with two chess-players. sir george pulled up the chess-table and reset the abandoned game in order to see if there was not some defence to black’s position at the stage when the game was abandoned—the baronet had played with the black pieces. he came to the conclusion that there wasn’t, and congratulated crewe on his attack.
“do you know, i cannot help regretting sometimes that you have practically given up the game,” he added, as he placed the ivory chess-men one by one in the box. “it is a long while since england has had a really great chess-player.”
“oh, i don’t know,” replied crewe. “there are more things in life than chess.”
“some people do not think so,” replied sir george, with a smile. “your old opponent merton was telling me at the club the other night that he would consider his life had been well spent if he could but find a sound answer to that new opening of talsker’s.”
“that is proof that chess gets hold of one too much,” replied crewe, with an answering smile.
“still, you might have been champion of england,” pursued sir george meditatively.
crewe shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“one cannot have it both ways,” he said.
“you prefer crime investigation to chess?” continued sir george inquiringly.
“in some ways—yes. both have their fascination, but in chess the human element is lacking. it is true you have an opponent, but he is not like your hidden opponent in crime. when your hidden opponent has intelligence, then the game is wonderful—while it lasts. but intelligence in crime is as rare as it is in every other walk of life. most crimes are like chess problems—once you find the key-move, the rest is easy. the really perfect crime mystery is as rare as a perfect chess problem. as a rule, the machinery of the human brain is not delicately adjusted enough, or sufficiently complex, to devise a problem both complex and subtle in crime—or in chess.”
sir george did not speak. it was so rarely that crewe could be induced to speak of his experiences in crime investigation that he did not wish to check him by interrupting. but crewe showed no sign of continuing. he sighed slightly, threw his half-smoked cigar into the fire, produced a large brierwood pipe with an amber mouthpiece, and slowly filled it, with his eyes fixed on the flames.
they remained thus for some moments in silence, though sir george kept glancing from time to time at his companion. several times the baronet was on the verge of speaking, but checked himself. at length crewe, without looking away from the fire, said:
“you would like to ask me to go into this case your nephew has discovered to-night, but you do not think it would be quite courteous on your part to do so, because i am your guest.”
“well, yes, i was thinking that, though i don’t know how you guessed it,” said sir george, in some surprise. “for more reasons than one i am worried about my nephew getting mixed up with this tragedy.”
“tell me why,” said crewe sympathetically, turning away from the fire and looking at his host.
it was past one o’clock when crewe retired to his room. the object of his visit to sir george granville had been to obtain a rest after some weeks of investigation into the malmesbury case, as the newspapers called it; his investigation having resulted in the capture of the elusive malmesbury who had swindled the insurance companies out of £20,000 by arranging his own death and burial.
crewe smiled to himself once or twice as he slowly undressed. instead of entering into a quiet week-end he found that within a few hours of his arrival he was on the threshold of another investigation. he had not met his host’s nephew, harry marsland, as the young man had left for his ride on the downs before crewe reached the house. but from what sir george had told him crewe felt attracted to the young man. marsland, who was the only son of sir george’s only sister, had purchased a junior partnership in a firm of consulting engineers shortly after attending his majority, but as soon as the war broke out he offered his services and obtained a commission.
he had seen over six months’ fighting before being wounded by a shell. the long strain of warfare, the shock of the explosion and the wounds he had received in the head from shell splinters made his recovery very slow. he had been in hospital for three months, and though now convalescent he would never be fit for service again and had been invalided out of the army. there had been a time in hospital when his life hung by a thread. during days and nights of delirium his mind had been haunted by the scenes of horror he had witnessed at the front. he had seen hundreds of men go through the agonies of death from terrible wounds and gas torture; he had seen human forms blown to pieces, and the men falling in hundreds from machine-gun fire as they charged the german trenches.
the hospital doctors had hinted to sir george of the possibility of his nephew’s reason being affected by what he had gone through, but fortunately the young man was spared this calamity. sir george had been warned not to let his nephew talk about the war and to keep his mind occupied with more cheerful subjects of conversation. in pursuance of these instructions no reference was made to the war in young marsland’s presence, and his rank as captain was studiously forgotten.
it was on the ground of his nephew’s health and the danger that lay in mental worry that sir george granville begged crewe, before he retired, to promise to investigate the crime at cliff farm if it turned out to be a case which was likely to baffle the police and result in protracted worry to those innocently brought into it. crewe recognized the force of the appeal and had promised to give some time to the case if the circumstances seemed to demand it. he reserved his final decision until after the visit to cliff farm, which sir george had arranged to make in the morning.
anxiety on his nephew’s behalf got sir george out of bed early, and when crewe reached the breakfast-room he found his host waiting for him. the heartiness with which he greeted crewe seemed to embody some relief after a strain on patience.
“i rang up ashlingsea police station half an hour ago and asked them to make some inquiries about harry,” said sir george. “he doesn’t seem to be much the worse for his night’s experience. at all events, the landlady sent word back that he had gone out for a swim.”
“i am very glad to hear that he is all right,” said crewe.
“they have given him our message,” continued sir george, “so he will be waiting for us.”
“it ought not to take us much more than half an hour to run over. is the road good?”
“fairly good. we will get away as soon as we have finished breakfast. i told my wife not to expect us back until after lunch. that will give you time to look over the farm-house where the man was murdered.”
crewe smiled slightly at his host’s idea that it would not take him long to reconstruct the crime.
“are we to keep the object of our journey a secret from lady granville when we return?” he asked.
“well, no. the fact of the matter is that i told her all about it this morning. it was best to do so. she will be of valuable assistance in looking after harry if he has been upset by his experiences of last night.”
they finished breakfast quickly, and sir george got up from his chair.
“i told harris to have the car ready,” he said. “it will be waiting for us.”
a few minutes later they were in the car and were going along the front at a good rate. when the houses became scattered, the road left the outline of the shore, made a detour round some sand dunes about a mile from staveley, and then stretched like a white ribbon along the cliffs, between the downs and the sea, to the distant village of ashlingsea. the road justified sir george’s description as fairly good, but there were places where it was very narrow, the width being scarcely sufficient to allow one vehicle to pass another. on the side where the road joined the downs there was a ditch, and in some places the water had collected and formed a pool.
“what is this?” exclaimed sir george, as he pointed to an object at the side of the road some distance away.
the object was a motor-car, which had struck the ditch and overturned. part of the car was lying on the downs. one of the front wheels had been wrenched out of position. to crewe’s surprise the chauffeur drove past without more than a sidelong glance at the wreck.
“stop!” said crewe. “we must have a look at this.”
“yes, we may as well have a look at it,” said sir george, as the car stopped. “but it is only one of gosford’s old cars. he has a garage at staveley and has three or four old cars which he lets out on hire. they are always coming to grief. quite a common thing to find them stuck up and refusing to budge. the occupants have to get out and walk.”
crewe got out of the car to inspect the wreck, but sir george did not follow him. he was content to look on from his seat in the car. with some impatience he watched crewe, as the detective examined the car first on one side and then the other. crewe went back along the road for about forty yards and examined the track the wheels had made in running off the road and striking the ditch. then he stood back a few yards, and, going down on his knees, examined the grass. he put his shoulder underneath the upturned side of the car to judge the weight of the vehicle.
“i believe we could turn it over,” he called out to sir george. “it is not very heavy.”
“get out, harris, and see what you can do,” said sir george.
he sat and watched crewe and harris exerting their strength to lift the car. they were not successful in moving it.
“do you mind, sir george?” said crewe persuasively.
sir george did mind, but convention demanded that he should pretend to his guest that he did not.
“gosford won’t thank us,” was the length of the protest he offered. “we may give the thing a bump that will bring it to pieces.”
“i do not want to shove it right over,” explained crewe. “if we can get it on its side so that i can have a look at it inside i will be satisfied.”
sir george’s contribution to the task turned the scale. slowly the car was raised until it rested on its right side. crewe bent down and inspected the inside of the car and the driver’s seat.
“thanks,” he said. “i’ve got all i want.”
“and what is that you wanted?” demanded sir george, in astonishment.
“several things,” said crewe. “i wanted to get an idea of when the accident took place.”
“how on earth could you expect to tell that?” asked sir george.
“by the state of the car—outside and inside. the way the mud is splashed on the outside indicates that the car was out in last night’s storm. the wet state of the cushions inside showed that rain had fallen on them—they must have got wet before the car capsized.”
“extremely interesting,” said sir george. “i’d never have thought of these things. perhaps you can tell how many people were in the car at the time.”
“no. all i can say is that one of them was injured, but not very seriously, as far as i can make out.”
“and how do you make that out?” asked sir george.
“by the blood-stains on the grass at the side of the car.”
