Man with the Dark Beard (24 page)

A deep, crimson flush stained the prisoner's face.

Mr. Justice Ruthven frowned heavily as he looked at the foreman.

“Do I understand that there is no chance of your agreeing?”

“None at all, my lord,” the foreman answered decidedly.

The judge paused a moment.

“Is there any difficulty in which I can help you?”

“No, my lord, I am afraid not.” The foreman paused a moment, then he said: “We are five for acquitting the prisoner, and seven against. 

There appears to be no possibility whatever of either side giving way.”

The judge raised his eyebrows as he directed the prisoner to be taken back to the cells, and made an order for a new trial. The spectators poured out with a feeling of having been deprived of the sensation to which they had been looking forward.

Arnold Westerham turned to speak to his colleagues.

Inspector Stoddart rose from the back bench where he had been sitting, with a word to Harbord, then turned through a side door into the wide corridor running the length of the court behind the judge's room. A quiet-looking, little man wearing a large pair of smoke-coloured, horn-rimmed glasses followed him out and stood back with Harbord while several of the counsel who had been engaged on the case, with others who had been spectators, stopped to speak to the inspector.

Among them came Sir Felix Skrine. He smiled as he caught Stoddart's eye.

“I cannot congratulate you on the intelligence of your Swiss witness, inspector.”

The inspector smiled too.

“No, he made rather a hash of it, didn't he?”

“Anyway, it is a most unsatisfactory ending,” 

Sir Felix concluded. “A terrible ordeal for Wilton to undergo a second time, poor fellow.”

“Terrible indeed!” the inspector assented. Then as Skrine passed on, he turned sharply to the man with Harbord. “Well, what do you say, Mr. Rendal?”

The little man took off his horn-rimmed glasses, replacing them with a pair of pince-nez, and became at once again the dapper chemist of Neith Street.

“Yes, inspector,” he said at last. “It is as I thought, as I felt sure it would turn out. That is Mr. William Taylor. I could not be mistaken, seeing him so near.”

“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Rendal. It is late, but we have very little time, and I want you to come with me. You too, Harbord. The new trial will probably come on in about a fortnight, and before then –”

“Before then?” Harbord echoed.

“We must be in a position to put the real criminal in the dock. We must see Sir George Jevons to-night.”

“Sir George Jevons!” Rendal repeated in a tone almost of awe. “You mean in Wilmop Street?”

The inspector nodded.

“The greatest living authority on toxicology. I shall want you, Mr. Rendal, and I have some very exhaustive notes of the late Dr. Bastow's on one of his cases. Then I think, when Sir George Jevons hears what we have to say, we shall have a certain application to make to the Home Office, and things will begin to hum.”

“I shall go to bed early tonight, my head aches,” Hilary said wearily.

“Take a couple of aspirins. Best thing for headache,” Miss Priestley recommended brusquely.

“Oh, I don't know. I don't believe in drugging,” Hilary said as she got up. “Good night, Aunt Lavinia, you will excuse me, I know. I really can't keep my eyes open.”

“Don't try!” Miss Lavinia advised, giving her niece a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “A night's rest will do you more good than anything.”

The two were alone at Rose Cottage. Fee had gone to Dr. Blathwayte's clinic after all. That it had been made possible for him by the sacrifice of some of his aunt's capital was known only to Miss Lavinia herself.

Basil Wilton's second trial was fixed to begin the next week, and so far Hilary had heard of no fresh evidence. She had seen but little of her godfather of late. Today, however, he had been expected at the Manor and she had been surprised to hear nothing of him so far.

Hilary went up to her room now, but she did not feel inclined to sleep. She threw open the window and looked out. The night was a lovely one, moonlight save for the little fleecy clouds that flitted across the sky. The wind was almost warm, there was no suspicion of frost in the air. Altogether the night was more like May than December.

Hilary drew up a chair and laying her head back let the breeze play upon her temples. She had been sitting there for some time, she hardly knew how long, when she was surprised to see people, quite a lot of people, coming along the road from the village.

Heathcote, as a rule, retired early, save in the sunny days of harvest, and nine o'clock, or at the most ten, saw the village given over to darkness and to sleep. Therefore Hilary was all the more astonished to see so many people abroad. Still more was she amazed when they stopped by the lich-gate opposite. In a moment more she saw them walking up to the church. She could not make out how many of them there were, some of them seemed to be walking in the shadow, but she could see that several of them carried curiously shaped burdens.

An intense curiosity took possession of Hilary. Never afterwards could she account for the impulse that made her wrap herself in a long, dark cloak, and pulling on a small black hat steal softly downstairs. She could hear her aunt, who detested going to bed early, moving about her room, which fortunately looked on to the back of the house, as Hilary reflected.. The servants had gone to bed long ago, and their quarters were given up to sleep and darkness. The girl knew the doors would be locked and bolted.

After a moment's hesitation, she let herself out by the French window in the little drawingroom. She kept instinctively in the shadow as she crossed the lawn and went over to the lich-gate. She found this fastened as she had expected. She felt inclined to get over it and was considering the matter, when she heard footsteps coming down the road from the Manor and a man's tall form loomed in sight. It was Sir Felix Skrine! She looked round in despair, he was the last man she desired to see, but no escape was possible: the moon was shining brilliantly. Skrine saw her at once. He stopped.

“Hilary!” he said in amazement. “What on earth are you doing here at this time of night, alone?”

“I came out to see – something surprised me –” Hilary faltered. Then, plucking up courage, “I dare say you saw it too. Was that why you came, Sir Felix?”

“Saw it? Saw what?” Skrine questioned absently. “I came out because I can always think best in the open air. I saw Westerham tonight, and I mean to run up again and see him tomorrow. I want to keep my promise to you, Hilary. I want to help Wilton if I can. And it has struck me that there were several points for the defence that were not made the most of at the last trial. I mean to suggest –”

He stopped short and stood gazing up into the churchyard just as Hilary had been doing a moment before.

“I thought – of course it must have been a mistake, but I thought I saw a light up there.”

“Yes, yes!” Hilary said eagerly. “Indeed it is not my fancy. There is one, at least there are several. That is what I thought so extraordinary – why I came out really. Several people, quite a lot, came down from the village; some of them seemed to be carrying things, and they went up into the churchyard. I could not imagine what they were doing or going to do.” Sir Felix did not speak for a moment. Then he said quietly: 

“A lot of people carrying things. That is rather curious. I will just see you back to the Cottage, and then I will look into this.”

Hilary was not paying much attention to him. “What on earth can they be there for?” she cogitated. “There is more than one light. And they are putting something up. It looks like a big piece of tarpaulin. Is it to prevent us seeing what they are doing, I wonder. It is a pretty big sheet, or whatever it is. It quite prevents us seeing the cross on Lady Skrine's grave. I saw it gleaming white in the moonlight when I was at my window. I wonder whether they are trying to get into the church, Sir Felix? Mr. Drury told us the plate was very valuable. Perhaps they are burglars. I don't suppose sacrilege would stop them.”

“I don't suppose it would,” Sir Felix assented. “You must go home, Hilary – then I can –”

But Hilary was not inclined to be obedient.

“No, I am going to wait here until I know what they are doing. Good gracious, no! I'm not a bit frightened, godfather” – reverting to the old name in her excitement – “girls are not like that nowadays.”

Sir Felix did not stay to argue the point. The gate was quite easy to negotiate and he was soon striding up the churchyard.

Hilary watched him. Then suddenly he disappeared from sight. She looked all round, wondering what had become of him. Then she remembered the big yew tree that stood on the left of the path. Probably Skrine had concealed himself there to watch proceedings, himself unseen. After all, it might be one man against many if her theory of burglars was correct.

As she stood there, a closed car came from the village. Hilary drew back as much behind it as she could, and two men got out. She recognized one as a doctor from a neighbouring town. To her surprise, he drew a key from his pocket and, with a word to his chauffeur, opened the gate and went up to the church with his companion. This rather disposed of the burglar theory. Hilary asked herself what on earth they could be doing in the churchyard. She did not know how long she had waited there, when she saw a tall figure coming towards her. It was Sir Felix Skrine, and she went forward to meet him.

The moon was momentarily obscured by a passing cloud, but as it shone out again its light fell upon Sir Felix Skrine's face, and she was surprised to see how extraordinarily white it had become. As he came up to her, she said:

“Well, what is it? Not burglars I suppose, for I saw Dr. Fairfield and another man go up just now.”

Skrine looked at her for a moment as if he hardly knew that she was speaking, then he said slowly:

“Oh, no, nothing of that kind. They are –”

She thought how flat and emotionless his voice sounded as he stopped.

“Yes. What are they –?” she prompted.

“Doing something quite different,” Skrine said in the same dull, tired voice. “You shall know all about it to-morrow, Hilary. And now I am going to take you back to the Cottage. I have much to do – a lot of work to get through before morning.”

Hilary felt suddenly tired too. She asked herself what on earth had she waited there for; why had she come at all. She turned with Sir Felix without any demur.

“Who was the man with Dr. Fairfield, did you say?”

“Oh, I expect he had come down from town. A representative of the Home Office probably.”

Hilary felt suddenly startled.

“Why should a representative of the Home Office come down here at this time of night?”

“Ah, that you will probably know in the morning.”

Something in Skrine's voice forbade further questions. They walked up to the drawing-room window in silence. Skrine held it open; then as Hilary was about to pass through he stopped her.

“I have thought of a way to save Wilton.”

Hilary looked up at him. Was it the moonlight, she wondered, that had made his face look ashen pale and stiff like the face of a corpse, or a mask in which only his eyes were alive; big and burning they looked in that strange pale light.

“And I” – he seemed to bring out the words with difficulty – “give you back your promise. You will be free, quite free, when he comes to you.”

He paused, and she could see the muscles of his throat working. A feeling as of some terrible, impending catastrophe came over Hilary. In spite of Skrine's words of hope a great awe fell upon the girl. She did not speak.

Skrine took her hands. “I have a feeling that I should like to hear you say you forgive me, Hilary.”

“Forgive you!” the girl murmured, looking into that pallid face, those pain filled eyes. 

“For what? You have always been kind to me.”

Skrine's grasp of her hand grew almost convulsive.

“For – for everything. Say ‘I forgive you,' Hilary.”

“I forgive you,” Hilary murmured.

“Thank you –”

He seemed to be about to add something, then he stopped, almost threw her hands away, and strode off without another backward look.

Hilary went upstairs very quietly, hoping not to wake her aunt; but just as she reached her room her aunt's door opened and Miss Lavinia came out.

“Well, upon my word, this is a nice time for you to take your walks abroad. What have you been doing, pray?”

Hilary did not answer. She went across to her window.

“There are such funny lights in the churchyard, Aunt Lavinia.”

“Lights! Corpse lights, do you mean?”

Miss Lavinia came into the room. She looked rather more extraordinary than usual in the garments in which she prepared for repose. Naturally the flimsy “nighties” beloved of the modern woman made no appeal to her. She wore thick woollen pyjamas, Jaegar make; they came right up to her neck and down to her wrists and ankles. In them, as she often said, she felt prepared for anything. Her teeth she had frankly laid aside and the front of her hair was kept in its place by divers combs, which the lady called setting it. On the top of them she had stuck a towering erection which she spoke of as a boudoir cap. She followed Hilary to the window.

“Why, bless my life, the child is right! There
are
people moving about in the churchyard, and lights – torches, I believe. And they look to me – they always said I had eyes like a hawk – as if they were digging.”

“Aunt Lavinia, you couldn't see through that tarpaulin, or whatever it is they have put up.” And Hilary could not help thinking that the gaslight made her aunt's face look green.

“They haven't made it high enough this side – I wonder what they are doing?”