This, the last of twelve mystery stories written by the late Annie Haynes--who died last year--was left unfinished. One of Miss Haynes's friends, also a popular writer of this type of fiction, offered to undertake the work of completion, and it says much for her skill that she has independently arrived at Miss Haynes's own solution of the mystery, which was known only to myself.
It is not generally known that for the last fifteen years of her life Miss Haynes was in constant pain and writing itself was a considerable effort. Her courage in facing her illness was remarkable, and the fact that she was handicapped not only by the pain but also by the helplessness of her malady greatly enhances the merit of her achievements. It was impossible for her to go out into the world for fresh material for her books, her only journeys being from her bedroom to her study. The enforced inaction was the harder to bear in her case, as before her illness she was extremely energetic. Her intense interest in crime and criminal psychology led her into the most varied activities, such as cycling miles to visit the scene of the Luard Murder, pushing her way into the cellar of 39 Hilldrop Crescent, where the remains of Belle Elmore were discovered, and attending the Crippen trial.
It would be a dark and sombre picture if it were not mentioned how this struggle with cruel circumstances was materially lightened by the warmth of friendships existing between Miss Haynes and her fellow authors and by the sympathetic and friendly relations between her and her publishers.
Ada Heather-Bigg, 1930
"My hat! Nan, I tell you it is the chance of a lifetime. Battledore is a dead cert. Old Tim Ranger says he is the best colt he ever had in his stable. Masterman gave a thousand guineas for him as a yearling. He'd have won the Derby in a canter if he had been entered."
"It is easy to say that when he wasn't, isn't it?" Anne Courtenay smiled. "Don't put too much on, Harold. You can't afford to lose, you know."
"Lose! I tell you I can't lose," her brother returned hotly. His face was flushed, the hand that held his card was trembling. "Battledore must win. My bottom dollar's on him. Minnie Medchester has mortgaged her dress allowance for a year to back him. Oh, Battledore's a wonder colt."
"What is a wonder colt--Battledore, I suppose?" a suave voice interposed at this juncture. "Mind what you are doing, Harold. Best hedge a bit. I hear Goldfoot is expected. Anyway, the stable is on him for all it's worth."
"So is Ranger's on Battledore. Old Tim Ranger says it is all over bar the shouting. Oh, Battledore's a cert. I have been telling Anne to put every penny she can scrape together on him."
"I hope Miss Courtenay has not obeyed you," Robert Saunderson said, his eyes, a little bloodshot though the day was still young, fixed on Anne Courtenay's fair face. "It's all very well, young man, but I have known so many of these hotpots come unstuck to put much faith in even Tim Ranger's prophecies. I'd rather take a good outsider. Backing a long shot generally pays in the long run."
"It won't when Battledore is favourite," Harold Courtenay returned obstinately. "He ran away with the Gold Cup. It will be the same."
"H'm! Well, you are too young to remember Lawgiver. He was just such a Derby cert that he was guarded night and day and brought to the tapes with detectives before and behind, but he sauntered in a bad fifteenth."
"Battledore won't," young Courtenay said confidently. "Wait a minute, Nan. There's young Ranger. I must have a word with him." He darted off.
Robert Saunderson looked after him with a curious smile. Saunderson was well known in racing circles and was usually present at all the big meetings. He was sometimes spoken of as a mystery man. Nobody knew exactly who he was or where he came from. But as a rich bachelor he had made his way into a certain section of London society. At the present moment he, as well as the Courtenays, was staying at Holford Hall with the Courtenays' cousin, Lord Medchester.
Rumour had of late credited Lady Medchester with a very kindly feeling for Saunderson. Holford was within an easy driving distance of Doncaster, and the house-party to a man had come over on Lord Medchester's coach and a supplementary car to see the St. Leger run. The Courtenays were the grandchildren of old General Courtenay, who had held a high command in India and had been known on the Afghan frontier as "Dare-devil Courtenay". His only son, Harold and Anne's father, had been killed in the Great War. The Victoria Cross had been awarded to him after his death, and was his father's proudest possession. The young widow had not long survived her husband, and the two orphan children had been brought up by their grandfather.
The old man had spoilt and idolized them. The greatest disappointment of his life had been Harold's breakdown in health and resultant delicacy, which had put the Army out of the question. General Courtenay was a poor man, having little but his pension, and the difficulty had been to find some work within Harold's powers. The Church, the Army and the Bar were all rejected in turn. Young Courtenay had a pretty taste in literature and a certain facility with his pen, and for a time he had picked up a precarious living as a journalistic freelance. For the last year, however, he had been acting as secretary to Francis Melton, the member for North Loamshire.
Earlier in the year Anne Courtenay had become engaged to Michael Burford, Lord Medchester's trainer. It was not the grand match she had been expected to make, but Burford was sufficiently well off, and the young couple were desperately in love.
There was no mistaking the admiration in Saunderson's eyes as he looked down at Anne.
"You could not persuade the General to come to-day?"
Anne shook her head.
"No; it would have been too much for him. But he is quite happy talking over old times with his sister."
"He was a great race-goer in his day, he tells me."
"I believe he was an inveterate one. He still insists on having all the racing news read to him."
Anne moved on decidedly as she spoke. She did not care for Robert Saunderson. She had done her best to keep out of his way since his coming to Holford. Unfortunately the dislike was not mutual. Saunderson's admiration had been obvious from the first, and her coldness apparently only inflamed his passion. He followed her now.
"The Leger horses are in the paddock. What will Harold say if you don't see Battledore?"
Anne quickened her steps. "I don't know. But we shall see them all in a moment. And I must find my cousins."
Saunderson kept up with her, forcing their way through the jostling crowd round the paddock.
"Lord Medchester's filly ran away with the nursery plate, I hear. The favourite Severn Valley filly was not in it," he began; then as she made no rejoinder he went on, "We shall see a tremendous difference here in a year or two, Miss Courtenay. There will be an aerodrome over there"--jerking his head to the right--"second to none in the country, I will wager. And a big, up-to-date tote will be installed near the stand. Altogether we shan't know the Town Moor."
"I heard they were projecting all sorts of improvements," Anne assented. "But it will take a long time to get them finished and cost a great deal of money. Harold is frightfully keen on the tote, I know."
"Ah, Harold!" Saunderson interposed. "I wanted to speak to you about Harold. I am rather anxious about him. I don't like this friendship of his with the Stainers. He ought never to have introduced them to you. They've had the cheek to put up at the 'Medchester Arms'--want to get in touch with the training stables, I'll bet! Stainer's no good--never has been--he is a rotter, and the girl--well, the less said about her the better."
Anne recalled the red-haired girl who had seemed so friendly with Harold just now, but she let no hint of the uneasiness she felt show in her face.
"I am sure Harold does not care for her. Of course she is very good-looking. But why do you trouble about Harold?"
Saunderson looked at her.
"Because he is your brother," he said deliberately.
Anne's eyes met his quietly.
"A very poor reason, it seems to me."
"Then suppose I say, because I love you, Anne?" he said daringly.
Anne held up her head.
"I am engaged to Michael Burford."
"To Burford, the trainer!" Saunderson said scoffingly.
"No; to Burford, the man," she corrected.
A fierce light flashed into Saunderson's eyes. A whirl of sound of cheering, of incoherent cries rose around them. The St. Leger horses were coming up to the post.
"Battledore! Battledore!" Harold's choice was easily favourite. Masterman's scarlet and green were very conspicuous. Under cover of the tumult Saunderson bent nearer Anne.
"Michael Burford. Pah! You shall never marry him. You shall marry me. I swear it."
Anne's colour rose, but she made no reply as she hurried back to the Medchester coach. Most of the party were already in their places, but Lady Medchester stood at the foot of the steps. She was a tall, showily-dressed woman, whose complexion and hair evidently owed a good deal to art. Her mouth was hard, and just now the thin lips were pressed closely together.
"I hope you have enjoyed your walk and seeing Battledore," she said disagreeably.
Anne looked at her.
"I did not see Battledore."
Lady Medchester laughed, but there was no merriment in her pale eyes.
"I can quite understand that. Oh, Mr. Saunderson"--turning to the man who had come up behind her young cousin--"will you show me--"
Anne did not wait for any more. She ran lightly up the steps. Her brother hurried after her.
"I believe one gets a better view from the top of this coach than from the stand," he said unsteadily.
Anne looked at him with pity, at his flushed face, at his trembling hands.
"Harold, if you--"
She had no time for more. Harold sprang on the seat. There was a mighty shout. "They're off! They're off!" Then a groan of disappointment as the horses were recalled. A false start--Battledore had broken the tapes. Bill Turner, his Australian jockey, quieted him down and brought him back to the post.
"Goldfoot was sweating all over in the paddock just now," young Courtenay announced to nobody in particular. "He was all over the place, too, taking it out of himself. Doesn't stand an earthly against Battledore--he's a real natural stayer--isn't a son of Sardinia, a Derby second and Greenlake the Oaks winner for nothing--"
His voice was drowned by a great roar as the horses flashed by, Battledore on the outside.
"Better than too near the rails," Harold consoled himself. "The luck of the draw's been against him, but he doesn't want it. He'll do, he'll do!"
"Battledore! Battledore!" the crowd exulted.
But now another name was making itself heard--"Goldfoot! Goldfoot! Come on, Jim!"--"Goldfoot leads--No--Partner's Pride!--No--Battledore!--Battledore!" Harold Courtenay yelled. "Come on, Bill! He's winning, he's winning! Partner's Pride is nothing but a runner-up."
Followed a moment's tense silence, then a mighty shout: "Goldfoot's won! Well done, Jim Spencer! Well done!"
Anne dared not look at her brother's face as the numbers went up.
"Goldfoot first," a voice beside her said. "Proud Boy second, Partner's Pride third. Battledore nowhere."
Anne heard a faint sound beside her--between a moan and a sob. She turned sharply.
"Harold!"
Her brother was leaning back in his seat on the coach. His hands had dropped by his side, his face was ghastly white, even his lips were bloodless.
Anne touched him. "Harold!"
He gazed at her with dazed, uncomprehending eyes.
"Don't look like that!" she said sharply. "Pull yourself together! It will be all right, Harold. I have a savings box, you know. You shall have it all."
"All!" Harold laughed aloud in a wild, reckless fashion that made his sister wince and draw back hastily. "It means ruin, Anne!" he said hoarsely. "Ruin, irretrievable ruin. That's all!"
The Dowager Lady Medchester was an old lady who knew her own mind, and was extremely generous in the matter of presenting pieces of it to other people. She and her brother, General Courtenay, were too much alike to get on really well together. Nevertheless, they thoroughly enjoyed a sparring match, and looked forward to their meetings in town and country. The house-party at Holford this year was an extra and both of them were bent on making the most of it.
This afternoon the old people were out for their daily drive, and in the smallest of the three drawing-rooms Anne Courtenay and her brother Harold stood facing one another, both of them pale and overwrought.
"Yes, of course we must find the money. My pearls will fetch something, and I can borrow--"
Anne was anxiously watching her brother's white, drawn face.
He turned away and stood with his back to her, staring unseeingly out of the window.
"That isn't the worst. I--I had to have the money, you understand? I was in debt. I put every penny I had on Battledore and--more."
Anne stared at him, every drop of colour ebbing slowly from her cheeks.
"What do you mean, Harold? You put more--you are frightening me."
"Can't you see? I stood to make my fortune out of Battledore. If he'd won I should. I didn't think he could lose, and money of Melton's was passing through my hands. I put it on."
"Harold!" Anne's brown eyes were wide with horror. "You--you must put it back. I--I will get it somehow."
"I have put it back. I had to. I don't know whether Melton suspected, but he talked of going through his accounts, and it had to be paid into the bank." The boy's voice broke. "I went to a money-lender and he lent me money on a bill that didn't mature till next May. He wouldn't give it to me at first. I couldn't wait--the money had to be replaced at once. The bill had to be backed--I knew it was no use asking Medchester, and the money-lender wouldn't take Stainer--else Maurice would have got it for me like a shot."
"I don't like Maurice Stainer," Anne interposed, "or his sister, either. He is no good to you, Harold."
"Well, anyway, the old shark wouldn't look at him and I couldn't wait--or I should face exposure. I knew I could meet the bill all right if Battledore won. He--the money-lender--suggested I should get Saunderson's name. I knew I couldn't--Saunderson's as close as a Jew, but I had to have the money somehow, and I was mad--mad! I wrote the name."
The fear in Anne's eyes deepened.
"You--you forged!"
A hoarse sob broke in her brother's throat.
"I should have met it--I swear I should have met it, and it gave me six months to turn round in. But it is too late. He has found out--Saunderson. He has got the bill and he swears he will prosecute. He will not even hear me."
"But he cannot--cannot prosecute! He is your friend."
"He will," Harold said hopelessly. "He is a good-for-nothing scoundrel and he will send me to gaol and blacken our name for ever--unless you--"
"Yes?" Anne's voice was low; she put her hands up to her throat. "I don't know what you mean. Unless what?"
"Unless you go to him, unless you plead with him." Harold brought the words out as if they were forced from him. "He thinks more of you than anybody."
Anne threw her head back. In a swift, hot flame the colour rushed over her face and neck and temples.
"Unless I ask him--that man? Do you know what that means? I--I hate him! I am afraid of him."
"I know. I hate him. He is a damned brute, but--well, if I blew my brains out it would not save the shame, the disgrace--" Her brother broke off.
A momentary vision of General Courtenay's fine old face rose before Anne, of his pathetic pride in his dead son's Victoria Cross, in the Courtenay name. A sudden, fierce anger shook her. This careless boy should not cloud the end of that noble life with shame and bitter pain.
Harold slipped forward against the side of the window-frame.
"That's the end."
Anne watched him in unpitying silence. Then old memories came back to her--of their early childhood, of the handsome, gallant father who had been so proud of his little son, of the sweet, gentle mother who had dearly loved them both, but whose favourite had always been Harold. Her heart softened. She looked at her brother's head, bent in humiliation. For the sake of her beloved dead, no less than for the living whose pride he was, Harold must be saved at whatever cost to herself.
She went over and touched his shoulder.
"I will do what I can," she promised. "I will ask him; I will beg him. I will save you, Harold, somehow."
In her room at Holford Hall Anne Courtenay was twisting her hands together in agony. The Medchesters and their guests were amusing themselves downstairs in the drawing-room, the gramophone was playing noisy dance music. In the back drawing-room her grandfather and his sister were having their usual game of bezique. Anne had pleaded a headache and had gone to her room directly after dinner. The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece were creeping on to ten o'clock. In five minutes the hour would boom out from the old church on the hill. It was no use delaying, that would only make matters worse. She sprang up. Purposely to-night she had worn black. She threw a dark cloak round her, and picking up a pull-on black hat crushed it over her shingled hair. Then she unlocked a small wooden box on her dressing-table and took out a piece of notepaper. Across it was scrawled in Robert Saunderson's characteristic bold black writing: "To-night at the summer-house at ten o'clock." That was all. There was neither beginning nor ending. Not one word to soften the words that were an ultimatum. Anne's little, white teeth bit deeply into her upper lip as she read.
The summer-house stood in a clearing to the right of the Dutch garden. From it an excellent view of the moors could be obtained with the hazy, blue line of the northern hills in the distance. It was a favourite resort with Lady Medchester for the picnic teas which she favoured. That Anne Courtenay should be giving an assignation there at this time of night seemed to her to show the depths to which she had fallen. Saunderson had left the Medchesters the day after the St. Leger. He had turned a resolutely deaf ear to all Harold's appeals, and his ultimatum remained the same. He would only treat with Anne. Anne herself must come to him, must plead with him. To her alone he would tell the only terms on which Harold could be saved.
Anne drew her cloak round her as she stole quietly down the stairs to a side door. There was a full moon, but the masses of fleecy cloud obscured the beams; little scuds of rain beat in Anne's face as she let herself out. Through the open windows the laughter and the gaiety of her fellow-guests reached her ears. She crept silently by the side of the house into the shadow of one of the giant clumps of rhododendrons that dotted the lawn and bordered the expanse of grass between the house and the Dutch garden.
Anne looked like a wraith as she flitted from one bush to another and finally gained the low wall that overlooked the Dutch garden. A flight of steps led down to the garden and from there, through a hand gate at the side of the rosery, a path went straight to the summer-house.
It all, looked horribly dark and gloomy, Anne thought, as she closed the gate. She waited uncertainly for a minute. All around her she caught the faint multitudinous sounds of insect life that go on incessantly in even the quietest night. Already the leaves were beginning to fall. They lay thick upon the path and rustled under her feet; in the distance she caught the cry of some night-bird. Then nearer at hand there was a different sound. She stopped and cowered against a tree, listening. What was it? It could not be the cracking of a twig, footsteps among the withered leaves, the dead pine-needles that lay thick on the ground? It could not be anybody watching her--following her? Then a sudden awful sense of fear assailed her, a certainty that something evil was near her. For the time she was paralysed as she caught blindly at a low branch. She listened, shivering from head to foot. Yes, undoubtedly she could hear light footsteps, with something sinister, it seemed to her, about their very stealthiness. Yet, as the moon shone out from behind a passing cloud, there was nothing to be seen, no sign of any living thing or any movement. All was quiet, and as she stole softly to the summer-house, casting terrified glances from side to side, she did not see a figure standing up against the trunk of a tall pine near at hand, a face that peered forward, watching her every movement.
She had expected to find Saunderson waiting for her--she told herself that he must be--but there was no one to be seen, and somewhat to her surprise the door of the summer-house was nearly closed. She stopped opposite; there was something sinister, almost terrifying, to her in the sight of that closed door, in the absence of any sound or movement. At last very slowly she went forward, halting between every step. Surely, surely, Saunderson must be waiting for her?
"Mr. Saunderson," she whispered hoarsely, "are you there?"
There came no faintest sound in answer; yet surely, surely she could catch the faint smell of a cigarette?
Very softly, very gingerly she pushed open the door.
"This," said Inspector Stoddart, tapping a paragraph in the evening paper as he spoke, "is a job for us."
Harbord leaned forward and read it over the other's shoulder.
"Early this morning a gruesome discovery was made by a gardener in the employ of Lord Medchester at Holford Hall in Loamshire. In a summer-house at the back of the flower garden he found the body of a man in evening-dress. A doctor was summoned and stated that the deceased had been shot through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous and must have taken place probably eight or nine hours before the body was discovered."
"Look at the stop press news." Stoddart pointed to the space at the side.
"The body found in the summer-house at Holford has been identified as that of a Mr. Robert Saunderson, who had been one of Lord Medchester's guests for the races at Doncaster but had left Holford the following day."
"Robert Saunderson," Harbord repeated, wrinkling his brows. "I seem to know the name, but I can't place him. Isn't he a racing man?"
"He would scarcely be a friend of the Medchesters if he wasn't," Stoddart replied, picking up the paper and staring at it as if he would wring further information from it. "Regular racing lot they belong to. Oh, I have heard of Saunderson. A pretty bad hat he was. He had a colt or two training at Oxley, down by Epsom. Picked up one or two minor races last year, but he's never done anything very big. Medchester's horses are trained at Burford's, East Molton. Lord Medchester's a decent sort of chap, I have heard. Anyway, a victory of his is always acclaimed in the North. He generally does well at Ayr and Bogside, and picks up a few over the sticks. Rumour credits him with an overmastering desire to win one of the classic races. His wife is a funny one--I fancy they don't hit it off very well. His trainer, Burford, is a good sort. His engagement to a cousin of Lord Medchester's was announced the other day."
"Not much of a match for her, I should say."
"Oh, quite decent. Burford makes a good thing out of his training. He's a second son of old Sir William Burford and half-brother of the present baronet. This Saunderson was pretty well known in London society too, and I have heard that he was one of Lady Medchester's admirers. I believe he was an American."
"Anyway, so long as he wasn't English, he wouldn't have much difficulty in getting on in London society," Harbord remarked sarcastically. "A bachelor too, wasn't he?"
"As far as anyone knows," Stoddart answered.
A copy of "Who's Who" lay on the table. He pulled it towards him. "'Saunderson, Robert Francis,'" he read. "'Born in Buenos Aires 1888. Served in the Great War as an interpreter on the Italian frontier. Invalided out in May 1917. Clubs, Automobile, Junior Travellers.'"
"H'm! Not much of a dossier--wonder why they put him in?" Harbord remarked.
"No; more noticeable for what it leaves out than for what it puts in," Stoddart agreed.
"Well, I have received an S.O.S. from the Loamshire police, so you and I will go down by the night express to Derby. From there it is a crosscountry journey to Holford. Take a few hours, I suppose."
"I wonder what Saunderson was doing in that neighbourhood when he had left the Hall?" Harbord cogitated.
Stoddart shrugged his shoulders.
"I dare say we shall find out when we get there."
"This is the principal entrance, I suppose," Stoddart said, stopping before the lodge at Holford, and looking up the avenue of oaks that was one of the chief attractions of the Hall.
As he spoke a small two-seater pulled up beside them and two men sprang out. One of them Stoddart had no difficulty in recognizing as the local superintendent of police; the other, a tall, military-looking man, he rightly divined to be the Chief Constable, Major Logston.
The Major looked at the two detectives.
"Inspector Stoddart, I presume. I was hoping to catch you. I missed you at the station--had a break-down coming from home. This is a terrible affair, inspector."
"I have only seen the bare account in the papers," Stoddart said quietly. "Before we go any further I should very much like to hear what you can tell us."
"I shall be glad to give you all the details I can," Major Logston said, entering the gates with him and leaving the superintendent to bring up the rear with Harbord in the two-seater.
"Of course we have had quantities of those damned reporters all over the place." the Major began confidentially. "But we have told the beggars as little as possible, and now we are not allowing them within the gates."
The inspector nodded.
"Quite right, sir. Reporters are the very devil, with what they pick up and what they invent. They've helped many a murderer to escape the gallows."
"I entirely agree with you." The Chief Constable paused a minute, then he said slowly, "This Robert Saunderson had been staying at Holford quite recently. He had been one of the house-party for the races, you know, inspector, for the St. Leger. But he left the next day like most of the other guests, and deuce knows why he came back. An under-gardener--Joseph Wilton by name--was clearing up rubbish and such-like for one of those bonfires that always make such a deuce of a stink all over the place at this time of the year. He was round about the summer-house and, glancing inside, was astounded to see a man lying on the floor. He went in, as he says, to find if one of the gentlemen had been 'took ill,' and discovered that he was dead and cold. He gave the alarm to his fellow-gardeners and then he and another man went up to the Hall to acquaint Lord Medchester with his discovery; Medchester went back with them, imagining Wilton had exaggerated, and was amazed and horrified to find not only that Wilton's story was too true, but that the dead man was no other than Robert Saunderson, who had so recently been his guest. Of course they got the doctor there as soon as possible. He said the man had been dead for hours, had probably died the night before the discovery."
"Presumably I should not be here if the case was one of suicide?"
"Out of the question," Major Logston said decidedly. "I can't give you the technical details, but the fellow had been shot through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous. And the revolver cannot be found."
"H'm!" The inspector drew in his lips. "Pretty conclusive, that. Any clue to the murderer?"
The Chief shook his head.
"Not so far. The summer-house is a favourite place for tea with Lady Medchester, so there'll be a maze of finger-prints and what not. Oh, it won't be an easy matter to find out who fired the fatal shot, as things look at present. I don't know whether Dr. Middleton will be any help to you, but he is up at the Hall now. He is attending General Courtenay, an uncle of Lord Medchester's, who had a stroke last night, so you will be able to hear what he has to say at once. Lord Medchester wants to see you too."
"I shall be glad to see him," Stoddart said politely. "But first about the body--I presume you have had it moved?"
"Yes. As soon as the doctor had seen it we had it taken to an outhouse near the churchyard, which has to serve as a temporary mortuary."
"Well, naturally you could do nothing else," the inspector said, staring up at the windows of Holford Hall. "This Saunderson, now, what was he like to look at?"
"Alive, do you mean?" the Chief Constable questioned. "I saw him at Doncaster. Didn't care much for the look of him myself. Big haw-haw sort of brute, don't you know. Pretty bad lot from all accounts--always after the skirts. Well, here we are!"
Stepping inside the big portico that was over the front entrance to the Hall, his ring was answered instantly. The two-seater stood before the door. A young footman flung the door open and announced that his lordship was expecting them. Stoddart joined Harbord and the two went in together.
Lord Medchester received them in his study. The walls were lined with books, but a little inspection showed that the two shelves which had the appearance of being the most used were devoted to racing literature. Lord Medchester was a tall, thin man in the early forties; perfectly bald in front and on the crown, the ridge of hair at the back was unusually thick and had the appearance of having slipped down from the top. He glanced sharply at Stoddart as the detectives entered, and came forward to meet them.
"I am delighted to see you, inspector. This--this is an appalling thing to happen in one's grounds. And our local police don't seem able to grapple with it at all--we look to you to find out who killed the poor beggar."
"I will do my best, Lord Medchester. Will you tell me what you know of Mr. Saunderson?"
"That will be precious little," said his lordship, subsiding into a chair near the fireplace and motioning to Stoddart and Harbord to take chairs close at hand. "I have met him out and about for years. He was staying at Merton Towers for the Derby, and when we were talking about putting a bit on Harkaway he gave me a tip for Battledore for the Cup. The colt ran away with it, you know, and I made a tidy pocketful over him. So, times being what they are, and these damned Socialists not content with screwing every penny they can out of you when you are alive, but dragging your very grave from you when you are dead, I was deuced bucked with my luck and on the spur of the moment I asked Saunderson here for the St. Leger. He rather jumped at it, I thought, and turned up all right. Of course we all put our shirts on Battledore and he let us all down and ran nowhere. So I lost most of what I won at Goodwood. I was a bit rattled, I can tell you. Not that it was Saunderson's fault."
"Did he lose?" Stoddart asked quickly.
"Well, he went down on Battledore of course," his lordship answered, "but he'd hedged on Goldfoot, lucky beggar! At least, I thought he was lucky until this happened."
"He left Holford the day after the races, I understand?" Stoddart pursued.
Lord Medchester nodded. "Yes, he went up to town with Colonel Wynter, another of the men who were staying here."
"And you had no reason to expect him at Holford again?"
"Good Lord, no!" his lordship said impatiently. "You might have knocked me down with a feather when I heard he had been shot in the summer-house; matter of fact, he had no encouragement from me to come again. On further acquaintance I didn't exactly take a fancy to Saunderson. Thought he was a bit of a bounder. Still, I don't want to talk about that now the poor chap's been done in. But you are asking."
"Precisely." The detective glanced at his notes and made a hieroglyphic entry. "Now, I want to know whether he had any sort of a quarrel with any of your other visitors--any woman got a down on him?"
Glancing at him as he answered, Harbord caught a curious, momentary gleam in Lord Medchester's eyes.
"He wasn't exactly a favourite, but they all seemed friendly enough together," he replied, ignoring the latter half of the question. "Besides, most of 'em had gone away. If they had wanted to murder one another, they could have done it in town; no need to come down here."
"Any possible love-affair with anyone at Holford?"
"Oh, Lord, I should think not!" he said with a laugh that sounded a bit forced in Stoddart's ears. "I shouldn't think Saunderson was that sort, getting a bit long in the tooth. Besides, there was nobody here he could have got soppy about. All of 'em married and not the kind that are looking about to get rid of their husbands."
"Nobody unmarried?" the inspector queried. "Not that that matters. The married ones are generally the worst."
"Yes, there I am with you. They are if they take that way. But you are talking about the unmarried ones. The only one in the lot was my cousin, Miss Courtenay, and she is engaged to my trainer, Michael Burford--no eyes for anyone else; damned nuisance sometimes, don't you know! Be a bit more interesting in a year or two. I made the remark to Saunderson, I remember."
"What did he say?"
"Oh, nothing much. Merely laughed. There wasn't much he could say. Anybody could see it."
Stoddart got up. "Well, marriage doesn't make much difference to some of them. I think the best thing I can do is just to have a look round at the summer-house and then at the body. Perhaps you would let me have a list of the house-party later on?"
"I'll have one made," Lord Medchester promised, getting up and taking a position before the fireplace. "And if there's anything else we can do you've only to let us know. It's no joke having a man murdered at the back of your own garden."
That seemed to be all there was to be got out of Lord Medchester and, as Stoddart observed to Harbord, it was not very illuminating.
The doctor could only tell them two things--first, that death had probably occurred some nine or ten hours before the body was discovered, which would place the time round about ten o'clock the preceding evening; and that, secondly, the automatic had not been fired close at hand. The murderer, according to Dr. Middleton, had probably stood outside the summer-house and fired through the open doorway.
Stoddart drew his brows together as he and Harbord walked across the lawn to the Dutch garden.
"Queer case!" the younger man ventured.
The inspector nodded.
"We'll just have a look at the summer-house before it gets too dark, and interview the local superintendent. And then it strikes me we may as well toddle back to town in the morning and investigate Saunderson's doings. I fancy we are more likely to hit on the clue there than here."
"I don't know," Harbord said slowly. "Of course he came here to meet some one."
"Naturally!" the inspector assented. "One hardly imagines that he travelled down for the sole purpose of being murdered. But the two questions that present themselves, and which I fancy we shall have some difficulty in answering are these: who did Saunderson come to meet, and why did he come to Holford for the meeting?"
They were crossing the Dutch garden now. Harbord looked all round before he answered.
"Through that gate at the side I suppose our way lies, sir. With regard to your first question, I think it is pretty obvious the person Saunderson came to meet must be some one in the Hall, either a resident or a visitor. And he came, I should imagine, with some very definite object. If it should be a love-affair it must have been an illicit one. Therefore I should make a few careful inquiries about any married women who may be in the house. As far as I have ascertained they have a pretty good houseful now, as large, if not larger, than the one they had for the St. Leger. If there should be anyone here at the present time who was included in the Doncaster party, I should look up that person's antecedents."
"Well reasoned, Alfred. But"--the inspector looked at him with a wry smile--"we have no proof that the murderer was a woman. As a matter of fact I should say it is quite as likely, if not more likely, to have been a man. Money or love, and in love I include jealousy. As far as my experience goes nine-tenths of the murders committed are committed for one or other of these motives. In this case I think financial difficulties are just as likely to have led to the death as an illicit love-affair."
"I wonder if they searched the place thoroughly?"
Stoddart shrugged his shoulders.
"You don't need me to tell you that when a place is used for tea fairly often anything may be found there. Might be a dozen clues that mean nothing. This is our way, I presume."
He unlatched the gate at the right-hand side of the Dutch garden. They heard voices as they went along the path to the summer-house.
The inspector frowned as he saw the downtrodden grass.
"Done their best to destroy any clue there might have been, of course."
The summer-house stood on a little knoll in the midst of the clearing; all around it the rhododendrons that formed the sides of the Dutch garden had spread and were pressing closely.
Superintendent Mayer and another man, apparently occupied in staring at the summerhouse, turned as the detectives approached.
"I am pleased to see you, Inspector Stoddart," the superintendent began. "This is a terrible job. We can't make anything of it ourselves. 'Tain't believable that anybody hereabouts would have done a thing like this."