The Green Eyes of Bast Page 8

  “Every day seems to make the case grow blacker against him,” she replied, sinking down upon the settee beside me.

  And indeed the shadow which had fallen upon all of us seemed at that moment almost palpable—a thing to be felt like the darkness of Egypt and not to be dispelled even by the brightness of the morning.

  “When did you last see Coverly?”

  Isobel raised her head wearily.

  “Last night, and he seemed to think that some one was following him—a detective.”

  I noticed that Isobel spoke of Eric Coverly with a certain manner of restraint for which I could not account. Yet perhaps it was only natural that she should do so, but at the time I was foolishly blind to the opposing emotions which fought and conflicted within her.

  “He still refused to explain his movements on the night of the murder?” I asked.

  “Yes, he persisted in his extraordinary silence,” said Isobel.

  The look of trouble in her eyes grew more acute.

  “What I cannot understand is a sort of attitude of resentment which he has lately adopted.”

  “Of resentment? Towards whom?”

  “Towardsme .”

  “But—”

  “Oh, it's quite incomprehensible, Jack, and it is making me horribly unhappy. He complained so bitterly too about this police surveillance to which he is subjected. He realizes that the coroner is almost certain to put a wrong construction on his silence, but instead of being frank about it he adopts, even when alone with me, this incomprehensible attitude of resentment. In fact his behavior almost suggests thatI am responsible for his present misfortunes.”

  “He must be mad,” I said, and I expect I spoke bitterly, for Isobel lowered her eyes and her face flushed with embarrassment.

  “Don't think that I condemn him,” I added hastily, “but really in justice to you, if not in order to clear his own good name, he should speak out at once. Are you expecting to see him to-day?”

  Isobel nodded.

  “I am expecting him at almost any moment,” she replied; then glancing aside at a number of daily papers which lay littered upon the floor beside the settee: “Of course you have seen what the press has to say about it?” she added.

  I nodded.

  “What can you expect?” said I. “It is one of those cases in which practically all the evidence, although it is of a purely circumstantial nature, points to an innocent man as the culprit. I feel very keenly annoyed with Coverly, for not only is he involving both of you in a most unsavory case but he is also hindering the work of justice. In fact by his inexplicable silence he is, although no doubt unconsciously, affording the murderer time to elude the law.”

  Even as I spoke the words I heard a cab draw up in the street below, and glancing out of the window, I saw Coverly alight from the cab, pay the man and enter the doorway. His bearing was oddly furtive, that, as I thought with a sudden pang, of a fugitive. A few moments later he came into the room and his expression when he found me there was one of marked hostility.

  Eric Coverly bore no resemblance whatever to the deceased baronet from whom he inherited the title, belonging as he did to quite another branch of the family. Whereas Sir Marcus had been of a dark and sallow type, Eric Coverly was one of those fair, fresh-colored, open-air English types, handsome in an undistinguished way, and as a rule of a light and careless disposition. There had never been any very close sympathy between us, for the studies to which I devoted so much time were by him regarded as frankly laughable absurdities. Although well enough informed, he was typical of his class, and no one could justly have catalogued him as an intellectual.

  “Good morning, Addison,” he said, having greeted Isobel in a perfunctory fashion which I assumed to be accounted for by my unwelcome presence. “The men of your Fleet Street tribe have conspired to hang me, I see.”

  “Don't talk nonsense, Coverly,” I said bruskly; “this misapprehension is bound to arise if you decline to give any account of your movements.”

  “But it is an outrage!” cried Coverly hotly. “What the devil doI know about Marcus's death?”

  “I am perfectly convinced that you know nothing whatever; but then I have known you for many years. The 'Fleet Street tribe' to whom you refer merely regard you as a unit of our rather large population. In a case of this kind, Coverly, all men are equal.”

  Whilst I had been delivering myself of this somewhat priggish speech—designed, I may add, in self-defense, to spur Coverly to a rejoinder which might throw some light upon the mystery—he had regarded me with an expression of ever increasing dislike. I noted that there were shadows under his eyes, and that he was in a highly nervous and excited condition. He had slept but little I judged during the last forty-eight hours and had possibly had recourse to stimulants to enable him to face the new trials which arose with every day.

  “I don't feel called upon,” he said angrily, “to give an account of my movements to every policeman who cares to inquire. I know nothing whatever about the matter. I have said so, and I am not accustomed to have my word doubted.”

  “My dear Coverly,” said I, “you must be perfectly well aware that sooner or later you will have to relinquish this heroic pose. Will you allow no one to advise you? You will have to answer the coroner, and if you persist in this extraordinary refusal to give a simple answer to a simple question, surely you realize that the matter will be transferred to a higher tribunal?”

  “Oh, I told you that they had hanged me in Fleet Street already, Isobel!” cried Coverly, with a burst of unmirthful laughter.

  But (and no man could have construed the thing favorably to Coverly) to my anger and amazement he added:

  “Let them do it! I'll speak if I choose, but not otherwise!”

  That I was annoyed with the young fool already, my remarks to him, which had transgressed every code of good taste, must sufficiently have shown. But I had hoped to provoke him to a declaration which would clear his name from the shadow which was settling darkly upon it, and which would raise that shadow from the girl who stood beside him, watching me with a sort of reproachful look in her dark eyes.

  Now I recognized that I could remain no longer and keep the peace, therefore:

  “Perhaps it is time that I went about my own business,” I said, conjuring up a smile, although it must have been a dreary one, “and ceased to interfere with the affairs of other people. Good-by, Isobel. Anything I can do, you know you may command. Good-by, Coverly. I am deeply sorry about this business.”

  He barely touched my extended hand, but instantly turned and walked to the bay window. Descending to the street, I had immediate confirmation of Coverly's statement that his movements were watched.

  In the porch below a man stood talking to the hall-porter. As I appeared he immediately averted his face and began to light a cigarette. Nevertheless I had had time to recognize him as the man who had brought Gatton news of Marie's detention.

  It was in a truly perturbed frame of mind that I proceeded on my way to thePlanet offices. I would have sacrificed much to have been afforded means to comfort Isobel; a furious anger towards the man who thus deliberately had brought doubt and unhappiness upon her had taken up permanent quarters in my mind. I counted Coverly's declination to clear himself little better than the attitude of a cad.

  I read religiously through a pile of cuttings bearing upon the case, and found the unmistakable trend of opinion to be directed towards Coverly as the culprit. The use made of Isobel's name enraged me to boiling point and I presently took up the entire bundle of cuttings and crammed them into a waste-paper basket. I was engaged in stamping them down with my foot when I was called to the telephone.

  Inspector Gatton was speaking from New Scotland Yard; and his voice was very grave.

  “Can you possibly come along at once?” he asked. “There is a new development; a most unpleasant one.”

  He would say no more over the telephone. Therefore I hurried out to where Coates was waiting, and in ten minu
tes found myself in one of those bare, comfortless apartments which characterize the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Force.

  With his hat off Gatton looked more like a seaman than ever, for he had short, crisply curly hair and that kind of bull-dog line of cranium which one associates with members of the senior service. Upon a chair set in a recess formed by one of the lofty windows a leather grip rested. It was wet and stained, and had palpably been recovered but recently from the water. Seeing my glance straying towards this object at the moment of my entrance, the Inspector nodded.

  “Yes,” said he, “it has just come in.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well,” replied Gatton, sitting upon a corner of the table and folding his arms, “it is a piece of evidence sufficient to hang the most innocent man breathing.”

  He eyed me in a significant manner and I felt my heart beginning to beat more rapidly.

  “May I know the particulars?”

  “Certainly. I asked you to come along for the purpose of telling you. Sir Eric Coverly's refusal to answer the questions put to him had necessitated his being watched, as you know. I mean to say, it's sheerly automatic; the Commissioner himself couldn't make an exception. Well, last night he left his chambers and started for Miss Merlin's flat. He came out of a back door and went along a narrow passage, instead of going out at the front. He evidently thought he had got away unobserved. He was carrying—that.”

  “Good heavens!” I said. “The young fool seems determined to put a rope around his own neck.”

  “As a matter of fact,” continued Gatton, “he wasnot unobserved. He was followed right across St. James's Park. By the lake he lingered for some time; and the man tracking him kept carefully out of sight, of course. There was nobody else about at the moment, and presently, thinking himself safe, Coverly dropped his bag in the water! Immediately he set off walking rapidly again, and he was followed right to Miss Merlin's door. But the spot where he had dropped the bag had been marked, of course, and when I came in here to-day it had been fished, up—and placed there for my inspection.”

  With ever-growing misgivings.

  “What does it contain?” I asked.

  Inspector Gatton walked across to the chair and threw the bag open. First he took out several lumps of wet coal.

  “To weight it, of course,” he said.

  Then one by one he withdrew from the clammy interior a series of ragged garments, the garments of a tramp. A pair of heavy boots there were, a pair of patched trousers and an old shabby coat, a greasy cap, and finally a threadbare red muffler!

  Gatton looked hard at me.

  “He will have to break his obstinate silence now,” he said. “Failing our discovery of new clews pointing in another direction, this is hanging evidence!”

  “It is maddening!” I cried. “Can nothing be done, Gatton? Is there no possible line of inquiry hitherto neglected which might lead to the discovery of the truth? For whatever your own ideas may be, personally I am certain that Coverly is innocent.”

  Gatton replaced the sodden garments one by one in the bag, frowning as he did so, and:

  “It occurred to me this morning,” he replied, “that thereis one inquiry which in justice to the suspected man and in order to round off the investigation, should be instituted. I'm afraid Coverly will have a bad time in the Coroner's court, but it is even possible that something might be done before the inquest. Now—”

  He looked at me quizzically, and:

  “Knowing your keen personal interest in the case, I am going to make a suggestion. It is probably going outside the intentions of the chief in regard to your share of the inquiry, but I'll risk that. I stipulate, however, that anything you learn is to be communicated direct to me, not to thePlanet . Is this arrangement consistent with your journalistic conscience?”

  “Quite,” I said eagerly; “my contributions to thePlanet are always subject, of course, to your censorship. What is it that you propose I should do?”

  “This,” said Gatton tersely; “I should like to know under what circumstances Mr. Roger Coverly died.”

  “Roger Coverly?” I echoed.

  “The son of Sir Burnham Coverly,” continued Gatton, “and therefore the direct heir to the title. He died somewhere abroad about five or six years ago, and as a result the late Sir Marcus inherited the baronetcy on the death of his uncle, Sir Burnham. You will remember that the man, Morris, spoke of the ill-feeling existing between Lady Burnham Coverly and Sir Marcus, because of the premature death of her own son, of course.”

  “I follow you,” I said eagerly. “You suggest that I should go down to Friar's Park and interview Lady Burnham Coverly?”

  “Exactly,” replied Gatton. “It's very irregular, of course, but I know you well enough to take my chance of a carpeting. I may send a C.I.D. man down as well. I've too much to do in town to think of going myself; but I will advise you of any such step.”

  The motive underlying Inspector Gatton's suggestion was perfectly evident to me and I experienced a feeling of gratitude for the humanity which directed it. I held out my hand, and:

  “Thanks, Gatton,” I said; “you can leave the matter in my care with every confidence. I will start for Friar's Park to-day.”

  “Good,” replied Gatton. “Let me give you a hint. Take a good pistol with you!”

  CHAPTER XI. THE SCARRED MAN

  It was towards the hour of seven in the evening that I reached the Abbey Inn at Upper Crossleys, itself among the most hoary buildings of the ancient village. It belonged to the days when white-clad brethren from the once great monastery of Croix-de-lis had labored in the abbey meadows and fished in the little stream which ran slowly through a neighboring valley. Time had scarred it deeply and the balcony overhanging the coachyard sagged in a rather alarming fashion as though about to drop down from sheer old age.

  The surrounding country had impressed me at first sight. There were long billowing hills and vales, much of their surface densely wooded, but with wide spaces under cultivation and even greater tracts of a sort of heath-land very wild in aspect and conjuring up pictures of outlaws' camps and the clash of battling feudal days. Hard by had resided of old a warden of the marches, and the ruins of his stronghold might still be seen on the crest of a near-by hill.

  From the room allotted to me I could look out over a varied prospect of farmland and heath, terminated by the woody slopes which everywhere hemmed in the valley. Peeping above the outer fringe of trees showed a tower of some old house whereof the rest was hidden by verdure.

  Having partaken of a typical country dinner, the small number of courses being amply compensated by their quantity, I lighted my pipe and went down to the bar-parlor, being minded to learn something of the neighborhood at first hand from any chance visitor who might serve my purpose.

  The landlord, a somewhat taciturn member of his class, sat behind the bar, pipe in mouth, as I entered, and only one other man was in the room. This was a gipsy-looking fellow, with a very wild eye, attired in the manner of a game-keeper, and wearing leggings and a fur cap. A sporting rifle stood in the corner beside him. The landlord nodded, and the other gave me a “Good evening” as I entered, whereupon I determined to try the game-keeper as the more likely source of information, and:

  “Is the shooting good hereabouts?” I asked, by way of opening a conversation.

  My inquiry seemed hugely to amuse the man.

  “None better,” was the reply; “it's thick with game, sir, it is for sure—and nobody to profit, only”—he winked at the landlord—“young Jim Corder!”

  The landlord emitted a deep grunt which was evidently recognized by the other as a laugh; for he himself laughed in a wild and not wholly pleasant manner, whereby I concluded that “young Jim Corder” was a standing joke in the neighborhood.

  “You look as though you knew a hare from a partridge,” said I, “so I'll take your word for it.”

  This remark provoked a second and deeper growl from the landlor
d and a further burst of outlandish laughter from my acquaintance, the game-keeper. Presently:

  “Why, sir, if I tell you,” declared the latter, “them birds all know me like I was their father, they do. I says, 'Good morning' regular and them birds all bows to me, they does.”

  When the laughter had subsided, scenting possible information:

  “I gather,” said I, “that you get few shooting-parties nowadays?”

  Gloom descended upon both my gossips.

  “You're right, you are, sir,” replied the game-keeper. “He's right, ain't he, Martin?”

  Martin, the landlord, growled. It occurred to me that he regarded the other with a certain disfavor.

  “This 'ere country,” continued the game-keeper, vaguely waving his arm around, “is a blighted spot. A blighted spot, ain't it, Martin?”

  Martin growled, whilst the game-keeper studied him covertly.

  “Since Sir Burnham went to his long rest these 'ere parts ain't knowed themselves. I'm tellin' you, sir. Ain't knowed 'emselves. It's all that quiet, winter and summer alike. The Park all shut up; and the Parkwas the Park in them days—warn't it, Martin?”

  Martin achieved speech; he removed his pipe, and:

  “It were, Hawkins,” he concurred.

  Silence fell for a minute or two. My new acquaintance, Hawkins, and Martin both seemed to be pondering upon the degeneracy of Upper Crossleys, and I could mot help thinking that Hawkins took a secret delight in it. Then:

  “Surely the Park is still occupied by Lady Coverly?” I asked.

  “Aye,” Hawkins nodded. “She's kep' me on, me and the missus, she has, like the real lady she is. But things is different; things is wrong. Ain't they, Martin?” he asked, with a mischievous glance at the stolid host.

  “Things is,” agreed Martin.

  “Best part of Park be shut up,” declared Hawkins. “Horses gone, carriages gone, everybody gone; only me and my old woman.”

  “There must be house servants,” I interjected.

  “My old woman!” cried Hawkins triumphantly; “same as I'm tellin' you!”