Whatsoever a Man Soweth

“We hope to find out who he is, but from all appearances he’s a total stranger in these parts.”

“It’s very evident that the murderer searched the poor fellow’s pockets,” Jack said. “He was afraid lest his victim might be identified.”

“That’s what we think, m’lord,” remarked one of Booth’s companions. “The tab off the back of his jacket, which bore the maker’s name, has been cut out.”

“By the murderer?” asked Wydcombe.

“Probably so, m’lord.”

“Then whoever killed him took good care to remove every scrap of evidence which might lead to his victim’s identification,” Ellice Winsloe remarked, standing with his eyes fixed steadily upon the dead face.

“That’s what our superintendent thinks. He believes that if we establish who the poor fellow is, that we shall have no difficulty in putting our hand upon the guilty person.”

“But did no one hear the shot?” Winsloe inquired.

“Nobody. The doctor thinks the affair took place late in the afternoon,” answered Booth.

Winsloe pursed his white lips, and turned away. For an instant a haggard, fearsome look crossed his hard countenance – the look of a man haunted by a guilty secret – but a moment later, when Wydcombe turned to join him, his face changed, and he exclaimed lightly, —

“Let’s get out of this. The thing’s a complete mystery, and we must leave it to the police to puzzle it all out. Of course, there’ll be an inquest, and then we may hear something further.”

“At present the affair is a complete enigma,” Jack remarked. Then, bending again towards the dead man’s face, he added, “Do you know, Ellice, I can’t help thinking that I’ve seen him before somewhere, but where, I can’t for the life of me recollect.”

I saw that Winsloe started, and he turned again. “I don’t recognise him in the least,” he said quickly. “A face is always altered by death. He now resembles, perhaps, somebody you’ve known.”

“Ah, perhaps so,” remarked the young viscount. “Yet I certainly have a faint impression of having seen him somewhere before – or somebody very like him.”

“I hope your lordship will try and remember,” urged the village constable. “It would be of the greatest assistance to us.”

“I’ll try and think, Booth. If I recollect I’ll send for you,” he answered.

“Thank you, m’lord,” the constable replied, and as I glanced covertly at Winsloe I saw that his face had fallen.

Would Scarcliff recall who he really was?

“To identify a dead person is always most difficult,” Winsloe remarked with assumed disinterestedness. “I’ve heard of cases where half a dozen different families have laid claim to one dead body – wives, mothers, children and intimate friends. No doubt lots of people are buried from time to time under names that are not their own. Richards, of any doctor, will tell you that a countenance when drawn by death is most difficult to recognise.”

By those remarks I saw that he was trying very ingeniously to arouse doubt within Jack’s mind, in order to prevent him making any statement. His attitude increased the mystery a hundredfold.

I recollected the secret Sybil had revealed to me on the previous afternoon when we had stood together in the Long Gallery – how she had told me that she intended to many Winsloe. What he had said now aroused my suspicions.

Winsloe knew the victim. That he had identified him I was fully convinced, and yet he held his tongue. What motive had he in that? Was he, I wondered, aware of the terrible truth?

Fortunately, I held in my possession those injudicious letters of Sybil’s, and that miniature; fortunately, too, I knew the real facts, and was thus enabled to watch the impression produced upon Winsloe by sight of the victim.

As we left the barn I walked by his side.

“A queer affair, isn’t it?” I remarked. “Strange that a man could be murdered here, close to the village in broad daylight, and nobody hear the shot!”

“But we were shooting until late yesterday afternoon, remember,” he said quickly. “The villagers thought it was one of our shots, I expect.”

“I wonder who he is?” I exclaimed.

“Ah! I wonder,” he said. “He walked a long way, evidently. He’s probably some tramp or other. He might have quarrelled with his companion – who knows? Perhaps the police will find out all about him.”

“It will be interesting to see if they discover anything,” I said, glancing at him at the same instant.

“Yes,” he said, “it will,” and then he turned to speak with Wydcombe, who was walking at Booth’s side.

Whatever his knowledge, his self-command was marvellous. The others, who had not seen that expression on his face when he had first gazed upon the dead countenance, had no suspicion of the truth.

Yes. Ellice Winsloe was playing a double game; therefore I resolved to wait and to watch.

Together we walked up through the park again, discussing the strange affair. Jack advanced more than one theory.

“Charlton Wood doesn’t lead to anywhere,” he pointed out. “Therefore the dead man kept an appointment there. Perhaps he was lured to his death,” he added. “There may have been two or more assassins.”

“No, I rather disagree,” said Wydcombe. “If there had been a plot to kill him they wouldn’t have risked firing a revolver, as it would attract too much attention. No, depend upon it that the affair was not a premeditated one. Did you notice his boots? Although dusty and badly worn they were evidently by a good maker. Besides, I felt his hand. It was as soft as a woman’s.”

“But you surely don’t believe that he was a gentleman, do you?” asked Winsloe. “To me the fellow was more like a tramp.”

“I hardly know what to think, Ellice,” was his lordship’s reply as he lit a cigarette. “It’s a mystery, and that’s all one can say. Whoever killed him was a confoundedly good shot.”

“You don’t think it was suicide?” Winsloe asked slowly, looking the speaker straight in the face.

“Suicide! Of course not. Why don’t you hear? They haven’t found a revolver.”

And with such remarks as these we went back to the house for lunch.

When we had all assembled at table, Eric and Lady Wydcombe alone being absent, old Lady Scarcliff exclaimed suddenly, —

“Tibbie has broken out again. She took Mason and went off in the car early this morning without telling anyone where she was going. Did anybody hear the car go off?” she inquired, looking around the table.

But all expressed surprise at Tibbie’s absence, and of course nobody had heard her departure. Where had she gone, and why, we all asked. Whereupon her ladyship merely replied, —

“I’m sure I can’t tell you anything. Simmons brought me a scribbled note at nine o’clock this morning, saying that she had found it in her room. It was from Tibbie to say that as she couldn’t sleep she had got up and gone out with Mason. ‘Perhaps I shall be back to-morrow,’ she says, ‘but if I am not, please don’t worry after me. I shall be all right and will write.’”

“Gone to see Aunt Clara down at Hove, perhaps,” remarked Jack. “She said something about running down there a few days ago.”

“But it isn’t proper for a young girl tearing about the country by herself and driving her own car,” protested the old lady. “She knows that I most strongly disapprove of it.”

“And therefore does it all the more,” laughed the man who had identified the victim in Charlton Wood.

“Tibbie is really quite incorrigible.”

“Quite, Mr Winsloe,” declared her ladyship. “My only fear is that one day something terrible may happen to her. The driving of a big car is, I always say, not a proper occupation for a girl. She’ll come to grief some day – depend upon it!”

Ellice looked straight at the old lady, without uttering any word of reply. What did he know, I wondered? Was he, too, aware of her secret?