The Lost Million

I introduced myself, whereupon he rose, and expressed his readiness to answer any questions, as I was poor Guy’s friend, the doctor, having some matters to attend to with his colleague, leaving us alone. When he had gone I closed the door. Then, turning to the dead man’s guest, I said in a low voice – “I wonder, Captain Cardew, if I might speak to you in absolute confidence?”

“Certainly,” he said; “we are mutual friends of poor Guy’s.”

“Well,” I exclaimed; “first, will you tell me, frankly, your private opinion of this terrible affair? Has there been foul play?”

I saw that he hesitated.

“Well,” he replied, “there are certain curious circumstances which no doubt point to such a conclusion, although I understand that the doctors have had no hesitation in pronouncing death to be due to natural causes.”

“Would you mind describing to me, as far as you are able, what you heard in the night?” I said. “I have a reason for asking this. No doubt you have already several times told your story.”

“Yes. To the medical men and also to the police,” he said. “Well, it was like this. I’m quartered at Canterbury, and Guy, who was in my regiment and retired a year or so ago, asked me to spend a few days with him. I came here three days ago and found him in the highest of spirits, and very keen about tennis. He took me over to see a man named Shaw, and his daughter, of whom he was, I know, very fond. The night before last he gave a little dinner to a few people, and Shaw and the girl were here. After dinner we all went out on to the lawn for coffee. The place was hung with Chinese lanterns and looked charming, but all Guy’s attention was devoted towards entertaining Shaw’s daughter. I saw them cross the lawn in the moonlight and stroll into the grounds together; and when they came back I overheard Shaw expressing his annoyance to her at her absence. Shaw chatted with Justice Michelmore a good deal, while I had a Mrs Vane, a rather stout person, put upon me for the evening. I tell you I envied Guy, for the girl is really delightful.”

“Was there any bridge?”

“Yes, for about an hour in the drawing-room. Shaw and the Judge did not play. Before eleven the guests began to depart, and the Vanes, the last to leave, went about midnight. After they had gone I sat in the library with Guy for half an hour, and had a cigar. He was full of Asta Seymour, and when I asked him why he did not propose to her he reflected a moment, and then told me, in strict confidence, that he would do so at once – but for a certain circumstance.”

“Did he explain that circumstance?” I asked eagerly.

“No. I pressed him, but he refused to tell me. ‘It is my secret, Teddy,’ he said. ‘A secret which, alas! bars my happiness for ever.’ As we smoked, I noticed that, contrary to the rule, the long window yonder was open, and remarked upon it. He rose, and saying that the servant had probably forgotten it, closed it himself and barred the shutters. You’ll see they are strong shutters, and they were found in the morning closed and barred just as he had left them. Indeed, I unbarred them myself.”

“Then you left him here?” I asked.

“No. He turned off the light and came out with me, locking the door after him, for it seems he’s always careful to have every door on the ground floor locked at night. He came upstairs with me, wished me a cheery good-night outside my own door, and, promising to motor me into Oakham on the morrow, went along to his room. That is the last time he was seen alive.”

“What did you next hear?”

“I was awakened by a loud, piercing shriek – a man’s shriek of intense horror, it seemed. No one else slept in this wing of the house, or they must certainly have heard it. I roused myself at the unusual sound, for I was thoroughly startled and awakened by it. The clock on my mantelshelf struck two. I waited for some minutes, when I heard a noise which seemed to be below in the library, as though some one were moving about trying the door and hammering upon it. This caused me to wonder, and I held my breath to listen further. I suppose I must have lain like that for fully an hour. It was my intention if I heard anything further to go along to Guy’s room. I had, of course, some hesitation in arousing the household. But as I heard nothing further, I suppose I fell asleep, for the sun was shining when I awoke again. I got up, and was crossing to the window to look out when I heard a woman’s cry for help. So I rushed out in my pyjamas, and, descending the stairs, found poor Guy lying just here,” and he crossed to a spot about four yards from the door, and pointed to the red carpet.

“Was the room in any disorder?” I asked.

“Not as far as I could see. The shutters yonder were closed and barred, so I opened them and then tried to rouse my friend. But, alas! I saw by the ashen look upon his face that he was already dead. He was still in his dinner-jacket – just as I had left him. Of course you can well imagine the scene and the horror of the servants. Poor Guy – he was one of the very best.”

“What is your theory, Captain Cardew?”

“Theory! Well, I hardly know. I was a fool, and I shall never forgive myself for not raising an alarm when I first heard his shriek. I ought to have known that something was wrong. But there are moments in one’s life when one, being awakened suddenly, acts foolishly. It was so with me.”

Chapter Twelve

The Cry in the Night

“After leaving you at the door of your room he must have returned to the library,” I said to Cardew. “Were all the lights out when he came up with you?”

“By Jove! No, they were not,” he replied. “He didn’t turn out the light in the passage here just outside the library door. I have not remembered that point until this moment!”

“Did you see any newspaper about?”

“Yes, there was one lying near that armchair over there,” and he pointed to a big saddle-bag chair in dark green plush, where a large embroidered cushion of pale violet velvet lay crushed and crumpled, just as the unfortunate man had arisen from it.

“Then it is probable that after leaving you he made up his mind to return to the library and read his paper as usual,” I said. “He did so, and, lighting up again, flung himself into his favourite chair to read.”

“And while reading, he had the fatal seizure – eh? That, at least, is the theory of the police,” the Captain said.

“But you say that the housemaid, when she came to clean the room, found the door locked from the outside?” I remarked. The reason I cannot tell, but somehow, while we had been speaking, I thought I had detected a curious mysterious evasiveness in the Captain’s manner. Was he telling all he knew?

“Yes,” he said. “It was undoubtedly locked from the outside – a most mysterious fact.”

“Why mysterious?” I queried. “If Nicholson wished to commit suicide in mysterious circumstances, he could easily have arranged that he should be found behind locked doors. He had only to pass out by the door, lock it, and re-enter by the library window again, and bar that. I noticed as I came in that there is a spring-lock on the front door – so that it locks itself when closed!”

“Ah! I had not thought of that,” the Captain declared. “Of course, by such proceeding he would have been found locked in.”

“But you have suspicion of foul play,” I said; “you may as well admit that, Captain Cardew.”

“Well, I see no good in concealing it,” he said, with a smile. “To tell the truth now, after well weighing the facts for more than twenty-four hours, I have, I admit, come to a rather different conclusion to that of the medical men.”

“And I agree with you,” I declared. “One point we have to consider is what occupied poor Guy from the time when he left you until two o’clock. He would not take an hour and a half to read a newspaper.”

“No, but he might have been reading something else. He was not writing letters, for the same thought occurred to me, and I searched for any letters he might have written, but I could find none.”

“The question arises whether he returned to the library in order to meet somebody there in secret,” I exclaimed. “They may have passed in by the window to meet him, and afterwards out by the door, and eventually by the front door.”

His round face, with the slight fair moustache, instantly changed.

“By Jove! I’ve never thought of that!” he gasped. “Then your theory is that from half-past twelve till two he was not alone, eh? What causes you to suspect that he did not die of natural causes, Mr Kemball? I’ve been quite frank with you; will you not be equally straightforward with me?”

“Well, I have strong reasons for believing that it was to the interest of certain persons that he should die suddenly,” I said; “that’s all.”

“Will you not name the persons?” he asked.

“Not until I obtain proof. I may be mistaken. I may be grossly misjudging perfectly innocent persons, therefore I make no specific charge against anybody,” was my calm reply, as I stood gazing around the large sombre old room, whence a beautiful view of the long avenue and the park was spread. It was a quiet, silent, restful apartment, in which the previous owner – a great politician and writer – had spent many studious hours.

“But if you entertain any well-founded suspicions, ought you not to put them to the police?”

“And allow the local constables to bungle a very difficult and delicate inquiry! Scarcely, I think,” I replied, with a smile, still looking about me, and wondering what had really happened in that long, old-world room during the silent watches of that fatal night.

“Nothing has been touched here,” Cardew remarked. “I picked up the newspaper, but everything is left just as I found it when I rushed down at hearing the housemaid’s horrified cry.”

The room was certainly in no disorder. On the big square table, covered by a green plush cloth, were a number of new books, and in the centre a great silver bowl filled with roses. The writing-table – an old-fashioned mahogany one – was, I noticed, littered with letters, bills, and receipts, the neglected correspondence of a careless man, and as I stood there I noted that the great easy-chair wherein he had sat was placed exactly opposite the window, while within reach, upon a small neat shaft affixed to the wall, was the telephone instrument. Strange that, if he felt himself suddenly ill, and had been unable to summon assistance, he did not ring up on the telephone.

“The hammering you heard – was it quite distinct?” I inquired.

“Quite. It seems entirely feasible now that he was striving to get out of this locked room.”

The point that the door had been locked from the outside puzzled me considerably. But a fresh suggestion arose within me – namely, that after every one had retired, a servant, remembering that the window was open and the door unlocked, had gone down and seen to them. Yet she would in that case have found her master in the room, with the light still burning. No: the only explanation was that the key had been turned by one of the servants while passing along the corridor after her master’s return there, and while on her way to bed.

Yet, however one viewed the tragic affair, it was full of most remarkable features. There was mystery – a great and inexplicable mystery – somewhere.

And that mystery I now intended, at all hazards, to solve.