On the sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great distance.
Their occupants might be examined at our leisure. There were several
roads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.
When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of
wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course,
still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the
village constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid
Sussex breed--a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy,
silent exterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said,
and finally drew me aside.
"I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me
to handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."
I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor;
also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as
possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the
dead man's pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a
small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I
unfolded and handed to the constable. There was written on it in a
scrawling, feminine hand:
I will be there, you may be sure.
Maudie.
It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where
were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned
it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as
nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for
breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs should
be thoroughly searched.
Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had
been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He
brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected,
nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had
examined the papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several which
showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy,
of Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of
the note.
"The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them.
But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no
reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save,
indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him."
"But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of
using," I remarked.
"It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not
with McPherson."
"Was it mere chance?"
Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.
"Ian Murdoch held them back," said he. "He would insist upon some
algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully
cut up about it all."
"And yet I gather that they were not friends."
"At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been
as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a
very sympathetic disposition by nature."
"So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a
quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."
"That blew over all right."
"But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."
"No, no, I am sure they were real friends."
"Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know
her?"
"Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood--a real
beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that
McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone
so far as these letters would seem to indicate."
"But who is she?"
"She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and
bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is
now a man of some substance. He and his son William run the
business."
"Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"
"On what pretext?"
"Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not
ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the
handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted
the injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was
surely limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can
hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to
the criminal."
It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had
our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The
village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round
the bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have
been built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that
Stackhurst guided me.
"That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner
tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing
but-- By Jove, look at that!"
The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There
was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian
Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the
road.
"Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance
from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his
principal pulled him up.
"What were you doing there?" he asked.
Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under
your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private
actions."
Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.
Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper
completely.
"In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."
"Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."
"This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your
insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly
make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."
"I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made
The Gables habitable."
He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood
glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he
cried.
The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that
Mr. Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape
from the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now
beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the
Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst
pulled himself together, and we went forward to the house.
Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.
He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid
as his hair.
"No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"--indicating a
powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the
sitting-room--"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions
to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never
mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal
more of which neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we
are her only guardians. We are determined--"
But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady
herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any
assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower
would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have
seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my
heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all
the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring,
without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed.
Such was the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now,
wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.
"I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to
tell me the particulars."
"This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the
father.
"There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"
growled the younger man.
The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. "This is my
business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By all
accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to show who
did it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone."
She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed
concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as
well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as
a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew
me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.
"Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help,
whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at
her father and brother as she spoke.
"Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You
use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"
"I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and
a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an
outrage upon him."
"Might I have one word with you alone?"
"I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her
father angrily.
She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"
"The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no
harm if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred
privacy, but if your father will not allow it he must share the
deliberations." Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the
dead man's pocket. "It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I
ask you to throw any light upon it that you can?"
"I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be
married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is
very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had
married against his wish. There was no other reason."
"You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.
"So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."
"I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."
"It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling
you. As to this appointment"--she fumbled in her dress and produced a
crumpled note--"it was in answer to this."
Dearest [ran the message]:
The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is the
only time I can get away.
F. M.
"Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."
I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get
it?"
"I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do
with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears
upon that I will most freely answer."
She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful
in our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiance had
any hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm
admirers.
"May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"
She blushed and seemed confused.
"There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed
when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."
Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking
more definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be
privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his
mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The
Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was
already in our hands.
A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and
had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet
inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial
search of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over
the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new
conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which
brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my
imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then there
came the incident of the dog.
It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange
wireless by which such people collect the news of the countryside.
"Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one
evening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my
attention.
"What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"
"Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."
"Who told you this?"
