“What’s the matter?” asked Jennings, who at once saw that something was wrong from Cuthbert’s anxious face.
“Nothing, save that I am being driven out of my senses. I am glad you have come, Jennings. Things are getting more mysterious every day. I am determined to get to the bottom of this murder case if only for my own peace of mind. I am with you heart and soul. I have the detective fever with a vengeance. You can count on my assistance in every way.”
“All right, my dear chap,” said the other soothingly, “sit down and let us have a quiet talk before this girl arrives.”
“Susan Grant. I saw her today.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No. I only guessed that she was the girl you talked about from your description and from the fact that she entered Rose Cottage.”
“Ah,” said Jennings, taking a seat, “so you have been down there?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you all about it. I don’t know if I’m sane or insane, Jennings. When does this girl arrive?”
The detective glanced at his watch. “At half-past eight. She’ll be here in half an hour. Go on. What’s up?”
“Read this,” said Cuthbert, and passed along the note from Juliet. “I received that immediately after you went the other night.”
Jennings read the note with a thoughtful look, then laid it aside and stared at his friend. “It is strange that she should write in that way,” said he. “I should have thought she would wish to learn who killed her aunt. What does she mean?”
“I can’t tell you. I met her today,” and Cuthbert gave details of his visit to Rexton and the interview with Juliet. “Now what does she mean,” he added in his turn, “talking as though I had something to do with the matter?”
“Someone’s been poisoning her mind. That brother of hers, perhaps.”
“What do you know of him?” asked Cuthbert quickly.
“Nothing good. He’s an hysterical idiot. Gambles a lot and falls into rages when he loses. At times I don’t think he’s responsible for his actions.”
Mallow threw himself back in his chair biting his moustache. Every word Jennings spoke made him more confident that Basil had something to do with the crime. But why Juliet should hint at his own guilt Cuthbert could not imagine. Had he been calmer he might have hesitated to tell Jennings about Basil. But, exasperated by Juliet’s half confidence, and anxious to learn the truth, he gave the detective a full account of his meeting with the young man. “What do you make of that?” he asked.
“Well,” said Jennings doubtfully, “there’s nothing much to go upon in what he said. He’s in difficulties with Hale certainly —”
“And he seemed anxious about my having been in Caranby’s grounds at night.” “Were you there?”
“Yes. I did not intend to say anything about it, but I must tell you everything so that you can put things straight between me and Juliet. I can’t understand her. But I am sure her mother and Basil are trying to influence her against me. I should not be surprised to learn that they accused me of this murder.”
“But on what grounds?” asked Jennings quickly.
“We’ll come to that presently. But I now see why neither Basil nor his mother want the marriage to take place. By the will of Miss Loach Juliet comes in for six thousand a year, which is completely at her own disposal. Mrs. Octagon and her pet boy want to have the handling of that. They know if Juliet becomes my wife I won’t let them prey on her, so immediately Miss Loach died the mother withdrew her consent to the marriage, and now she is being backed up by Basil.”
“But I thought Mrs. Octagon was well off?”
“No. Saxon, her late husband, left her very little, and Octagon, for all his meekness, knows how to keep his money. Both mother and son are extravagant, so they hope to make poor Juliet their banker. In some way they have implicated me in the crime, and Juliet thinks that I am in danger of the gallows. That is why she wrote that mysterious note, Jennings. To-day she asked me to stop proceedings for my own sake, which shows that she thinks me guilty. I could not get a further explanation from her, as she ran away. Hang it!” Cuthbert jumped up angrily, “if she’d only tell me the truth and speak straight out. I can’t understand this silence on her part.”
“I can,” said Jennings promptly, “in some way Basil is mixed up in the matter, and his accusing you means his acknowledging that he was near Rose Cottage on the night of the crime. He funks making so damaging an admission.”
“Ah, I daresay,” said Cuthbert, “particularly as he quarrelled with his aunt a week before the death.”
“Did he quarrel with her?”
“Of course. Didn’t I tell you what he said today. He’s in a fine rage with the dead woman. And you know what an uncontrollable temper he has. I’ve seen him rage at Maraquito’s when he lost at baccarat. Silly ass! He can’t play decently and lose his money like a gentleman. How Juliet ever came to have such a bounder for a brother I can’t imagine. She’s the soul of honor, and Basil — bah!”
“He quarrelled with his aunt,” murmured Jennings, “and he has a violent temper, as we both knew. Humph! He may have something to do with the matter. Do you know where he was on that night?”
“Yes. Juliet and he went to the Marlow Theatre to see a melodrama by a new playwright.”
“Ha!” said Jennings half to himself, “and the Marlow Theatre is not far from Rexton. I’ll make a note of that. Had they a box?”
“I believe so. It was sent by the man who wrote the play.”
“Who is he?”
“I can’t say. One of that lot who play at being poets in Octagon House. A set of idiots. But what do you make of all this, Jennings?”
“I think with you that Mrs. Octagon and her cub of a son are trying to stop the marriage by bringing you into the matter of the crime. Were you down there on that night?”
“Yes,” said Cuthbert with hesitation, and to Jennings’ surprise, “I did not intend to say anything about it, as my uncle asked me to hold my tongue. But since things have come to this pass, you may as well know that I was there — and about the time of the murder too.”
Jennings sat up and stared. “Great heavens! Mallow, why didn’t you tell me this the other night?”
“You might have arrested me then and there,” retorted Cuthbert. “I promised my uncle to hold my tongue. But now —”
“You will tell me all. My dear fellow, make a clean breast of it.”
“Rest easy, you shall learn everything. You know that the house at the back of Rose Cottage has been deserted for something like twenty years more or less.”
“Yes. You told me about it the other night.”
“Caranby ran a fifteen-feet wall round it and the inside is a regular jungle. Well, the house is supposed to be haunted. Lights have been seen moving about and strange noises have been heard.”
“What kind of noises?”
“Oh, moans and clanking chains and all that sort of thing. I heard indirectly about this, through Juliet.”
“Where did she hear the report?”
“From Miss Loach’s cook. A woman called Pill. The cook asserted that the house was haunted, and described the noises and the lights. I don’t believe in spooks myself, and thought some tricks were being played, so one day I went down and had a look.”
“That day I was there?” asked Jennings, recalling Cuthbert’s presence.
“Before that — a week or two. I saw nothing. The house is rotting and nothing appeared to be disturbed. I examined the park and found no footmarks. In fact, there wasn’t a sign of anyone about.”
“You should have gone at night when the ghost was larking.”
“That’s what Caranby said. I told him when he came back to London. He was very annoyed. You know his romance about that house — an absurd thing it is. All the same, Caranby is tender on the point. I advised him to pull the house down and let the land out for building leases. He thought he would, but asked me to go at night and stir up the ghost. I went on the night of the murder, and got into the grounds by climbing the wall. There’s no gate, you know.”
“At what time?”
“Some time between ten and eleven. I’m not quite sure.”
“Good heavens! man, that is the very hour the woman was killed!”
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