# The Chronicles of Addington Peace/The Terror in the Snow

pp. 49-88.
II

### THE TERROR IN THE SNOW

Hendry, my servant, saw to it that I should not forget Inspector Addington Peace. Shortly after the adventure which I have already narrated, I left London for a round of country visits. And if a paragraph concerning that eminent detective chanced to appear in a newspaper, the substance of it was brought to me with my shaving-water in the morning.
“I see as 'e 'as bin up to 'is games again, sir,” was Hendry's usual overture. “My word, but 'e's a sly one, by all accounts,” was the customary conclusion.
I believe that Hendry often gained considerable notoriety in the servants' hall by a boasted friendship with Peace. To this I attribute the fact of his being consulted by Mr. Heavitree's butler on the occasion of the burglary that took place while I was staying at Crandon. Hendry's ludicrous fiasco, which nearly resulted in a law-suit for false imprisonment, need not be narrated here, though it was considered a remarkably good joke against me at the time.
Towards the end of December I returned to London for a few days, and on the third night after my arrival I decided to visit the inspector. Hendry had discovered that he was a bachelor, and lived in two little rooms on the third floor. The floors that separated us were let out as offices, so that Peace at the top and I at the bottom had the old house to ourselves after seven o'clock.
The little man was at home, and seemed pleased to see me. With his sparrow-like agility he hopped about, producing glasses and a bottle of whisky. Finally, with our pipes in full blast, we sat facing each other across the fire, and soon dropped into a conversation which to me, at least, was of unusual interest. A very curious knowledge of London and its peoples had Inspector Addington Peace.
An hour quickly slipped by, and when I rose to go I asked him if he would dine with me on my return from Cloudsham in Norfolk, where I was spending Christmas. He would be pleased, he told me; and then, as he stooped to light a spill in the coals—
“You stay with the Baron Steen, I suppose?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And why?”
“Why?” I echoed in some surprise.
“You have relatives or other friends?”
“My nearest relative is a sour old uncle in Bradford, who calls me hard names for using the gifts Providence gave me instead of adding up figures in a smoky office. As for friends—well, I am a fairly rich man, Inspector, and, as such, have many friends. What is there against the Baron Steen?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said, puffing at his pipe, so that he spoke as from a cloud, mistily.
“I know that he has played a bold game on the Stock Exchange,” I continued, “and there may be a few outwitted financiers growling at his heels. But it would be hard to find a more thoughtful host. Yes, I am going to Cloudsham to-morrow.”
We shook hands warmly on parting, and as I descended the stairs he leant over the rail, smiling down upon me.
“Remember your dinner engagement,” I called up to him. “I shall see you after the New Year.”
“Yes, if not before,” he said; and I seemed to catch the faint echo of a laugh as I turned the corner.
It was on the afternoon of December 24th that I stepped from the train at the little station of Cloudsham. Fresh snow had fallen, and the wind came bitterly over the frozen levels of the fen country. A distant clock was striking four as the carriage passed into the crested entrance-gates and tugged up a rising slope of park land dotted with ragged oaks and storm-bowed spinney, which showed as black stains upon its snow-clad undulations. At the summit the road bent sharply, and I saw below me the old manor of Cloudsham, beyond which—a sombre plain, losing itself in the evening mists that swathed the horizon—stretched the restless waters of the North Sea.
The house lay in a broad depression, in shape as the hollow of a hand, save only on the seaward side, where the line of cliff bit into it like the grip of a giant's teeth. The grey front looked up, across a slope of grass land, to a semicircle of forest that swept away in dark shadings of fir and oak. From the long oblong of the main buildings were thrust back two wings, flanked on the nearer side by a chapel.
From the back of the house to the edge of the sea cliffs, a distance of some quarter of a mile, ran an irregular avenue of firs with clipped yew walks and laurel-edged flower gardens on either hand.
A dozen men sweeping the paths and a telegraph boy on a pony mounting the hill towards me showed as black pigmies against the drifts of snow.
My bachelor host was absent when I was ushered into the great central hall where the house-party were met together for their tea. I am by nature shy of strangers, taken in large doses, and it was with relief that I recognized Jack Talman, the grizzled cynic of an Academician, sitting in a corner seat well out of reach of draughts and female conversation.
“Hello, Phillips,” he welcomed me. “And what financial gale brings you here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don't put on frills with me. I've come to paint old Steen's picture, if he will give me the fifteen hundred that I'm asking for it. Lord Tommy Retford yonder is here to unload some of his old furniture—you know Tommy's rooms in Piccadilly, don't you? Furnished by a dealer in Bond Street, and twenty-five per cent. commission to Tommy on everything he can sell out of them. That's Mrs. Talbot Slingsly talking to him. Pretty woman, got into trouble in New York, was cut by all America, and captured Slingsly and London Society at one blow. Scandal never does cross the Atlantic somehow—all the dirty linen gets washed in the herring-pond. That's old Lord Blane by the fire; very respectable, and lends money on the sly. 'Private gentleman will make advances on note of hand'—you know. Fine woman Mrs. Billy Blades—that's she on the sofa. She's been making desperate love to Steen, but no go. The gay old dog's too clever for her. That long chap's her husband. Watch him prowling round, looking to see if he can pouch a silver ash-tray or something, I expect. By Jove, Phillips, but it's as good as a play, ain't it?”
“And this is London Society?” I exclaimed.
“No,” he cackled, shaking with vast amusement. “No, man; no. It's the Smart Set, that advertised, criticised, glorious, needy brigade of rogues and vagabonds—the Smart Set. Bless 'em all, say I; they're the best of company, but it's as well to lock up your valuables before you become too intimate with them.”
I finished off my tea while old Talman sucked at his cigarette in great entertainment.
“You'd like to see the house,” he commenced again. “Come along, I'll show you round—I want a walk before dinner.”
It was a most interesting ramble. We passed from room to room admiring the carved oak, the splendid pictures, the Sheraton furniture, the cabinets of old china, the armour, and the tapestry. For the manor was filled with the heirlooms of the de Launes, from whom the Baron Steen rented it. And though the present peer, a broken-down old drunkard, was living in a little villa at Eastbourne on eight hundred pounds a year, the family had been a great and glorious one, finding mention on many a page in English history.
At the end of the great dining-room, set in the black-oak wainscot above the fire, was the portrait of a boy. It was a Reynolds, and a worthy effort of that master hand. The lad could have been no more than fifteen years of age, but in his eyes was that grave, distracted expression that usually comes with the painful wisdom of later years. In more closely examining the picture, I noticed that a large portion of it at the bottom right-hand corner had been repaired or painted out. I called Talman's attention to this misfortune, asking if he knew the cause.
“They painted out the wolf,” he said, “and with good enough reason, too.”
“A wolf?” I said.
“If old de Laune were to hear me gossipping about it he'd kick me out of the place—he would, by Jove! But with Steen in possession it's safe enough. Mind you, though, you mustn't mention it to the ladies—on your word, now.”
“Yes, yes,” I said eagerly; “go on.”
“Such things frighten the women,” he explained. “Well, it was in this way. Phillip, and he was the sixth earl, was our ambassador at St. Petersburg somewhere about the year 1790. Once when he was out hunting, he shot an old she-wolf that was peering from the mouth of a cave, and inside they found a thriving family of four cubs. One of them was white, an albino, I suspect. He saved it from tho dogs and took it home. When he came back to Cloudsham the next year, he brought it along with his wife and his boy—an only son. They say it was a great pet at first, but it grew sulky with age, and finally was kept chained in the stables.
“One Christmas Eve, just as dusk was closing in, de Laune was trotting down the drive—he had been hunting at a distant meeting—when he heard a fearful screaming from the lower gardens towards the cliff. He put spurs to his horse, and in two minutes was galloping through the shadows of the fir avenue towards the sea. All of a sudden his horse pulled up dead, threw him, and bolted. When he got to his feet—he wasn't hurt, luckily—what did he see but the body of his son, lying with his throat torn out, and the white wolf standing over him, the broken chain dangling at its neck.
“They say he was a giant, this Philip de Laune, and of a very wild and passionate temper. Anyway, he went straight for the beast, and, though he was dreadfully mauled, he killed it—Heaven knows how—with his bare hands. That's why the present branch of the family came by the place. Pretty gruesome, isn't it?”
“A strange story,” I told him; “but why must it be kept a secret from the ladies?”
“Because the beast walks, man. There's not a labourer in Norfolk who would go into the lower gardens on any night of the year, much less on Christmas Eve.”
“My good Talman, do you mean to say you believe this?”
“I don't know—but I wouldn't go into the lower gardens to-night, if I could walk round. Think of it, Phillips, the white shape with the bloody jaws lurking in the shadows! Ugh—let's go and get a cocktail before”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but the Baron is looking for you.”
He was a tall, hatchet-faced fellow, with that mixture of respect and dignity that marks the well-trained British manservant. Upon the soft pile of the rugs we had not heard his footsteps.
“He asked me to find you, sir,” he continued, addressing himself to mo with a slight bow. “He is waiting in his room.”
As he preceded us thither, Talman whispered that Henderson—meaning thereby our conductor—was Steen's valet, and a very clever fellow by all accounts.
The Baron, fat, high-coloured, and hearty, welcomed me with an open sincerity of pleasure well calculated to place a guest at his ease. A remarkable old boy was the Baron Steen. He always seemed to carry with him a jovial atmosphere of his own, in which those to whom he spoke were lost and blinded out of their better judgment. He was kind enough to pay me some compliments upon my water-colour work. Whatever else can be brought against him, no one can deny that he was a sound judge of art.
The dinner passed pleasantly enough that night, with free and witty conversation. Our bachelor host was in his most humorous mood, keeping those about him in shouts of laughter. Facing him, at the extremity of the long table, was his secretary, a thin, melancholy youth of about four-and-twenty. My fair neighbour told me that Terry, as he was named, had been intended for the Church, but that his father, having ruined himself on the Stock Exchange, had persuaded the Baron to give him work. He was devoted to his patron, which, she smiled, was not surprising, seeing that he must be well on his way to rebuilding the fortune his father had lost.
I am not an ardent gambler, and when I do play I admit a preference for games in which brains are of some account. The roulette-table soon bored me, and after I had seen the last of a few pounds, I contented myself by watching the changing fortunes of the rest of the party. Just before eleven the Baron, who had parted with considerable sums of money in perfect good humour, excused himself, and before the rest had settled down to the table again, I slipped away to my bedroom, where a selection of novels and a favourite pipe offered more congenial attractions.
The room was of considerable size and majestically furnished. It was on the first floor at the extremity of the right-hand wing, and looked out over the gardens on the cliff. A branch road from the main drive ran beneath the windows to an entrance at the back of the house.
They had steam heat on the upper floors, and the high temperature of my room had drawn stale and heavy odours from the tapestry on the walls and the ancient hangings that fringed the huge four-post bedstead. It was the atmosphere of an old clothes shop on a July day. I pulled back the curtains, opened the window and thrust out my head for a mouthful of fresh air.
It was a quiet, moonless night, lit by the stars that blinked in their thousand constellations. Though the snow lay deep, the air struck mildly. Indeed, if it were freezing, it could not have been by more than two degrees. Upon the edge of the distant cliffs robes of confusing mist curled in veils as thin as moonlight; but in the foreground the yew walks and aisles of ancient laurel showed clearly upon the white carpet. About the central avenue of firs which carved the gardens into two the darkness lay in impenetrable pools of shadow. As I waited, the silence was startled by a bell. It rang the four quarters in a tinkling measure, followed by eleven musical strokes. I knew that the sound must come from the little church that lay to my right; but, though I leant from my window, the angle of the wing in which I was hid the building from me.
I feel that the story which I have now to tell may well turn me into an object for ridicule. I can only describe that which I saw; as for the conclusions at which I arrived there are many more practical people in the world than myself who would have judged no differently. At best it was a ghastly business.
I had returned to the dressing-table and was changing my dress-coat for a comfortable smoking-jacket when I heard it—a faint and distant cry, yet a cry which was crowded with such terror that I clung to a chair with my white face and goggling eyes staring back at me from the mirror on the table. Again it sounded, and again; then silence fell like the shutter of a camera. I rushed to the window, peering out into the night.
The great gardens lay sleeping in the dusky shadows. There was nothing to be heard; nothing moved save the curling wreaths of mist that came creeping up over the cliffs like the ghosts of drowned sailormen from their burial sands below. Could it have been some trick of the imagination? Could it—and the suggestion which I despised thrust itself upon me—could it bear reference to that grim tragedy that had been played in the old fir avenue so many years ago?
And then I first saw the thing that came towards me.
It was moving up a narrow path, hedged with yew, that led from the gardens and passed to the right of the wing in which I stood. The yew had been clipped into walls some five feet high, but the eastern gales had beaten out gaps and ragged indentations in the lines of greenery, so that in my sideways view of it the path itself was here and there exposed. It was through one of these breaches in the walls that I noticed a sign of movement. I waited, straining my eyes. Yes, there it showed again, a something, moving swiftly towards the house with a clumsy rolling stride.
It was never nearer to me than fifty yards, and the stars gave a shifty light. Yet it left me with an impression that it was about four feet in height and of a dull white colour. I remember that its body contrasted plainly with the dark hedges, but melted into uncertainty against a patch of snow. Once it stopped and half raised itself on its hind legs as if listening. Then again it tumbled forward in its shambling, ungainly fashion—now hidden by the yew wall, now thrust into momentary sight by a ragged gap until it disappeared round the angle of the house. Doubtless it would turn to the left, round the old chapel, across the snow-bound park, and so to the woods—where a wolf should be!
I was still staring from the window in the blank fear of the unknown, when I heard the swift tap of feet upon the road beneath me. Round the corner of the wing came a man, running with a patter of little strides, while a dozen yards behind him were a pair of less active followers. What they wanted I did not consider; for at that moment the sight of my own kind was joy enough for me. The electric lamps in the room behind me threw a broad golden patch upon the snow, and as the leader reached it he stopped, glancing up at where I stood. The light struck him fairly in the face. It was Addington Peace!
“Did you hear that cry?” he panted; and then, with a sudden nod of recognition: “I see who it is, Mr. Phillips—well, and did you hear it?”
“It came from over there—in the fir avenue,” said I, pointing with a trembling finger. “I don't understand it, Inspector; I don't indeed. There was something that came up that yew walk behind you about a minute afterwards. I should have thought it would have passed you.”
“No, I saw nothing. What was it like?”
“A sort of a dog,” I stammered; for under his steady eye I had not nerve enough to tell him of my private imaginings.
“A dog—that's curious. Are all the rest of you in bed?”
“No; they're gambling.”
“Very good. I see there is a door at the back there. Will you come down and let me in, after I've had a look round the gardens?”
“Certainly.”
“If you meet any of your friends, you need not mention that I have arrived. Do you understand?”
I nodded, and he hopped away across the lawn with his two companions at his heels.
I slipped on an overcoat and made my way quietly down the stairs. From the roulette-room, as I passed it, came the chink of money and the murmur of merry voices. They would not disturb us, that was certain. I reached the garden doors in the centre of the main building, turned the key, and walked out into the gloom of a great square porch.
As I have said, the temperature was scarcely below freezing-point, and if I shivered in my fur-lined overcoat it was more from excitement than any great chill in the air. For a good twenty minutes I waited listening and peering into the night. It was not a pleasant time, for my nerves were jangled, and I searched the shadows with timorous eyes, half fearing, half expecting, Heaven knows what hideous apparition. It was with a start which set my heart thumping that I saw Peace turn the corner of the right-hand wing and come trotting down the drive towards me. There was something in his aspect that told a story of calamity.
“What is it?” I asked him, as he panted up.
“I want you—come along,” he whispered, and started back by the way he had come.
We passed round the right-hand wing, under my bedroom window, and stopped where the yew walk ended. To right and left of the entrance two stone fauns leered upon us under the starlight.
“This thing you call a dog—could you see it as far as this?”
“No; the angle of the wing prevented me.
“You saw it pass in this direction. Are you certain it did not go back the way it came?”
“Yes. I am quite certain.”
“Then it must either have turned up the road, in which case I should have met it; or down the road, where you would have seen it as it passed under your windows; or else have run straight on. If we take these facts as proved, it must have run straight on.”
“That is so.”
We had our backs to the laughing fauns. Before us lay a broad triangle of even snow, with the chapel and wing of the house for its sides, and for its base the carriage-drive on which we stood. There was no shrub or tree in any part of it that might conceal a fugitive. Close to the wall of the house ran a path ending in a small side door. The chapel, which was joined to the mansion, had no entrance on the garden side.
If it entered this triangle and disappeared—for I am certain it was not here when I ran by—we may conclude that it found its way into the house. It had no other method of escape. Kindly stay here, Mr. Phillips. This snow is fortunate, but I wish the sweepers had not been so conscientious about their work on the paths.”
He drew a little electric lantern from his coat, touched the spring, and with an eye of light moving before him, turned into the path under the wall. He walked slowly, bending double as he swept the brilliant circle now on the exposed ground, now on the snow ridges to right and left. The sills of the ground-floor windows were carefully examined, and when he reached the door he searched the single step before it with minute attention. A curious spectacle he made, this little atom of a man, as he peeped and peered his way like some slow-hunting beast on a cold scent.
It was not until he left the path for the snow-covered grass-plot that I saw him give any sign of success. He dropped on his knees with a little chirrup of satisfaction like the note of a bird. Then he rose again, shaking his head and staring up at the windows above him in a cautious, suspicious manner. Finally he came slowly back to me, with his head on one side, staring at the ground before him.
“You thought it was a dog?” he asked. “Why a dog?”
“It looked to me like a big dog—or a wolf,” I told him boldly.
“Whether it be beast or man, or both, I believe the thing that killed him is in the house now.”
I jumped back, staring at him with a sudden exclamation.
“Who has been killed?” I stammered out.
“Baron Steen. We found him on the cliffs yonder. He was badly cut about.”
“It's impossible, Inspector,” I cried. “He left the roulette-table not a quarter of an hour before you came.”
“Ah—he was a cool hand, Mr. Phillips. It was like him to put off bolting till the last minute. The warrant against him for company frauds is in my pocket now. But some one gave the game away to him, for his yacht is lying off the beach there, with a boat from her waiting at the foot of the cliff. But we've no time to lose—come along.”
Before the big garden porch the inspector's two companions were waiting. He drew them aside for a minute's whispered conversation before they separated, and disappeared into the night. What had they done with the body? I had not the courage to inquire.
We entered the house, moving very softly. In the hall Peace took me by the arm.
“You're a bit shaken, Mr. Phillips, and I'm not surprised. But I want your assistance badly. Can you pull yourself together and help me to see this through?”
“I'll do what I can.”
“Take me up to your room, then.”
We were in luck, for we tip-toed up the great stairs and down the long passages without meeting a guest or servant. Once in my room, the inspector walked across and pushed the electric bell. Three, four minutes went by before the summons was answered, and then it was by a flushed and disordered footman who bounced into the room and halted, staring open-mouthed from me to my companion.
“Sorry to disturb your dance,” said Peace, beaming upon him.
“Beg pardon, sir, but you startled me—yes, we was 'aving a little dance in the servants' 'all; but it's of no consequence, sir.”
“A slippery floor, eh, with so much French chalk on it?”
The young man glanced at the powder on his shoes and grinned.
“So you are all dancing in the servants' hall, are you?”
“I believe so, sir, barring Edward, who is waiting on the party, and Mr. Henderson.”
“And where is Mr. Henderson?”
“He is the baron's man, sir. I should not presume to inquire where he was. Beg pardon, sir, but are you staying here to-night?”
“This is a friend of mine,” I interposed. “He will stay the night; but you need not trouble about that now.”
“A smart fellow like you can keep his mouth shut,” continued the inspector, sweetly. “You wouldn't go shouting all over the house if you were let into a secret—now, would you?”
“Oh no, sir; on my word I wouldn't.”
And so Peace told him of the projected arrest, of the murder, and of his own identity. The colour faded from the young man's cheeks, but he stood stiff and silent, never taking his eyes from the little detective's face.
“And what can I do, sir?” he asked, when the tale was over. “He was a good master to us, sir; whatever there was against him, he was good to us. You can trust me to help catch the scoundrel who killed him if I can.”
“I see this room is warmed by steam heat. Is that the case with all the bedrooms and passages?”
“Yes, sir. The only open fires are in the reception-rooms. When the baron made the alterations last year, they left the grates for the sake of appearance; but they are never lighted, save on the ground-floor.”
“And in what reception-rooms are there fires at the present moment?”
“The dining-room fire has died out by now,” said the young man, ticking off the numbers on his fingers. “But there is one in the big hall, one in the library where the party is playing, one in the little drawing-room, and one in the baron's room.”
“And the kitchen?”
“Of course, sir, one in the kitchen and one in the servants' hall.”
“That is all. Are you certain?”
“Quite certain, sir.”
“Good; and now for the bath-rooms.”
“The bath-rooms, sir?”
“Exactly.”
“There are two bath-rooms in each wing; some of the gentlemen have tubs in their own rooms besides.”
“Now, I think we know where we are,” said the inspector, briskly. “No chance of the roulette party breaking up, is there?”
“Oh no, sir; not for another two hours, at least.”
“I want you to return, Mr. Phillips, and try your luck at the tables for a spell,” he said, with a quick glance at me. “It is now eleven thirty; be back in this room at twelve fifteen. I am going to take a walk round the house with our young friend here in the meanwhile. The baron had a secretary, I believe?”
“Yes, a man called Terry.”
“Bring him up with you when you come. I shall want a talk with him. Is all quite plain?”
“Yes,” I told him; and so we parted.
When I stepped into the roulette-room I stood for a moment blinking at the players like a yokel at a pantomime. The scene was to me something unreal, a clever piece of stage effect, with its flushed and covetous faces, its frocks and its diamonds, its piles of sparkling gold, and the cry of the banker as he twirled the wheel. How could they be doing this with that bloodstained patch on the cliff edge, with that unknown horror slinking through the snow—how could they be doing this if they were not acting a part! An odd figure I must have looked, if there had been any one to notice me. But they were too eager in the game to hear the opening of the door, or to see who went and came. I walked over to the fireplace, lit a cigarette, and watched them, my nerves growing steadier in the merry chatter of tongues. They were all there, the men and women of that careless house-party, all there—save one who lay silent wherever they had laid him.
Half an hour had slipped by, until, at last, with an effort, I walked to the table and threw down two sovereigns on the red.
It won, and I laughed at the melancholy omen; not, perhaps, without an odd note in my voice, for the man over whose shoulder I leaned to gather my winnings glanced up with a startled expression. It was young Terry, the secretary; the very person I wanted to see.
“Anything the matter, Mr. Phillips?” he asked. “You're not looking very well.”
“Don't worry about me,” I told him. “But I want a word with you in private.”
“Certainly—just one moment.”
He had been winning heavily, and it took him some time to crowd the banknotes into his pockets. A sovereign slipped from his fingers and rolled under the table as he rose; but ho paid no attention to it.
“I have something to tell you. Can you come up to my room?” I asked him.
He hesitated, looking regretfully at the table, where Fortune had been so kind to him.
“It happens to be rather important,” I said.
He followed me without another word. I did not attempt to explain until we had passed up the stairs and through the corridors to my room. He seated himself on the great bed with a shiver of cold, drawing the heavy curtains about his shoulders. And there I told him the story from the beginning to the end, hiding nothing, not even my belief in the supernatural nature of the thing which I had seen.
He never moved, but his face grew so pale and drawn that towards the end it seemed as if it were a powdered mask that stared at me from the shadows of the curtains.
“My God,” he cried, and fell back upon the bed in a passion of hysterical tears.
I tried to help him, but he thrust me fiercely away, so I thought it best to let him got over it himself. He was still lying on the thick quilt, sobbing and shivering, when the door opened and Peace stepped into the room. I explained the situation in a hurried whisper; but when I turned again Terry had got to his feet and was watching us, clinging to the bed-post.
“This is Inspector Addington Peace,” I told him. “Perhaps you can give him some information?”
“Not to-night,” he cried, “don't ask me to-night, gentlemen. You cannot tell what this means to me; to-morrow, perhaps——”
He dropped down upon the bed, covering his face with his hands. He seemed a helpless sort of creature, and my heart went out to him in his calamity.
“A night's rest is what you want,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “Come, let me give you an arm.”
He took it at once, with a grateful glance, and I led him down the corridor, with Peace in sympathetic attendance. Fortunately, his room was in the same wing, so we had not far to go. When we reached it, he thanked us for our care of him. And so we left him, returning to my bedroom in silence, for, indeed, the scene had been a painful one.
“Peace,” I said, when the door had closed behind us, “what was the thing I saw in the yew walk?”
He had seated himself in an easy-chair, and was polishing the bowl of a well-stained meerschaum pipe, with a silk pocket-handkerchief.
“I think you already have an explanation,” he answered cheerfully.
“If it amuses you to sneer at my superstition——”
“You refer to the legend of the de Laune's. I have heard the story before, Mr. Phillips; nor am I surprised that you believed it to be the ghost wolf.”
“I did—but now I want you to disprove it.”
“On the contrary, all my evidence supports your theory.”
I stared at him, with a creeping horror in my blood. I was beginning to be afraid—seriously afraid. Peace leant back in his chair, with his eyes, vacant in expression, fixed on the wall. He seemed rather to be arguing with himself than addressing a listener.
“Baron Steen,” he said, “met with his death on an open path between a shallow duck-pond and a little pavilion. He had fought hard for life, had rolled and struggled with his enemy. There were four or five punctured wounds in his throat and neck, from which he had bled profusely. And now for the thing that killed him—whatever it was. It could not have fled down the cliff path, for the boat's crew waiting below had heard the screams, and had come running up by that way. They were with him when we arrived, and assured me they had seen nothing. It could not have turned to the right or left, for, though the paths had been swept clean—doubtless by the baron's orders, for he would not desire his way of escape to be easily traced—the snow on either side lay in unbroken levels. It could only have retired by the yew avenue, and it did not break through the hedge. That, again, the snow proved clearly. So, we may take it, that whatever the thing may have been which you saw—it killed Baron Steen; further, it escaped into the house—this, you will remember, we decided in the garden. Let us imagine it was a man—that you were deceived by the uncertain light. His clothes must of necessity have been drenched in blood. He could not have struggled so fiercely with his victim and escaped those fatal signs. Yet, he cannot have burned his clothes, for the fires are downstairs where people were passing. Nor can he have washed them, for neither the bath-rooms nor the bedroom basins have been recently used. I have spent some time in searching boxes and wardrobes with no result. Stranger still, as far as my limited information goes, every one in the house can prove an alibi—save two.”
“And who are they?” I asked eagerly.
“Mr. Henderson, the baron's valet—and yourself.”
“Inspector Peace——” I began angrily.
“Tut, tut, my dear Mr. Phillips. I was merely stating the facts. Mr. Henderson's case, however, presents an interesting feature, for he has run away.”
“Run away,” I said. “Then that settles it.”
“Not altogether, I'm afraid. I think it is more a matter of theft than murder with Mr. Henderson.”
I stared at him in silence as he sat there, with his little hands clasped upon his lap, a picture of irritating composure.
“Peace,” I said, struggling to control my voice. “What are you hiding from me? It is something inhuman, unnatural that has done this dreadful thing.”
The little detective stretched himself, yawned, and then rose to his feet.
“I have no opinion except that I think you had better get to bed. Don't lock your door, for I may find time for an hour's sleep on your sofa before morning.”
The news was out after breakfast—the news that led to mild hysterics and scurrying lady's-maids to the packing of boxes, and the chastened sorrow of those gentlemen who owed the baron money. Through all the turmoil of the morning moved the little detective, the most sympathetic of men. It was he who apologized so humbly for the locked doors of the bath-rooms; he who superintended the lighting of fires, and the making of the beds, and the packing of trunks for the station so closely that the housemaids were convinced that he entertained a secret passion for each one of them; it was he who announced Henderson's robbery of the gold plate, following it by information as to the culprit's arrest. The establishment had by this time become convinced that Henderson was the murderer, and breathed relief at the news.
They had brought the body of Baron Steen to the house early in the morning—it had been laid in the garden pavilion on its first discovery.
With death in so strange a form present amongst us, I was disgusted by the noise and bustle, the gossip and chatter amongst the guests of the dead man. I wandered off in search of the one person who had seemed sincerely affected by the news, the young secretary, Maurice Terry. He was nowhere to be found. A servant of whom I inquired told me that the secretary had kept to his bed, being greatly unnerved by the tragedy, and I strolled up the stairs again on an errand of consolation. The door was locked, and there came no answer to my continued tapping.
“Terry,” I called through the keyhole. “It is I, Phillips; won't you let me in?”
“I have a key that will fit, if you will kindly stand aside,” suggested a modest voice.
I rose from my knees to find the inspector at my elbow.
“It would be a gross intrusion,” I told him. “If he wishes to be alone with his sorrow, we have no right to disturb him.”
“He is seriously ill.”
“How did you discover that?”
“By borrowing a gardener's ladder and looking through his window. He is unconscious, or was ten minutes ago.”
A skilful twist or two with a bit of wire and the key was pushed from the lock. The duplicate opened the door. Peace walked into the room, and I followed at his heels.
On his bed, fully dressed, lay poor Terry, with a face paler than his pillows. His breath came and went in short, painful gasps. One hand strayed continuously about his throat, groping and plucking at his collar with feverish unrest. It was a very painful spectacle.
“I will send for a doctor at once,” I whispered, stepping to the bell. But Peace held up a warning hand.
“Come here,” he said, “I have something to show you.”
With movements as tender as a woman's he unfastened the man's collar and slipped out the stud. Then he paused. The eyes that watched me had turned cold and hard.
“If it is as I suspect, you may be called as a witness. Do you object?”
“Yes; but I shall not leave you on that account.”
“Very well,” he said, as he opened the shirt and the vest beneath it.
Smeared and patched in dark etching upon the white skin was a broad stain of blood, of dried and clotted blood, the life's blood of a man.
“He is wounded, Peace,” I cried. “Poor fellow, he must have nearly bled to death.”
“Do not alarm yourself,” said the inspector, drily. “It is the blood of Baron Steen.”
A week had gone by, and I was sitting alone in my Keble Street rooms, when Peace walked in, with a heavy travelling-coat over his arm.
“Thank Heaven, you have come at last,” I cried. “How is Maurice Terry?”
“Dead—poor fellow,” he said, with an honest sorrow in his voice. “Yet, after all, Mr. Phillips, it was the best that could have happened to him.”
“And his story—the causes—the method?” I demanded.
“It has taken some hard work, but the bits of the puzzle are fitted together at last. You wish to hear it, I suppose?”
“According to your promise,” I reminded him.
“It is a case of unusual interest,” he said. “Though it bears a certain similarity to the Gottstein trial at Kiel in '89.”
He paused to light his big pipe, and then sat back in his chair, with his eyes fixed in abstract contemplation.
“I was convinced that the murderer was in the house; and that he had entered by the side door, towards which you had seen him pass. When studying the spot I made a discovery of some importance. Steen had left by the same exit. Also he had reason to fear some person in that wing, for he had turned from the path and made a circuit over the grass. I had already noted his broad-toed boots when examining his body—and the footprints in the snow were unmistakable. Who was his enemy in that wing? It was a problem to be solved.
“I discovered no stained clothing, and no signs of its cleansing or destruction. From what information I could gather, all the house party had been in the roulette-room save you yourself; and all the servants had been at the dance save Henderson and a man waiting on the guests. But in the course of my search the footman who accompanied me discovered that a quantity of gold plate was missing. It was reasonable to imagine that Henderson was the thief. Probably the confidential valet had learnt of the Baron's projected flight and of the warrant for his arrest. It was a moment for judicious robbery, the traces of which would be covered by the confusion of the news. But was Henderson also a murderer? I did not think so. The death of his master was the one thing which would wreck his scheme. In the early morning I interviewed the farmer on whose cart he had driven into Norbridge. He told me that, acting on orders he had received from Henderson, he met that person at the corner of the stables at eleven o'clock precisely—five minutes before the murder occurred. That finally eliminated the valet from the list.
“On my return from the farm I examined the gardens again with great minuteness. At the corner of the little pavilion, about fifteen feet from where the body had lain, there was a patch of bloody snow. This puzzled me a good deal, until the solution offered itself that the murderer had tried to wash his hands in the snow, the water of the pond being frozen hard. Yet his clothing would also bear the stain. What had he worn that showed so white to you in the starlight? Could it have been that he wore no clothes at all?
“A naked man! The suggestion was full of possibilities.
“It was fortunate that I had brought assistants to help me in Steen's capture. Their presence gave me a wider scope, for they were both good men. I left them to search the pavilion and laurels for the clothing, which the murderer might have concealed when he realized how fatal was its evidence. As I walked back to the house I began to understand the situation more clearly. The main drive, curving down the slope of the park, was in view of a tall man coming up by the yew walk. The murderer might have noticed our approach. What more natural than that he should have bent double as he ran, thus obtaining the cover of the left-hand hedge, which was not more than four to five feet high? Did not this answer to your description of the thing you had seen? It would have been cold work for him. I made a note to be on the look-out for chills.
“For a couple of hours I devoted myself to speeding those guests who caught the eleven-thirty train. I do not think a trunk left for the station of which I have not a complete inventory. Indeed, the baron's creditors have to thank me for the return of several trifles of value, which were included, accidentally, no doubt, in the ladies' dressing-bags.
“After the carriages had started I went in search of Terry, and discovered that he had not left his room. Equally to the point, his windows looked down upon the spot where the baron made his détour over the grass while escaping. I became interested in this young man. The score was creeping up against him. A ladder from an obliging gardener allowed me to observe him from the window. A visit to the housekeeper gave me a duplicate key to his door. What happened in the room you know, Mr. Phillips.”
“But, the motive—why did he kill his patron?” I asked him eagerly.
“I doubt if we shall ever learn the truth on that point,” he said. “As far as I can make out, Steen was directly responsible for the ruin and disgrace of Terry's father. Probably the son did not fully realize this when the baron, with a pity most unusual in the man, gave him the secretaryship. But of all participation in the flight he was certainly innocent, for he was in bed at the time.”
“In bed!” I cried.
“Don't interrupt, if you please. What happened I take to be as follows:—Terry was in bed when the old man tried to creep past his window. Somehow he heard him, and, looking out, understood what was up. Perhaps that rascal Henderson had told him the truth about his father; perhaps Steen had promised him compensation—he had a mother and sister dependent on him—which promise the financier meant to avoid, along with many more serious obligations, by running away. At any rate, passion, revenge, the sense of injustice—call it what you like—took hold of the lad. He caught up the first handy weapon; it chanced to be a dagger paper-knife—dangerous things, I hate them—and rushed down a back staircase and through the side door in pursuit of his enemy.
“When that had happened, which happened, the fear that comes to all amateurs in crime took him by the throat. He wiped his hands in the snow; he tore off his sleeping suit—that is how I know he had been in bed—and thrust it, with its terrible evidences of murder, into the thatch of the little pavilion. We found it there a day later. Then he started back to the house as naked as a baby.
“He saw us running down the hill, and made for the side door, bending double behind the hedge. Who were we? Had we noticed him? Believe me, Mr. Phillips, whether he had held the murder righteous or no, it was only the rope he saw dangling before him. Might not the alarm be given at any moment? He dared not wash himself, and the stains had dried upon him. He hurried on his clothes, shivering in the chill that had struck home, and so to the safest place he could find—the roulette-table.”
“It is well that he died,” I said simply.
“It saved the law some trouble,” remarked the inspector, with a grim little nod at the wall.