Man with the Dark Beard (26 page)

Hilary shuddered. “I wish I was dead. I wish I had died when I was ill. Now – now – I am young, I suppose I shall live for years and years and never forget – anything.” Her lips quivered and two tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.

There was a great pity in Wilton's eyes as he watched her. Presently he said in a voice that not his best efforts could steady:

“Hilary, let me teach you to forget. I – I am going abroad. People have been very kind. I have got an appointment at a hospital in Kenya – I want to take you with me, Hilary.”

The girl shook her head.

“No, I am not going anywhere with anybody. I shall stay here – till the end.”

“The end!” Wilton repeated. “Darling, the end of all this unhappy business is going to be that you will marry me.”

“No, no! I am not going to marry anybody!” Hilary cowered down among her cushions, the terror in her eyes going to the heart of the man who loved her.

“Oh, Hilary dear!” he said, not offering to touch her again. “You are so young, all this dreadful time will – must pass into the mists eventually. No one remembers for ever.”

“I shall!” Hilary shivered. “Oh, Basil, if I could only forget!”

The use of his Christian name in some unexplainable way gave Wilton hope.

“You must let me teach you, dearest. Hilary, why did you promise to marry him – Skrine? Did he force you to it?”

“No – not exactly. I promised to marry him to save you.”

“To save me!” Basil echoed in amazement.

“Yes, yes!” Hilary said feverishly. “He wouldn't defend you unless I said I would marry him, and everybody said he was the only man to get you off; so I promised – and then – you wouldn't let him.”

“He wouldn't have got me off,” Basil said at once. “I always hated Skrine. It was more than jealousy in my heart. I suspected him all along. Oh, Hilary, the bitterest drop in my cup was the thought that you would belong to him –that you would be his wife.”

“It was all for your sake, Basil. I could not let you be – be –”

“Why not?” Basil Wilton inquired quietly.

“You say you will not marry me. Why should you mind if I was convicted?”

Once more the colour surged over Hilary's pale cheeks.

“I did not want you to be – be – hanged.”

“Plenty of people are,” Wilton said callously. “And you do not seem to take much notice. Why should you mind one more?”

“Oh, well!” She hesitated. “You are different, of course. I know you –”

“Is that all?” Basil smiled down at her. “Oh, Hilary, you little humbug!” He managed to get one arm round her and his lips just touched her soft, short hair.

“Oh, Hilary, Hilary dear,” he said brokenly, “it is happiness – it is worth it all to know that you are mine –that you never belonged to him, not for one day – one hour.”

“Basil, I would have died rather than marry Sir Felix.”

“But you will marry me?” Basil went on.

“Yes – perhaps,” she whispered brokenly. “Some day, Basil.”

THE END

Annie Haynes was born in 1865, the daughter of an ironmonger.

By the first decade of the twentieth century she lived in London and moved in literary and early feminist circles. Her first crime novel,
The Bungalow Mystery
, appeared in 1923, and another nine mysteries were published before her untimely death in 1929.

Who Killed Charmian Karslake?
appeared posthumously, and a further partially-finished work,
The Crystal Beads Murder
, was completed with the assistance of an unknown fellow writer, and published in 1930.

The Bungalow Mystery

The Abbey Court Murder

The Secret of Greylands

The Blue Diamond

The Witness on the Roof

The House in Charlton Crescent

The Crow's Inn Tragedy

The Master of the Priory

The Crime at Tattenham Corner

Who Killed Charmian Karslake?

The Crystal Beads Murder

The body lay face downwards in a foot of water at the bottom of the ditch. Up to the present it has not been identified. But a card was found in the pocket with the name of –

The grisly discovery was overshadowed in the public imagination by Derby Day, the most prestigious event in the English horse-racing calendar. But Peep o' Day, the popular favourite for the Derby and owned by the murdered man, won't run now. Under Derby rules, the death means automatic disqualification.

Did someone find an ingenious if ruthless way to stop the horse from competing? Or does the solution to the demise of Sir John Burslem lie away from the racetrack? The thoughtful Inspector Stoddart starts to investigate in a crowded field of sinister suspects and puzzling diversions.

The Crime at Tattenham Corner
was the second of the four Inspector Stoddart mysteries, first published in 1928. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

“We not only encounter thrilling surprises but are introduced to many admirably life-like characters. Miss Haynes is here at her best. Excellent as a detective tale, the book is also a charming novel.”
Spectator

The big clock outside struck 7.30. Early as it was, Inspector Stoddart was already in his room at Scotland Yard.

He looked up impatiently as his most trusted subordinate, Alfred Harbord, entered after a sharp preliminary tap.

“Yes, sir. You sent for me?”

The inspector nodded. “You are detailed for special duty at once. We are starting in the runabout immediately, so if you want to send a message ” He nodded at the telephone.

Harbord grinned. “My people are pretty well used to my irregular habits, thank you, sir.”

The inspector rose. “The sooner we are off the better, then.” He handed Harbord a typewritten paper. “Wired up,” he said laconically, “from the Downs.”

The corner of the paper had been torn off, evidently on purpose. Harbord read it over.

“Hughlin's Wood,” he repeated. “I seem to know the name. But I can't think where the place is.”

“Not a great many miles from Epsom,” the inspector said, as he locked his desk and dropped the keys into his pocket. “Centuries ago, Hughlin's Wood used to stretch all round and over that part of the Downs, but it has dwindled to a few trees near Hughlin's village. These trees go by the name of Hughlin's Wood still. I can tell you the rest as we go along.”

Harbord followed him in silence to the little two-seater in which the inspector was wont to dash about the country. He was an expert driver, but it needed all his attention to steer his car among the whirl of traffic over Westminster Bridge, passing Waterloo and Lambeth.

The inspector glanced at “The Horns” as they glided by it. “We will lunch there on the way back, Harbord.” 

He put on speed as they got on the Brixton Road and, passing Kennington Church, tore along through Streatham and Sydenham, and across country until they could feel the fresh air of the Downs in their faces. Then the inspector slackened speed and for the first time looked at his companion.

“What do you make of it?”

“What can I make of it?” Harbord fenced. “Except that you would not be going down unless there was more in the summons than meets the eye.”

Stoddart nodded.

“The body was found face downwards in the stagnant water of a ditch, but the cause of death was a bullet wound in the head. The man had been thrown into the ditch almost immediately after death. In the pocket have been found a card and a couple of envelopes bearing the name of a man high in the financial world. The markings on the linen, etc., correspond. I know this man fairly well by sight. Therefore I am going down to see whether I can identify the remains. See those Downs –”

Harbord looked where he pointed at the vast, billowy expanse around them, then he looked back inquiringly.

“Yes, sir.”

Stoddart waved his hand to the north side. “Over there lie Matt Harker's stables. He has turned out more winners of the classics than any other trainer. His gees get their morning gallops over the Downs.” 

Harbord's expression changed. “And you connect this dead man at Hughlin's Wood with Harker's stables?”

Stoddart looked at him. “I will tell you that in an hour or so.”

As he spoke he turned the car rapidly to the right, and dashing down the road, which was little more than a track, they found themselves at Hughlin's Wood, with Hughlin's village in the immediate foreground.

Harbord thought he had seldom seen a more desolate looking spot, or a more appropriate setting for the crime they had come to investigate. A few stark, upstanding pines, growing in rough, stubbly grass, were all that was left of the once mighty wood; a long, straggly hedge ran between them and the road that led to Hughlin's village. It stood in a cleft in the hill which ran along to the bottom of the Downs. There was a curious cone-like hill just above the Wood. Harbord learned later that it went by the name of Hughlin's Tomb, and was supposed to contain the remains of a giant named Hughlin, from whom the wood derived its name. On the opposite side of the road was some barren pasture-land, and a little back from the track stood a small hut or barn.

By the Wood apparently the whole of the little population of Hughlin's village was gathered. A policeman was keeping every one back from the ditch.

The crowd scattered as the car came in sight. Stoddart slowed down and he and Harbord sprang out. 

Inside the space which was being kept free two men were standing. One was easily recognized by his uniform as a superintendent of police. The other, a tall, clean-shaven man of military appearance, Harbord identified as Major Vincent, the chief constable of the county.

Major Vincent came to meet them. “Glad to see you, Inspector Stoddart. I hardly hoped that you could be here so soon.”

Stoddart jerked his head at his run-about. “She is a tidy sort of little bus, sir. This is a terrible job!”

“It is,” Major Vincent assented. “This is where the body was found – was flung, I should say – just over here.”

The inspector walked forward and glanced down into the rather deep ditch. Long grasses fringed the edges, broken down and trampled upon now; the bottom was full of evil-smelling water.

Stoddart's quick, glancing eyes looked round. “Anything found here?”

The superintendent answered :

“Not so far, but we have made no very vigorous search. We waited till you came.”

Stoddart nodded. “Quite right. The body?”

“Over there.” The superintendent pointed to the barn in the field opposite. “Temporary mortuary,” he explained. “The inquest will be opened tomorrow at the Crown Inn down in the village. In the meantime –” 

“The body is here, I understand,” the inspector finished. “We will have a look at that first, please, sir.”

He made an imperceptible sign to Harbord as he glanced at Major Vincent.

“Any more evidence as to identity?” he questioned, as they walked across the rough grass together.

Major Vincent shook his head. “You will be able to help us about that, I understand, inspector.”

“I may be able to. I ought to be if your suspicions are well founded,” the inspector answered. “You rang up the house, of course.”

“Of course! Answer, ‘Not at home.' Said then we were afraid Sir John had met with an accident. His valet is coming down, should be here any minute now.”

“Good!” the inspector said approvingly.

The Major opened the door of the barn. “I will stop out here, and have a cigarette, if you don't mind,” he said apologetically. “I have been in two or three times already and it has pretty well done for me. It is a ghastly sight.”

Stoddart's glance spoke his comprehension as he went inside; the doctor and the superintendent followed with Harbord.

Inside was, as Major Vincent had said, “a ghastly sight.” The light was dim, little filtering through, except what came from the open door. The place was evidently used for cattle fodder. The floor was strewn with straw, trodden down and begrimed. The dead man lay on a hastily improvised stretcher of hurdles raised on a couple of others in the middle of the barn.

Stoddart and Harbord instinctively stepped forward softly. The superintendent took off the covering some kindly hand had laid over the distorted face. Then, used though they were to scenes of horror, both Stoddart and Harbord with difficulty repressed an exclamation, so terrible was the sight. A momentary glance was enough to show that the man had been shot through the lower part of the face. The head had lain in the water of the ditch for some time face downwards. It was swollen and livid and grazed, but was not impossible of recognition. Yet, as Stoddart gazed on the figure, still in evening-dress, over the strong-looking hands with their manicured almond nails that had made marks on the palms as they clenched in the death agony, a certain look that Harbord well knew came into the inspector's eyes. He held out his hand. “The card – ‘Sir John Burslem,'” he read aloud. He looked at the dead man's wrist-watch, turned it over and looked at the monogram, glanced at a letter that was peeping out of the pocket – “Sir John Burslem, 15 Porthwick Square.” The postmark was that of the previous morning.