The Second Shot (11 page)

This scene lasted perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. Then, still according to John’s regulations and to my own relief, a move was made at last in the direction of the house. This meant that Eric was no longer required by the game to enact the rôle of the corpse, though I had still to be at hand in case any of the detectives wished to question me further.

I must now be careful to write down very exactly what happened after we left the glade, for we now come to the point in the affair when individual testimony tends to become confusing – with, to me at any rate, possibly disastrous results. I have been given to understand, in the most brutal way, that my own account of the next five minutes cannot be relied on. I will, therefore, with what grace I can in such circumstances, endeavour to limit my account only to facts which can be corroborated elsewhere.

I told Eric that we were now about to depart, but beyond a final enormous humping of his body he took no notice. A reasonable explanation would be that he preferred not to walk up to the house with me, but would wait until we were all out of the way; that at any rate is the explanation I put forward. In any case, be that as it may, the four of us certainly did go on ahead: Bradley and Professor Johnson led the way, I stayed behind to give an arm if required to Mrs Fitzwilliam up the path. As I have said, the path here is very steep indeed and Mrs Fitzwilliam found the ascent correspondingly difficult. I advised her to take it easily, citing the well known habit of mountaineers who invariably slacken their pace considerably when going up even a mediocre rise. The consequence was that before we had gone many yards the two men in front of us were out of sight on the many windings of the path. On such small points, as the reader will see, a man’s life may perhaps depend.

We had gone perhaps fifty yards along the path, though its windings made our direct distance above the glade (hidden now by the intervening undergrowth) not more than a quarter of that figure, when I observed to Mrs Fitzwilliam that my shoelace was undone. I may say frankly at once that my shoelace was not undone at all; my remark was a subterfuge. Mrs Fitzwilliam was much out of breath. In any case the result was that she was able to sit down for a moment on the bank at the side of the path while I stooped down a few paces away in pretence of doing up my lace. While I was thus engaged we both heard the unmistakable sound of a shot somewhere in the woods below, and quite near.

I do not think that I betrayed much interest. Shots were common enough in that neighbourhood.

Mrs Fitzwilliam, however, seemed startled. ‘What was that?’ she exclaimed.

I explained. ‘These woods are full of rabbits,’ I added reassuringly. ‘One hears stray shots at any time.’

‘But that sounded so close. Surely it might be dangerous?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said with a slight smile. ‘Sound is very deceptive in these woods. Besides, one does not fire without due precaution.’

I hate the idea of shooting rabbits; they look so horribly like babies when they’re skinned,’ sighed Mrs Fitzwilliam, with feminine irrelevance. ‘Do you shoot, Mr Pinkerton?’

‘No, I do not. My eyesight unfortunately renders it hardly possible.’ This was the excuse I invariably gave for not shooting, and it served me well enough; the truth is that I do not care for the idea of taking wild life in any form – a sentiment which would doubtless be heartily derided by ‘sportsmen’ of the Eric Scott-Davies type.

I observed that Mrs Fitzwilliam’s alarm was by no means allayed, and I therefore offered to go down again and endeavour to find and warn the marksman.

‘But it would be dangerous,’ she protested.

‘I think I could manage to face that amount of danger, Mrs Fitzwilliam,’ I smiled.

‘But he might mistake you for a rabbit.’

I looked at her sharply, but it was evident that she was alluding merely to the rustling in the undergrowth. ‘In any case I left some articles down there which I should be glad of an opportunity to retrieve,’ I was able to assure her, quite truthfully. ‘If you would wait here I shall not be more than a minute or two.’ And I hurried back along the path.

And now comes the crux.

As to what took place during the next few minutes I am in something of a quandary. The police quite patently disbelieve my own account of them. To give that account to the reader might smack of tainted evidence. I prefer, almost in self-defence, to keep within the close bounds indicated above and state only what is beyond dispute.

I had been down there, then, perhaps two minutes, perhaps three, pretending for Mrs Fitzwilliam’s benefit to be searching for the unknown firer and giving one or two hails, when I heard a second shot. It seemed to come from the farther side of the glade where the performance had taken place and to be much more distant than the last, though I could not be sure; as I had said, sound is extremely deceptive in these thick woods.

I will admit frankly that I was startled by this second shot. I would not go so far as to say that I was alarmed, but I did think, very decidedly, that the firer, whoever he was, should be discovered and headed off. In fact exactly what I had suggested in pretence now seemed to me of considerable importance. I therefore struck off at an angle, passed through the glade in question (Eric was no longer there), and called again in the direction whence I had imagined the shot to come. I called at least three times, but there was no answer; so after waiting perhaps half a minute longer, I retraced my steps, hastily picked up the odds and ends I had come down to retrieve, and made my way up the path again to the spot where I had left Mrs Fitzwilliam, I had been away from her altogether about six or seven minutes. (The reader will forgive the meticulous detail in which I have had to set down the most trivial incidents of this momentous afternoon; its importance will very shortly be only too obvious.)

Mrs Fitzwilliam was not there.

That in itself may not seem of high importance either, but I can assure the reader that it is; for after wavering for a moment in unusual indecision I did not follow her up along the path but went down again to the level of the stream. For one thing the rifle was, so far as I knew, still lying in the glade and it had occurred to me that John might not be best pleased if it were left on the grass like that, clue or no clue. In any case, down I went. And as ill luck would have it I did not go directly to the large glade but, prompted by an impulse which I had grave cause afterwards to regret, turned to the right instead of the left at the bottom of the path and entered a smaller clearing. This latter, I should explain, ran alongside of the larger one and was connected with it by a narrow path perhaps fifteen yards along. Like all paths in those woods it had two or three turns in it, so that an uninterrupted view from one open space to the other could not be obtained. Except for the path, dense thicket separated the two clearings. A similar track, but narrower and overgrown here and there by brambles, led from the foot of the path up the hill to another part of this small clearing, and it was along this that I went now. I might mention here that I had discovered this little glade myself only a few days ago and had been exquisitely delighted with it; from the state of the two tracks leading into it, it was plain that the place was hardly ever used except by cattle, and I had noted it as an ideal spot should I ever be seeking solitude.

At this particular moment, however, solitude was not the portion it had to offer me. I was not its only tenant. Lying sprawled on his face on the very path on which I stood was Eric Scott-Davies.

I stood stock still, staring at him. His position was unnatural, with one arm doubled awkwardly underneath him. The patch of red lead showed up plainly on his coat, but now it was without doubt larger. On the ground behind him something gleamed as a ray of sunshine, finding its way somehow through the leaves, struck directly upon it. It was a rifle barrel. The fellow was dead: I knew that.

What does an ordinary man – and whatever opinion the reader may have formed on me, I would not myself claim any other title – what does an ordinary man do when confronted suddenly with a dead body? Probably not one of the things he should. Probably something that he definitely should not. I know what I did the next minute. I turned on my heel and blundered (yes, positively blundered!) back the way I had come. What to do? I cannot say. But it was right into the arms of John Hillyard that I blundered at the end of the track.

He was just about to mount the path up the hillside, and greeted me ordinarily enough. ‘Hullo, Cyril, where in the world did you spring from? Well, we’d better be getting up and – Hullo, why, what’s the matter, man? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’

I know I had gone as white as a counterpane and that my knees were literally knocking together, but I put as good a face on it as I could. ‘Eric,’ I said, with what calmness I could muster. ‘In there. I’m afraid he’s dead.’

John gaped at me. ‘What? Where?’ But he was off down the track before I could answer.

I followed him.

He bent over Eric, touching him gingerly and feeling for his heart.

‘You’re right,’ he said abruptly as he straightened up again. ‘My God! We mustn’t touch him. It – Good God, look at the rifle. It’s – it’s the very scene, over again.’

‘I know,’ I nodded, and I have to confess that I could speak only with difficulty; my mouth had gone quite dry.

‘Good God!’ muttered John again, vacantly. ‘Poor chap. And – I say, look, Pinkerton, there’s a bit of bramble right across the trigger. Why, it’s incredible, after our whole idea
turned
on that very danger. He
can’t
have been such a perfect damned fool!’

I said nothing. We stared at the body.

‘Well – I suppose I must get on the telephone to the police,’ said John heavily at last. ‘And a doctor. But – good heavens, Cyril, I
can’t
believe it.’

Neither could I, though I did not find it so necessary to say so.

‘Better make a note of the time,’ John muttered, glancing at his watch. ‘3:45, exactly.’

We climbed the hill in silence.

The news brought by John and myself naturally threw the party into consternation. Not collectively, for everyone was not already at the house when we reached it; only Ethel, Mrs Fitzwilliam, Professor Johnson, and Bradley were there. Ethel, I learned, had remained alone in the drawing room ever since giving the mock alarm, the professor and Bradley had arrived shortly after passing out of the sight of Mrs Fitzwilliam and myself, and Mrs Fitzwilliam, who had followed my advice and taken the ascent very much more easily, just before ourselves.

The period of waiting for the doctor and the police was the most awkward I had ever experienced. Neither John nor I had offered the faintest hint that the tragedy was due to anything but accident, but without doubt the ominous word ‘murder’ was in everybody’s mind; I know that it certainly was in mine. To my fancy we had already begun to eye each other askance, as we sat, almost in silence, together in the drawing room. Was indeed one of our number a murderer – and if so, who? That was the terrible question which seemed to be looking out of everyone’s eyes.

The news was broken privately to the other members of the party, Miss Verity, the De Ravels, and Armorel, as they arrived in turn. Elsa, poor child, collapsed completely; Ethel took her up to her room, and we did not see her again that day. The others joined us in the drawing room: Armorel, very white and obviously shaken, but with dry eyes, perhaps ten minutes after our own arrival, and then the De Ravels together – Mrs de Ravel sweeping in with compressed lips and frowning brow like a tragedy queen fighting an overwhelming shock, dramatizing as usual for our benefit her perfectly genuine emotions. Indeed I am not sure that she was not actually (if unconsciously) enacting the rôle of murderess! I noticed that she did not sit next to her husband although he beckoned to her, but on the other side of the room; he carried the chair over which he had already taken for himself, and joined her there.

As for Armorel, she had made straight for the small settee where I was and sat down beside me, giving me a wavering smile as she did so; I pressed her hand in silence, and she clung to it as if desperately, holding it all the time we remained there. I can only hope it helped her; I know that it gave me a curious comfort during those most uneasy minutes. Even at such a time I was able to reflect what an astonishing person Armorel was, at one moment quite crushingly sophisticated, at another almost childlike. Were all young women like that? I wondered. No, for certainly Elsa Verity was not; she never darted from one extreme to the other. Yet was not variety the spice of feminine attraction? An odd thought. In what strange and uncontrolled ways one’s mind works.

But my thoughts could not stray for more than a few seconds from the situation that faced us all. As I looked round the silent circle it gave me a cynical interest to reflect that, out of the round half-dozen persons, apart from the servants, who would be left in the house when the novelists had gone, two had openly expressed to me their wish for Eric’s death and at least two more might be considered also to have an adequate motive for killing him – three more indeed, I thought still more cynically, if I included myself. If one is to believe the detective stories a person with a motive for murder is invariably innocent of the crime, and the larger the motive the more certain his innocence. On that basis most of the party were already ruled out from suspicion. Yet I could not believe that detective stories are always quite so true to life as they should be.

The tension in the drawing room was increased rather than diminished with the arrival of the police. We did not see them then. John met them at the door, and they went down at once to look at the body, with the doctor they had brought with them. Ethel came in to tell us that a message had been left that no one was to leave the house until the superintendent had seen us all.

Morton Harrogate Bradley whistled. ‘A superintendent, Mrs Hillyard, eh? How many men did he bring with him?’

‘Oh, I think three, besides Dr Samson,’ Ethel answered, a little distractedly. ‘Two constables in uniform, and another man in ordinary clothes.’