Chapter I

The wind swept down the crooked main street of the little village of Keys with a shriek that made those fortunate inhabitants who had nothing to tempt them from their warm firesides draw their chairs closer and speculate as to the number of trees that would be found blown down on the morrow.

All through the month of March it had rained, almost without ceasing, and now, in the fourth week, the north of England had been visited by an icy gale which had already lasted two days and showed no signs of abating. The lanes, that for weeks had been knee-deep in mud, had dried with almost miraculous swiftness and the more frugal of the cottagers had gleaned a fine store of wood from the branches with which they were strewn. To-night they were thankful to sit indoors and enjoy the fruits of their industry.

The gale swept on its devastating way across the open meadow-land that surrounded Keys, increasing every moment in violence and causing the timbers of the small farmhouse which stood at the end of a blind lane about a mile from the village to creak and groan under its terrific onslaught.

The front door of the house stood open and, with each gust of wind, it swung with a heavy thud against the inside wall of the dark passage, but no one came to close it and there was no light at any of the windows of the apparently deserted house.

Once the gale dropped for a moment and the monotonous barking of a dog in a distant farmhouse could be heard; beyond this there was no sound but the renewed, long-drawn howl of the wind, the protesting creak of the trees as the heavy branches were swept across each other, and the dull thud of the swinging door.

The sun had set and it was already dark when the first sound of footsteps was heard in the lane. The walker approached quickly, with an odd, shuffling tread that became almost noiseless as he neared the house. Arrived at the gate which led into the little front garden, he paused for a moment, then, without opening it, slid away like a shadow in the direction of the barn that stood on the other side of the farmyard. Whatever his business may have been there he made no sound, and for nearly an hour after he had passed the farmhouse stood silent and deserted and the open door continued to swing monotonously on its hinges.

Then a second shadow loomed out of the darkness of the lane. This time there was the click of the latch as the newcomer opened the gate and went quickly up the path to the front door. Here he paused with a sharp exclamation of surprise, then passed on into the hallway beyond. There was the scratch and flare of a match, followed by a steadier glow as he lit an oil-lamp that stood by the door. Carrying the lamp, he went first to the front door and examined the latch to see that it was undamaged before closing it. Then he passed on into the little kitchen at the back of the house, placed the lamp on the table, and was about to put a light to the fire when he discovered that his matches had run out. He had used the last one to light the lamp.

With an exclamation of annoyance he picked up the lamp once more and made his way to the sitting-room, one of the two rooms that lay right and left of the front door. He moved quickly, his mind intent on the food and warmth he needed badly, for he had walked a long way in the bitter wind and was feeling both hungry and tired. Dazzled by the glare of the lamp in his eyes, he was already well inside the door of the sitting-room when he saw the thing that pulled him up with a jerk as sharp as though some one had laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.

He stood arrested, holding the lamp at such an angle that it smoked violently. But the black fumes drifted past his nose unheeded.

For the room which he had thought untenanted save for himself held yet another occupant.

Seated at the writing-table facing the door, her arms outflung across it and her head pillowed on the open blotter between them, was a woman.

From where he stood he could see only the top of her head, a tangle of fair curls that gleamed yellow as spun gold in the lamplight, and the rich fur collar of the coat in which she was wrapped. He could see her hands, too, and the sparkle of her rings. There was something about those hands, with their strangely crisped fingers, as though they had been arrested in the very act of closing, that somehow gave the lie to the woman’s attitude of sleep.

But it was not her hands or the beauty of her hair that held the eyes of the man at the door. They were glued to the open blotter and the stain which had spread across it, a stain which had already stiffened the fair curls that lay so still upon the once white paper into hard little rings and which was even now fading from its first bright scarlet into a dull rust.

He stood motionless, oblivious of the acrid odour of the smoking lamp, then, with an effort, pulled himself together and crossed the room. Placing the light on the mantelpiece, he bent over the woman and laid his hand gently on hers; but he knew, even before he touched her, that she was beyond all human aid. Raising the thick fair hair at the side of her head he revealed a wound in the temple from which the blood had already ceased to flow.

As he straightened himself after his brief examination, his eyes went instinctively to the window; but he was not quick enough.

Had he been a second earlier he would have seen the white face of a man, pressed against the glass outside, taking in every detail of the room and its grim occupant. As he was in the very act of raising his head the watcher ducked below the sill of the window and when, a few minutes later, he ran out of the front door, after a hurried search through the house, there was no one either in the barn or any of the outhouses.

The unseen watcher at the window had vanished like a shadow into the darkness of the night.

Chapter II

Police Constable George Gunnet bent down with a grunt of satisfaction and slowly unlaced his second boot. He was not a quick mover at the best of times and the pleasant kitchen, with its glowing fire and appetizing aroma of toasted cheese, was conducive to drowsiness. He had just come in from his last round and, to one fresh from the wild night outside, the kitchen was a haven of peace and comfort. His tunic hung over the back of a chair and he sat, very much at ease, in his shirt-sleeves, waiting for Mrs. Gunnet to finish her bustling preparations for the supper he felt he had more than earned.

“Nobody been, I suppose?” he asked, according to custom, as he filled his pipe.

“Who should have been?” his wife countered tartly. Mrs. Gunnet had once, some twenty years ago, been in service in Glasgow and, as she often said, never could get used to a dead-alive little place like Keys. “Nothing ever happens here, as I’m aware of.” Gunnet stretched his legs luxuriously towards the warm glow of the fire.

“There’s quite enough happening for me, if it’s all the same to you,” he said comfortably. “There’s a big elm down in Fanning’s meadow and there’ll be more before morning if this goes on. All I could do to stand up against the wind at the Four Corners and it fair blew me home. Oye, shut the door, can’t you?” He made a grab at the newspaper as, in the path of the wind, it leaped from the table and scudded across the room into a corner. It was followed by a half-empty packet of tobacco which he was too late to save.

“Here, will you shut that door!” he shouted, his head half under the table. Then, emerging and catching sight of the visitor: “Beg your pardon, Mr. Leslie; I didn’t see as it was you. What with that outer door opening straight onto this room like, the wind comes in something cruel.”

But Mrs. Gunnet’s sharp eyes had already detected something unusual in the caller’s bearing.

“There’s nothing wrong, is there, sir?” she broke in. “Was you coming after George?”

The newcomer nodded. He was panting with the haste in which he had come and his face had a queer, grey look underneath the natural tan of an open-air man. When he spoke it was in a hard, dry voice, carefully devoid of all emotion, as if he were afraid that, at any moment, it might get beyond his control.

“I say, Gunnet, I want you up at the farm. Something’s happened.”

He stopped, apparently not wishing to go further before Mrs. Gunnet, who was gazing at him, her round eyes wide with curiosity.

Gunnet got slowly to his feet.

“Anything wrong, Mr. Leslie?” he asked. “It’s a wild night, for certain, but if I’m really needed . . .”

Leslie gave a high-pitched laugh that ended in a crow. It was evident that he was keeping himself in hand with difficulty.

“Needed, man!” He pulled himself up once more. “I’m sorry, Gunnet, but I’m afraid I shall have to haul you away from your supper. I won’t keep him longer than I can help, Mrs. Gunnet,” he went on as his eye fell on the meal she had been just about to dish up.

Gunnet heaved himself reluctantly into his tunic and buttoned it, his eyes on the troubled face of his visitor.

“Look here, sir,” he said weightily. “I’d better know what it’s all about. You can talk in front of the missus, here. She knows when to keep a still tongue in her head.”

Leslie gripped the back of the chair behind which he was standing. His throat seemed to have grown suddenly dry.

“There’s a woman up at the farm, in my sitting-room,” he said, his voice unnaturally quiet. “And she’s dead.”

Gunnet stared at him for a moment in silence, then, with an assumption of officialdom that contrasted almost comically with his usual bluff good-humour, pulled out his notebook.

“A woman? Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Never seen her before, to my knowledge. I found her when I got back this evening.”

Gunnet unhooked his great-coat and got slowly into it.

“Better keep the rest till we get there. And don’t you get talking, Mother,” he added gruffly as he went out.

“There ain’t nobody to talk to except the cat,” retorted Mrs. Gunnet, “and she don’t answer.”

She had no cause, however, to complain of the village of Keys that night. Even in Glasgow she had never spent an evening more replete with variety. Gunnet’s return, and almost immediate departure, an hour later, was followed by the arrival of the Sergeant and a Constable from Whitbury, the market-town to which Gunnet had telephoned. To Mrs. Gunnet was left the important task of directing them to John Leslie’s farm and she would have given a great deal to have gone with them.

Gunnet opened the door to them when they arrived at the farm. John Leslie was standing just behind him and did not miss the sharp, appraising glance bestowed on himself by the Sergeant as he came in.

“Have you got the doctor?” was his first question.

“Couldn’t get him, sir,” Gunnet answered. “He was out when I telephoned, but I left word for him to come up the instant he returned to inspect the deceased.”

Overshadowed as his spirits were by the whole unpleasant affair, Leslie could not resist an internal chuckle at this new aspect of Gunnet. The easy-going, rather garrulous villager had already draped himself in the majesty of the Law and was expressing himself accordingly.

Gunnet led the way into the sitting-room. Leslie had placed the lamp on the mantelpiece before making his hasty expedition to the police station and it still burned there, lighting up the writing-table with its tragic burden.

The Sergeant bent down and felt the cold cheek of the woman who lay across it. Then he lifted her eyelid and looked under the soft, bobbed hair that fell round her face.

“Dead, all right,” he said. “She’s just as you found her?”

Leslie stepped forward into the ring of light.

“I didn’t touch her, except to feel her face, just as you did. I knew then that she was dead.”

He could hear the scratching of the Constable’s pencil as he made his notes.

“You’re sure she was dead then?”

“I don’t think there was the faintest doubt. If I’d had the smallest suspicion she was alive I should have tried to do something for her, but I was so sure she was dead that I went straight for Gunnet. The blood on the blotter was almost dry then.”

“What time was this, Mr. Leslie?”

“Just about eight. The clock in the kitchen struck while I was in here.”

The Sergeant, a tall, lean man with a shrewd, typical North-country face, scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“You live here alone, I think?” he asked.

Leslie nodded.

“Mrs. Grey, the carter’s wife, does for me. She comes in the morning and leaves about two.”

“So that when you are out the house is deserted?”

“Absolutely, unless Grey is about in the yard. He was up at the station fetching some stuff this evening and didn’t get back till about nine. Gunnet was here then.”

“Could any one get in easily?”

“Quite. There is nothing here to steal. It’s only occasionally, when there’s money in the house, that I lock the front door.”

The Sergeant was about to speak again when Leslie interrupted him.

“I’ve just remembered. I forgot it till just now. The door was wide open when I came in. I’ve never found it like that before.”

“It was unlocked when you went out?”

“Yes, but it was latched. I always shut it. It’s a good latch, too.”

“Were you about the premises at all this afternoon, Mr. Leslie?”

So far, except for the Constable and his busy pencil in the background, the interrogation had been more or less friendly and informal. Now there was an official ring in the Sergeant’s voice that made Leslie look carefully to his answer.

“I went out about four this afternoon and did not get back till just before eight.”

“You weren’t near enough at any time during the evening to have heard a shot? This is a shooting case, you know.”

Leslie shook his head.

“I went for a long tramp across country. Unless it was done just after four or just before eight I couldn’t have heard anything.”

“An unusual time at which to take a walk, Mr. Leslie.”

The Sergeant’s voice was noncommittal, but Leslie felt himself flush.

“I was too busy to go before and I needed exercise,” he said shortly.

“You can account for your time, I suppose? I must ask you to think carefully . . .”

Leslie broke in on him. His nerves had already been badly jarred by the events of the evening and the man’s manner was beginning to annoy him.

“Good Heavens, man, you’re not going to tell me that anything I may say may be used against me? You’re welcome to what I can tell you, but it isn’t much. I never saw this lady before in my life till I came in at eight and found her in my room. How she got here I’ve no idea. You surely don’t think I’ve murdered her!”

But the Sergeant refused to be drawn.

“All the same, we should like to know where you were during the evening and whether you spoke to any one who could identify you during that time.”

“Who was I likely to speak to? I tell you I went on a long, cross-country tramp. I don’t suppose I met a soul, certainly not any one who could identify me.”

“Four hours is a long time. You were walking all the time?”

“Yes.”

Leslie spoke curtly. He was tired and the whole thing was beginning to get on his nerves.

“Then, if that’s all you can tell me, Mr. Leslie, I’ll take a look round here. If you’ll step into another room . . .”

Leslie opened his mouth as though about to say something, and then, apparently, thought better of it.

“You’ll find me in the kitchen if you want me,” he volunteered as he went out. “There’s some coffee on the stove for any one who would like it.”

The Sergeant looked after him thoughtfully, then strolled to the door.

“I should be obliged if you wouldn’t leave the house just at present,” he called after him.

Leslie suddenly lost his temper.

“My good fellow, I’m not going to run away!” he exploded.

Once in the little kitchen he sank into a chair by the stove and ran his fingers through his hair. He was abominably tired, too tired to think properly, but it was beginning to strike him that he was in a tighter place than he had realized. He had been a fool to lose his temper like that. After all, the chap couldn’t be blamed for feeling a bit suspicious.

With a long sigh, he dropped his head into his hands and tried to view the situation calmly. But the thoughts went chasing round in a futile circle in his tired brain, and at last, in despair, he gave it up and straightened himself. If only the police would hurry up and get through with the job!

He reached for the coffee-pot and poured himself out a big cup of black coffee.

“Damn!” he said with heartfelt emphasis. “Oh, damn!”

Meanwhile the Sergeant was pursuing his investigations. With the help of Gunnet and the man he had brought with him he raised the body from the table and laid it on the floor. As the head fell back against his shoulder Gunnet gave vent to an exclamation.

“It’s her from Miss Allen’s! Her sister, I think she is. I see her in the village this morning!”

“Miss Allen of Greycross?”

“That’s right. Been here a matter of five years now. I heard tell somewhere that she was expecting her sister, and this lady come yesterday. A Mrs. Something, I think she is. The wife’d know. She’s a rare one for picking up news, she is.”

The Sergeant was examining the wound that was hidden under the thick, fair hair.

“It’s a bullet-wound, all right, and fired at fairly close range. Any sign of a weapon anywhere?”

But there was no trace of the weapon by which the unfortunate woman had met her death. The little room seemed unnaturally tidy and normal for the scene of so grim a tragedy; an ordinary man’s room, giving no sign of any struggle; the only feminine note in it being the still figure on the ground and a brocade bag which, with the ominous, suggestive stain on the blotter, supplied the only touch of colour on the dark wood of the writing-table. The Sergeant opened the bag. A small powder-puff, a cigarette-case and holder, a stick of lip-salve, a tiny gold purse with a few shillings in it, and a lace handkerchief, were all it contained. The handkerchief bore an embroidered monogram in the corner. “R. D.” or “D. R.” were the letters, but, as Gunnet was unable to remember the name of Miss Allen’s guest, this was of little use for purposes of identification.

The contents of the bag were costly and the woman’s clothes in keeping with them. She was expensively dressed in a long fur coat which fell open as they moved her and revealed a fawn-coloured georgette dress, heavily trimmed with sequins, underneath. As well as the rings on her fingers she wore a long chain of rhinestones and a gold watch-bracelet set with diamonds. Fine silk stockings and brown glace beaded shoes with very high heels covered her feet. To the soles of the shoes dried earth was clinging and a dead leaf was adhering to one of the heels.

“Doesn’t look much like robbery,” remarked Gunnet.

“She came here of her own accord, too, I should say. There is no sign of any struggle. Her clothes are as tidy as when she left home.” The Sergeant stood looking down at the calm face upturned to his. “She was a beauty, poor thing, and no mistake,” he added gently. “It must have been sudden, the end. She never knew what was coming to her. Look at her face.”

It was true. Except for the smear of dried blood down one side of the cheek, and its ghastly pallor, there was nothing to suggest that she was not quietly sleeping. The still lips even held a faint smile and it was evident that death had come swiftly and mercifully.