ERNEST BRAMAH Ultimate Collection: 20+ Novels & Short Stories in One Volume. Bramah Ernest

in it would be clearer to you than I could tell it. Shall I read it?”

      “Please; if that was your intention.”

      “It is The Stinbridge Herald,” explained the girl, taking a closely folded newspaper from the handbag which she carried. “Stinbridge is our nearest town—about six miles from Tilling Shaw, where we live. This is the account:

      “‘MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY AT TILLING

       “‘WELL-KNOWN AGRICULTURALIST ATTEMPTS MURDER AND COMMITS SUICIDE’

      “‘The districts of Great Tilling, Tilling Shaw and the immediate neighbourhood were thrown into a state of unusual excitement on Thursday last by the report of a tragedy in their midst such as has rarely marked the annals of our law-abiding country-side.

      “‘A Herald representative was early on the scene, and his inquiries elucidated the fact that it was only too true that in this case rumour had not exaggerated the circumstances, rather the reverse indeed.

      “‘On the afternoon of the day in question, Mr Frank Whitmarsh, of High Barn, presented himself at Barony, the residence of his uncle, Mr William Whitmarsh, with the intention of seeing him in reference to a dispute that was pending between them. This is understood to be connected with an alleged trespass in pursuit of game, each relative claiming exclusive sporting rights over a piece of water known as Hunstan Mere.

      “‘On this occasion the elder gentleman was not at home and Mr Frank Whitmarsh, after waiting for some time, departed, leaving a message to the effect that he would return, and, according to one report, “have it out with Uncle William,” later in the evening.

      “‘This resolution he unfortunately kept. Returning about eight-forty-five P.M. he found his uncle in and for some time the two men remained together in the dining-room. What actually passed between them has not yet transpired, but it is said that for half-an-hour there had been nothing to indicate to the other occupants of the house that anything unusual was in progress when suddenly two shots rang out in rapid succession. Mrs Lawrence, the housekeeper at Barony, and a servant were the soonest on the spot, and, conquering the natural terror that for a moment held them outside the now silent room, they summoned up courage to throw open the door and to enter. The first thing that met their eyes was the body of Mr Frank Whitmarsh lying on the floor almost at their feet. In their distressed state it was immediately assumed by the horrified women that he was dead, or at least seriously wounded, but a closer examination revealed the fact that the gentleman had experienced an almost miraculous escape. At the time of the tragedy he was wearing a large old-fashioned silver watch; and in this the bullet intended for his heart was found, literally embedded deep in the works. The second shot had, however, effected its purpose, for at the other side of the room, still seated at the table, was Mr William Whitmarsh, already quite dead, with a terrible wound in his head and the weapon, a large-bore revolver of obsolete pattern, lying at his feet.

      “‘Mr Frank Whitmarsh subsequently explained that the shock of the attack, and the dreadful appearance presented by his uncle when, immediately afterwards, he turned his hand against himself, must have caused him to faint.

      “‘Readers of The Herald will join in our expression of sympathy for all members of the Whitmarsh family, and in our congratulations to Mr Frank Whitmarsh on his providential escape.

      “‘The inquest is fixed for Monday and it is anticipated that the funeral will take place on the following day.’”

      “That is all,” concluded Miss George.

      “All that is in the paper,” amended Carrados.

      “It is the same everywhere—‘attempted murder and suicide’—that is what everyone accepts as a matter of course,” went on the girl quickly. “How do they know that my father tried to kill Frank, or that he killed himself? How can they know, Mr Carrados?”

      “Your father, Miss George?”

      “Yes. My name is Madeline Whitmarsh. At home everyone looks at me as if I was an object of mingled pity and reproach. I thought that they might know the name here, so I gave the first that came into my head. I think it is a street I was directed along. Besides, I don’t want it to be known that I came to see you in any case.”

      “Why?”

      Much of the girl’s conscious nervousness had stiffened into an attitude of unconscious hardness. Grief takes many forms, and whatever she had been before, the tragic episode had left Miss Whitmarsh a little hurt and cynical.

      “You are a man living in a town and can do as you like. I am a girl living in the country and have therefore to do largely as my neighbours like. For me to set up my opinion against popular feeling would constitute no small offence; to question its justice would be held to be adding outrageous insult to enormous injury.”

      “So far I am unable to go beyond the newspaper account. On the face of it, your father—with what provocation of course I do not know—did attempt this Mr Frank Whitmarsh’s life and then take his own. You imply another version. What reason have you?”

      “That is the terrible part of it,” exclaimed the girl, with rising distress. “It was that which made me so afraid of coming to you, although I felt that I must, for I dreaded that when you asked me for proofs and I could give you none you would refuse to help me. We were not even in time to hear him speak, and yet I know, know with absolute conviction, that my father would not have done this. There are things that you cannot explain, Mr Carrados, and—well, there is an end of it.”

      Her voice sank to an absent-minded whisper.

      “Everyone will condemn him now that he cannot defend himself, and yet he could not even have had the revolver that was found at his feet.”

      “What is that?” demanded Carrados sharply. “Do you mean that?”

      “Mean what?” she asked, with the blankness of one who has lost the thread of her own thoughts.

      “What you said about the revolver—that your father could not have had it?”

      “The revolver?” she repeated half wearily; “oh yes. It was a heavy, old-fashioned affair. It had been lying in a drawer of his desk for more than ten years because once a dog came into the orchard in broad daylight light and worried half-a-dozen lambs before anyone could do anything.”

      “Yes, but why could he not have it on Thursday?”

      “I noticed that it was gone. After Frank had left in the afternoon I went into the room where he had been waiting, to finish dusting. The paper says the dining-room, but it was really papa’s business-room and no one else used it. Then when I was dusting the desk I saw that the revolver was no longer there.”

      “You had occasion to open the drawer?”

      “It is really a very old bureau and none of the drawers fit closely. Dust lies on the ledges and you always have to open them a little to dust properly. They were never kept locked.”

      “Possibly your father had taken the revolver with him.”

      “No. I had seen it there after he had gone. He rode to Stinbridge immediately after lunch and did not return until nearly eight. After he left I went to dust his room. It was then that I saw it. I was doing the desk when Frank knocked and interrupted me. That is how I came to be there twice.”

      “But you said that you had no proof, Miss Whitmarsh,” Carrados reminded her, with deep seriousness. “Do you not recognize the importance—the deadly importance—that this one shred of evidence may assume?”

      “Does it?” she replied simply. “I am afraid that I am rather dull just now. All yesterday I was absolutely dazed; I could not do the most ordinary things. I found myself looking at the clock for minutes together, yet absolutely incapable of grasping what time it was. In the same way I know that it struck me as being funny about the revolver but I always had to give it up. It was as though everything was there but things would not fit in.”