MAX CARRADOS MYSTERIES - Complete Series in One Volume. Bramah Ernest

      “Yes,” admitted Carrados, “I saw that. Frankly, the reason seemed inadequate to so deadly a climax.”

      “What did I say?” demanded the irrepressible dame. “They won’t believe it.”

      The young man cast a wrathful look in his mother’s direction and turned again to the visitor.

      “That’s because you don’t know Uncle William. Any reason was good enough for him to quarrel over. Here, let me give you an instance. When I went in on Thursday he was smoking a pipe. Well, after a bit I took out a cigarette and lit it. I’m damned if he didn’t turn round and start on me for that. How does that strike you for one of your own family, Mr Carrados?”

      “Unreasonable, I am bound to admit. I am afraid that I should have been inclined to argue the point. What did you do, Mr Whitmarsh?”

      “I hadn’t gone there to quarrel,” replied the young man, half sulky at the recollection. “It was his house. I threw it into the fireplace.”

      “Very obliging,” said Carrados. “But, if I may say so, it isn’t so much a matter of speculation why he should shoot you as why he should shoot himself.”

      “The gentleman seems friendly. Better ask his advice, Frank,” put in the old woman in a penetrating whisper.

      “Stow it, mother!” said Whitmarsh sharply. “Are you crazy? Her idea of a coroner’s inquest,” he explained to Carrados, with easy contempt, “is that I am being tried for murder. As a matter of fact, Uncle William was a very passionate man, and, like many of that kind, he frequently went beyond himself. I don’t doubt that he was sure he’d killed me, for he was a good shot and the force of the blow sent me backwards. He was a very proud man too, in a way—wouldn’t stand correction or any kind of authority, and when he realized what he’d done and saw in a flash that he would be tried and hanged for it, suicide seemed the easiest way out of his difficulties, I suppose.”

      “Yes; that sounds reasonable enough,” admitted Carrados.

      “Then you don’t think there will be any trouble, sir?” insinuated Mrs Whitmarsh anxiously.

      Frank had already professed his indifference to local opinion, but Carrados was conscious that both of them hung rather breathlessly on to his reply.

      “Why, no,” he declared weightily. “I should see no reason for anticipating any. Unless,” he added thoughtfully, “some clever lawyer was instructed to insist that there must be more in the dispute than appears on the surface.”

      “Oh, them lawyers, them lawyers!” moaned the old lady in a panic. “They can make you say anything.”

      “They can’t make me say anything.” A cunning look came into his complacent face. “And, besides, who’s going to engage a lawyer?”

      “The family of the deceased gentleman might wish to do so.”

      “Both of the sons are abroad and could not be back in time.”

      “But is there not a daughter here? I understood so.”

      Whitmarsh gave a short, unpleasant laugh and turned to look at his mother.

      “Madeline won’t. You may bet your bottom tikkie it’s the last thing she would want.”

      The little old creature gazed admiringly at her big showy son and responded with an appreciative grimace that made her look more humorously rat-like than ever.

      “He! he! Missie won’t,” she tittered. “That would never do. He! he!” Wink succeeded nod and meaning smile until she relapsed into a state of quietness; and Parkinson, who had been fascinated by her contortions, was unable to decide whether she was still laughing or had gone to sleep.

      Carrados stayed a few more minutes and before they left he asked to see the watch.

      “A unique memento, Mr Whitmarsh,” he remarked, examining it. “I should think this would become a family heirloom.”

      “It’s no good for anything else,” said Whitmarsh practically. “A famous time-keeper it was, too.”

      “The fingers are both gone.”

      “Yes; the glass was broken, of course, and they must have caught in the cloth of my pocket and ripped off.”

      “They naturally would; it was ten minutes past nine when the shot was fired.”

      The young man thought and then nodded.

      “About that,” he agreed.

      “Nearer than ‘about,’ if your watch was correct. Very interesting, Mr Whitmarsh. I am glad to have seen the watch that saved your life.”

      Instead of returning to the inn Carrados directed Parkinson to take the road to Barony. Madeline was at home, and from the sound of voices it appeared that she had other visitors, but she came out to Carrados at once, and at his request took him into the empty dining-room while Parkinson stayed in the hall.

      “Yes?” she said eagerly.

      “I have come to tell you that I must throw up my brief,” he said. “There is nothing more to be done and I return to town to-night.”

      “Oh!” she stammered helplessly. “I thought—I thought——”

      “Your cousin did not abstract the revolver when he was here on Thursday, Miss Whitmarsh. He did not at his leisure fire a bullet into his own watch to make it appear, later in the day, as if he had been attacked. He did not reload the cartridge with a blank charge. He did not deliberately shoot your father and then fire off the blank cartridge. He was attacked and the newspaper version is substantially correct. The whole fabric so delicately suggested by inference and innuendo falls to pieces.”

      “Then you desert me, Mr Carrados?” she said, in a low, bitter voice.

      “I have seen the watch—the watch that saved Whitmarsh’s life,” he continued, unmoved. “It would save it again if necessary. It indicates ten minutes past nine—the time to a minute at which it is agreed the shot was fired. By what prescience was he to know at what exact minute his opportunity would occur?”

      “When I saw the watch on Thursday night the fingers were not there.”

      “They are not, but the shaft remains. It is of an old-fashioned pattern and it will only take the fingers in one position. That position indicates ten minutes past nine.”

      “Surely it would have been an easy matter to have altered that afterwards?”

      “In this case fate has been curiously systematic, Miss Whitmarsh. The bullet that shattered the works has so locked the action that it will not move a fraction this way or that.”

      “There is something more than this—something that I do not understand,” she persisted. “I think I have a right to know.”

      “Since you insist, there is. There is the wad of the blank cartridge that you fired in the outbuilding.”

      “Oh!” she exclaimed, in the moment of startled undefence, “how do you—how can you——”

      “You must leave the conjurer his few tricks for effect. Of course you naturally would fire it where the precious pellet could not get lost—the paper you steamed off the cigarette that Whitmarsh threw into the empty fire-grate; and of course the place must be some distance from the house or even that slight report might occasion remark.”

      “Yes,” she confessed, in a sudden abandonment to weary indifference, “it has been useless. I was a fool to set my cleverness against yours. Now, I suppose, Mr Carrados, you will have to hand me over to justice?

      “Well; why don’t you say something?” she demanded impatiently, as he offered no comment.

      “People frequently put me in this