Christopher Quarles: College Professor and Master Detective
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"You don't go and sit inside the gateway at Cross Roads Farm now, Jim," I said suddenly. Since this second discovery he had quite forsaken his haunt.
"No," he answered.
"Why not?"
"No one else will come there now. They're afraid."
"Of what?"
"Spirits."
"And of you, Jim – eh?"
The suggestion pleased him. He came and stood close to me, and rolled up his sleeve to show me how muscular his arms were.
"Splendid! Tell me, Jim, where is Simon Judd?"
"Buried!" he said, and slouched out of the room.
I looked at his mother. Poor woman! I pitied her.
"I didn't know – I didn't guess, not till afterward," she said. "Jim told me next day that he had seen a man go to the farm, told me what he was like, and I knew it was the man I had met. It was more Jim's description than mine that I gave. But I thought this man was the murderer, thought so for months, until Jim began to talk strange about money and that well. It was not until then that I knew he had been at the farm that night. And now this second murder! What will they do?"
"Release an innocent man."
"But to Jim?" she whispered.
"Find him not responsible for his actions, most likely. You ought to have spoken, Mrs. Gilson. An innocent man is in prison. They are likely to be severe with you."
"I don't care what happens to me; it's Jim I care about."
Later in the day I tried to get Jim to show me where Simon Judd was buried. He only laughed.
"And the money, Jim – what has become of it?"
Still his only answer was a laugh.
"By sitting at the gate you kept watch over it, I suppose? Had it somewhere close by, where you could get at it to play with; and when this tramp came you thought he would rob you. Is that the story?"
"It's all right now," he said solemnly.
My course was clear. Jim Gilson must be arrested, and a court of justice would have to say whether he was responsible for his actions or not. Personally, I was not sure that he was as mad as he pretended to be. The curious disposal of the shreds of pajamas showed cunning, a desire to mislead, or it may be there had been a struggle. Perhaps Simon Judd had fought desperately for his life, and the madman had buried him, entirely forgetting the dead body of Peter Judd, who had given him no trouble. Possibly he had left it with a purpose; certainly it had helped to convict an innocent man. Who can explain either the cunning or forgetfulness of a madman?
On the evening of the day following the arrest of Jim Gilson I received a telegram from Christopher Quarles, asking me to go to him without delay. He was in the empty room, his granddaughter with him.
"Wigan, this Sussex affair?" were the words with which he greeted me.
"All over. The murderer was arrested yesterday," I answered.
I had not seen Quarles for some days, and the case had not been mentioned between us. His theories would probably have hindered rather than helped me.
"You're wrong, all wrong," he said.
"My dear professor, nobody knows your ability better than I do, but you haven't had anything to do with this affair. I assure you – "
"You may tell me the whole story, if you like, but you're wrong. You haven't caught your man."
"Nonsense," I said angrily.
"Tell me the story."
"The newspaper résumé of the affair is quite correct," I said.
"I'd rather hear it from you."
And, in spite of my annoyance, I told it in answer to an appealing glance from Zena. There was nothing I would not have done to please her.
"I'll tell you the story in a different way," said Quarles, when I had finished, "and you can pull me up if I go outside reason. At the beginning of this mystery, four or five years ago, I felt no interest in it; now I am impelled to interfere. True, I have taken no active part in the affair, but with me that is not always necessary. Into my empty brain something has come from outside."
I smiled. There was something of the charlatan in him.
"The body of Peter Judd is found," Quarles went on, "his brother's isn't. Where is it? Down the well? You do not think so, yet by the shred of pajamas and the slipper found there it is desired by someone to suggest this solution. A well can be made to give up its secrets, as a rule, but not this particular well. This is a point in Richard Coleman's favor, since he would not be likely to have any knowledge of local lore; and, if you like, it is against Gilson, who might have such knowledge. But what possible object could he have in laying such a misleading trail?"
"To implicate some other person – the man he had seen join the Judds as he left them."
"I am not combating your theory that two men left the Judds in much the same manner that night, and that the man who gave evidence at the trial was not the one Coleman saw. No doubt Coleman saw Gilson; but do you suggest it was a premeditated crime?"
"No. Gilson was curious about the visitor, and watched; and while he waited Peter Judd went to the well, and Gilson saw the gold. Then desire to possess came to him."
"So he murdered the two men who had been kind to him. Why?" asked Quarles. "During the night he could have broken open the shed and taken the gold. The Judds would undoubtedly have jumped to the conclusion that their nephew had robbed them."
"I should say Gilson's idea was to get the key, hence the murder."
"And while he was strangling Peter, what was Simon doing? Since Peter was found in the sitting-room in his pajamas, it is permissible to suppose that something had aroused him. If it did not arouse Simon too, Peter would be likely to do so, and at the very least he would have called for help the moment he was attacked."
"You forget the doctor's evidence," I said. "He was killed by the shock as much as by the man's fingers at his throat."
"A most important point," said Quarles; "we will come back to it in a minute. Having murdered both the Judds, this imbecile breaks into the shed, because he fails to find the key, I suppose; and having got the money, is satisfied. He hides one body and leaves the other. He lays a false trail for no earthly reason, I submit. For months he does not let fall a word to disturb his mother, but he haunts the gate of the farm."
"His mother knows he is guilty, professor; remember that."
"Did she see him do it? Has he shown her the money?"
"No."
"Then, I ask, what made Gilson haunt the farm? The right answer to that question will put you on the right road. It was Zena who propounded that question to me."
"In seeking for motives we must not be too precise in dealing with a madman," I said. "I think his idea was to protect the money which he had hidden somewhere close at hand."
"I don't," said Quarles. "He was watching for the man who murdered Peter Judd."
"Rather a fantastic conclusion, isn't it?" I said.
"It might be were there no evidence to support it. Let me tell the story as I imagine it. The twin brothers were much attached to each other. Few people knew them well; they kept altogether to themselves. From Coleman's statement it would seem that Peter took the lead. It was he who went for the money. He appears to have managed all the money transactions. It may have been merely a division of labor, but there may have been another reason. Perhaps Simon's temperament was to waste money, and to keep him out of temptation Peter kept the key of the treasury."
"Still a little fantastic, I fancy," I said somewhat contemptuously.
"Quite true, and we will go a little farther on the same road. We will assume that the sight of gold was not good for the moral welfare of Simon Judd. So long as he did not see gold he was content to go on his simple way, but the sight of it set him desiring possession. The nephew came, and twenty sovereigns were fetched from the treasury chest and displayed before Simon's gloating eyes. There was a sudden desire to possess gold himself. Peter had the key, had a hiding-place for it, probably; and on this night, thinking of his nephew, was not careful enough to conceal that hiding-place from his brother, or it may be he was forgetful, and left the key on the mantelshelf. In the night he remembered it, or was aroused by some noise, and went down to find Simon, who was fully dressed, taking the key. Some words may have been spoken; Peter may have reasoned with him, but Simon was beyond reason. He attacked his brother, and killed him. The shock of such a thing may well have had something to do with Peter's death, as the doctor suggests. Would shock have had such effect upon him, do you suppose, had he been attacked by Gilson, an innocent imbecile?"
I did not answer.
"Simon at once realized his position. Suspicion must fall upon him unless he was murdered too. So he laid the trail, shreds of his pajamas here and there, and the old slipper. The well would be an excellent grave for him. He remembered that Gilson saw Coleman arrive; suspicion would fall upon Coleman. Conscience was dead now, he could take the gold. So he left Cross Roads Farm, being careful to dress himself in clothes that probably only his brother knew he possessed, and left his ordinary clothes on the chair in his room."
"And Gilson?" I asked.
"No doubt he saw Peter Judd go to the shed, and was fascinated by the sight of the gold; at any rate, he remained there. He would see Coleman leave. That he saw the actual murder is unlikely, did not know of it until the next day, I should conjecture; but he would see what Simon Judd did, would see him take the money and go. When he knew Peter Judd was dead, Gilson would guess who had killed him. He would say nothing, because both men had been good to him; but knowing the two brothers, being in touch, perhaps, since he is one of God's fools, with a plane of thought which is above the normal man, he waited for Simon Judd's return, and he has not been disappointed."
"Not disappointed!" I exclaimed.
"I imagine Simon spent his money riotously, every penny of it, conscience troubling him at times, which trouble he drowned with drink and drugs; but in the end he was irresistibly drawn back, a tramp, dirty, unrecognizable, except to the eyes expecting him – Gilson's."
"And then?"
Quarles paused for a moment.
"If Gilson watched him closely, as he probably did, he may some day, in a lucid interval, confirm my surmise. I think Simon Judd stood before the lifted veil when he returned to Cross Roads Farm again; that on the spot where so many familiar hours had been spent he saw his brother once more, and remorse came to him. The gold had gone, you see. Every detail of that tragic night was recalled in a moment of time, and, terror seizing him, he clutched himself by the throat and fell dead."
"I think you are right, dear," Zena said solemnly.
"But how is it no one knew him?" I asked.
"Few people did know him, and he had passed through five years of debauchery. Find someone who knew of some peculiarity he had. Coleman might help you here. Gilson knew him. Didn't he tell you Simon Judd was buried? That would be a day or so after the tramp had been buried in Hanley."
This case was certainly one of my failures, although I had to accept praise when both Coleman and Gilson were released.
It happened, too, that Coleman knew that, as a young man, his Uncle Simon had undergone an operation, the scar of which the doctor found on the tramp's body.
Jim Gilson was never lucid enough to give a detailed account of what happened when Simon Judd returned to the farm, but piecing together statements he made at intervals there is little doubt that Quarles's surmise was not very far from the truth.
CHAPTER IX
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE GOLF LINKS
I have wondered sometimes whether I have ever really liked Christopher Quarles; at times I have certainly resented his treatment, and had he been requested to make out a list of his friends, quite possibly my name would not have figured in the list unless Zena had written it out for him. Some remark of the professor's had annoyed me at this time, and I had studiously kept away from Chelsea for some days, when one morning I received a telegram:
"If nothing better to do, join us here for a few days. – Quarles, Marine Hotel, Lingham."
I did not even know they were out of town, for Zena and I never wrote to each other, and I had a strong suspicion the invitation meant that the professor wanted my help in some case in which he was interested. Still, there would be leisure hours, and I had visions of pleasant rambles with Zena. If I could manage it, some of them should be when the moon traced a pale gold path across the sleeping waters. I may say at once that some moonlight walks were accomplished, though fewer than I could have wished, and that, although there was no business behind the professor's invitation, my visit to Lingham resulted in the solution of a mystery which had begun some months before and had baffled all inquiry ever since.
Lingham, as everybody knows, is a great yachting center, and as I journeyed down to the East Coast I wondered if yachting interested Quarles, and, if not, why he had chosen Lingham for a holiday.
The professor was a man of surprises. I have seen him looking so old that a walk to the end of the short street in Chelsea might reasonably be expected to try his capacity for exercise; and, again, I have seen him look almost young; indeed, in these reminiscences I have shown that at times he did not seem to know what fatigue meant. When he met me in the vestibule of the Marine Hotel he looked no more than middle-aged, and as physically fit as a man could be. He was dressed in loose tweeds, and wore a pair of heavy boots which, even to look at, almost made one feel tired.
"Welcome, my dear fellow!" he said. "But why bring such infernal weather with you? It began to blow at the very time you must have been leaving town, and has been increasing ever since. It has put a stop to all racing."
"I didn't know you took an interest in yachting."
"I don't. Golf, Wigan! At golf I am an enthusiast. There's a good sporting course here, that's why I came to Lingham. You've brought your clubs, I see."
"Chance. You did not say anything about golf in your wire."
"Why should I? Useless waste of money. I remembered your telling me once that you never went for your holiday without taking your clubs. We shall have grand sport."
He laughed quite boisterously, and a man who was passing through the hall looked at me and smiled. I recollected that smile afterward, but took little notice of it just then, because Zena was coming down the stairs.
Before dinner that evening it blew a gale, and from windows overlooking the deserted parade we watched a sullen, angry sea pounding the sandy shore and hissing into long lines of foam, which the wind caught up and carried viciously inland.
"Isn't that a sail – a yacht?" said Zena suddenly, pointing out to sea, over which darkness was gathering like a pall.
It was, and those on board of her must be having a bad time, not to say a perilous one. She was certainly not built for such weather as this, but she must be a stout little craft to stand it as she did, and they were no fools who had the handling of her.
"Blown right out of her course, I should think," said Quarles. "The yachts shelter in the creek to the south yonder. I should not wonder if that boat hopes to make the creek which lies on the other side of the golf course."
"She's more likely to come ashore," said a man standing behind us, and he spoke with the air of an expert in such matters. "There's no anchorage in that creek, and, besides, a bar of mud lies right across the mouth of it."
As the curved line of the sea front presently hid the yacht from our view the gong sounded for dinner – a very welcome sound, and I, for one, thought no more about the yacht that night.
Before morning the gale had subsided, but the day was sullen and cloudy, threatening rain, and we did not attempt golf until after lunch.
It was an eighteen-hole course, and might be reckoned sporting, but it was not ideal. There was too much loose sand, and a great quantity of that rank grass which flourishes on sand dunes. It said much for the management that the greens were as good as they were.
I had just played two holes with the professor before I remembered the man who had smiled in the hall of the hotel yesterday. Certainly Quarles was an enthusiast. In all the etiquette of the game he was perfect, but as a player he was the very last word. He persisted in driving with a full swing, usually with comic effect; he was provided with a very full complement of clubs, and was precise in always using the right one; but he seemed physically incapable of keeping his eye on the ball, and constantly hit out, as if he were playing cricket; yet the bigger ass he made of himself the greater seemed his enjoyment. He never lost his temper. Other men would have emptied themselves of the dregs of their vocabulary; Quarles only smiled, cheerfully explaining how he had come to top a ball, or why he had taken half a dozen shots to get out of a bunker. No wonder the man in the hotel had laughed.
There was one particularly difficult hole. The bogey was six. It required a good drive to get over a ridge of high ground; beyond was a brassey shot, then an iron, and a mashie on to the green. To the left lay a creek, a narrow water course between mud. My drive did not reach the ridge, on the top of which was a direction post; and the professor pulled his ball, which landed perilously near the mud. It took him three shots to come up with me, and when at last we mounted the ridge we saw there was a man on the distant green, which lay in a hollow surrounded by bunkers, behind which was the bank of the curving creek.
"Fore!" shouted Quarles.
I almost laughed. It was certain the man would have ample time to get off the green before the professor arrived there. Quarles waited for a moment, but the man ahead took no notice, possibly had not heard him.
The professor took a fall swing with his brassey, and, for a wonder, the ball went as straight and true as any golfer could desire.
"Ah! I am getting into form, Wigan," he exclaimed. "What is that fool doing yonder? Fore!"
This time the man looked round and waved to us to come on, which we did slowly, for Quarles's form was speedily out again.
The man on the green was a curiosity. Thirty-five or thereabouts, I judged him to be; a thin man, but wiry, with a stiff figure and an immobile face, which looked as if he had never been guilty of showing an emotion. His eyes were beady, and fixed you; his mouth gave the impression of being so seldom used for speech that it had become partially atrophied. His costume, perhaps meant to be sporting, missed the mark – looked as if he had borrowed the various articles from different friends; and he was practicing putting with a thin-faced mashie, very rusty in the head, and dilapidated in the shaft.
He stood aside and watched Quarles miss two short puts.
"Difficult," he remarked. "I'm practicing it."
Quarles looked at the speaker, then at the mashie.
"With that?"
"Why not?" asked the man.
"Why?" asked Quarles.
"If I can do it with this I can do it with anything," was the answer.
"That's true," said the professor, making for the next tee. There was no arguing with a man of this type.
The tee was on the top of the creek bank.
"I was right," said Quarles. "Look, Wigan, they did make for this haven last night."
It was almost low water. The bank on the golf course side was steep, varying in height, but comparatively low near the tee, and an irregular line of piles stuck up out of the mud below, the tops of half a dozen of them rising higher than the bank. On the other side of the creek the shore sloped up gradually from a wide stretch of mud.
In the narrow waterway was a yacht, about eighteen tons, I judged. That she was the same we had seen laboring in the gale last night I could not say, but certainly she was much weather-marked and looked forlorn. She had not had a coat of paint recently, the brasswork on her was green with neglect, and her ropes and sails looked old and badly cared for. Yet her lines were dainty, and, straining at her hawser, she reminded me of a disappointed woman fretting to free herself from an undesirable position.
A yacht is always so sentient a thing, and seems so full of conscious life.
Quarles appeared to understand my momentary preoccupation.
"Don't take any notice of her," he said. "We're out for golf. I always manage a good drive from this tee."
This time was an exception, at any rate, and, in fact, for the remainder of the round he played worse than before, if that were possible. But he was perfectly satisfied with himself, and talked nothing but golf as we walked back, until we were close to the hotel, when he stopped suddenly.
"Queer chap, that, on the green."
"Very."
"Do you think he came from the yacht?"
"I was wondering whether he hadn't escaped from an asylum," I answered.
"I wonder what he was doing on the green," Quarles went on. "I saw no one else playing this afternoon, so he had the green to himself, except for the little time we disturbed him. When I first saw him it didn't seem to me that he was practicing putting, and I thought he watched us rather curiously."
"A theory, professor?" I asked with a smile.
"No, no; just wonder. By the way, don't say anything to that expert who was so certain that the yacht couldn't get into the creek. He mightn't like to know he was mistaken."
After dinner that evening Zena and I went out. There was no moon; indeed, it was not very pleasant weather, but it was a pleasant walk, and entirely to my satisfaction.
When we returned I found Quarles in a corner of the smoking room leaning back in an armchair with his eyes closed. He looked up suddenly as I approached him.
"Cold out?" he asked.
"Nothing to speak of."
"Feel inclined to go a little way with me now?"
"Certainly."
"Good! Say in a quarter of an hour's time. I shall get out of this dress and put on some warmer clothes. I should advise you to do the same."
I took his advice, and I was not surprised when he turned to me as soon as we had left the hotel and said:
"That yacht, Wigan; we'll go and have a look at her."
"It's too dark to see her."
"She may show a light," he chuckled. "Anyway, we will go and have a look."
We started along the front in the direction of the golf course, but at the end of the parade, instead of turning inland as I expected, to cross the course to the creek, Quarles led the way on to the sands. Here was a favorite bathing place, and there were many small tents nestling under the sandhills, looking a little the worse for last night's gale. At this hour the spot was quite deserted.
"Getting toward high water," said the professor, "and a smooth sea to-night. Can you row, Wigan?"
"An oarsman would probably say I couldn't," I answered.
"There's a stout little boat hereabouts – takes swimmers out for a dive into deep water. We'll borrow it, and see what you can do."
Always there was something in Quarles's way of going to work which had the effect of giving one a thrill, of stringing up the nerves, and making one eager to know all that was in his mind. You were satisfied there was something more to learn, and felt it would be worth learning. I asked no questions now as I helped to push a good-sized dinghy into the water. Oars were in it, and a coil of rope.
"Anyone might go off with it," said Quarles. "I noticed the other day that the boatman did not trouble to take the oars out. I suppose he believes in the honesty of Lingham."
If I am no great stylist, I am not deficient in muscle, and, with the set of the tide to help me, we were not long in making the mouth of the creek.
"The yacht is some way up, Wigan, and maybe there are sharp ears on her. Tie your handkerchief round that rowlock, and I'll tie mine round this. You must pull gently and make no noise. The tide is still running in, and will carry us up. By the way, when you're on holiday do you still keep your hip pocket filled?"
"Yes, when I go on expeditions of this sort."
"Good! Keep under the bank as much as possible, and don't stick on the mud."
I did little more than keep the boat straight, was careful not to make any noise, and in the shadow of the bank we were not very likely to be seen. A heavy, leaden sky made the night dark, and there was a sullen rush in the water.