The Dark House Part 10

"I do not say that, sir," said the lawyer coldly. "We do not know that there has been any robbery until the plate is examined, but we ought to have sent for a doctor at once."

"I'll go," said Capel, and hurrying out of the room, he ran down the stairs, caught his hat from the stand, and hurried from street to street till he saw the familiar red-eyed lamp.

Five minutes after he was on his way back in a cab, with a keen-looking, youngish man, to whom he gave an account of the morning's discovery.

"Have you given notice to the police?"

"No."

"If I were you, I should send a messenger straight to Scotland Yard. It will save you from the blundering of some young constable. Humph--too late."

For, as they reached the room, there was the familiar helmet of one of the force, the man having found the door left open by Capel and rung.

He was a heavy, dull-looking man, who seemed, as he stood in the darkened room, to consider it his duty to thrust his hand in his belt, and stare at the ghastly figure on the floor.

Meanwhile the doctor was busily examining the body of the Indian servant.

"Quite dead!" said Mr Girtle.

"Yes. _Rigor mortis_ has set in."

"Suicide?"

"Suicide, sir? Oh, bless my soul, no."

"But that weapon?"

"Yes, some one had an awful cut with that, I should say," continued the doctor, and the constable mentally drew a line from the kukri to the open window, out on to the leads, and down into the mews.

"What has caused his death?"

"I cannot tell you yet," said the doctor. "Hold the light here, closer, please. Hah, that is the mark of a blow on the arm. There is this wound on the chin, and on the neck. Hah! Yes, this seems more likely.

There has been a tremendous blow dealt here on the head--but no fracture, I think--sort of blow a life-preserver would give; but, really, I cannot account so far for his death. Unless--What is this peculiar odour?"

"I told you," said Capel, pointing to the bed.

"No, I don't mean that," said the doctor quickly. "I mean this about here. Can you see any bottle?"

He ran his hand down the side of the silk robe, and then looked round where he knelt.

"What do you mean, doctor?" said Mr Girtle.

"There is the same odour that I should expect to notice in a case of suicide with poison."

"Doesn't look much like that," said Artis. "Why, doctor, look at the traces of the struggle."

"I have looked at them, sir," replied the doctor; "but, so far, I detect no cause for death. A proper examination may give different results, but I must have the a.s.sistance of a colleague."

"Done, sir? Finished?" said the constable, who had remained for the time unnoticed.

"Yes, my man. You will give notice of this at once, and lock up the room."

"All in good time, sir. I should like a look round. Door open, you say?"

"Yes," said Mr Girtle.

"Window open?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, the fellow who did it seems to have come in here and escaped there, after getting a cut with that crooked knife."

He turned on his bull's-eye lantern, and made the light play from where the body lay, over the Turkey carpet, to the window, where he turned off the light, for there was sufficient for him to see and examine the seat and sill.

No stains--no marks of hands on the window, no footmarks outside on the leads--not a spot.

He shook his head, and came back.

"Well, my man?" said Mr Girtle.

"Don't be in a hurry, sir. Law moves slow and sure. I was in the country before I got out of the rural into the metropolitan."

"What has that to do with this?" cried Artis.

"Everything, sir," said the constable, turning sharply on the young man, and watching him narrowly. "I've known cases where windows have been set open to make it seem that some one's gone through."

"But the murderer is not in the house," said Mr Girtle, uneasily; "and we suspect--"

"Who's that?" said the constable, sharply. "Oh, you, Mr Butler."

"Yes; I've brought the brandy for Mr Girtle, sir."

"Never mind, now," said the policeman. "Set it down. Gentlemen, I've got a theory about this here."

He turned on his bull's-eye again, as he spoke.

"A theory?" cried Capel, impatiently.

"Yes, sir. You see that crooked knife thing?"

"Yes."

"And the mark of the b.l.o.o.d.y hand on the counterpane, where it is dragged?"

"Yes, we saw that."

"Well, has any one looked under the bed?"

"No."