Whatsoever a Man Soweth Part 10

After making inquiries of the constables, and hearing details of which I, of course, was already aware, Scarcliff asked leave to view the body.

"Certainly, m'lord," was Booth's prompt reply, and we moved off together.

My great fear was that the village constable should remark upon my previous visit to him, therefore I walked with him, keeping him a considerable distance behind the others as we went up the street.

"The superintendent is not here now?" I remarked casually, in order that he should recall our meeting up in the wood while we were alone, and not before my friends.

"No, sir. The guv'nor went back to Chichester about an hour ago," was his answer, and a few minutes later we turned into a farmyard, where in a barn, the door of which was unlocked by one of the men, we saw the body lying face upwards upon a plank on trestles.

Booth drew the handkerchief from the dead face that seemed to stare at us so grimly in the semi-darkness of the barn, and from my companions escaped exclamations of surprise and horror.

"Awful!" gasped the young viscount--who was known as "The Scrambler" to his intimates--a name given to him at Eton; "I wonder who murdered him?"

"I wonder!" echoed Ellice Winsloe in a hard, hushed voice.

His strange tone attracted me, and my eyes fell upon his countenance.

It had, I was amazed to see, blanched in an instant, and was as white as that of the dead man himself.

The sudden impression produced upon the others was such that they failed to notice the change in Ellice. I, however, saw it distinctly.

I was confident of one thing--that he had identified the victim.

Yet he said nothing beyond agreeing with his companions that a dastardly crime had been committed, and expressing a hope that the a.s.sa.s.sin would be arrested.

"He's a stranger," declared Scarcliff.

"Yes--an entire stranger," said Winsloe, emphatically, and at the same time he bent forward to get a better view of the lifeless countenance.

Standing behind, I watched him closely.

The sight of the body had produced a remarkable change in him. His face was wild and terrified, and I saw that his lips trembled.

Nevertheless he braced himself up with a great effort, and said,--

"Then it's a complete mystery. He was found by Harris, the keeper, last night?"

"Yes, sir," answered Booth. "He'd been dead then some hours. Dr Richards says it's murder. He's goin' to make the post-mortem this afternoon."

"Has the revolver been found?" he asked.

"No, sir. We've been searching all the morning, but can find nothing."

"And what was in his pockets?" inquired Winsloe, his anxiety well disguised.

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all?" he demanded.

"Oh! a knife, a piece of pencil, a little money and a few odds and ends.

But nothing of any use to us."

"Then you can't identify him?"

"Unfortunately we can't, sir," was the man's reply.

"We hope to find out who he is, but from all appearances he's a total stranger in these parts."

"It's very evident that the murderer searched the poor fellow's pockets," Jack said. "He was afraid lest his victim might be identified."

"That's what we think, m'lord," remarked one of Booth's companions.

"The tab off the back of his jacket, which bore the maker's name, has been cut out."

"By the murderer?" asked Wydcombe.

"Probably so, m'lord."

"Then whoever killed him took good care to remove every sc.r.a.p of evidence which might lead to his victim's identification," Ellice Winsloe remarked, standing with his eyes fixed steadily upon the dead face.

"That's what our superintendent thinks. He believes that if we establish who the poor fellow is, that we shall have no difficulty in putting our hand upon the guilty person."

"But did no one hear the shot?" Winsloe inquired.

"n.o.body. The doctor thinks the affair took place late in the afternoon," answered Booth.

Winsloe pursed his white lips, and turned away. For an instant a haggard, fearsome look crossed his hard countenance--the look of a man haunted by a guilty secret--but a moment later, when Wydcombe turned to join him, his face changed, and he exclaimed lightly,--

"Let's get out of this. The thing's a complete mystery, and we must leave it to the police to puzzle it all out. Of course, there'll be an inquest, and then we may hear something further."

"At present the affair is a complete enigma," Jack remarked. Then, bending again towards the dead man's face, he added, "Do you know, Ellice, I can't help thinking that I've seen him before somewhere, but where, I can't for the life of me recollect."

I saw that Winsloe started, and he turned again. "I don't recognise him in the least," he said quickly. "A face is always altered by death. He now resembles, perhaps, somebody you've known."

"Ah, perhaps so," remarked the young viscount. "Yet I certainly have a faint impression of having seen him somewhere before--or somebody very like him."

"I hope your lords.h.i.+p will try and remember," urged the village constable. "It would be of the greatest a.s.sistance to us."

"I'll try and think, Booth. If I recollect I'll send for you," he answered.

"Thank you, m'lord," the constable replied, and as I glanced covertly at Winsloe I saw that his face had fallen.

Would Scarcliff recall who he really was?

"To identify a dead person is always most difficult," Winsloe remarked with a.s.sumed disinterestedness. "I've heard of cases where half a dozen different families have laid claim to one dead body--wives, mothers, children and intimate friends. No doubt lots of people are buried from time to time under names that are not their own. Richards, of any doctor, will tell you that a countenance when drawn by death is most difficult to recognise."

By those remarks I saw that he was trying very ingeniously to arouse doubt within Jack's mind, in order to prevent him making any statement.

His att.i.tude increased the mystery a hundredfold.

I recollected the secret Sybil had revealed to me on the previous afternoon when we had stood together in the Long Gallery--how she had told me that she intended to many Winsloe. What he had said now aroused my suspicions.