Mary E. Hanshew - The Riddle of the Frozen Flame

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But if he had known just exactly what the rest of that morning was to
bring forth, indeed before lunch was served at one-fifteen, he might have
hesitated to pass judgment upon it so soon.

Slowly the cavalcade wended its way across the rank grass....

CHAPTER XIV

THE SPIN OF THE WHEEL

Merriton stood at the study window, looking out, and pulling at his
cigar with an air of profound meditation. Upon the hearth-rug Doctor
Bartholomew, clad in baggy tweeds, stood tugging at his beard and watched
the man's back with kindly, troubled eyes.

"Don't like it, Nigel, my boy; don't like it at all!" he ejaculated,
suddenly, in his close-clipped fashion. "These detectives are the very
devil to pay. Get 'em in one's house and they're like doctors--including,
of course, my humble self--difficult to get out. Part of the profession,
my boy. But a beastly nuisance. Seems to me I'd rather have the mystery
than the men. Simpler, anyway. And fees, you know, are heavy."

Merriton swung round upon his heel suddenly, his brows like a thunder
cloud.

"I don't care a damn about that," he broke out angrily. "Let 'em take
every penny I've got, so long as they solve the thing! But I can't get
away from it--I just can't. Hangs over me night and day like the sword of
Damocles! Until the mystery of Wynne's disappearance is cleared up, I
tell you 'Toinette and I can't marry. She feels the same. And--and--we've
the house all ready, you know, everything fixed and in order, except
_this_. When poor old Collins disappeared, too, I found I'd reached my
limit. So here these detectives are, and, on the whole, jolly decent
chaps I find 'em."

Doctor Bartholomew shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "Have it your own
way, my boy." But what he really _did_ say was:

"What are their names?"

"Young chap's Headland--George or John Headland, I don't remember quite
which. Other one's Lake--Gregory Lake."

"H'm. Good name that, Nigel. Ought to be some brains behind it. But I
never did pin my faith on policemen, you know, boy. Scotland Yard's made
so many mistakes that if it hadn't been for that chap Cleek, they'd have
ruined themselves altogether. Now, he's a man, if you like! Pity you
couldn't get _him_ while you're about it."

The impulse to tell who "George Headland" really was to this firm friend
who had been more than a father to him, even in the old days, and who had
made a point of dropping down upon him, informally, ever since the
trouble over Dacre Wynne's disappearance, took hold of Nigel. But he
shook it off. He had given his word. And if he could not tell 'Toinette,
then no other soul in the universe should know. So he simply tossed his
shoulders, and, going back to the window, looked out of it, to hide the
something of triumph which had stolen into his face.

Truth to tell, he was obsessed with a feeling that something _was_
going to happen, and happen soon. The premonition, to one who was not
used to such things, carried all the more conviction. With Cleek on the
track--anything might happen. Cleek was a man for whom things never stood
still, and his amazing brain was concentrated upon this problem as it
had been concentrated--successfully--upon others. Merriton had a feeling
that it was only a matter of time.

Then, just as he was standing there, humming something softly beneath his
breath, the cavalcade, headed by Cleek and Mr. Narkom, rather grim and
silent, reached the gateway. Behind them--Merriton gave a sudden cry
which brought the doctor to his side--behind them three men were carrying
something--something bulky and large and wrapped in a black oilskin
tarpaulin. And one of the men was Headland's servant, Dollops! He
recognized that, even as his inner consciousness told him that his
"something" was about to happen now.

"Gad! they've found the body," he exclaimed, in a hoarse, excited voice,
fairly running to the front door and throwing it open with a crash that
rang through the old house from floor to rafters, and brought Borkins
scuttling up the kitchen stairs at a pace that was ill-befitting his age
and dignity. Merriton gave him a curt order.

"Have the morning-room door thrown open and the sofa pulled out from
against the wall. My friends have been for a walk across the Fens, and
have found something. You can see them coming up the drive. What d'you
make of it?"

"Gawd! a haccident, Sir Nigel," said Borkins, in a shaky voice. "'Adn't I
better tell Mrs. Mummery to put the blue bedroom in order and 'ave plenty
of 'ot water?..."

"No." Merriton was running down the front steps and flung the answer back
over his shoulder. "Can't you use your eyes? It's a body, you fool--a
body!"

Borkins gasped a moment, and then stood still, his thin lips sucked in,
his face unpleasant to see. He was alone in the hallway, for Doctor
Bartholomew's fat figure was waddling in Merriton's wake.

He put up his fist and shook it in their direction.

"Pity it ain't your body, young upstart that you are!" he muttered
beneath his breath, and turned toward the morning room.

Meanwhile Merriton had reached the solemn little party and was walking
back beside Cleek, his face chalky, the pupils of his eyes a trifle
dilated with excitement.

"Found 'em? Found 'em _both_, you say, Mr. Headland?" he kept on
repeating over and over again, as they mounted the steps together. "Good
God! What a strange--what a peculiar thing! I'll swear there was no sight
nor sign of them when I've tramped over the Fens dozens of times. I don't
know what to make of it, I don't indeed!"

"Oh, we'll make something of it all right," returned Cleek, with a sharp
look at him, for there was one thing he wanted to find out, and he meant
to do that as soon as possible. "Two and two, you know, put together
properly, always make four. It's only the fools of the world that add
wrong. If you'd had as much practice as I've had in dealing with
humanity, you'd find it was an ever-increasing astonishment to see the
way things dovetail in.... Who's this, by the way?"

He jerked his head in the direction of the doctor, who had stopped at the
foot of the steps and waited for them to come up to him.

"Oh, a very old friend of mine, Mr. Headland. Doctor Bartholomew. Has a
very big practice in town, but a trifle eccentric, as you can see at
first glance."

Cleek sent his keen eyes over the odd-looking figure in the worn tweeds.

"I see. Then can you tell me how he finds time to run down here at
leisure and visit you? Seems to me a man with a big practice never has
enough time to work it in. At least, that has been my experience of
doctors."

Merriton flushed angrily at the tone. He whipped his head round and met
Cleek's cool gaze hotly.

"I know you're down here to investigate the case, but I don't think
there's any reason for you to start suspecting my friends," he retorted,
his eyes flashing. "Doctor Bartholomew has a partner, if you want to
know. And also he's supposed to be retired. But he carries on for the
love of the thing. Best man ever breathed--remember that!"

Cleek smiled to himself at the sudden onslaught. The young pepper-pot!
Yet he liked him for the loyal defence of his friend, nevertheless. There
were all too few creatures in the world who found it impossible to
suspect those whom they cared for, and who cared for them.

"Sorry to have given any offence, I'm sure," he said, smoothly. "None was
meant, right enough, Sir Nigel. But a policeman has an unpleasant duty,
you know. He's got to keep his eyes and his ears open. So if you find
mine open too far, any time, just tip me the wink and I'll shut 'em up
again."

"Oh, that's all right," said Merriton, mollified, and a trifle shamefaced
at the outburst. Then, with an effort to turn the conversation: "But
think of findin' 'em both, Mr.--er--Headland! Were they--very awful?"

"Pretty awful," returned Cleek, quietly; "eh, Mr. Lake?"

"God bless my soul--_yes_!" threw in that gentleman, with a shudder.
"Now then, boys, if you don't mind--" He took the attitude of a casual
acquaintance with his two assistants who helped to bear the burden. "Come
along inside. This way--that's it. Where did you say, Merriton? Into the
morning room? All right. Ah, Borkins has been getting things ready, I
see. That couch is a broad one. Good thing, as there are two of 'em."

"_Two_ of 'em, sir?" exclaimed Borkins, suddenly throwing up his hands,
his eyes wide with horror. Mr. Narkom nodded with something of
professional triumph in his look.

"Two of 'em, Borkins. And the second one, if I don't make any mistake,
answers to the description of James Collins--eh, Headland?"

Cleek gave him a sudden look that spoke volumes. It came over him in a
flash that Narkom had said too much; that it wasn't the casual visitor's
place to know what a servant who was not there at the time of his visit
looked like.

"At least--that's as far as I can make out from what Sir Nigel told me of
him the other day," he supplemented, in an effort to make amends. "Now
then, boys, put 'em there on the couch. Poor things! I warn you, Sir
Nigel, this isn't going to be a pleasant sight, but you've got to go
through with it, I'm afraid. The police'll want identification made, of
course. Hadn't you better 'phone the local branch? Someone ought to be
here in charge, you know."

Merriton nodded. He was so stunned at the actuality of these two men's
deaths, at the knowledge that their bodies--lifeless, extinct--were here
in his morning room, that he had stood like an image, making no move, no
sound.

"Yes--yes," he said, rapidly, waving a hand in Borkins's direction. "See
that it's done at once, please. Tell Constable Roberts to come along with
a couple of his men. Very decent of these chaps to give you a hand, Mr.
Lake. That's your man, Dollops, isn't it, Headland? Well, hadn't he
better take 'em downstairs and give 'em a stiff whisky-and-soda? I expect
the poor beggars have need of it."

Cleek held up a silencing hand.

"No," he said, firmly. "Not just yet, I think. They may be needed for
evidence when the constable comes. Now...." He crossed over to where the
bodies lay, and gently removed the covering. Merriton went suddenly
white, while the doctor, more used to such sights, bit his lips and laid
a steadying hand upon the younger man's arm.

"My God!" cried Sir Nigel, despairingly. "How did they meet their death?"

Cleek reached down a finger and gently touched a blackened spot upon
Wynne's temple.

"Shot through the head, and the bullet penetrated the brain," he said,
quietly. "Small-calibre revolver, too. There's your Frozen Flame for you,
my friend!"

But he was hardly prepared for the event that followed. For at this
statement, Merriton threw a hand out suddenly, as though warding off a
blow, took a step forward and peered at that which had once been his
friend--and enemy--and then gave out a strangled cry.

"Shot through the head!" he fairly shrieked, as Borkins came quietly into
the room, and stopped short at the sound of his master's voice. "I tell
you it's impossible--_impossible_! It wasn't my shot, Mr. Headland--it
couldn't have been!"

CHAPTER XV

A STARTLING DISCLOSURE

Cleek took a sudden step forward.

"What's that? What's that?" he rapped out, sharply. "_Your_ shot, Sir
Nigel? This is something I haven't heard of before, and it's likely to
cause trouble. Explain, please!"

But Merriton was past explaining anything just then. For he had bowed his
head in his hands and was sobbing in great, heart-wrung sobs with Doctor
Bartholomew's arms about him, sobs that told of the nerve-strain which
gave them birth, that told of the tenseness under which he had lived
these last weeks. And now the thread had snapped, and all the broken,
jangling nerves of the man had been loosed and torn his control to atoms.

The doctor shook him gently, but with firm fingers.

"Don't be a fool, boy--don't be a fool!" he said over and over again,
as he waved the other away, and, taking out a little phial from his
waistcoat pocket, dropped a dose from it into a wine-glass and forced it
between the man's lips. "Don't make an ass of yourself, Nigel. The shot
you fired was nothing--the mere whim of a man, whose brain had been fired
by champagne and who wasn't therefore altogether responsible for his
actions."

He whipped round suddenly upon Cleek, his faded eyes, with their fringe
of almost white lashes, flashing like points of light from the seamed and
wrinkled frame of his face.

"If you want to hear that foolish part of the story, I can give it to
you," he said, sharply. "Because I happened to be there."

"_You!_"

"Yes--I, Mr.--er--Headland, isn't it? Ah, thanks. But the boy's unstrung,
nerve-racked. He's been through too much. The whole beastly thing has
made a mess of him, and he was a fool to meddle with it. Nigel Merriton
fired a shot that night when Dacre Wynne disappeared, Mr. Headland; fired
it after he had gone up to his room, a little over-excited with too much
champagne, a little over-wrought by the scene through which he had just
passed with the man who had always exercised such a sinister influence
over his life."

"So Sir Nigel was no good friend of this man Wynne's, then?" remarked
Cleek, quietly, as if he did not already know the fact.

The doctor looked up as though he were ready to spring upon him and tear
him limb from limb.

"No!" he said, furiously, "and neither would you have been, if you'd
known him. Great hulking bully that he was! I tell you, I've seen the man
use his influence upon this boy here, until--fine, upstanding chap that
he is (and I've known him and his people ever since he was a baby) he
succeeded in making him as weak as a hysterical girl--and gloated over
it, too!"

Cleek drew in a quiet breath, and gave his shoulders the very slightest
of twitches, to show that he was listening.

"Very interesting, Doctor, as psychological studies of the kind go," he
said, smoothly, stroking his chin and looking down at the bowed shoulders
of the man in the arm chair, with something almost like sorrow in his
eyes. "But we've got to get down to brass tacks, you know. This thing's
serious. It's got to be proved. If it can't be--well, it's going to be
mighty awkward for Sir Nigel. Now, let's hear the thing straight out from
the person most interested, please. I don't like to appear thoughtless in
any way, but this is a serious admission you've just made. Sir Nigel, I
beg of you, tell us the story before the constable comes. It might make
things easier for you in the long run."

Merriton, thus addressed, threw up his head suddenly and showed a face
marked with mental anguish, dry-eyed, deathly white. He got slowly to his
feet and went over to the table, leaning his hand upon it as though for
support.

"Oh, well," he said, listlessly, "you might as well hear it first as
last. Doctor Bartholomew's right, Mr. Headland. I _did_ fire a shot upon
the night of Dacre Wynne's disappearance, and I fired it from my bedroom
window. It was like this:

"Wynne had gone, and after waiting for him to come back away past the
given time, we all made up our minds to go to bed, and Tony West--a pal
of mine who was one of the guests--and the Doctor here accompanied me to
my room door. Dr. Bartholomew had a room next to mine. In that part of
the house the walls are thin, and although my revolver (which I always
carry with me, Mr. Headland, since I lived in India) is one of those
almost soundless little things, still, the sound of it reached him."

"Is it of small calibre?" asked Cleek, at this juncture.

Merriton nodded gravely.

"As you say, of small calibre. You can see it for yourself. Borkins"--he
turned toward the man, who was standing by the doorway, his hands hanging
at his sides, his manner a trifle obsequious; "will you bring it from the
left-hand drawer of my dressing table. Here is the key." He tossed over a
bunch of keys and they fell with a jangling sound upon the floor at
Borkins's feet.

"Very good, Sir Nigel," said the man and withdrew, leaving the door open
behind him, however, as though he were afraid to lose any of the story
that was being told in the quiet morning room.

When he had gone, Merriton resumed:

"I'm not a superstitious man, Mr. Headland, but that old wives' tale of
the Frozen Flames, and the new one coming out every time they claimed
another victim, seemed to have burnt its way into my brain. That and the
champagne together, and then close upon it Dacre Wynne's foolish bet to
find out what the things were. When I went up to my room, and after
saying good-night to the doctor here, closed the door and locked it,
I then crossed to the window and looked out at the flames. And as I
looked--believe it or not, as you will--another flame suddenly sprang up
at the left of the others, a flame that seemed brighter, bigger than any
of the rest, a flame that bore with it the message: 'I am Dacre Wynne'."

Cleek smiled, crookedly, and went on stroking his chin.

"Rather a fanciful story that, Sir Nigel," he said, "but go on. What
happened?"

"Why, I fired at the thing. I picked up my revolver and, in a sort of
blind rage, fired at it through the open window; and I believe I said
something like this: 'Damn it, why won't you go? I'll make you go, you
maddening little devil!' though I know those weren't the identical words
I spoke. As soon as the shot was fired my brain cleared. I began to feel
ashamed of myself, thought what a fool I'd look in front of the boys if
they heard the story; and just at that moment Doctor Bartholomew knocked
at the door."

Here the doctor nodded vigorously as thought to corroborate these
statements, and made as if to speak.

Cleek silenced him with a gesture.

"And then--what next, Sir Nigel?"

Merriton cleared his throat before proceeding. There was a drawn look
upon his face.

"The doctor said he thought he had heard a shot, and asked me what it
was, and I replied: 'Nothing. Only I was potting at the flames.' This
seemed to amaze him, as it would any sane man, I should think, and as no
doubt it is amazing you, Mr. Headland. Amazing you and making you think,
'What a fool the fellow is, after all!' Well, I showed the doctor the
revolver in my hand, and he laughingly said that he'd take it to bed
with him, in case I should start potting at _him_ by mistake. Then I
got into bed, after making him promise he wouldn't breathe a word to
anybody of what had occurred, as the others would be sure to laugh at
me; and--that's all."

"H'm. And quite enough, too, I should say," broke in Cleek, as the man
finished. "It sounds true enough, believe me, from your lips, and I know
you for an honourable man; but--what sort of a credence do you think an
average jury is going to place upon it? D'you think they'd believe you?"
He shook his head. "Never. They'd simply laugh at the whole thing, and
say you were either drunk or dreaming. People in the twentieth century
don't indulge in superstition to that extent, Sir Nigel; or, at least,
if they do, they let their reason govern their actions as far as
possible. It's a tall story at best, if you'll forgive me for saying so."

Merriton's face went a dull, sultry red. His eyes flamed.

"Then you don't believe me?" he said, impatiently.

Cleek raised a hand.

"I don't say that for one moment," he replied. "What I say is: 'Would a
judge and jury believe you?' That is the question. And my answer to it
is, 'No.' You've had every provocation to take Dacre Wynne's life, so far
as I can learn, every provocation, that is, that a man of unsound
mentality who would stoop to murder could have to justify himself in his
own eyes. Things look exceedingly black against you, Sir Nigel. You can
swear to this statement as far as your part in it is concerned, Doctor
Bartholomew?"

"Absolutely," said the doctor, though plainly showing that he felt it was
no business of the supposed Mr. Headland's.

"Well, that's good. But if only there had been another witness, someone
who actually saw this thing done, or who had heard the pistol-shot--not
that I'm doubting your word at all, Doctor--it might help to elucidate
matters. There is no one you know of who could have heard--and not
spoken?"

At this juncture Borkins came quietly into the room, holding the little
revolver in his right hand, and handed it to Cleek.

"If you please, sir," he said, impassively, and with a quick look into
Merriton's grave face, "_I_ heard. And I can speak, if the jury wants me
to, I don't doubt but what my tale would be worth listenin' to, if only
to add my hevidence to the rest. That man there"--he pointed one shaking
forefinger at his master's face, and glowered into it for a moment "was
the murderer of poor Mr. Wynne!"

CHAPTER XVI

TRAPPED!

"You damned, skulking liar!"

Merriton leapt forward suddenly, and it was with difficulty that Cleek
could restrain him from seizing the butler round the throat.

"Gently, gently, my friend," interposed Cleek, as he neatly caught
Merriton's upthrown arm. "It won't help you, you know, to attack a
possible witness. We've got to hear what this man says, to know whether
he's speaking the truth or not--and we've got to go into his evidence as
clearly as we go into yours.... You're perfectly right, Doctor, I _am_ a
policeman, and I'm down here for the express purpose of investigating
this appalling affair. The expression of your face so plainly said, 'What
right has he to go meddling in another man's affairs like this?' that I
was obliged to confess the fact, for the sake of my self-respect. My
friend here, Mr. Lake, is working with me." At this he gave Borkins a
keen, searching look, and saw in the man's impassive countenance that
this was no news to him. "Now then, my man, speak out. You tell us you
heard that revolver-shot when your master fired it from his bedroom.
Where are your quarters?"

"On the other side of the 'ouse, sir," returned Borkins, flushing a
trifle. "But I was up in me dressing gown, as I'd some'ow thought that
something was amiss. I'd 'eard the quarrel that 'ad taken place between
Sir Nigel and poor Mr. Wynne, and I'd 'eard 'im go out and slam the door
be'ind 'im. So I was keeping me ears peeled, as you might say."

"I see. Doing a bit of eavesdropping, eh?" asked Cleek, and was rewarded
by an angry look from under the man's dark brows and a sudden tightening
of the lines about his mouth. "And what then?"

"I kept about, first in the bathroom, and then in the 'all, keeping my
ears open, for I'd an idea that one day things would come to a 'ead
between 'em. Sir Nigel had taken Mr. Wynne's girl and--"

"Close your lying mouth, you vile beast!" spat out Merriton, vehemently,
"and don't you dare to mention her name, or I'll stop you for ever from
speaking, whether I hang or not!"

Borkins looked at Cleek, and his look quite plainly conveyed the meaning
that he wished the detective to notice how violent Sir Nigel could be on
occasions, but if Cleek saw this he paid not the slightest heed.

"Speak as briefly as you can, please, and give as little offence," he cut
in, in a sharp tone, and Borkins resumed:

"At last I saw Sir Nigel and the Doctor and Mr. West come up the corridor
together. I 'eard 'em bid each other good-night, saw the Doctor go into
'is room, and Mr. West return to the smoking-room, and 'eard Sir Nigel's
key turn in 'is lock. After that there was silence for a bit, and all I
'ears was 'is moving about and muttering to 'imself, as though 'e was
angry about something. Then, just as I was a-goin' back to me own room,
I 'eard the pistol-shot, and nips back again. I 'eard 'im say, 'Got
you--you devil!' and then without waitin' for anything else, I runs down
to the servants' 'all, which is directly below the smoking room where the
other gentlemen were talking and smoking. I peers out of the window,
upward--for it's a half-basement, as perhaps you've noticed, sir--and
there, in the light of the moon, I see Mr. Wynne's figure, crouched down
against the gravel of the front path, and makin' funny sorts of noises.
And then, all of a sudden, 'e went still as a dead man--and 'e _was_ a
dead man. With that I flies to me own room, frightened half out of me
wits--for I'm a peace-lovin' person, and easily scared, I'm afraid--and
then I locks meself in, sayin' over and over to meself the words, 'He's
done it! He's done it at last! He's murdered Mr. Wynne, he has!' And
that's all I 'ave to say, sir."

"And a damned sight too much, too, you liar!" threw in Merriton,
furiously, his face convulsed with passion, the veins on his temple
standing out like whipcords. "Why, the whole story's a fake. And if it
_were_ true, tell me how I could get Wynne's body out of the way so
quickly, and without any one hearing me, when every man in that smoking
room, from their own words, and from those of the doctor here, was
at that moment straining his ears for any possible sound? The smoking
room flanks straight on the drive, Mr.--er--Headland--" He caught himself
up just in time as he saw Cleek's almost imperceptible signal, and then
went on, his voice gaining in strength and fury with every word: "I'm not
a giant, am I? I couldn't have lifted Wynne _alive_ and with his own
assistance, much less lift him dead when he'd be a good sight heavier.
Why, the thing's a tissue of lies, I tell you--a beastly, underhanded,
backbiting tissue of lies, and if ever I get out of this thing alive,
I'll show Borkins exactly what I think of him. And why you should give
credence to the story of a lying servant, rather than to mine, I cannot
see at all. Would I have brought you here, you, a man whose name--" And
even in the excitement which had him in its grip Nigel felt Cleek's will,
powerful, compelling, preventing his giving away the secret of his
identity, preventing his telling that it was the master mind among the
criminal investigators of Europe which was working on this horrible
affair.

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