Again Budge hesitated. He felt uneasy, because her face had assumed an odd expression. She got up.
"When did he leave the house?"
Budge glanced at the clock on the mantel-shelf. Its hands pointed to eleven-forty-five. "I am not certain, Miss Dorothy," he replied. "Quite soon after dinner, I think. He went away on his motor-bicycle. Mr. Martin had asked me to get him an electric bicycle-lamp as being-ah-more convenient for his sojourn across the way. That is how I happened to notice Mr. Herbert's departure. I went out to the stable to detach a lamp from one of the machines, and — ah-he drove past me…."
(Odd how Miss Dorothy was taking this! Of course, she had a right to be upset, what with Mr. Herbert's unheard — of departure without a word to anybody, and the safe standing open for the first time in fifteen years; but he did not like to see her show it. He felt as he had once felt when he peeked through a keyhole and saw — Budge hastily averted his thoughts, embarrassed at remembering his younger days.)
"It's strange I didn't see him," she was saying, looking at Budge steadily. "I sat on the lawn for at least an hour after dinner."
Budge coughed. "I was about to say, Miss Dorothy, that he didn't go by the drive. He went out over the pasture, towards Shooter's Lane. I noticed it because I was some time in finding a proper lamp to take to Mr. Martin, and I, saw him turning down the lane then."
"Did you tell Mr. Martin of this?"
Budge permitted himself to look slightly shocked. "No, Miss Dorothy," he answered, in a tone of reproof. "I gave him the lamp, as you know, but I did not think it within my province to explain―"
"Thank you, Budge. You needn't wait up for Mr. Martin."
He inclined his head, noting from a comer of his eye that the sandwiches and whisky were in the proper place, and withdrew. He could loosen his grammar now, like a tight belt; he was Mr. Budge again. A queer one, the young mistress was. He had almost thought, "pert little piece," but that it would be disrespectful. All stiffness and high varnish, with her straight back and her coolish eyes. No sentiment. No 'eart. He had watched her growing up — let's see; she was twenty-one last April — since she was six. A child not condescending or sure of getting her way, like Mr. Martin, or quietly thankful for attention, like Mr. Herbert, but odd….
It was thundering more frequently now, he noted, and little streaks of lightning penetrated dark places of the house. Ah, a good job he'd lit that fire! The grandfather clock in the hall wanted winding. Performing that office, he kept thinking of what an odd child Miss Dorothy had been. A scene came back: the dinner table, with himself in the background, when the master and the mistress were alive. Master Martin and Master Herbert had been playing war in Oldham orchard, with some other boys; in talking of it at dinner, Master Martin had twitted his cousin about not climbing into the branches of the highest maple as a lookout. Master Martin was always the leader, and Master Herbert trotted after him humbly; but this time he refused to obey orders. "I wouldn't!" he repeated at the table. "Those branches are rotten." "That's right, Bert," said the mistress, in her gentle way. "Remember, even in war one must be cautious." And then little Miss Dorothy had astonished them all by suddenly saying, very violent-like, though she hadn't spoken all evening: "When I grow up, I'm going to marry a man without any caution at all." And looked very fierce. The mistress had reproved her, and the master had just chuckled in his dry, ugly way; queer to remember that now….
It was raining now. As he finished winding the clock, it began to strike. Budge, staring at it vacantly, found himself surprised, and wondered why. Midnight, the clock was striking. Well, that was all right, surely….
No. Something was wrong. Something jarred at the back of his small, automatic brain. Troubled, he frowned at the landscape painted on the clock-face. Ah, he had it now! Just a few minutes ago he had been talking to Miss Dorothy, and the library clock had said eleven forty-five. The library clock must be wrong.
He drew out his gold watch, which had not erred in many years, and opened it. Ten minutes to twelve. No, the library clock had been right; this old grandfather, by which the housemaids set the other time-pieces in the house, was precisely ten and a half minutes fast. Budge permitted a groan to go backwards down his windpipe, and thus remain unheard. Now, before he could retire with an undisturbed conscience, he must go about and inspect the other clocks.
The clock struck twelve.
And then, presently, the telephone rang. Budge saw Dorothy Starberth's white face in the library door as he went to answer it.
Chapter 7
Sir Benjamin Arnold, the, chief constable, sat behind the writing-table in Dr. Fell's study, his bony hands folded on it like a schoolmaster. He looked a little like a schoolmaster also, but for the burnt color and horsiness of his face. His thick greyish hair was combed pompadour; his eyes looked sharp behind a pince-nez.
"— I thought it best, he was saying, "to take personal charge. It was suggested that an inspector be sent down from Lincoln. However, I have known the Starberths, and Dr. Fell in particular, for such a long time that I thought it best to drive over and superintend the Chatterham police myself. In that way we may save any scandal, or as much beyond what the inquest is bound to bring out."
He hesitated, clearing his throat.
"You, Doctor — and you, Mr. Saunders — are aware that I have never had occasion to handle a murder case. I am almost certain to being out of my depth. If everything fails, we shall have to call in Scotland Yard. But among us we may be able to straighten this unfortunate business out."
The sun was high in a clear, warm morning, but the study still held little light. During a long silence they could hear a police constable walking up and down the hall outside. Saunders nodded ponderously. Dr. Fell remained frowning and glum. Rampole was too tired and muddled to pay much attention.
"You — ah — said `murder case,' Sir Benjamin?" the rector inquired.
"I know the Starberth legend, of course," answered the chief constable, nodding. "And I confess I have a theory about it. Perhaps I should not have said `murder case' in the properest sense. Accident we may put out of the question. But I will come to that presently…. Now, Doctor."
He squared himself, drawing in his lips and tightening fingers round his bony knuckles; shifting a little, like a lecturer about to commence on an important subject.
"Now, Doctor. You have told everything up to the time the light went out in the Governor's Room. What happened when you went up to investigate?"
Moodily Dr. Fell poked at the edge of the writing-table with his cane. He rumbled and bit at his moustache.
"I didn't go. Thanks for the compliment, but I couldn't move like these other two. H'mf, no. Better let them tell you."
"Quite…. I believe, Mr. Rampole, that you discovered the body?"
The clipped, official lines of this procedure made Rampole feel uneasy. He couldn't talk naturally, and felt that anything he said might be used against him. Justice! — it was a big, unnerving thing. He felt guilty of something without knowing what.
"I did."
"Tell me, then: Why did it occur to you to go directly to the well, instead of through the gate and up to the Governor's Room? Had you reason to suspect what had happened?"
"I–I don't know. I've been trying to figure it out all day. It was just automatic. I'd been reading those journals — the history of the legend, and all that-so…" He gestured, helplessly.
"I see. What did you do afterwards?"
"Well, I was so stunned that I sort of fell back against the hill and sat there. Then I remembered where I was and called for Mr. Saunders."