The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 1 — April 1922)
by F. M. Osborne (editor)
Contents
Exterior to the Evidence
(A Detective Novel in Five Parts)
by J. S. Fletcher
Author of “The Middle Temple Murder,” Etc., Etc.
Editor's Note.
The Black Mask takes pride in presenting herewith what it considers to be not only J. S. Fletcher’s masterpiece in mystery writing, but, as well, the best detective novel that has made its appearance since the heyday of Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Fletcher, as is well known, is the greatest living writer of mystery fiction. His earlier novel, “The Middle Temple Murder,” made a sensation upon its publication in America. We confidently believe that “Exterior to the Evidence” will duplicate its success.
Chapter I
Youth
At the extreme height of a broken and widespreading moorland a vast mass of dark rock rose abruptly from the heather and ling, and on its table-like crown some man or men had built a high and tapering cairn of stone.
A girl sat on a boulder at the foot of the rocks, on a cloudless afternoon in the middle of May, looking fixedly along a narrow sheep-track which ran towards the sharply defined edge of the moor. As a figure suddenly showed itself far off against the sky-line, the girl’s quick eyes recognised her lover, and she sprang to her feet and went forward to meet him.
“Marston! — you’re an hour late!” she called in clear, ringing tones while they were yet thirty yards apart. “I’ve been up there at the Pike since two o’clock, and it’s three now, if it isn’t more!”
The boy thus hailed came hurrying along, panting and out of breath, flung himself on a cluster of heather, and pulling out a handkerchief began to mop his forehead.
“By George, and so would you have been late if you’d been in my shoes!” he exclaimed. “The wonder is that I’m here at all! There’s been the very deuce to pay at our place since lunch, and yet, by George, I don’t know which I’ve done most of as I came along — lost my breath with hurrying to get here, or laughed till my sides ached!”
The girl stood for a moment looking thoughtfully at him. He was a well-knit, handsome, open-faced lad of no more than twenty or twenty-one in appearance, though in reality he was already twenty-three; fair-haired, blue-eyed, typically English, and bearing all the signs and marks of fresh air and outdoor life. She herself was a dark beauty — the hair that showed under her hat was black and glossy, the colouring of her cheeks almost gipsylike. A smile began to dimple the corners of her full red lips, and she suddenly laughed softly as she sat down on the bank across which the belated lover had flung himself.
“Well, Marston,” she said softly, “and what’s the matter? Nothing wrong, if you’ve been laughing at it.”
Marston Stanbury sat up and resumed the soft cap which he had thrown aside in order to mop his forehead. He glanced approvingly at the girl by his side, who in her turn gave him an answering glance of entire contentment. It was not until he had got his pipe in full blast that he slipped an arm round the girl’s waist and gave her what was intended for a confidential embrace.
“You’d better prepare yourself for a pretty big sort of surprise, Letty,” he announced. “I wouldn’t mind laying my new gun against any old thing you’ve got that you couldn’t guess in a hundred!”
“Better tell, then,” responded Letty. “What is it?”
Marston took his pipe from his teeth and looked fixedly at his sweetheart.
“Hold tight!” he said warningly. “This is it. Sir Cheville’s going to be married!”
“Nonsense!”
“Fact!” declared Marston. “And jolly soon, too. Next month!”
“At his age!” exclaimed Letty.
“Just so!” said Marston. “Seventy-five last time. Still — a fact!”
“And — to whom?” asked Letty.
Marston gave her another warning look.
“Now you will have to sit tight!” he replied. “Else you’ll get thrown. You’d never guess that, either. Mademoiselle de Coulanges.”
Letty started and stared.
“What!” she exclaimed. “The Vicar’s French governess?”
“You’ve hit it in one,” said Marston. Mam’selle Zélie de Coulanges — French governess at the vicarage. That’s it! — she’s to be my Lady Stanbury. May and December — she’s twenty-five, and Sir Cheville’s just fifty years older. Um!”
Letty plucked a sprig of heather and began thoughtfully pulling it to pieces.
“Marston!” she said at last. “Whatever does your mother say?”
Marston nodded his head, Chinese mandarin style, with great vigour for several seconds before he replied.
“You mean,” he answered with a significant look, “you mean — what doesn’t she say!”
“Saying it — to whom?” asked Letty.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” continued Marston. My mother and I were at lunch, when in walked my uncle. I saw at once that something was up — he wouldn’t have any lunch, nor even a glass of Sherry, and he was jolly fidgety. And then, all of a sudden, he made a formal announcement — he was about to be married. And — to the Frenchwoman. Gad! — I thought my mother would have a fit!”
“Yes,” said Letty, “I should have expected her to. Well?”
“At first,” Marston went on, “she refused to believe it. Talked about his age. He said stiffly that he believed he was as hale and hearty as any man of sixty. And then, of course, she got personal — you know what a hot temper my mother has — and talked about how it would affect me. There I was, she said, his nephew and heir to the title, and always been led to expect it, and a jolly lot besides, and all that sort of thing. If he’d a son by this marriage, I’d be disinherited, and so on, and so on. She — well, to put it plainly, she was just furious!”
“And — Sir Cheville?” asked Letty.
“He got stiff and icy,” answered Marston. “Said it had always, been a possibility that he might marry, even late in life. And that whether I ever came to the title or not, he made full provision for me, most handsome provision, he repeated, with emphasis, and I should never have cause to blame him. But — it’s the title business that knocked my mother over! She’s always been awfully keen on my being Sir Marston Stanbury, Baronet — that’s about it!”
“And you, Marston?” suggested Letty. “What do you think?”
“Don’t care a hang about the title!” declared Marston. “If the old boy wants to marry, let him. What I want is to marry you. And, if this comes off, as it certainly will, it’ll make things all the easier for you and me.
“How?” asked Letty. “What difference will it make?”
“This,” said Marston eagerly. “So long as it was certain that there was nothing but Sir Cheville’s life between me and the title, he’d a hold over me. And as we know very well, he and your father are, somehow, not on very good terms. Now, if he takes his own way about this marriage, he can’t object to my taking mine about my marriage. And — I suggest that we tell your father and my mother all about our engagement now, straight off.”
Letty turned away and looked thoughtfully across the moor. It Was some time before she spoke, and when she glanced at Marston again there was a suspicion of foreboding in her eyes.
“Marston,” she asked quietly, “have you any idea why your uncle and my father are not on very good terms?”