92 8
f 75~&


MURDER FROM BEYOND
AN unseen hand reaches out, a woman is found dead,
apparently strangled; later, her reputed lover is mysteriously
shot down. The last victim is a minister. What has destroyed
them? Is it a diabolical new invention? The murder method
resembles that of a dead killer. Is he at work again through
supernatural forces? A fourth victim, a beautiful girl,
is marked. A race of love against death follows—
and love wins, bringing to a heart-warming
conclusion a story of outstanding
ingenuity, abounding in constant
surprises—a thriller of
top notch rank.


X


R. FRANCIS FOSTER
AUTHOR OF THE MOAT HOUSE MYSTERY
MURDER
FROM BEYOND
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
NEW YORK


Copyright, 1931, bt
R. Francis Foster
PRINTED IN THE U. 8. A.


CONTENTS
CHAPTER TAGH
I. Murder in the Night 9
II. Margery Disappears 17
III. Enter Ravenhhx 26
^ IV. The Second Crime 37
V. The Watchers of the Night ... $0
VI. The Hypodermic Syringe .... 61
1 VII. The Mysterious Visitor 69
1 VIII. Skeletons 70
IX. The Death of Vivian Winter ... 81
X. The Secret Fear 90
XI. Interlude 100
XII. The Watcher in the Garden . . 106
XIII. A New Horror 116
XIV. Hammett Sees a Ghost 129
XV. The Spy 141
XVI. The Third Murder ijo
XVII. Tom Loses His Shoes 163
XVm. The Missing Valve 17*
XIX. The Necromancers 187
V


vi CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
XX. Tom Sees the Ghost 203
XXI. Gerald Martin Goes Mad .... 212
XXII. Margery Decides to Speak .... 227
XXIII. At the Humped Bridge 238
XXIV. The Clue of the Altered Clock. . . 247
XXV. Ravenhill Reconstructs . . . . 258
XXVI. Old Thompson Talks 268
XXVII. Prelude to Adventure 277
XXVIII. The Ghostly Keller ..... 291
XXIX. Revelation ........ 306
1


MURDER FROM BEYOND





CHAPTER I
MURDER IN THE NIGHT
Tom Manning looked appreciatively round his bed-
room. It was good to be at Stanmead again after the
hurly-burly of a year in Fleet Street. The Rectory was
the same as ever, he reflected, as he took off his jacket
and hung it in the big wardrobe; Uncle Hilary had not
changed much. A shade more austere, perhaps, but still
the kindly saint whom the villagers worshiped. One
could see their affection in their eyes, their reverence in
their bearing. But the Rector must be lonely. It was a
pity he thought it necessary to remain single. Still,
marriage might have affected him adversely.
Tom Manning went to the window and looked out
into the moonlight. Beyond the grey pile of the church
the lights of Redlands twinkled as the night wind
swayed tree-branches before them. He must go over
tomorrow and renew his acquaintance with the Whar-
tons. True, Mrs. Wharton affected him disagreeably—
she was "fast," he decided—but old Wharton was a
good sort. And there was Margery. He supposed she was
engaged by now. Rumor had it that there'd been an
understanding between her and that fellow—what was
his name? Tom Manning frowned in an effort of
memory.
His thoughts went off at a tangent. He remembered
9


10 MURDER FROM BEYOND
the home-coming of the Whartons from India, where
Terence Wharton had a tea-plantation, over a year ago.
Wharton had inherited a small fortune and had bought
Redlands on the outskirts of the village.
Tom Manning had been staying at the Rectory con-
valescing after pneumonia when the Whartons arrived;
he had no other relative to go to, and he and the Rec-
tor had always been fond of each other. He remembered
how Uncle Hilary had "come out of himself," as he
put it. But Wharton wasn't the cause. It was Margery.
The celibate had fallen in love for the first time. It was
plain to anyone what had happened. The Rector was too
simple to hide his feelings. Tom had watched the fight
between love and what the priest considered his duty
going on. Apparently duty had won. Tom was glad
that it had. Youthfully he told himself that the man of
forty was too old to mate with a girl of twenty. But
Uncle Hilary didn't look forty—then; he did now.
Repression had aged him, Tom thought. He looked
awfully sad, too.
The church clock struck the half hour. Half-past
ten. It was early to go to bed, but he was tired. Be-
sides, he wanted to get up early in the morning and
take the skiff out before breakfast.
He was turning from the window when movement in
the garden below caught his eye. The candle-light was
not strong enough to prevent his seeing a tall figure
moving towards the gate. It was Uncle Hilary. Surely
he had no need to go out at this time of night? He'd
said he was turning in early, and nobody had been to
the house since.


MURDER IN THE NIGHT 11
Something in the Rector's attitude held Tom's atten-
tion. He could not define it. The priest was looking
across to Redlands, though down there on the ground
he couldn't see it. Even from the room upstairs Tom
could only see the top half of the house.
The Rector removed his shovel hat and passed a
hand across his brow and head. Tom knew the manner-
ism. Uncle Hilary did that only when he was disturbed.
Then he left the garden and began to walk along the
road away from the direction of Redlands. His head
was bent, and his hands were clasped behind him. Yes;
obviously something was wrong.
Tom left the window and went and sat on the bed.
He felt vaguely disturbed. He told himself that a
clergyman must be worried sometimes—all the parish
came to him with their troubles and he had to hear
them all if he was conscientious—but somehow Tom
felt that this was a personal trouble. And in the ordi-
nary way Uncle Hilary wasn't the sort to let his own
worries affect him. What had that long stare in the
direction of Redlands meant? Coincidence? It would
have been, perhaps, had there been no Margery or had
the Rector not been in love with her—as probably he
was still.
Slowly Tom Manning undressed himself. When
finally he blew out his candle he had dismissed the mat-
ter from his mind.
He did not sleep well. The intense quiet of the place
woke him up. He heard the clock strike twelve and
turned over restlessly. Annoyingly his thoughts went
back to his uncle, and he became wide awake. After


12 MURDER FROM BEYOND
what seemed hours he decided to smoke a pipe in order
to induce sleep, and got out of bed. The illuminated
dial of his wrist watch told him that it was nearly half-
past twelve.
He found his pipe and filled it, gazing out of the
window the while. He had left the curtains undrawn
so that the early morning light should awaken him. An
owl hooted in the elms by the church. He was about to
strike a match when he heard the sound of hasty foot-
steps. Round the bend of the road came a tall figure in
black. Uncle Hilary! But what was wrong with him?
He was hatless and hurrying, tremendously distraught.
He paused at the gate and looked up at the house as
though undecided. Unconsciously Tom Manning stepped
back a pace. The Rector began to walk on. He
paused again, passed his hand in a weary fashion over
his head and then returned. This time he came into the
garden and walked slowly towards the house.
Tom put his unlighted pipe on the table. Whatever
the trouble was it was serious if it could so affect the
austere priest. Tom hesitated a few moments, then put-
ting on his dressing gown went to the door and listened.
He heard movement.
"Uncle Hilary!" he called softly, lest he should
awaken the housekeeper.
A startled exclamation, footsteps, and the slight thud
of a door and the click of a latch. Tom did not hesitate
now. Their affection for each other would excuse his
action. He hastily descended the stairs.
The Rector's bedroom was on the ground-floor. He
had explained his choice by saying that sometimes he


MURDER IN THE NIGHT 13
was called out at night, and he could be summoned by
a tap on his window whereas the front door bell would
awaken the housekeeper unnecessarily. It was character-
istic of him. Tom went to his room and knocked lightly
on the door. No reply. Doubt and apprehension made
him hesitate to try the handle. He knocked again and
called softly.
"Uncle Hilary!"
Still there was no reply. He tried the handle. The
door was locked.
Tom's apprehension grew. It was so completely unlike
Uncle Hilary to lock his door or to be secretive in any
way. Yet what could he do? No amount of affection
would excuse his obtruding himself where he was
plainly not wanted. But supposing his uncle were ill?
Undecided he went back slowly along the passage, pur-
posely making a noise so that the Rector would know
that he was withdrawing.
But he had reckoned without the priest's tender con-
science. He heard the click of a lock; the Rector's door
opened.
"Tom," called the priest.
Tom ran back along the passage.
"I'm sorry, Uncle," he blurted out. "I—I didn't
mean to intrude, but I couldn't sleep, and I saw you
come in. I—I thought you were ill or something," he
concluded lamely.
The room was in darkness, and he could not see his
uncle's face, but he sensed a great disquiet.
"No; I'm all right," answered the priest. "At least,"
he corrected himself hastily, "I—" He stopped.


14 MURDER FROM BEYOND
Tom knew that he wanted to hide something but
that he couldn't frame a lie.
"Is there anything I can do, Uncle?" he asked wist-
fully.
The Rector put out a hand and touched his arm.
"You're a dear fellow, Tom," he said in a queer stran-
gled voice. "But there's nothing."
Tom put his hand affectionately over his uncle's and
squeezed it. Wincing, the priest uttered an exclama-
tion—of pain it seemed to the younger man.
"Why," exclaimed Tom Manning, "what—?"
"It's nothing," said the priest hurriedly. "I—I tripped
in a rabbit hole or something and sprained my
hand. . . . There, go to bed, old man," he went on. "It's
very late, isn't it?"
"Nearly one. All right, Uncle. I'll toddle along.
But are you sure—?"
Gently the priest pushed him out of the room and
shut the door behind him. Tom went back along the
passage and ascended the stairs.
Sleep was impossible now. He was too disturbed. He
lit his pipe and sat down by the window, pondering
on his uncle's strange behavior.
The moonlight was very bright—the harvest moon,
he supposed. It was light enough, almost, to read. He
looked out towards Redlands and saw a single light in
a top window. It went out as he watched.
The wind sighed in the elms, the clock in the church
tower struck a half hour. Tom's head nodded. Pres-
ently his pipe fell from his mouth. He slept.


MURDER IN THE NIGHT 15
He awoke with a start to find the housekeeper bend-
ing over him and shaking his arm. It was broad day-
light.
"I couldn't make you hear, Mr. Tom," she said, "so
I came in. Here's your tea."
She was trembling with excitement. Apparently the
fact that he was not in bed had not struck her as being
odd.
"There's been a murder, Sir," she said in an impres-
sive whisper. "Over at Redlands."
Tom Manning gazed at her blankly. Then the blood
drummed in his ears.
"Murder!" he exclaimed. "But—"
"Yes. Mrs. Wharton was found strangled in bed this
morning. Sam Gundridge—you know, the village
policeman—gave me the news just now. Said that Mr.
Wharton told him to ask the Rector to go over to him.
He— But, Mr. Tom," she broke off her story, "you
'aven't been to bed."
"Yes; I have," he answered quickly, pointing to the
tumbled bed-clothes. "I couldn't sleep, so I came and
had a pipe here by the window. I must have dozed off."
"You might have had the house afire," she scolded
him, picking up his pipe from the floor and pointing to
the tobacco ash on the carpet. "And the Rector 'asn't
been to bed, neither. Been working all night, I s'pose.
He won't tell me—me, who's been with him these ten
years. He's been that queer lately, I 'ardly know where
I am."
Tom was impatient to be alone. He soothed the old


16 MURDER FROM BEYOND
lady and eventually managed to get her out of the room.
Then, feeling curiously shaky, he went back to his
chair and sat down. His tea was stone cold when finally
he tasted it.


CHAPTER n
MARGERY DISAPPEARS
Tom Manning scarcely touched his breakfast, which
he had alone. He had heard the Rector leave earlier,
had seen him mount his bicycle and go off in the direc-
tion of Redlands, apparently in answer to Wharton's
summons.
The journalist in the young man was hampered by his
affection for the priest, but his disquiet evidenced his
unpleasant doubts. Uncle Hilary was in love with Mar-
gery Wharton, and he was her father's friend. Dis-
traught, the priest had left the house the previous
night after he had given the impression that he was
going to bed, had shown by his long stare in the direc-
tion of Redlands on what his thoughts centered; he had
returned in a strange condition, hatless and hurrying
and at about half-past twelve, having been absent ap-
proximately two hours, had gone straight to his room
and, hearing his nephew's voice and apparently fearing
his questions, had locked himself in. And when his
tender conscience had forced him to open his door
finally, he had betrayed intense agitation. Something
had happened since half-past ten. And then in the
morning had come the housekeeper's announcement of
the murder and her revelation that Wharton had sent
for the Rector. Why had he sent for him? Could it be
17


18 MURDER FROM BEYOND
for the comfort of a friend and a priest? Hardly. Whar-
ton was no weakling: he could stand alone. He—
Tom's train of reflection was suddenly cut short.
His uncle had sprained his hand. . . . And Mrs. Whar-
ton had been strangled! The connection between the
two thoughts unnerved him. He pushed his plate back
and got on to his feet. He could sit there no longer. He
felt sick—frightened, too. His faith in his uncle bat-
tled with his conviction that between half-past ten
and half-past twelve the previous night the Rector had
gone to Redlands. There was no proof of it, so far not
even circumstantial evidence of it, but—
The housekeeper came in to clear away the breakfast
things. She looked at the young man curiously.
"You've eaten very little," she reproved him. "But,
of course," she went on, "this affair's upset you. The
Rector, poor dear, was in a terrible state when he went
out. Couldn't find his hat anywhere, and he's only got
one."
The hat! Of course! Tom had forgotten that. Where
had the Rector left it? Supposing they found it at Red-
lands! There could be no mistake as to whose it was.
The housekeeper was rambling on. Partly to escape
her garrulity and partly because he had to do some-
thing, he said that he was going out. As he left the
room he remembered that he was a reporter. The
Planet would want a "story": he was on the spot. Hid-
eous to have to be a reporter amongst his own friends,
though. Besides, he wasn't a crime reporter. If there was
any mystery about this business Ravenhill was the man
who ought to tackle it.


MARGERY DISAPPEARS 19
He was wasting time. He'd known of the crime over
an hour and he hadn't attempted to get a story for The
Planet. He took his cap and set out for Redlands, think-
ing hard as he tramped. His faith in his uncle began to
revive. Under the greatest provocation Uncle Hilary
couldn't commit a crime like that. Besides, he had no
motive for doing so. He was completely detached from
worldly matters as far as they might affect him per-
sonally. He had shown his strength in denying himself
love, though his Church did not demand such a sacrifice
from him. Ridiculous to think that a man who could
resist the greatest of passions should so far lose control
of himself as to commit a terrible crime—and that
against a woman.
The morning sun increased Tom's optimism, and he
covered the half mile to Redlands very quickly. The
lodge gate was unguarded—he supposed there were not
enough constables available. In the drive he met old
Thompson, who kept the lodge and acted as head gar-
dener, and a man whom he recognized as the Whartons'
chauffeur.
"Tar'ble business, Sir," Thompson greeted the re-
porter. "I s'pose you've 'eard about it?"
"The bare fact of the murder," answered Tom.
"Have they—? Is it certain that she was murdered?"
"Strangled in 'er bed, Sir, they do say. An' Miss
Margery's gone."
"Gone! Why, what the" devil do you mean, Thomp-
son?"
"Disappeared, Sir, they do say. 'Er bed ain't bin
slep' in. And 'er car ain't in the garridge. She told


20 MURDER FROM BEYOND
'Ammett," nodding at the chauffeur "last night that
she'd 'ad a breakdown at West Billington. Didn't she,
'Ammett?"
"Yes," said the chauffeur. "She told me she'd left the
car at Stevens' Garage and that I was to call there about
it this morning. I—" He broke off and looked doubt-
fully at the reporter. "I don't know that I ought to
speak about it, Sir," he went on apologetically. "It isn't
as if—"
"It ain't no secret," said Thompson. "Inspector Serv-
ice 'phoned up the garridge soon's 'e came over, but
the car wa'n't there, and wot's more," he added impres-
sively, "it never 'ad been there. It's a proper myst'ry,
that's wot it is. I dunno wot things be a-coming to
when—"
"You talk too much, Thompson," the chauffeur re-
proved him.
"I'll talk as much as I like," declared Thompson truc-
ulently. "I tell 'ee it's a myst'ry—a proper myst'ry.
An I ain't telling no tales."
"You're doing your best to," said Hammett, frown-
ing.
"What do you mean by that, Thompson?" demanded
Tom. "You don't know anything about it, do you?"
"Of course he doesn't, Sir," said Hammett.
"I ain't saying I don't, an' I ain't sayin' I do," re-
plied the old man exasperatingly, "but as I tells In-
spector Service, 'You watch that there Mr. Winter,' I
says; an' I wouldn't go fer saying a thing like that fer
nothin', would I?"


MARGERY DISAPPEARS 21
"Don't take any notice of him, Sir," advised Ham-
mett.
"You shut up," Thompson scowled at the chauffeur.
"There ain't no call for you to play the 'igh and mighty
with me, even if you do fancy yourself a cut above
me.
Hammett colored a little. "You're talking nonsense,
Thompson," he said quietly.
"'Oo's talking nonsense?"
"You oughtn't to make suggestions if there's nothing
in them," Tom put in, hoping to excite the old man to
be more definite.
Thompson looked back to where the house showed
between the great elms. "I ain't got nothin' definite to
say," he muttered, "but I do say this: It's a 'appy re-
lease for the master, it is. An' I don't care who 'ears
me," scowling at Hammett vindictively.
He grunted something under his breath and began
to lumber towards the lodge. Hammett watched him go
a few paces, then he turned to Tom.
"Don't take any notice of him, Sir," he whispered.
"He's talking through his hat." Then he followed the
old man.
Puzzled, Tom continued on his way. He got to the
elms when he heard a bicycle bell. The Rector pedalled
round the bend, his head down, hatless and oblivious of
his nephew.
"Uncle!" called Tom.
Hilary Starmer looked up quickly and applied his
brakes. Tom saw that his face was white and strained.
The priest jumped off the bicycle.


22 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Tom," he said, shaking in agitation, "this is awful.
Mrs. Wharton's dead—strangled!—and Margery's dis-
appeared!" His lips trembled.
"It's only a coincidence, Uncle," Tom said in a foolish
effort to console the priest. "She'll probably turn up
soon." He unconsciously seized on the less important
mystery.
"She's never gone away like that before." The
priest's eyes were wild; they were unrecognizable as his.
He looked almost insane. Tom experienced again that
sick feeling that had assailed him when he had remem-
bered his uncle's sprained hand. A dreadful thought
came to him, so dreadful that he could only stare help-
lessly at his relative. Supposing he had periods of in-
sanity! Those eyes—
"Where are you going now?" he asked throatily, in
an effort to break the spell.
"To find Margery," answered the priest.
He made to mount his bicycle, but the young man
restrained him.
"Where will you go, Uncle?" Tom asked as quietly
as he could. "You don't know where she's gone."
The priest's lips quivered pathetically. "I must find
her," he whispered. "She must be found," he insisted.
The situation was bizarre. Tom looked at his uncle's
mad eyes and his quivering mouth. He saw, too, the
sunken cheeks. The priest was in a terrible condition.
Those sunken cheeks were not the result of fasting;
neither could the murder and the disappearance of Mar-
gery account for them. He had been suffering for


MARGERY DISAPPEARS 23
months from some secret trouble. Margery, of course.
Or was there something else?
Tom looked towards the house. He ought to go up
there and make inquiries. He had his paper to serve. But
there was his uncle. He must be looked after. He came
first.
"Give me the bicycle, Uncle," he said firmly, strong
now that he had decided what to do. "I'm going to take
you home. You—"
The priest cut him short. He'd got to go and find
Margery. He was all right.
"Listen, Uncle," said the young man. "You're not
well. No—let me speak. You're not well and you can't
search for Margery if you don't know where she is.
You've lost control of yourself," he went on brutally,
his throat constricted, nevertheless, with remorse. "I'll
find Margery."
"You will!" exclaimed the priest.
"At least," said Tom hastily, "I'll get someone to
find her. I've told you about Ravenhill, haven't I? I—"
Someone was coming. He could hear footsteps.
"Let's go quickly, Uncle," he pleaded. "We may be
watched, and we don't want—"
The madness had left his uncle's eyes and was re-
placed by fear.
"We don't want to arouse suspicions, do we?" con-
tinued Tom deliberately.
"Oh, dear God!" groaned the priest. "What—? Yes;
let's go home."
Tom took the bicycle gently from him and slipping
his disengaged hand under his arm led him down the


24 MURDER FROM BEYOND
drive. Old Thompson was sitting on the doorstep of the
lodge. He leered at them as they passed.
"Parson's not well," he observed.
"Go to hell!" Tom snapped, and his listless charge
uttered no reproof.
After that neither spoke until they were back at the
Rectory. Tom had taken complete command. He left
the bicycle propped against a fence, and praying that
Mrs. Banks might be out of the way he led his uncle
into the study. The priest dropped into a chair. Tom
offered him a cigarette, then remembered that he did
not smoke. He lit one for himself and drawing up a
chair sat down. He felt very calm.
"Uncle," he said, "won't you tell me all about it?"
The priest's head was bent. He looked up at his
nephew, and the haggard face made Tom glance away
hurriedly. Then:
"You've got to tell me, Uncle Hilary," he said deter-
minedly. "You're not well, you know, and you're not
strong enough to stand alone. I wouldn't force your
confidence—you know that—but there's going to be
the very devil of a mess if you go blundering on as
you are. Do you realize, Uncle," he forced himself to
say, "that the police will be making inquiries every-
where and that you might even be suspected of the
murder of Mrs. Wharton?"
He had not meant to say quite so much. The priest
let out his breath in a long sigh, and his muscles seemed
to relax. His whole body sagged.
"Uncle!" exclaimed the boy urgently. "You were out
last night. Something happened. I—Oh, forgive me,


MARGERY DISAPPEARS 25
Uncle, I'm not really suspicious, but I must know.
Where did you go? What did you do?"
A long silence. Tom could hear the housekeeper mov-
ing about overhead. A robin sang his melancholy song
in the garden.
"I don't know," answered the priest.


CHAPTER III
ENTER RAVENHILL
Tom Manning gazed at his uncle in stupefaction.
"I don't know," repeated the priest. "I don't re-
member what happened."
"But surely," protested Tom, "you were all right
when you left here. Do you mean you lost your mem-
ory?" Then, as Hilary Starmer hesitated, "Look here,
Uncle," he went on, "you've got to tell me everything.
Why did you go out last night, and where did you go?"
The priest sighed. "I was disturbed," he said at last.
"What about?" demanded Tom. "I must know."
"It's not altogether my secret," said the priest. "How
can I—?"
"You must. There's been a murder since then," Tom
pointed out. "And someone's going to be charged with
it," he added grimly.
His uncle shivered. "Terence Wharton was up here
just before you arrived," he said weakly. "He's—he's
always brought his trouble to me. Besides—" His voice
trailed off, and his thoughts apparently wandered. Tom
roused him.
"Try to concentrate, Uncle," he urged him. "Was it
about Margery?"
26


ENTER RAVENHILL
27
Hilary Starmer looked startled. He half rose from his
chair and then fell hack.
"Sorry, Uncle," the young man said compassion-
ately. "But you're not a good actor, you know." He
looked wistfully at the priest. "Won't you forget that
I'm only a nephew," he went on, "and tell me all about
it? You—you love Margery, don't you?"
"Yes," whispered the priest, gripping the arms of his
chair. "I've loved her terribly." A new energy had come
to him. Words poured from his mouth in a torrent. "I
fell in love with her when the "Whartons first came here
. . . I was mad. I'm a priest—and besides I'm much
older than she is. It's been—hell!"
The boy nodded sympathetically.
"I fought down the love. I even scourged myself. I
avoided her and tried to cut her out of my life. But
she was there all the time. You wouldn't understand—"
"Yes, I do," Tom contradicted him. "I know what
an awful time you must have had. Rightly or wrongly
—it doesn't matter—you resolved to remain celibate."
He chose his words carefully.
The priest's eyes showed his gratitude.
"I was sure that I stood a chance, that was the
trouble," he went on. "If it'd been hopeless it would
have been easier. But although I am so much older than
she is, she did not seem—Oh, you understand. Then
young Winter appeared on the scene. He's a good fel-
low, and Margery seemed to get fond of him. Everyone
thought they'd get engaged. I hoped they would. It
would have made things easier for me." He stopped.
"Go on," prompted Tom Manning.


28 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Her father told me a month ago he was sure he'd
be able to announce the engagement soon," the priest
resumed presently. "Then last night when he came over
here—I oughtn't to tell you, Tom."
"You must. What did he tell you?"
"It was about Mrs. Wharton. He'd—he'd discovered
that she and Winter were—well, there was a liaison."
Tom remembered the rumors he had heard about her
in connection with other men. There was a particularly
unsavory story from India.
"Was he sure of it?" he asked.
"He had ample proof. And Margery knew of it, too.
I'd seen there was something wrong with her. Wharton
said he'd surprised her in the summer house that after-
noon and she—she was crying." The priest gulped. "She
wouldn't tell him what was wrong, but he guessed."
"And he came to ask your advice?" asked Tom.
"Not exactly," sighed his uncle. "He'd already made
up his mind to act. Talked about divorce. Of course, it
upset me dreadfully. I was sorry for my friend and—
and more than sorry for Margery. And we were back
where we started. Can't you see?"
"You mean," said Tom, "that you'd got to fight your
battle all over again! Yes, I understand."
He looked at his watch surreptitiously. While he lis-
tened to his uncle he was uncomfortably aware of the
fact that he was delaying his report of the murder to
The Planet.
"And last night?" he prompted gently.
"When you'd gone to bed," said the Rector wearily,
"I knew I shouldn't be able to sleep, so I went out. I


ENTER RAVENHILL
29
don't know in which direction I went, but presently
I found myself on Barrow Hill looking down upon
Redlands. I felt very queer. It seems so unfair that we
should all have to bear this trouble because a wretched
woman couldn't control herself. She—but what am I
saying? She's dead." He covered his face with his hands.
"You felt very bitter against her?" suggested Tom.
"God forgive me, I did!" groaned the priest. "Di-
vorce was no way out of the muddle for Wharton, and
it wouldn't help Margery—or me. Beside I couldn't
countenance divorce. She was making innocent people
suffer, and her life was worthless to others. Impiously I
told myself that it was better if she were dead."
"In other words that she ought to die?"
"You scourge me," whispered the priest, "but you're
right. I realized how wicked I was and hated myself
for it. Then I started to come home. A minute or two
afterwards I caught my foot in a rabbit hole and fell."
He passed his hand over his head.
"That's where you lost your hat," commented Tom.
"Eh? Did I lose it? I—"
"Well, what happened next?" asked Tom impa-
tiently.
"I must have struck my head on a stone or something,
for I don't remember what happened until I found my-
self in the drive at Redlands."
Tom could not restrain an exclamation.
"And I was coming away from the house," added
the priest somberly.
"You mean that what happened between your fall


30 MURDER FROM BEYOND
and your finding yourself in the drive is a complete
blank?"
"Yes."
Tom was frowning hard. The story was incredible,
and he knew that no jury would accept it. Besides—
"When did you sprain your hand?" he asked gently.
Horror dawned in the priest's eyes. "And she was
strangled!" he whispered. "I must have done it, then!
Oh, my God, my God!"
He rose unsteadily to his feet, gazed wildly on his
nephew and then before Tom could get to him col-
lapsed on to the floor.
For a few moments Tom's presence of mind de-
serted him. The Rector lay motionless and stiff. While
the young man stood there the front door bell rang. He
heard Mrs. Banks come down the stairs and walk along
the hall.
"Is Mr. Manning here?" asked a voice.
Ravenhill! Tom went hastily to the study door and
opened it.
"Here I am," he called.
Mrs. Banks gave a squeal of alarm. "I didn't hear
you come in," she complained.
Beyond her stood a tall thin faced young man dressed
in tweeds.
"Hullo, Manning!" he called.
"All right, Mrs. Banks," said Tom confusedly, "I'll
look after him." He looked warningly at the newcomer,
who came into the hall. Mrs. Banks retired, muttering,
and went back upstairs.
"You're for the high jump, young man," said Raven-


ENTER RAVENHILL
31
hill. "Why didn't you get a story through? Jevons is—"
He broke off. "What's wrong?" he asked in a different
tone.
"Devil of a mess," mumbled Tom Manning.
He drew his friend into the study and pointed to
the figure on the floor.
"He's had a shock," he explained inadequately.
Ravenhill went down on one knee beside the Rector.
"Stroke," he announced. "Have you sent for a doc-
tor?"
"Not yet."
Ravenhill stared. "Why not?"
"It's only just happened. Besides, he's my uncle and
host, and—and—" He thought wildly. He mustn't re-
veal the Rector's secret. "He's a friend of the Whar-
tons," he said at last.
"The woman who was murdered?"
"Well, he is a friend of her husband and daughter.
I don't know about Mrs. Wharton."
Ravenhill grunted. "Where's the 'phone?" he de-
manded.
"Isn't one."
"Well, you'll have to get a doctor—quick. There's a
bicycle propped against the fence outside. Take that
and go. Go on. Hurry, man! I'll tell the old woman.
What's her name?"
"Mrs. Banks," answered Tom Manning. Already
dominated by the other's personality he was moving
towards the door. "All right, Ravenhill," he said.
"Shan't be long."
He went out into the garden and taking the Rec-


32 MURDER FROM BEYOND
tor's cycle wheeled it onto the road and mounted. In a
few minutes he had reached the doctor's house.
Doctor Dormer was over at Redlands, he was told. He
let out an oath and was turning away when he remem-
bered the telephone.
"Will you 'phone him at once?" he asked the maid.
"Tell him that the Rector's had a stroke. He's at the
Rectory."
Then he pedalled furiously back.
Between them Ravenhill and the housekeeper had
carried the Rector to his room. He was still unconscious.
Ten minutes after Tom returned Doctor Dormer ar-
rived in his car. He quickly confirmed Ravenhill's diag-
nosis of the case. He looked very serious.
"We'll have to get a nurse," he declared. "I'll tele-
phone for one. Leave me with him now."
Mrs. Banks was tearful, and it was hard to get her
from the room, but eventually she consented to go.
Tom and Ravenhill returned to the study.
"Unless you've got anything to tell me," said Raven-
hill, "I'll get across to Redlands right away. You
haven't explained yet why you didn't get a story
through. Is he involved?" he asked directly.
Tom gulped. How damnably acute the fellow was!
"Tell me what you know," said Ravenhill quietly.
"I don't know much," he said. "Mrs. Wharton was
found dead in bed this morning—strangled. You know
that much, I suppose?"
"Yes, the local man got it from the police at West
Billington almost at once and 'phoned it through, and
I came down by the first train."


ENTER RAVENHILL
33
"It's a complicated business," Tom went on. He told
the reporter all he knew, omitting only the story of his
uncle's night excursion. He had just finished when the
doctor's voice could be heard in the hall. Tom went
and brought him into the study.
"I think he'll be all right," he announced. "What
caused him to crumple up like that?"
"Shock, I suppose," answered Tom Manning. "He'd
just been to see Wharton, and we were speaking of the
affair in here when he suddenly dropped."
The doctor looked at him suspiciously and pursed his
lips. He made no comment, however. Instead:
"Wharton's been arrested," he announced.
"What!" exclaimed Tom, and sat down suddenly,
feeling curiously weak. He sighed in relief without
realizing it.
"Yes; he's confessed," added the doctor. "I suppose
there's no harm in telling you. He quarreled with his
wife before they went to bed last night. But I mustn't
go into details."
"Did he confess to murdering her?" asked Ravenhill.
"Didn't I say he did?" snapped the doctor.
"No," said Ravenhill. "You said he'd confessed;
that's all."
"I don't see any difference. And of course I don't
know what he told Inspector Service."
"When did she die, Doctor?"
"She'd been dead about seven hours when I saw her
body at nine o'clock."
"That means she died at two o'clock. Did they go to
bed late?"


34 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"My dear Sir, Fm a doctor, not a detective. How
should I know?"
Ravenhill shrugged his shoulders.
"You'll hold an autopsy, of course," he said.
"It is usual," said the doctor, "though it'll scarcely
be necessary in this case. Death was plainly due to heart
failure consequent upon strangulation."
"A clear case as far as you're concerned, Doctor.
Unless they went to bed late, Wharton apparently got
up at two o'clock and went and murdered his wife in
cold blood. Extraordinary crime for a country gen-
tleman to commit. ... By the way, Doctor, do you
know a man named Spence—Rufus Spence?"
"The poacher? I know of him. Why?"
"Very observant man and, of course, a night bird. I
just wanted to verify his name, that's all. There's some-
one at Redlands named Winter, isn't there?"
"I don't know why you should ask me all these ques-
tions, Sir," retorted the doctor irritably.
"A reporter's privilege," answered Ravenhill. "But
you haven't answered me."
"Mr. Winter is Miss Wharton's fiance," said the doc-
tor stiffly. "And he's staying at Redlands. Why?"
Ravenhill ignored the question. "Well, I must get
along up to the house," he said.
Tom had listened to the little duel between doctor
and reporter with some surprise, but the predominant
feeling in his mind was one of relief. Wharton had con-
fessed to the murder, and it took place at approximately
two o'clock. Thus even if Wharton's confession did not
prove his guilt—as Ravenhill had seemed to suggest—


ENTER RAVENHILL
3 J
the time of the crime cleared the Rector. The Rector
had been indoors just after half-past twelve, and Tom
was positive that he had not gone out again. There was
no need now, therefore, for complete secrecy.
"Ravenhill," he whispered, "I didn't tell you every-
thing."
"I know," answered the reporter. "But it'll keep. I
mustn't wait here any longer. Will you be here when I
return? I may have to stay a few days," he hinted.
"You can stay here," said Tom. "The Rector would
be delighted."
The doctor was writing when he returned to the
study. He looked up at Tom.
"I don't like your friend," he said. "Impertinent
young man."
"Anthony Ravenhill's the cleverest crime-reporter in
London," Tom defended his friend warmly.
The doctor's face was comic. "Why didn't he tell me
who he was?" he demanded. "If I'd known he was
Anthony Ravenhill I'd—"
"Why should he tell you?" answered Tom stiffly.
"What about my uncle?"
"The nurse should be here at any time," said Dr.
Dormer. "I sent the garden boy with a message to my
wife to 'phone the Cottage Hospital. Mrs. Banks is with
the Rector now."
"Doctor," said Tom Manning abruptly, "do you be-
lieve that Wharton killed his wife?"
"Hasn't he confessed it? Between you and me, Man-
ning, the case is as clear as day, only I didn't want to
say so in front of your friend. Mrs. Wharton had been


36 MURDER FROM BEYOND
carrying on with young Winter almost all the time he's
been down here. Everybody knew it—except Wharton.
But he must have discovered it at last. Starr, the butler,
told the Inspector that there was a violent quarrel in
Mrs. Wharton's bedroom last night."
"What I can't understand," said Tom, "is what has
become of Margery."
"Ah!" commented the doctor. "There was no love
lost between her and her stepmother."
"Stepmother!" exclaimed Tom. "But I'd always un-
derstood that Mrs. Wharton was her mother."
"That's what most people think," chuckled the doc-
tor, as though the matter were amusing.
Tom heard the squeak of brakes and the hoot of a
motor horn.
"That's the nurse, I expect," said the doctor. "I'll
just go and have a look at my patient again. Show the
nurse to the Rector's room, will you?"
Tom followed him out of the room and went to the
front door, opening it just as a figure ran up the steps.
It was Margery!


CHAPTER IV
THE SECOND CRIME
Tom was too amazed to speak. A second car pulling up
at that moment gave him respite. A nurse alighted and
came up the path.
"I want to see the Rector," said Margery in a tense
voice.
"Come into the study," he answered her and led her
along the hall. "I shan't be a minute," he told her as he
opened the door. She went inside and he ran back and
escorted the nurse to his uncle's room. Then he returned
to Margery.
"Where is the Rector?" she demanded. She had not
sat down.
"He's had a stroke," Tom replied simply.
The girl gave a pathetic little moan and held onto a
chair.
"Can I help?" asked the young man putting out his
hand to support her. "Won't you sit down? Why do
you want to see my Uncle?"
She sat down and looked up at him, her eyes tired and
miserable. "Oh, Tom," she exclaimed wearily, "what
does it all mean?"
Tom suddenly remembered that her father had been
arrested. Did she know? Did she even know of the mur-
der? Where had she come from?
37


38 MURDER FROM BEYOND
She looked so pathetic that he could ask no ques-
tions.
"I saw about it in the paper," she said. "Is it true?"
"Yes; your stepmother's dead," answered Tom. He
thought it best to be direct.
"Stepmother!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean?
She was my mother."
Tom, as surprised as she was, could not help noticing
the new look on her face. It was one of relief. And he
was puzzled. That pompous, obstinate doctor was not
exactly an accurate man, but surely he would not say
anything of which he was not reasonably certain. Per-
haps it was only a silly rumor. After all, the Whartons
had been at Stanmead but a short time, and the doctor
was not likely to be a friend of Wharton's. Not his sort
at all. They'd probably never done more than pass the
time of day.
"I'm sorry, Margery," he apologized awkwardly. "I
made a mistake."
"But where did you—? What made you say that?"
she insisted.
He had to tell her. She looked somehow disappointed.
"Doctor Dormer's no right to start such a ridiculous
rumor," she said in a queer voice.
It suddenly occurred to him that she had made no
further inquiry about the Rector.
"Why did you want to see my uncle?" he asked.
"He—" She stopped. "Are you very fond of your
uncle?" she asked.
"Of course," he answered, bewildered. "He was my
guardian. He— But I don't understand, Margery."


THE SECOND CRIME
39
"Has he told you anything?"
"Won't you explain what you mean?" he countered.
A vague fear made him cautious.
Her weariness had gone. She was leaning forward,
and her eyes sought an answer. This girl of twenty had
suddenly become compelling. She was a woman with a
definite purpose who was "sounding" him—a man of
the world. The metamorphosis from the pleasure-loving,
irresponsible girl whom he had known was more than
his experience contained. Yet his ingenuousness re-
stricted her advantage.
"Look here," he exclaimed boyishly. "There's no rea-
son why you and I should be secretive. I don't know
what you're getting at, Margery. Put your cards on the
table, and I will mine—if I've got any."
She regarded him soberly. "You don't suspect me of
—you know?" she said, her voice faltering a little.
"Good God! Of course not."
She flushed at his vehemence.
"I suppose you weren't in your uncle's confidence?"
she went on, and before he could answer, "No; he
wouldn't tell anyone. I know that he is my father's
friend, and my father probably told him most things."
Tom could not see her motive. She was talking very
strangely, considering everything.
"You think me queer," she said, as though she had
guessed his thought. "My mother has apparently been
murdered, and yet I can sit here and talk about things
calmly. I haven't even been over to the house yet to
see—her." Her attitude was defiant. "Need I explain?"


40 MURDER FROM BEYOND
She seemed melodramatic, and yet he knew that she
was not.
"I think I understand," he said awkwardly.
"The paper I saw this morning said that my mother
had been murdered—strangled," she continued in a
low voice. "It also said that I was missing and that my
—my fiance and Father had no idea where I was. By
fiance they meant Vivian Winter, but we're not en-
gaged."
There were tears in her eyes now—indignant tears,
Tom thought.
"Where were you?" he asked.
She appeared disconcerted, but she answered frankly.
"In London. I left home at about quarter to twelve last
night and got to London at three o'clock. I put up at
Weston's Hotel in Grosvenor Road. I sent a wire yes-
terday telling them I was coming."
Tom was trying to fit things together.
"When I left the house I saw the Rector in the gar-
den on a seat," she said abruptly.
Tom started. He felt suddenly sick.
"Now you can see why I've come here," she said.
"He didn't do it," he whispered.
"Oh, Tom," she exclaimed, and laughed hysterically.
It was the first sign of emotion that she had shown.
"Did you think that I thought that of Hilary Starmer?"
Shamed, Tom could only reply unintelligibly.
"I came here first of all to warn him to say nothing
about his being there," she explained. "The police
wouldn't—wouldn't understand."
"He doesn't know he was there," Tom declared.


THE SECOND CRIME
41
"He'd had a fall earlier and lost his memory or some-
thing. He came to, to find himself in the drive."
"But he spoke to—" Margery flushed and stopped.
Tom stared at her, horror-struck.
"Spoke to you?" he muttered. "But—"
Which was he to believe, his uncle or Margery? The
choice was impossible. And he saw by Margery's face
that a hideous fear was born in her. Then she shook her
head defiantly as though to expel the thought.
"Tom," she said, "let's trust him, even if we don't
understand."
She was wonderful. Surely she loved him! Yet the
thought made him limp. And the cynical journalist in
him told him that she did not yet know of her father's
arrest. When she did would she still stand by the priest?
He heard footsteps in the hall. The doctor! He'd for-
gotten all about him.
"You don't want to be seen, do you?" he asked the
girl quietly. "I mean, you'd rather not be questioned?"
She too had heard the footsteps. She looked a little
frightened. Tom went quickly to the door, opened it
and passed into the hall, shutting the door behind him.
"The nurse'll manage all right," said Doctor Dormer.
"I'll look in again later on. Expect I shall be busy with
the post-mortem this afternoon, though. By the way,"
he added, "tell your newspaper friend that he can
count on me to help him as far as I can—as far as I can.
Good-bye."
Tom let the doctor out and went back to the study.
He had had time to think, and as soon as he sat down
he asked a question.


42 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Why did you go away like that?"
"Because I couldn't stand any more," she answered
without hesitation. "I've got a little money of my own,
and I'm twenty-one." She looked at him defiantly. "Do
you blame me!"
"I don't know the circumstances," he pointed out.
"Even if I'd any right to—" He paused. No; that
sounded stilted.
Margery's face was flushed. "Life at Redlands has
been— terrible these last few weeks," she explained
vaguely. "I couldn't stand any more, so I made up my
mind to go."
Then she did love Winter! Obviously she was refer-
ring to her mother's liaison with the man. Somewhat
chilled, Tom resumed his questioning.
"But why did you go secretly?"
"How can I make you understand? I feared that if
I told Daddy he would plead with me not to go, and I
couldn't have resisted him." Her eyes filled with tears.
"Margery," said Tom earnestly, "don't you see that
the police are bound to be suspicious about it? It was
a coincidence, wasn't it? For heaven's sake don't think
I'm suspecting you!" he exclaimed quickly as her face
paled. "How could I? Besides, it wasn't really a coinci-
dence," he corrected himself. "Things had come to a
climax."
She looked at him, puzzled.
"I mean," he exclaimed, "you couldn't stand any
more, and your father—" He stopped suddenly con-
scious that he was about to voice his belief in Wharton's


THE SECOND CRIME
43
guilt. And he didn't believe that, even though Whar-
ton was supposed to have confessed.
He saw dawning comprehension in the girl's eyes,
and his brain worked furiously.
"What do you mean?" she asked faintly.
She had to know sooner or later. "Your father has
made a statement," he said, looking away from her.
"He's—he's confessed."
"Confessed!" she whispered incredulously. "But he
didn't do it. Oh, Tom, they don't think he did it, do
they?"
She looked terribly ill, and her eyes were big with
fear. He suddenly got up from his chair and went and
put an arm round her shoulders.
"Don't look like that, Margery," he pleaded. "It'll all
come right. Of course, your father isn't guilty, and
he'll be cleared. There, don't cry," he continued awk-
wardly, his arm tightening about her. He had sunk onto
one knee beside her before he realized what he was
doing.
She cried against his shoulder, while he racked his
brain for a means of comforting her. If her father
were not guilty there was the awful alternative that
his uncle was—so far as he with his limited data could
determine.
"It's bound to come right," he said desperately.
"There are few miscarriages of justice nowadays. Look
here, let's go to Redlands and see Ravenhill—I've told
you about him, haven't I? He's gone to make enquiries."
"But—but what can he do?" she sobbed. "Oh, poor
Daddy! Is he—in prison?"


44 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"I don't know," Tom answered. "Come, dry your
eyes, and let's go. I'll go and see my uncle, first."
He left her and went along the passage. Knocking
lightly at the door of his uncle's room, he opened it and
looked inside. The nurse who was bending over her
patient turned round, and put a finger to her lips. Mrs.
Banks was standing beside her.
"How is he?" Tom asked.
"Asleep," the nurse answered briefly.
He shut the door and rejoined Margery. She had
dried her eyes and was ready to leave, though obviously
she was very nervous. Circumstances had changed con-
siderably during the last half hour as far as she was
concerned.
Several villagers stood round her car when the two
left the house.
"There she is!" one called out.
She shrank^ back. Tom slipped an arm through hers
and whispered to her not to be alarmed. Apparently
the villagers were not unanimous in their feelings
towards her, neither were they sufficiently bold to make
a demonstration. Tom helped his companion into the
car and took the wheel himself.
A few minutes later the car entered the drive at Red-
lands and Tom drove slowly up to the house. A con-
stable came down the steps. When he saw Margery his
mouth opened as though he would say something; it
remained open. He was plainly puzzled as to what to do.
"Where's Inspector Service?" asked Tom.
"With one of the gents from London," answered the


THE SECOND CRIME 45
constable. "Over there." He pointed vaguely west-
ward.
Tom supposed he meant a detective, and wondered.
Evidently the case was not as clear as the doctor had
suggested.
"What'll you do?" Tom asked the girl.
"Go to my room," she answered. She opened the door
of the car and got out. "Would you mind putting the
car in the garage?" She smiled wanly. "You've been
awfully good, Tom."
She hesitated a moment, her hands nervously screw-
ing her handkerchief. Then without another word she
ran up the steps and entered the house.
Tom drove the car round the back of the house
and garaged it, and then returned to the constable.
"What's happened?" he asked bluntly. "I mean, are
there any developments?"
The policeman looked at him doubtfully. "Mr. Whar-
ton's been arrested," he said at length, "and they've
taken the body over to the mortuary at West Billing-
ton."
"Do you know Mr. Ravenhill?" Tom described him
briefly.
"That's the man with the Inspector, Sir," said the
constable at once. "They're somewhere in that wood."
He pointed again to the west.
Tom set off across the park, towards the wood, his
thoughts obsessed with the memory of Margery as he
had last seen her. Poor girl! She was in for a bad time,
he reflected. He had given her to understand that he
believed in her father's innocence, yet in view of the


46 MURDER FROM .BEYOND
knowledge which he possessed he could not but believe
Wharton to be guilty. If Wharton were roused to pas-
sionate anger, he was the sort of man who might kill.
It was well-known that Mrs. Wharton had had no re-
gard for common decency. Wharton had been long-
suffering, but the last "affair" in which the man who
was commonly supposed would soon be his son-in-law
was involved had been too much. Tom could picture
the quarrel, could see Wharton, goaded beyond endur-
ance, take his wife by the throat. Perhaps he had meant
merely to frighten her and had underestimated his own
strength. . . . Poor Margery! She—
Tom's train of thought came to an abrupt end, and
he halted. Without his realizing it he had been follow-
ing a path. At his feet lay a clerical hat.
His heart thumped and blood roared in his ears, but
somehow he managed to retain his presence of mind. In
all probability he was watched, perhaps from the house,
perhaps from the wood. He put his hand in his pocket
and brought out his cigarette case from which he ex-
tracted a cigarette. Then, looking with apparent idle-
ness round the landscape he put the cigarette between
his lips and the case slipped from his hand. He bent
down and parted the grass at the side of the path as
though searching for it. At the same time with his
other hand he screwed the clerical hat into as small
a compass as possible, picked up the cigarette case and
returned it to his waistcoat pocket. The hat found its
way into his breast pocket.
It was not a brilliant effort at deception but if he
were watched but perfunctorily it would serve.


THE SECOND CRIME
47
Then he continued his way to the wood.
He found Ravenhill and Inspector Service sitting on
a fallen tree and smoking.
"This is my colleague on The Vianet" Ravenhill in-
troduced him to the Inspector, "and the Rector's
nephew."
Tom shook hands.
"How is the Rector?" asked the Inspector.
"He's sleeping now," said Tom briefly, wondering
how much the policeman knew.
"Was that Miss Wharton you brought to the house
with you?" asked Ravenhill laconically.
Tom was aware of the Inspector's close scrutiny.
"Yes," he answered. "She'd been to London and came
back as soon as she heard the news."
Ravenhill nodded. Tom was acutely conscious of the
hat in his pocket. Evidently the two had been watching
the house and must have seen his approach to the wood.
"Did she say why she parked her car in this wood
last night?" queried the Inspector casually.
Tom was startled. "I didn't know she had," he an-
swered. "How do you know?"
Ravenhill knocked out the ashes from his pipe. "She
took the car out at eight-thirty last night, returned
without it at ten o'clock and told Hammett, the chauf-
feur, that she had had a breakdown and had left the
car at a garage at West Billington where he was to call
for it in the morning. Some time after eleven o'clock
and before eleven-thirty she left the house, picked up
the car here and drove away—to London, I suppose.
Isn't that right, Inspector?"


48 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Seems like it," grunted Service.
"But how do you know that?" asked Tom bewil-
dered.
"She left enough clues," chuckled Ravenhill. "You
can see where the car stood at the edge of the wood.
It was backed in off the road over there and driven
out the same way. Length and width and a patch on
the near front tire prove it to be hers. Starr, the butler,
shut up the house at eleven o'clock, and the French win-
dow of the drawing room was found open by Winter,
Miss Wharton's fiance—"
"They're not engaged," said Tom quickly.
Ravenhill raised his eyebrows. "Well, engaged or not,
he found the French window open at eleven-thirty."
"What was he doing at eleven-thirty?" asked Tom
suspiciously.
"He came down for a book which he'd left In the
drawing room. Couldn't sleep," he said.
"But why should Margery—Miss Wharton—go out
by the French window?"
"Because the front-door bolts are squeaky."
"She only went because she couldn't stand any more,"
said Tom inconsequently. Then, "Is it true that Whar-
ton has confessed?"
"Yes," answered the Inspector.
"Then why are you still investigating?"
"We're not," the policeman pointed out, grinning.
"We're smoking and enjoying the view."
Tom frowned. How could the man be so flippant
when murder had been done and the Law would de-
mand a life in return?


THE SECOND CRIME 49
"What about this fellow Winter?" Tom asked for
no reason whatsoever.
Neither Ravenhill nor the Inspector answered. Both
were looking intently towards the drive. Tom followed
their gaze. A figure moved away from the house down
the drive. It began to run; at the same moment a gun-
shot sounded. The figure crumpled up and fell.


CHAPTER V
THE WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT
The watchers began to run towards the man who lay
on the drive. Ravenhill suddenly altered his direction
so that his objective appeared to be the continuation of
the wood which they had just left and which went in
a half circle round the house and finished at the main
road.
In a couple of minutes Tom and the Inspector
reached the casualty. The constable was already there
bending over him. The man was lying on his face.
"Shot in the back, Sir," he reported. "It's Mr. Win-
ter."
The Inspector bent down and made a quick examina-
tion. "Bandage him up and bring him along," he com-
manded curtly. He stood up; then without another
word he began to run towards the house.
Tom, bending over Winter, thought at first that he
was dead, but he found that the pulse in his wrist was
still beating faintly.
"We'd better get him inside at once," he told the
constable. He looked round and then pointed to the
side of the road where a hurdle had been stuck in the
turf apparently to divert pedestrians from a worn path.
"See if you can get that thing up," he commanded.
The hurdle was easily wrenched from the turf. The
50


52 MURDER FROM BEYOND
first aid, Gundridge," he said to the constable. "Stop
that bleeding if you can."
Laboriously the wounded man was carried upstairs.
As soon as he had been put upon his bed and the con-
stable was attending to him, Tom came down again.
Margery stood where he had left her, her hand to her
mouth.
"What does it mean?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "Where is he?" he asked, mean-
ing the Inspector.
She did not answer, but instead seized his arm.
"Did you know they'd taken my—my father away?"
she demanded in a whisper.
He stammered something.
"If he is guilty," she went on tensely, "why—how
came Mr. Winter to be shot?"
It was a shrewd question. But Wharton had confessed
to murdering his wife—so report said.
Tom became aware of several servants standing in
the shadow of the staircase. "Let's find Ravenhill," he
said, drawing the girl to the front door.
"No one is to leave," the Inspector commanded. He
was standing at the study door.
"But surely—" began Tom, and then realized the
futility of argument.
The Inspector looked along the hall towards the
group of servants. "I want all the servants in here,
please," he said crisply, pointing to the room they had
just left.
Four frightened women and a boy came awkwardly
along the hall.


THE WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT 53
"Is anyone absent?" demanded the Inspector.
"Mr. Starr and the chauffeur—Mr. Hammett—Sir,"
said one of the women.
"Starr's upstairs," commented Inspector Service.
"Where's the chauffeur?"
"He went out to look after Miss Margery's car," said
the boy.
"Go and tell him I want him, then. The rest of you
come in here."
The boy disappeared. The others filed into the study.
"Why am I to be detained, Inspector?" asked Mar-
gery coldly.
"Sorry, Miss Wharton," answered the policeman. "I
can't make exceptions, can I? Mr. Winter's just been
shot. Someone shot him, and that someone may be in
the house. I want you to show me over the place while
Mr.—" he looked doubtfully at Tom, who supplied his
name.
"—Mr. Manning remains here—on guard, if he likes
to put it so." He jerked his head meaningly towards the
servants in the study.
"Very well," assented Margery.
Tom was left alone with his thoughts. So much had
happened since he went to bed the previous night that
he was unable to think clearly. Two crimes had been
committed, several people had behaved in a very strange
and suspicious way, one had confessed to perpetrating
the first crime and had been arrested, yet a second crime
had followed almost immediately. That the two crimes
were connected he could not doubt. Murder and at-
tempted murder were not such commonplace events


54 MURDER FROM BEYOND
that he could entertain the idea that the one crime had
no connection with the other. The strange part about
the whole affair was that Wharton undoubtedly killed
his wife because of her liaison with Winter and that
human passion might cause him to kill Winter too, but
obviously Wharton could not be guilty of the second
crime—unless he had escaped from custody, which was
unlikely. It was a possibility, though. Tom wondered
whether it had occurred to the Inspector.
And why had Service made Margery show him over
the house? He must have been over it before, earlier in
the day. Did he suspect Margery?
The thought made him shiver, but hard on top of
it came the realization that she was involved. Was she
not popularly supposed to be engaged to Winter? And
might not the Inspector argue that if she had loved him,
jealousy of his "affair" with her mother provided mo-
tive for her attempting to kill him.
The situation was horribly bizarre and yet horribly
possible, considering the extent to which human pas-
sion could carry a person.
Tom realized that his thoughts were running away
with him. First he had suspected his uncle; now he was
suspecting Margery. Suspecting Margery! The thought
made him feel limp. Of course, she was innocent. She
had never loved Winter.
The hall was oppressively hot. Tom eased his collar
and began to pace up and down. A knock on the front
door made him pause. He hesitated. The knock was
repeated impatiently. He opened the door. Ravenhifl
stepped inside.


THE WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT 55
"Where's the Inspector?" he demanded.
Tom told him. Ravenhill went to the foot of the
stairs and called. Tom was startled to see that he held
an automatic pistol by the muzzle, his hand wrapped
in his handkerchief.
The Inspector, closely followed by Margery, came
downstairs. The reporter held up the pistol.
"Here's the gun," he said in a low voice. "The man
made off through the kitchen garden and threw it away
as he ran."
"Did you see him?" demanded Service.
"No, but you can see the way he went—footprints.
Tall man, judging by his stride."
Ravenhill laid the pistol gingerly on the hall table,
and the Inspector bent over it. But only for a second.
"We'd better get outside," he said. "Wish I had some
more men here. Oughtn't to have sent 'em back." He
packed the automatic in his handkerchief and put it in
his breast pocket. "I'll go up and give the constable in-
structions," he went on. "Will you 'phone up the sta-
tion—West Billington 004—and tell the sergeant to
send up a couple of men at once to report to me here?
Miss Wharton, I won't detain you any longer."
"And the servants?" she asked.
"I don't want them at present."
He wasted no more time but ran swiftly up the stairs.
He was down within a couple of minutes.
"Good man, Gundridge," he said. "He's stopped
the bleeding."
"What's happened to the doctor?" asked Tom.


56 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Gone to the mortuary, I expect. . . . Now then,
Mr. Ravenhill, are you ready?"
Tom asked permission to accompany them. With
apparent reluctance the Inspector consented.
Ravenhill led them round the house to the kitchen
garden.
"He came from the wood," he. said pointing to the
nearest of the trees. "His footprints show practically
everything that he did. I'll show you afterwards. I take
it you want to get after him now?" he asked, looking at
the Inspector.
Service nodded.
"There's his trail," said Ravenhill, pointing to a heel
mark in the mould. "Went right through the cabbages
to the wicket gate. Incidentally he came in that way."
Keeping to one side of the footprints the three went
quickly towards the gate.
"That's where I found the pistol," said Ravenhill.
"It'd broken off a cabbage leaf and was lying just be-
yond it. See the leaf?"
Outside the garden the stiff grass held no tracks. The
nearest part of the wood was but thirty yards away.
By common consent the three crossed the stretch of
grass.
"He's unarmed now," panted the Inspector as he
ran. "That means he doesn't contemplate suicide and
he's counting on getting away—otherwise he'd have
kept the pistol."
At the edge of the wood they halted, looking for
tracks. It was Tom who found one in the soft mud of
a stream.


THE WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT 57
"He's crossed here," commented Service.
Ravenhill had leapt the brook and was bending over
the ground. "Here they are," he called. "He's making
a bee-line for somewhere. What's in that direction?"
pointing due north-west.
"Let's see—that'd be Daincey Green. Woods all the
way, too."
"That means he knows the locality, doesn't it?" asked
Tom shyly.
"Good for you!" the Inspector complimented him.
"Is there a railway station there, Inspector?" asked
Ravenhill.
"No; there's no station this way for six miles. There's
a 'bus service from Worthing, though. Goes to Ror-
sham. I don't know what time it gets to Daincey."
"Let's hurry," urged Ravenhill.
But there were no more footprints to be found, or at
least the pursuers could not afford time to cast round
for tracks. And it was safe to assume that the fugitive
was making for Daincey Green. He must not be allowed
to get to the omnibus stop or he might get clean away.
He had only to travel a short distance, alight and take
to the open country again, to be lost completely. A con-
siderable time must elapse before the pursuers could get
a car to follow the 'bus.
The Inspector was heavily built and middle-aged.
The pace was too much for him, and soon they had to
slow down to a fast walk. In the last half mile to the
village he was showing signs of considerable distress.
A few loungers stood in the village street. Evidently
they recognized the policeman.


58 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"What time does the 'bus arrive, Bill?" he called to
one of them.
"It's gone," the man answered. "'Bout quarter of an
hour ago. There ain't another till 'arf arfter two."
The Inspector swore fluently. "Did anyone board her
here?" he asked.
"Ay. Old Missus Newpenny and a Londoner."
"How do you know he was a Londoner?"
"'Cos he looked like one an' 'e spoke like one. You
aren't arter him, Mr. Service, be you?"
"What did he say?" demanded the Inspector.
"Oh, 'e on'y asked the conductor if he were goin' to
'Orsham."
"Tall man?"
"He were that. Tall as you be, Mr. Service."
"I'll have to follow," whispered Service to his com-
panions as they turned away. "Let's see. The 'bus'll be
nearing Partridge Green. Too late to have it stopped
there. I'll get on the 'phone, anyhow. Then I must get
hold of a car. What about you?"
"I think we'll get back to Stanmead," said Ravenhill.
"I've a 'story' to get off."
The Inspector looked at him keenly.
"Besides," Ravenhill continued, "there's—" And then
he stopped and a queer look came into his face. "You'd
better hurry, Inspector," he suggested. "That 'bus isn't
standing still, you know."
Service hesitated, evidently puzzled by the reporter's
manner. Then:
"Well, so long," he said, and went across the road to
the post office.


THE WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT 59
Ravenhill watched him go; then he turned to his
companion.
"Manning," he said quietly, "what are you doing with
that clerical hat?"
Guiltily Tom looked down. His uncle's hat had
worked partly out of his breast pocket and showed
above the roll collar of his coat.
"Was that what you picked up when you dropped
your cigarette case?" demanded Ravenhill. "I won-
dered what it was." His face looked grave. "Do you
know, Manning," he said, "that Winter said he saw the
Rector prowling about the grounds last night?"
"Winter did?" faltered Tom.
"When he found the French window open he went
outside. The moon was nearly full. He decided to take a
turn round the garden. . . . Here, let's get along. We're
attracting attention."
He seized his companion's arm and started to walk
him the way they had come. Outside the village and in
the shelter of the wood he stopped and lit his pipe.
"There were a surprising number of people prowling
about last night," he said. "There was Winter. He re-
ported having seen the Rector going along the drive
away from the house—and hatless. There was Miss
Wharton. There was Wharton himself. There was Starr,
the butler. And, unless I'm a very poor 'crime mer-
chant' there was the man who shot Winter and another
who crouched in the bushes. There was rain yesterday,
and the tracks of the last two are plain enough."
He started to walk on again. Tom, his heart pound-
ing, fell into step.


60 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"I know practically nothing," Tom said presently.
"Well, here's a rough resume," said Ravenhill. "Whar-
ton has confessed that he quarreled with his wife about
Winter at about eleven-fifteen. At first he said nothing
of taking her by the throat. He said he went to bed
but could not sleep and that at twelve-thirty remorse
for the quarrel made him go to her room. Just before
he had heard a sound but had attached no importance
to it. He got to her room and found her asleep, as he
assumed. When he left the room he saw Starr, the but-
ler, in the passage with an overcoat over his pyjamas.
The man said he'd been aroused by a noise. They
searched the house and found the French window open.
Starr said that he'd shut it at eleven-thirty. They saw
nothing else amiss, however, and went to bed. After-
wards when he was hard pressed, Wharton said that
in the quarrel with his wife—she was in bed, by the
way—he flew into a passion and seized her by the
throat. When he left her he did not know that he had
killed her, and even when he returned at twelve-thirty
he did not realize that she was dead. He—"
"But surely he could have seen?"
Ravenhill drew hard at his pipe. "The murder isn't
so clear as it seems," he said. "For one thing the doctor
says that Mrs. Wharton died at two o'clock—two and
a half hours after Wharton says he took her by the
throat. For another, there are all those people in the
grounds and house, prowling about—Miss Wharton,
Starr, Winter, the Rector, the man who shot Winter
and another unknown; and the queer thing is, Man-
ning, they all seem to have been watching each other!"


CHAPTER VI
THE HYPODERMIC SYRINGE
On the way back to Redlands Tom Manning told
Ravenhill a good deal of what his uncle had revealed
to him. But he did not mention the sprained hand. He
was at pains to point out what time the Rector had
returned and that Mrs. Wharton, according to the
medical evidence, had been killed about two o'clock.
"Besides," he added, "Wharton has confessed."
As he said it, he remembered Margery. Somehow he
had been talking of her father as being someone apart
from her altogether. Supposing he were convicted—
as he must be since he would undoubtedly plead guilty.
To say that Margery would suffer terribly was bathos.
Tom found that he was considering whom he would
rather see convicted—his uncle or Margery's father.
The choice was terrible. He sweated, torturing himself
with such thoughts, as though what he preferred mat-
tered either way. It seemed so callous, too, to consider
the matter like that.
"You forget," Ravenhill pointed out quietly, "that
Wharton says he killed her at about half-past eleven."
"Perhaps she didn't die at once." Tom licked his dry
lips. "Or perhaps the doctor made a mistake."
"He's unlikely to in a matter like that," returned
Ravenhill. "It's astounding how exact doctors can be in
61


62
MURDER FROM BEYOND
estimating the time of death—provided the body is
found soon enough, of course."
Tom was silent. He felt very weary. Ravenhill
seemed to notice it.
"Here, let's rest for a bit," he suggested, pointing to
a fallen tree. "I'd like to talk, too."
They sat down, and Ravenhill re-lit his pipe.
"Wharton's confession complicates the case rather
than makes it simple," he observed presently. "Listen.
Winter asked Miss Wharton to go to the theatre at
Worthing with him last night. She refused. There'd
been a quarrel about something, I fancy—possibly in
connection with Mrs. Wharton. Winter took Mrs.
Wharton instead."
He sucked hard at his pipe. "I'm going to tell you
the story as I pieced it together," he went on. "The
Worthing theatre's a two-shows-a-night place, and the
pair went to the first performance, leaving at nine
o'clock. On the way back Winter, who was driving
Wharton's car, stopped it in the shadow of Long Wood.
That's the one that goes round the house, isn't it?"
"Yes; it makes a half circle."
"They were seen there in each other's arms."
"Who saw them?" demanded Tom.
"Rufus Spence."
"The poacher! I know him. But he's an out-and-out
ruffian. He—"
"He had no reason to lie in this instance," observed
Ravenhill mildly. "Moreover, by speaking about it he
reveals that he was in that wood last night, probably
poaching. He says he saw them about ten o'clock. The


THE HYPODERMIC SYRINGE 63
pair arrived at Redlands at half-past ten or thereabouts.
Miss Wharton had gone to her room and Wharton was
in his study. The pair had a supper of biscuits and cheese
and wine in the dining room, and Starr gave them some
coffee. Mrs. Wharton retired to her room about eleven
o'clock, and soon Winter went to his. Starr locked up
for the night. He says he heard sounds of quarreling
in Mrs. Wharton's room—Wharton and Mrs. Wharton,
for he recognized the voices—but, as he says, it was no
business of his. We can guess what the quarrel was
about—Winter. Wharton himself acknowledges that."
Ravenhill re-lit his pipe, which had gone out.
"When Wharton was first questioned he admitted
quarreling with his wife. Then, he said, he went to his
room. Some time after he heard a thud, but concluding
that Starr was still locking up the house he took no
notice. But he had cooled down now, and had begun
to feel remorseful. He went to his wife's room, knocked
and went inside and switched on the light. He spoke to
her, but she appeared to be asleep and so, not wanting
to disturb her, he switched off the light and went out-
side—where he found Starr in an overcoat over his
pyjamas. He, himself, by the way, was in a dressing
gown. Starr said he'd been aroused by a noise and was
on a tour of inspection. Wharton went with him.
Downstairs they found the French window of the draw-
ing room open. They looked outside but saw no one,
and so they locked the window and continued their
search. Later they went to their rooms, Wharton satis-
fied that Starr had forgotten to close the French win-
dow when he shut up the house for the night."


64 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Yes, but if Wharton afterwards confessed that he
killed his wife then all that isn't true," protested Tom.
"I'm coming to that. It was when Inspector Service
was questioning him about details that Wharton sud-
denly broke down and said that he'd been driven into
a passion when he quarreled with his wife and seized her
by the throat. He—"
"When Starr heard them quarreling?" Tom asked
quickly.
"Yes. . . . The second occasion he had gone to her
room he had found her dead."
"And Starr met him as he was coming out of her
room?"
"Exactly. . . . Now, let's return to the French win-
dow. It was Miss Wharton, of course, who left it open
when she left to go to London. She went that way be-
cause the bolts of the front door squeak, and because
when the back door's locked the key is with Starr. Not
very long after she went, Winter found he couldn't
sleep and went down to retrieve a book which he'd left
in the drawing room that afternoon. Finding the draw-
ing room window open he went out to investigate. He
thought he heard someone in the garden and made a
search. The moon was nearly full, but he found no
one there. Presently, however, he saw the Rector, hat-
less, come from the shadow of the house and make off
down the drive."
Tom felt suddenly sick. "Go on," he whispered.
"He followed a little way; then he changed his mind
and returned—to find the French window shut. It had
been shut, of course, by Wharton and Starr. As we can


THE HYPODERMIC SYRINGE 65
understand, Winter was in a dilemma. Finally he de-
cided to get into his room by climbing on to the garage
roof and entering his own window."
"But was that the natural thing to do?" asked Tom.
"It's hard to say. After all, remember that, if Winter
is speaking the truth, he knew nothing of what had
happened inside the house, so that he did not realize
that his act might seem suspicious. As a matter of fact,
he made no bones about it, when he told his story—
said frankly he'd got into the house that way. Anyhow,
the next stage of the drama was when the parlormaid,
Nancy Beamish—Mrs. Wharton hadn't a maid of her
own—took tea into her mistress at seven o'clock."
"Very early, wasn't it?"
"Apparently they were early birds. Effect of having
lived in India, I suppose. . . . She found Mrs. Wharton
didn't answer her calls and when she touched her to try
and waken her she—well, she bolted for Starr. Mrs.
Wharton was dead, of course. What happened after that
isn't important. What is important is the fact that
Wharton says he left his wife about half-past eleven
whereas the doctor says she died nearly three hours
later. Also there are all those people wandering about
the house and grounds when they ought to have been
in bed. Now on top of that comes the attempted mur-
der of Winter by an unknown person who has appar-
ently not entered the case at all until now. Are the two
crimes connected, or are they a coincidence?"
He rapped out the dottle from his pipe and stood up.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get a move on. I must
telegraph another story through to The Planet."


66 MURDER FROM BEYOND
They had not far to go before they reached the edge
of the wood overlooking Redlands—just in time to see
an ambulance disappearing round the drive.
"Hullo!" commented Ravenhill. "They've taken
"Winter away." He jumped across the brook, and as he
steadied himself on the other side he gave a gasp of as-
tonishment and pointed to a bramble. A shred of cloth
hung upon it.
"Here's a find!" he exclaimed exultantly. "But how
did we miss it before? Too intent upon footprints, I
suppose. We're worse than amateurs."
"But this isn't the spot where we crossed before,"
Tom pointed out. "That's lower down."
Ravenhill whistled. "You're right," he said. He care-
fully detached the piece of cloth from the bramble. It
was of gray tweed.
"There's a footprint," exclaimed Tom, pointing be-
low the bush. "And by jingo! It's pointing towards the
house! This is the way the fellow entered the place."
But Ravenhill was apparently not listening. He went
a few paces towards the house, bent down and picked
up something from the grass. Tom jumped across the
brook and joined him. The object that Ravenhill had
found was a case in brown leather, a few inches long,
shallow and narrow. Ravenhill pressed the catch, and
the lid sprang open. Inside lay a small hypodermic
syringe.
"The cloth is from a pocket," said Ravenhill, "and
this fell out as the man walked on."
"Ravenhill!" ejaculated Tom, clutching his arm ex-
citedly. "Winter's a doctor! The syringe must be his."


THE HYPODERMIC SYRINGE 67
Ravenhill shut the case and taking an old envelope
from his pocket and extracting the letter it contained,
put the case and the shred of cloth in its place. Then
he returned the envelope to his breast pocket.
"This was dropped by the man who shot Winter," he
observed. "Look at the footprint. It's the same as those
we were following when we went to Daincey Green."
A cackle of laughter made them swing around.
"I bin watching that there cloth this last 'arf-hour,"
said a voice. "An' I see the case too."
Thompson, the lodge-keeper, stepped from behind
the bole of an oak.
"I wasn't goin' fer to leave un till someone come," he
leered. "I knows a lot, I do. They do say as 'ow parson
suffers from nooralgia somethin' chronic and takes
drugs, 'ee do."
"Liar!" burst out Tom, taking a step towards the
man.
Ravenhill grabbed at his arm and held him back.
"Ain't that thing wot they uses fer drugs?" asked
Thompson, grinning evilly.
"How do you know what it is?" demanded Ravenhill.
The fellow looked disconcerted.
"That means you had a look at it before we arrived,"
commented Ravenhill grimly. "You'll have to explain
that to the Inspector."
"Oh, me an' the Inspector gets on all right," cackled
Thompson. "I knows a lot, I do, and Mr. Inspector
Service knows it, that 'ee do. But I ain't tellin' no one.
I knows 'ow to keep a still tongue in me 'ead."
"It wants cutting out," said Tom angrily.


68 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"You jest mind yer manners, my young toff,"
scowled Thompson. "If you wants to know something
that I know go and ask that parson o' yourn what—"
With an oath Tom wrenched himself free and sprang
at the lodge-keeper. The man stepped back and fell on-
to a bramble. Then, swearing horribly, he got on to his
feet.
"You'll pay fer that, you —" he muttered.


CHAPTER VII
THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
On a seat on the lawn Ravenhill told the story of his
"find" to Inspector Service, while Tom Manning sat on
the other side of the reporter in gloomy silence. Service's
chase after the fugitive had been fruitless—as far as
immediate results were concerned. Apparently the un-
known had left the Horsham 'bus just beyond Partridge
Green, and all trace of him had been lost. It was useless
to search for a man of whom the Inspector knew only
that he was tall.
"That fellow Thompson's a confounded nuisance,"
he commented at the end.
"Is that all?" asked Tom. "He seems a sinister fellow
to me."
"He's a busybody," said the Inspector. "But he's got
eyes like a hawk's. He doesn't miss anything."
"He's got a diseased imagination," commented Tom
bitterly.
The Inspector looked at him shrewdly. "He doesn't
like the Rector," he observed. "He's an atheist, you see."
"Is that the only reason?" asked Ravenhill.
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. "As like as
not," he answered. "But we needn't bother about him,
though with eyes such as he's got he's a useful man
sometimes."
69


70 MURDER FROM BEYOND
The sound of wheels on gravel came to Tom. He
looked round and saw the station fly in the drive.
"A visitor," he announced.
Neither the Inspector nor Ravenhill moved. "Who is
it?" demanded the policeman.
"Whom are you expecting, Inspector?" asked Raven-
hill.
Tom saw a man alight from the fly. "I can't recog-
nize him," he said. "It's a stranger. Have a look at him.
He's not facing this way."
The Inspector glanced over his shoulder. Ravenhill
turned right round. The stranger was paying the driver
of the fly. Now he looked up at the house and mounted
the steps. He pulled the bell, and the jangle of it came
across the lawn. Then he turned round and surveyed
the grounds. Apparently catching sight of the watchers,
he abruptly swung round to the door and pulled the bell
again.
The door was opened. Tom saw the figure of the
butler in the gloom of the hall. The stranger walked
inside, and the door was closed.
"I think we ought to be in this scene," said the In-
spector. "Wonder who he is. Looks distinguished."
"His face is familiar somehow," Ravenhill said,
frowning.
The Inspector got up and sauntered towards the
house. He passed round it, evidently with the intention
of entering from the back.
Ravenhill stood up. "I want to show you something,
Manning," he observed. "You remember I said there
were two people I couldn't name in the garden last


72 MURDER FROM BEYOND
made by the person who made these." He produced a
length of string from his pocket. "I measured one by
the cabbages," he went on, pointing to a couple of
knots in the string.
He knelt down and applied the string to one of the
prints.
"The same," he announced, "unless—"
"But surely the fellow wouldn't be such an ass as to
turn up again when—when his tracks are in the garden
like this," said Tom vaguely.
"He's not a professional criminal," returned Raven-
hill, "but even if he was I don't see that leaving his
tracks twice matters much. One might almost," he con-
tinued reflectively, "think that he'd left the prints pur-
posely. He certainly had a fondness for soft earth. . . .
Then, there's the other fellow."
He drew his companion along a path flanked with
rose bushes to a clump of lilac.
"I expect the grass has recovered since the sun's been
on it," he said, "but this morning early there were the
impressions of someone kneeling behind this bush."
"But how could you tell he was kneeling?" asked
Tom incredulously.
"Crushed grass and rounded impressions on the soft
turf for the knees and two more small impressions be-
hind where his toes dug into the ground," Ravenhill
explained patiently. "Look! You can see the toe impres-
sions now. This fellow was tall too; you could see that
by the distance between knee and toe prints. And he
was watching the other man rather than the house,


THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 73
Manning. He couldn't see much of what the first man
saw. The angle of the house is in the way."
He straightened himself.
"There's a little problem for you," he chuckled.
"Were they both here by intent? If so then Number
Two—this fellow here—intended something quite dif-
ferent from what Number One had in mind; in fact
one might surmise that his sole interest was in Number
One."
"Just what I think, Mr. Ravenhill," Inspector Serv-
ice's voice sounded behind them.
The two turned quickly.
"You've a nasty habit of walking softly, Inspector,"
Ravenhill complained. "Well, did you recognize the
visitor?"
"Yes, I caught a glimpse of him inside—he's in the
library with Miss Wharton. Used to have a week-end
cottage in Stanmead. Name of Martin. Storey Martin."
"Ah!" breathed Ravenhill. "I thought there was
something familiar about him. He was an actor. But
what's he doing here?"
"Dunno," answered Service.
"If he used to Jive here he may be a friend of the
Whartons," Tom suggested.
"He'd left here before they came," said the Inspector.
"Just come down from London, I suppose," Tom
said. "That was the station fly he came in." He looked
at his watch. "Quarter past four. He arrived a quarter
of an hour ago, and the fly would take about half an
hour to come round by road from West Billington. Yes;
he must have come by the train that gets in at three-


THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 75
"There are too many footprints about," he said. "It's
like a kids' game."
"Just what I think," returned Service.
"On the other hand," added Ravenhill solemnly,
"people do leave footprints, don't they?"
He piloted Tom back to the lawn and thence to the
drive. Above the crunch of their feet on the gravel Tom
caught the sound of a telephone. Ravenhill stopped.
A bank of clouds had been forming in the west all
the afternoon. It hid the sun and cast a curious gloom
over the countryside. Looking toward the village and
impatient to be back at the Rectory to learn how his
uncle was progressing, Tom noticed that he could
scarcely see the church spire.
Ravenhill waited.
"Come on," Tom urged him. "We shan't learn any-
thing more. They won't come out and tell us what the
'phone call's about."
Added to his impatience was a queer feeling of dis-
quiet. The house, for all that it was modern and rather
ugly, looked somehow mysterious in that half-light. Yet
the crimes that had been committed there were ordinary
sordid ones with, in the case of one of them at least, an
apparently plain motive behind.
The front door suddenly opened, and Inspector Serv-
ice stood vaguely outlined in the gap. He apparently
saw them at once, for he beckoned.
"I hoped you wouldn't be gone yet," he said in a low
voice. "I've just had a report from the doctor. Mrs.
Wharton died of aconitine poisoning—injected in the
neck!"


CHAPTER VIII
SKELETONS
The Rector was conscious but could not speak. Acting
on Ravenhill's suggestion, Tom told his uncle how Mrs.
Wharton had died and said that Terence Wharton
would be released. And remembering that the previous
night when the Rector had returned after his mys-
terious walk one of them had, when they bade each
other good-night, mentioned that it was nearly one
o'clock, Tom added, on his own responsibility that the
crime was committed at two o'clock.
But if Uncle Hilary heard and understood he gave no
sign but lay there with vacant eyes staring at nothing.
Doctor Dormer came in about half-past six and stayed
half an hour. He said that the Rector was in no imme-
diate danger but that he could give no definite diagnosis
at that juncture. It was a queer case, he said. Tactfully
Tom suggested sending for a specialist, but Dr. Dormer
was indignant at the idea. Then he asked where Raven-
hill was. The reporter had gone to telegraph a further
story through to his paper. The doctor seemed disap-
pointed, and left without saying a word about the
autopsy.
Tom went to the study and looked out over the dark
landscape. The trees in the garden swayed under the
violence of the wind, and the sky was overcast. Evi-
76


SKELETONS
77
dently a storm was not far off. Tom's thoughts were at
Redlands. He supposed that Terence Wharton would be
back there by now and was glad for Margery's sake. He
did not know much about Wharton. A silent retiring
man, he was not companionable, and few people knew
anything about him. Tom supposed that a lonely life
spent mostly in India accounted for his taciturnity.
And he'd been cursed with—but Isobel Wharton was
dead, and whatever her faults she had paid for them.
Aconitine. He'd heard somewhere that it was one of
the deadliest of poisons. Acted in a few seconds. Well,
the murderer had been merciful.
And it was pretty certain now who the murderer
was. The same man who had tried to kill Winter. Tom
supposed that the hypodermic syringe was circumstan-
tial evidence only—the adjective was loose—but allied
with other evidence it was strong. Another lover of
Mrs. Wharton's as like as not. Jealousy.
But that hypodermic syringe had been quite clean.
Would a man who had committed murder clean his
instrument? Probably that was just what he would do.
But would he then carry it about with him afterwards?
Lightning flickered in the east, and a rumble of
thunder penetrated the quiet study.
Tom's attention was attracted by movement in the
road. A man was battling against the furious wind. As
he came in the shelter of the Rectory he paused as
though to rest and raised his head. Tom recognized him.
It was the man who had come to Redlands that after-
noon in the station fly—Storey Martin.
What was he doing at Stanmead? He had apparently


78 MURDER FROM BEYOND
come down from London, and to get back to town he
would have to go to West Billington, which was not in
this direction at all. Nor could he have come to hire a
conveyance, for there was none to be had in the place.
Moreover, Margery would have sent him to the station
in one of the Redlands' cars.
The stranger, apparently rested, resumed his contest
with the wind. As he passed out of sight, Tom went into
the dining room, which commanded a view of the road
as far as the bend below in the village. But the man did
not go as far as that. He entered the inn.
Tom drew a chair up to the window and waited. It
was nearly dark, but a light streamed across the road
from the window of the inn, and he would be able to
see the stranger when he came out.
He was still waiting when Ravenhill returned. He
told the reporter what he had seen.
"Perhaps he's engaged a room," suggested Ravenhill.
"But why didn't he stay at Redlands?" demanded
Tom. "If he's a friend of the family, he'd be invited to
put up there."
Ravenhill shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe Miss
Wharton doesn't like him," he suggested.
Tom pondered on that. Then:
"I suppose Wharton'll be released now?" he said.
"Not before he's been before a magistrate," Ravenhill
answered. "Besides, he's confessed to taking his wife by
the throat. Might he not have confessed to a lesser crime
in order to escape being accused of the greater?"
"I don't follow."
"Yes, you do. It's been done before. Its very in-


SKELETONS
79
genuousness makes it a clever move. Almost voluntarily
—not quite, because that would be too ingenuous—
Wharton confesses to quarreling with his wife and to
laying his hands on her. He would know that the time
of death could be established definitely. There is a dif-
ference of two and a half hours between that quarrel
and the murder. He might rely on the police arresting
him as a result of his confession and then when they
find that death was due to poisoning and not—"
"I see," Tom's voice was shaky. "Does that mean that
you believe "Wharton is guilty?"
"Not necessarily. I'm only telling you what the
police—who are not fools—would think. They'll keep
Wharton in custody until they lay their hands on some-
one else—if there is someone else."
"Even though Winter has been killed since? Wharton
was in custody then."
"The two crimes may not be connected. I don't say
they're not, but the possibility is there. Stranger coinci-
dences have happened. ... By the way, how's the
Rector?"
"Dormer says he's much the same."
"D'you think you could leave him for a bit? I want
you to go up to Redlands again. Miss Wharton's all
alone."
"But she's not in danger, is she?" exclaimed Tom in
alarm.
"Not as far as I know, but still—there may be visi-
tors."
"Ravenhill, if Wharton isn't guilty—he can't be!—
who did kill Mrs. Wharton? Is it someone we know?"


80 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"I can't say," returned Ravenhill. "But get along
over to Redlands, Manning."
"Won't you come, too?"
"Can't. I must go to West Billington. It didn't occur
to me till just now; if there's a real clue to be found it'll
be there. Didn't the man who tried to kill Winter come
from there—probably from the station? And since he
was watched isn't it probable that someone else came
from there? . . . And, Manning, try to get Miss Whar-
ton to tell you the real reason why she went to London
last night."
With a thudding heart Tom looked at his friend
apprehensively. He licked his dry lips.
"You don't—don't suspect her, do you?" he managed
to ask.
"I don't suspect anyone yet," answered the reporter.
"But every bit of information helps. It all fits in some-
where. Probably before the case is finished we shall un-
earth a good many skeletons, but it's got to be done.
You see, Manning, here's a case into which a lot of
people enter: they've all got secrets of their own, and
even one which seems to have no bearing on the crime
may, by completing the picture, provide a clue."
"But I don't see—"
"One of Miss Wharton's parents has been killed. The
other at least also tried to kill her; and the man who's
commonly supposed to be her fiance is wounded. Isn't
Miss Wharton's private history probably involved?"
"I don't know," said Tom miserably. "All right, I'll
go up to Redlands right away."


CHAPTER IX
THE DEATH OF VIVIAN WINTER
But Tom's visit to Redlands was postponed till next
day. The storm increased in violence, and it seemed to
have an effect on the Rector. The nurse sent Tom for
Dr. Dormer.
It was ten o'clock before the doctor left. Ravenhill
had not yet returned, and Tom did not know what to
do. The reporter's talk inclined him to go to Margery,
even though the hour was so late. But duty to his uncle
kept him at the Rectory. Finally at half-past eleven, a
night nurse having come some time previously, he went
wearily to bed. He had had a bed put in his own room
for the reporter, and Ravenhill knew his way and had
a key of the front door, so that there was no need for
him to sit up.
He could not have kept awake in any case, for the
day had been long and eventful, and he felt worn out.
Ravenhill awakened him next morning. The reporter
was fully dressed, but he had obviously slept, for his
bed was tumbled. Tom had not heard him come in.
"We've a busy day ahead of us," said Ravenhill be-
fore Tom had fairly opened his eyes. "Did you go to
Redlands last night?"
His words roused Tom to realities. He explained what
had happened. Ravenhill nodded sympathetically.
81


82 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"How about you?" Tom inquired.
Ravenhill's story was postponed by Mrs. Banks ar-
riving with tea. Afterwards he settled himself, cup in
hand, on Tom's bed.
"I was right," he began. "A young man who gave his
name as Captain Thomas arrived by the six-thirty train
the day before yesterday, without luggage, and engaged
a room at the Station Hotel—a glorified pub. You know
it? Good. He told the landlord that he was going to look
up some friends and left about eight after he'd had a
scratch dinner. Said he might be late—and he was.
Didn't get back till one o'clock. The same evening
about nine another visitor arrived. He called himself
plain Jones. He only had a meal and then cleared out.
He had no luggage either. Thomas left the hotel next
morning after breakfast."
"Is either of 'em our man?" asked Tom.
"Captain Thomas is, I should say," returned Raven-
hill. "The landlord said he was tall, young—about
twenty-eight, he thought—and with a curious nervous
manner. He seemed to be in a great state of excitement.
The other man was about fifty and bearded. I found
that Thomas arrived by the London train, as I say, at
six-thirty and Jones by the local from Horsham at
eight-fifty."
"That rules Thomas out as Mrs. Wharton's mur-
derer," Tom observed. "He would have had to leave
Redlands by twelve-thirty in order to get back to the
hotel at one. And the murder was committed at two."
"Exactly," agreed Ravenhill. "It doesn't rule out the
other man, though. He didn't go back to the hotel at


THE DEATH OF VIVIAN WINTER 83
all. As a matter of fact he left West Billington for
Steyning, south of here, by the eight-ten train to the
coast."
Tom sat up in bed. "Then that's our man!" he ex-
claimed.
Ravenhill shrugged his shoulders. "According to the
description of him he'd be about the height of the man
who was watching Thomas," he said. "But that doesn't
rule him out as the murderer, of course."
Tom got out of bed. "What about that actor fellow
—what's his name?"
"Storey Martin," Ravenhill supplied. "He's still at the
inn here—at least I suppose he is. He booked a room
last night."
"You're pretty thorough, aren't you, Ravenhill?"
Tom commended him.
"Not bad," said the reporter modestly. "It's no use
being a 'crime-merchant' if you're not. But I expect the
police know as much as I do." He stood up. "Well,
hurry up and get dressed and go and see how your uncle
is; then we'll go to Redlands," he added.
There was no change in the patient's condition. The
Rector was conscious, but he could give no sign that he
understood what was said to him.
After breakfast Ravenhill and Tom set out for Red-
lands. The weather had changed after the storm, and a
chill wind blew from the north. Autumn had come
with a rush.
Starr showed them into the library. As they sat there
waiting for Margery, Tom reflected that though he
could count himself as a friend of the family he had


84 MURDER FROM BEYOND
never been in this room before. Indeed, he had learnt
more of the house the day before than he had ever done.
But for the drawing room he had known nothing of it
previously.
The place had an atmosphere of its own. Now he
came to think of it, he had always been conscious of
that, but he assumed that he had been affected by the
ugly external appearance of the house. Yet was it that?
The atmosphere was stuffy, though the windows were
opened wide. A queer sort of silence pervaded it—al-
most the silence of a church. He could hear the wind in
the trees, the twittering of birds, and the sound of a
cart on gravel; he could hear voices in the house. Yet
the house held a silence of its own.
The door opened, and Margery entered. There were
deep rings under her eyes as though she had not slept.
She seemed listless and tired.
The two men had risen. Tom hastily effected an in-
troduction.
"Tom has often spoken of you, Mr. Ravenhill," she
said. She sat down. "Please smoke," she invited, pushing
a brass box of cigarettes towards Ravenhill as he seated
himself.
Tom remained standing. He had not questioned
Ravenhill as to what his errand was, but he could guess
it and was apprehensive.
"Miss Wharton," Anthony Ravenhill began, "I want
you to help me. Do you know anybody of the name of
Captain Thomas?"
She shook her head.
"Or of Jones?"


THE DEATH OF VIVIAN WINTER 85
"Only Mrs. Jones in the village," she said.
"No; a man—bearded?"
"I don't think I know any bearded men," she an-
swered, "at least not by name."
"You don't mind being questioned, do you?" asked
the reporter.
She colored slightly. "Why should I?" she said. "If I
can help—"
"I'm going to appear impertinent," he interrupted.
"Why did you leave as you did the night before last?"
Her color increased. Tom looked at his friend warn-
ingly, but Ravenhill took no notice.
"I don't want to force a confidence," he said, "but
although the matter may seem irrelevant to you it's
quite possible that it may help the inquiry. And I'm
Tom's friend," he added.
She looked swiftly from one to the other. "I am of
age," she said stiffly, "and I wanted to go."
"That means you won't say."
"You have no right to question me."
"None whatever," Ravenhill agreed, "but assuming
you want your mother's murderer found—I'm sorry to
be so blunt—you won't mind my doing so."
Tom gave an angry exclamation. The fellow had no
manners at all, he told himself.
"You're not a policeman," Margery said.
"You can consider me as a private person," returned
Ravenhill blandly. "I'm quite unbiased—except that
Tom Manning's mixed up in the affair."
"How mixed up?"
"Well, anyone is who played even a small part in it.


86 MURDER FROM BEYOND
Can't you trust me, Miss Wharton?" he exclaimed in-
genuously. "I'm a reporter, but I'm not going to take
advantage of your confidence. You aren't shielding any-
one, so what should you fear?"
Her color went. Again she looked at Tom Manning.
He dropped his eyes miserably.
"I went away because—because I was—Oh, I can't
tell you!" she burst out. "Why should you ask me?"
"It is not an ordinary occasion or an idle question,"
Ravenhill soothed her, while Tom fumed impatiently
on the other side of the table. "You force me to suggest
a reason to you—even though I've no right to do so.
Was it because of Mr. Winter?"
"Damn it all, Ravenhill!" Tom burst out. "You
can't—"
The reporter's look silenced him. He dropped im-
happily into a chair.
Margery was sitting very upright. "I can guess what
you mean," she said stiffly. "I'd better say right away
that there is nothing between Mr. Winter and me."
"You know the rumor about an engagement?"
"Miss Wharton's said there was nothing—" began
Tom, but Ravenhill silenced him imperiously.
"I wish I could convince you that I'm only trying to
help you," said the reporter. "You must realize that
your going away like that was suspicious—at least the
police think so."
"It was a coincidence," she replied. "I had been plan-
ning to go for a long time. Circumstances made it
simple the night before last."
"Because Mrs. Wharton and Mr. Winter were away?"
x


THE DEATH OF VIVIAN WINTER 87
She colored again, but did not answer.
"The inquest takes place tomorrow," said Ravenhill.
"The Coroner will ask these questions then."
Margery closed her eyes, and when she opened them
again they held tears.
"I can't tell you any more than this," she said wearily.
"I was unhappy at home. Assume that I didn't get on
well with—with my people, if you like. I went secretly
in order to save explanations and fuss."
Ravenhill nodded sympathetically. "I understand,"
he said, "that you were not in India with them during
the last part of their stay there?"
"I hadn't been with them since I was a child," she
answered readily enough, "except when they came home
on holiday. I was at school in Bedfordshire until I was
seventeen; then I was sent to Paris. I came back three
years ago and stayed with an aunt in London for a
year; then—then my people came home for good."
"So they were almost like strangers to you?"
"I saw them once every three years or so when they
came home on holiday. Once I went seven years with-
out seeing them."
Ravenhill nodded thoughtfully, while Tom looked at
Margery with compassion. Her womanliness had
dropped away from her and left a lonely child.
"Did you know the man who called here yesterday
afternoon?" Ravenhill asked next.
"Mr. Martin? He's an old friend of Daddy's," an-
swered Margery. "He'd read about the—about
Mummy's death and came down from London at once."


88 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"I hear he's staying in the village. Why is he doing
that?"
"I—I don't know. I—" She stopped.
"Won't you tell me about it?"
"I wasn't with him when he left. Starr let him out."
Ravenhill frowned. "Did he say anything to Starr?"
"Not as far as I know." The girl was obviously get-
ting restless again.
"Didn't he say good-bye to you? After all—"
"I don't like Mr. Martin, and he knows I don't," the
girl confessed.
"Do you mind if I ask Starr if he said anything when
he left?"
"Not if you wish it," she answered faintly. She
pointed to the bell push. "But I don't see the importance
of it."
"Starr," said Ravenhill when the butler appeared, "I
think you let Mr. Martin out last night. What did he
say when he left?"
Starr looked at Margery. She nodded slightly.
"He said he was sure the police had made a mistake,"
he said.
"Nothing else?"
"He wanted to know if there'd been any visitors the
day before. I said no."
"Anything else?" Ravenhill could not conceal his
eagerness.
"No, Sir. He left then."
"Did he say where he was going?"
"I understood he was going to the station," answered
the butler. "I offered to get Hammett to drive him


THE DEATH OF VIVIAN WINTER 89
over, but he said he wouldn't bother. He wanted a
walk."
"In the storm?"
"It hadn't started then," the butler said. "It came on
over half an hour later."
Tom Manning uttered an exclamation. It would not
have taken Martin fifteen minutes to reach the village
yet the storm was at its height when he had arrived.
"Are you sure—?" he began and was interrupted by
the shrilling of an electric bell.
"Excuse me, Sir," exclaimed Starr. "There's the tele-
phone."
He left the room.
"I'm afraid we're causing you a great deal of distress,
Miss Wharton," Ravenhill made a tardy apology, "but
it's helping matters wonderfully."
Starr came back into the room with a scared face.
"Message from the hospital, Miss Margery," he stut-
tered in his excitement. "Mr. Winter's dead!"


CHAPTER X
THE SECRET FEAR
The proceedings at the opening of the inquests on the
bodies of Isobel Wharton and Vivian Winter were brief
and purely formal. In the case of Mrs. Wharton evi-
dence of identification was given by Margery and in
the case of Vivian Winter, by his father, Dr. Tremayne
Winter. The dead man was described as a newly gradu-
ated doctor of medicine without a practice.
The medical evidence was to the effect that Mrs.
Wharton had died from aconitine poisoning, hypo-
dermically administered at the base of the neck, and
that Winter had died of hemorrhage following a gun-
shot wound in the left shoulder. The lung had been
pierced.
Tom Manning and Ravenhill were witnesses in the
case of Winter, but they were not required to give more
than the bare facts of seeing Winter running from the
house, the shot, and Winter's collapse in the drive.
The Coroner explained to the jury that at the re-
quest of the police the double inquiry would be ad-
journed at that point. The case was very complex, he
said, and it was inadvisable at that stage to proceed
further.
A juryman asked permission to put a question to the
90


THE SECRET FEAR
91
Inspector in regard to Terence Wharton, but it was
disallowed by the Coroner.
"You will have ample opportunity of questioning the
witnesses at the adjourned inquiry," he said.
Throughout the proceedings Tom studied Terence
Wharton, who was in custody and who had previously
been brought before the magistrates in the usual man-
ner, and remanded. The ex-tea planter sat quietly with
his arms folded. Tom thought he looked considerably
older than when he had last seen him three months
before. There was something unfamiliar about him too.
Of course, the tragedy must have affected him consider-
ably, but Tom concluded that that was not the cause of
the change in him. Margery sat behind him. Against the
black of her clothes her face looked unnaturally pale.
Storey Martin was not present.
When the inquest was adjourned Margery came over
to Tom.
"How is the Rector?" she asked him in a whisper.
"No change," he reported. "Wouldn't you like to
come and see him?"
She hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder towards
her father. He had risen and was making his way to-
wards the door.
"I'll come immediately after lunch," she promised,
then with a pathetic smile she hurried out.
Ravenhill and Tom made their way outside where
they were ambushed by several pressmen, who forced
them across to the Station Hotel. There, in the bar, they
had to supply information. Ravenhill answered their
questions, but he did not tell them much. Further he


92 MURDER FROM BEYOND
pointed out that since evidence had been temporarily
suppressed at the inquest there was a risk that to print
other details would constitute Contempt of Court.
"Those fellows are a damned nuisance," Ravenhill
exclaimed bitterly when at last he and Tom got outside.
"I want to see Service. We probably shan't be able to
find him now."
Inspector Service was not at the police-station. The
sergeant thought he had gone over to Redlands. "He
went in Miss Wharton's car," he said.
Ravenhill seemed to be undecided. Finally he said that
he'd go to Redlands.
"D'you mind if I don't come?" Tom asked.
"Why, what—?" began Ravenhill, then he grinned.
"I'd forgotten," he said. "Righto, you go back to the
Rectory. See if you can get anything more out of Miss
Wharton. It's all in a good cause, you know," he added.
Tom walked back to the Rectory across the fields. He
found the doctor alone with his uncle.
"I sent the nurse down to get a little air in the
garden," said Dormer. "The Rector seems a little
better."
Tom could detect no change. Uncle Hilary still lay
motionless with expressionless eyes staring at the ceiling.
"Can he hear us?" Tom whispered to the doctor.
"I think so," answered Dormer. "Why?"
Tom took the doctor to the other side of the room.
"If he had good news," he said in a low voice, "would
it have a good effect on him?"
"Undoubtedly."
"He and Wharton are old friends," Tom explained.
>


THE SECRET FEAR
93
"And there's Miss Wharton. He was concerned on her
behalf, too. Supposing you tell him that Wharton has
been cleared and that Mrs. Wharton died of aconitine
poisoning. I tried to tell him but he didn't seem to un-
derstand. It might be as well to suggest that the man
who murdered Winter was guilty of the other crime."
The doctor frowned.
"It'd come more authoritatively from you than from
me," Tom pointed out. "And I've already tried any-
how."
Dormer nodded. Then he went to the bed and bend-
ing over his patient began speaking slowly, deliberately.
Tom went and stood behind him.
Dormer stopped speaking. Then:
"Can you hear me?" he asked.
Tom went nearer and looked over his shoulder. The
doctor started speaking again.
"There was an affair between Mrs. Wharton and
Winter," he said distinctly. "Apparently someone was
jealous and—"
The Rector's appearance had changed. An indefinable
look entered his staring eyes, and Tom, seeing it, was
suddenly conscious of what the doctor was saying. He
seized him by the arm.
"No, no!" he whispered urgently. "Don't put it like
that."
Dormer angrily wrenched his arm free. "Leave me
alone!" he snapped. "I know what I'm doing."
The man was hopeless. Tom bent over the bed.
"A man was jealous, Uncle," he said loudly. "It was


94 MURDER FROM BEYOND
a man, I tell you. He shot Winter, and we followed him.
Do you understand? It was a man."
He was certain his uncle's expression changed again,
though the lines of the face were the same. The doctor
had straightened himself.
"Of course, if you don't take a medical adviser into
your confidence," he said, "he is badly handicapped."
Tom turned to him. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean that you did not tell me what exactly caused
the Rector's collapse. Apparently there's some mystery.
Did the Rector suspect a woman?"
"He did not," answered Tom curtly, moving away
from the bed and speaking in a low tone. "You forget
that until Winter was shot no third man had entered
the case at all. The Rector knows nothing of another
man, but he does know that Winter was supposed to be
engaged to Miss Wharton." He dropped his curtness and
spoke almost pleadingly. "The Whartons are the Rec-
tor's friends. If you talk to him vaguely about murder
having been committed by a jealous person wouldn't it
seem to him in his present condition that you are sus-
picious of Miss Wharton?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He was about to
speak when Tom, who had glanced at the Rector,
uttered an exclamation and went nearer the bed. His
uncle's eyes were closed.
"We've done it!" he exclaimed.
Doctor Dormer bent over the bed and gently took
the Rector's wrist in his fingers.
"He's asleep," he whispered finally and drew Tom


THE SECRET FEAR
95
away. "Tell me," he went on, "do you think that he
really suspected Miss Wharton?"
Tom felt like becoming violent. v
"It must have been a big shock to produce such a
stroke," Dormer continued. "And, of course, I've heard
the rumors—not that I take any notice of gossip."
"What rumors?" demanded Tom. Despite his anger
he managed to keep his voice low—so low that the
doctor was deceived.
"He is supposed to be in love with the fair Margery."
The doctor grinned.
They were near the door. Tom opened it. "I'm a ma-
terialist," Dormer continued, as he went out, apparently
unconscious of Tom's attitude towards him, "and so I
haven't much patience with these mistaken ideas about
celibacy and the rest of it. Nature will out. Here's a
robust man in love with a woman, and he's hypnotized
himself into believing that his God prefers him to live
unnaturally. Of course it's affected his nervous system.
He has been in a highly morbid state for months prob-
ably. The result is that he doesn't re-act to a shock as
normal people do."
"Doctor," said Tom Manning evenly, "you're talking
about my uncle."
"He's my patient," snapped Dormer, his manner
changing suddenly. "I'm diagnosing his ailment, not—"
"You were repeating gossip—which you said you
took no notice of," retorted Tom. "If—"
He broke off as the nurse appeared.
"How do you think he is, Doctor?" she asked.


96 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Much better," answered Dormer. "He's asleep
now."
He went back with her into the Rector's room, and
Tom, fuming, went to the dining room. Mrs. Banks had
just brought in his lunch. He told her the latest news
of the Rector and cut short a voluminous complaint of
how the nurse was attempting to "run the house" by
telling her that Miss "Wharton would arrive shortly.
"She's coming to see the Rector," he said.
"Dear! And the house is in such a muddle," com-
plained Mrs. Banks. "That there nurse—"
"Well, as long as the study's all right," he soothed
her, "there'll be no harm done. She needn't go into any
other room except the Rector's—if she's allowed to."
Mrs. Banks bustled off, and Tom was left to his lunch
and his reflections.
Margery came an hour later. Tom himself let her in
—she had knocked twice, and he concluded that Mrs.
Banks was out in the garden—and took her into the
study.
He was puzzled by her appearance. He expected her
to show signs of the worry and anxiety and grief of the
last two days, but there was something more in her
bearing, something which he could not at first define.
Then, when he was telling her about the Rector he
of a sudden knew that she was afraid. She was posing.
Under her relatively calm exterior she was stiff with a
secret fear.
"Margery—tell me—" Suddenly reserve was gone.
"Dear, let me help."
He saw that he had startled her, but his compassion


THE SECRET FEAR
97
almost killed her pose. Her face was turned from him,
and he became aware that she was trembling.
He slipped an arm about her shoulders, and as he did
so felt her stiffen. Chilled, he drew back, watching her
miserably.
And then she was clinging to him. Her lips were on
his. In a sudden exultation he held her closely. Every-
thing else was forgotten but that he loved her.
Presently she stirred. Looking at her he saw that the
golden minute was gone; she was remembering her
trouble.
"We're going to share everything now," he whis-
pered, holding her tightly.
"It's this terrible business," she said. He knew that
she was evading him.
"But something's frightened you, sweetheart," he
persisted.
The look of terror had come back to her eyes. Gently
she pushed away his arms and stood up. "What should I
be afraid of?" she asked. "I—I only want everything
cleared up."
His elation died. Then the thought came that he
might be mistaken. Perhaps, after all, her appearance
was due to nervous strain. She had been through a great
deal. It were disloyal to doubt her, anyhow.
"Can I see your uncle?" she asked.
"I'll go and ask the nurse," he said, standing up.
"Come along with me." Taking her hand he led her out
of the room and along the passage to his uncle's room.
He tapped lightly on the door, opened it and beckoned
to the nurse.


98 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"He's asleep," she told him.
"May I just have a peep at him?" asked Margery.
The nurse looked doubtful. "Only a peep then," she
conceded. "Don't make a noise."
Margery, followed by Tom, tiptoed into the room.
For a few moments she stood looking down at the
prematurely lined face of the priest, then, smiling her
thanks to the nurse, she crept away.
Outside, when the door was closed, she seized Tom's
hand. "Oh, he looks awfully bad," she exclaimed in a
whisper. "Are you sure he's better?"
"The doctor says he's heaps better," Tom exaggerated.
"Even I can see that. Why—"
He stopped as a knock on the front door sounded.
"I'd better go," he said. "Mrs. Banks is too flustered
these days to be relied upon. Go into the study."
He went to the front door and opened it. Outside
stood Storey Martin.
"I've just come to inquire about the Rector," he said.
"My name's Storey Martin. We're old friends."
Bewildered, Tom invited him in. He was about to say
that Margery was there when he caught a glimpse of the
girl disappearing round the passage that led to the
kitchen. Startled, he hesitated. He heard Mrs. Banks'
voice, then a door banged. Obviously Margery had left
by the back way. She did not want Martin to know she
was in the house.
Tom led his visitor to the study. The faint scent of
the girl lingered in the room, and he wondered whether
the other would notice it. He started to talk about his
uncle, conscious that Storey Martin was regarding him


THE SECRET FEAR
99
queerly. His eyes attracted. Tom felt compelled to look
at him.
They were strange eyes. Tom could not tell why.
They held his. Then Storey Martin smiled gravely, and
the spell was broken.
"I'm afraid you can't see my uncle," Tom stuttered.
"He's asleep."
"I'm sorry," said Storey Martin. Tom saw his glance
stray towards the window and remain there interestedly.
Could he see Margery? Tom looked round. On the desk
by the window lay Margery's handbag.


CHAPTER XI
INTERLUDE
Quite definitely Tom did not like Storey Martin. He
was afraid of him. The man exercised some strange in-
fluence which both compelled his attention and dis-
quieted him. His was a dominating personality.
Before he went Tom discovered that Martin had left
the inn and was staying at Redlands. That increased his
puzzlement.
Anthony Ravenhill did not return till nightfall.
"Winter's murderer has been traced to London," he
announced dramatically. "I've got a description of him
here." He took a notebook from his pocket. " 'Over six
feet tall, and thin,' " he read, " 'dark and with a tooth-
brush mustache. Has a nervous manner. Dressed in blue
serge and bowler. Looks like an ex-officer.'"
"Not much to go on, is it?" commented Tom.
"He's been traced to South Kensington," Ravenhill
went on. "The police'll probably find him tomorrow—
or before."
"D'you think he killed Mrs. Wharton?" Tom in-
quired.
"There's no evidence that he did," Ravenhill replied.
"On the contrary, the evidence suggests that he didn't.
The syringe we found doesn't help us at all because it
had been cleaned. Moreover—what did you make of
100


INTERLUDE
101
that piece of cloth we found on the bramble?" he asked
suddenly.
"You said it'd been torn from a pocket," Tom an-
swered. "The syringe dropped out afterwards."
"That's what it seemed like. To cause the syringe to
drop out the strip must have come from the bottom of
the pocket—which on a normally clothed man would be
at least six inches higher from the ground than the
height we found it. Moreover, I've been experimenting
with a piece of cloth on brambles. Even old thorns were
not sufficiently strong to tear it."
"I thought it was strange at the time," commented
Tom. "A bramble might tear a piece of cloth, but it
would scarcely tear a strip off. D'you think it was a
plant?"
"It looks like it." Anthony Ravenhill laughed awk-
wardly. "Queer how we were taken in," he said. "I
suppose we were too excited to think."
"It was the syringe that made it convincing," Tom
said.
"If we'd thought, it made it unconvincing," Raven-
hill corrected him. "Especially as the syringe was clean."
"But—well, it seems to be natural that the murderer
should clean it. It was dropped hours after Mrs. Whar-
ton was killed."
"—by the man who, we think, didn't kill Mrs.
Wharton," Ravenhill added. "The more I think of
everything, the more I'm convinced that the two mur-
ders are not directly connected. Wasn't Mrs. Wharton
what is called 'fast'? She may have discarded a lover
who was jealous of Winter. The theory fits the facts.


INTERLUDE
103
There was another reason, and when you've discovered
it, Manning, you've—"
He broke off. Tom had uttered an exclamation and
was looking at his friend in a startled manner. He re-
membered all that had happened that afternoon.
"She's scared stiff about something," he exclaimed.
Ravenhill stopped filling his pipe.
Then Tom told him of Margery's state. "Somehow,"
he continued, "I can't help feeling it's got something to
do with that fellow Martin. He came here this after-
noon. Said he was a friend of my uncle's." He went on
to describe how Margery had slipped away.
Ravenhill sat down. "That's interesting," he com-
mented. "But she wasn't necessarily afraid of Martin."
"He's a queer devil, Ravenhill," Tom said briefly.
"In what way?"
"There's something—sinister about him. He sort of—
Oh, I don't know. He's got a queer sort of way of look-
ing at you."
"You're not exactly lucid," said Ravenhill. "Anyhow,
impressions like that aren't to be trusted. ... So he
knows your uncle, does he? He may be the connecting
link between him and Wharton."
"How d'you mean?"
"It'd be a coincidence otherwise that Wharton's
friend should also be your uncle's. Ten chances to one
Martin brought your uncle and Wharton together in
the first place. Martin used to have a cottage here. He
left before Wharton came. Did your uncle know the
Whartons before then?"
"I don't think so . . . no—I know he didn't."


104 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Obviously then, unless there is a coincidence, Mar-
tin was responsible for Wharton's coming here."
"But surely it isn't very important?"
"It may be," said Ravenhill vaguely. "We're groping.
Any chance fact may put us right."
"I don't see that it's any use being blind to the
obvious," Tom grunted. "Seems to me you're manufac-
turing evidence just so that you can ignore the fact that
Mrs. Wharton and Winter were lovers."
"I'm not," Ravenhill declared. "I'm simply putting
that fact in its right place. Because, chronologically, it
happens to be the last it isn't necessarily the reason why
Mrs. Wharton and Winter were killed. And I don't
think Service thinks it is either. Mrs. Wharton was
killed in cold blood; the crime was premeditated and
carefully planned. The affair between Mrs. Wharton
and Winter was very recent. If this supposed other lover
had killed Mrs. Wharton he'd have done so in a passion
—with a gun or with his hands or something. He'd have
lost his head, as Wharton did, and taken her by the
throat."
"Or killed her as Winter was killed?"
"Exactly," Ravenhill agreed. "Mrs. Wharton's mur-
derer was a fiend—I'm not being melodramatic—while
Winter's murderer might well have been a jealous lover.
He was very human, anyway. If Wharton hadn't been
in prison and we hadn't known of the man who called
himself Captain Thomas I'd have hazarded that it was
he who killed Winter because, if he had been fond of
his wife, it was a natural thing for him to do."
He resumed the operation of filling his pipe. Tom,


INTERLUDE 105
very thoughtful, lighted the oil lamp which hung from
the ceiling.
"I give in," he said, blowing out the match. "I believe
you're right. If you are, though, we're no nearer a solu-
tion. The murderers are probably people we don't know
at all."
"Perhaps," assented Ravenhill, "but someone in the
picture knows one or both of 'em."
"Meaning?"
"Either your uncle or your fiancee."


CHAPTER XII
THE WATCHER IN THE GARDEN
In the week that followed the police pursued their
investigations and Ravenhill divided his time between
the neighborhood and London. The Rector visibly im-
proved, though he was not able to speak. A clergyman
had been sent from Worthing to perform his duties and
was staying at the Rectory. Tom liked the Rev. William
Jameson and became very friendly with him.
Of Margery he had seen very little. Once she came to
see the Rector and had stayed to lunch, and once he had
met her in the village. She treated him as a friend—no
more. He was hurt and bewildered. Convinced that she
considered that he had taken advantage of her dis-
traught state of mind when he had shown that he loved
her, he dared not mention the matter. He found that
she had retrieved her handbag from Mrs. Banks, and
because she mentioned neither that nor her abrupt de-
parture when Storey Martin had arrived, he too kept
silent.
The situation was inexplicable—impossible. She had
acted that afternoon as though she loved him; she had
received and responded to his kisses. Now she wanted
him to believe that she was indifferent.
And Storey Martin was staying at Redlands. That
was a disturbing factor, though why Tom did not
106


THE WATCHER IN THE GARDEN 107
know. He could only conclude it was so because he did
not like the man.
Ten days of Tom's three weeks' holiday were gone.
The Redlands Mystery, as the Press termed the double
murder, seemed to be no nearer a solution. Moody and
depressed, he haunted the road to Redlands, hoping to
see Margery yet dreading to see her lest her apparent
indifference should increase his unhappiness. He was
worried about his uncle, too. The Rector's stipend was
not a large one, and he had no private income. Doctors'
and nurses' fees were a considerable item—much more
than the Rector could afford. What would happen when
he—Tom—returned to London? He could not leave his
uncle with no one but a locum tensus or the house-
keeper to superintend matters.
He might send his uncle to a nursing home, of course,
but he did not like the idea. The Rector would be un-
happy amongst strangers.
It was Margery who provided a solution. When he
was beginning to despair of ever seeing her again, Ham-
mett, the Wharton's chauffeur, brought him a note
from her.
"Dear Tom," he read, chilled by the ordinariness of
the words, "I have been thinking that you may be wor-
ried about your uncle. I believe your holiday ends soon.
Naturally you would not like to leave Mr. Starmer in
the care of strangers. Would you care to let us look
after him? We should love to have him here and could
make him quite comfortable. Mr. Martin, who has been


108 MURDER FROM BEYOND
good enough to offer to stay here for awhile, is an old
friend of the Rector's, as you probably know.
"If Mr. Starmer came to Redlands it would not be
necessary to have more than one nurse. It would relieve
your mind too. Needless to say, you will be welcome
here if you can get down week-ends.
"Yours sincerely,
"Margery Wharton."
"P.S.—Better still, why not arrange for Mr. Starmer
to be brought here at once? It would simplify matters,
wouldn't it? Come yourself, too. M. W."
It was a strange letter, considering everything—so
strange indeed that its studied coldness went almost un-
noticed. He could not believe that Margery liked Storey
Martin, yet she had apparently welcomed the idea of his
staying at Redlands. Or had she acted under compul-
sion? There was so much that Tom did not know that
he could not take the letter at its face value.
A new thought came to him. Did Margery want his
presence and help, and had she hit upon this method of
getting him to the house? He was both alarmed and
warned by the idea.
The following morning he told Dormer of the invita-
tion and asked his opinion. The doctor was non-commit-
tal. "It's for you to decide," he said. "I dare say we can
shift him over there all right."
Mrs. Banks was indignant when she heard of the pro-
posal. "As though we couldn't look after 'im!" she
exclaimed. "I never heard of such a thing. And after
all that's happened at Redlands, too! Well, I never did!"


THE WATCHER IN THE GARDEN 109
"But don't you see he'd he amongst friends?" Tom
said patiently. "Besides, it'd reduce expenses a bit, and
that's all-important."
"There's nasty stories about Redlands goin' round the
village," Mrs. Banks said.
"Well, we needn't bother about them, need we?"
Tom's patience was going. "After all—"
"Yes, but—Well, there is something queer about the
place, Mr. Tom." She persisted. "The good Lord knows,
I'm not superstitious, but—"
"But what?"
"Redlands is 'aunted," she said in an impressive
whisper. "Everyone says it is."
"First I've heard of it! A new house, too!" Tom
scoffed.
"Eh, you may laugh," she scolded him. "It's no laugh-
ing matter though. I was over there yesterday evening
with Mrs. Parlance, the cook, and I swore I'd never go
again."
"You're not going to tell me you saw a ghost," Tom
exclaimed, good humoredly.
"No, I'm not. But I do know I felt awful. There's
something wrong with that 'ouse, Mr. Tom. You mark
my words. I ain't goin' so far as to believe that Spence-
feller when 'e says he seen a ghost there; nor that there
Thompson. I ain't sayin' that I believes in ghosts, never
havin' seen one; but I do know what I felt like last
night over there, and I do say there's something wrong.
They all say so."
"Whom do you mean by 'all'?"
"Well, Nancy the parlor-maid's given notice."


110 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"They're scared because of the murders. Who
wouldn't be? But even if one believed in ghosts you
wouldn't say Redlands was haunted. It hasn't had time
to be. Why, it isn't more than fifty years old."
"Well, ghosts 'ave got to start somewhere—not that
I believe in 'em. I simply say there's something queer
about the place. I wasn't in the house more'n an hour
last night but it got on my nerves somethin' chronic.
And you're thinking of making the Rector stay there!"
Tom had already written to Margery thanking her for
the invitation and saying that he would see what could
be done. He decided to have the Rector transferred the
following day and sent a note to Redlands to that effect.
Then he told his uncle about the proposed move, ex-
plaining why it was advisable. The Rector obviously
understood, for a new expression came into his eyes,
but Tom could not tell what it evidenced.
Dr. Dormer borrowed the ambulance from the hos-
pital, and the move took place next morning. The Rec-
tor and his nurse were installed in adjoining rooms on
the first floor, and Tom was given Winter's room.
That afternoon Ravenhill came down from London
unexpectedly. Out in the garden Tom told him all
that had happened in the interval.
"What I can't make out," he concluded, "is why
Storey Martin is still here. One never sees him. I ques-
tioned Starr—discreetly, of course—about him this
morning, and he says Martin spends most of his time
in his room. When he does go out it's in the car."
"Alone?"
"Except for the chauffeur, yes."


THE WATCHER IN THE GARDEN 111
Ravenhill was silent for some time. Then:
"Do you know anyone of the name of Springfield?"
he asked suddenly.
Tom shook his head. "Why?" he asked. "Does he
live locally?"
"No, he lives at New Street, Westminster. He seems
to be a friend of Miss Wharton's."
Tom looked at his friend askance.
"No; I haven't discovered it," Ravenhill disclaimed.
"The police naturally want to know why Miss Whar-
ton went to London that night. When Service searched
the house after Mrs. Wharton's murder he found an
address book on Miss Wharton's dressing table, and
that address was in it."
"But that—"
"Of course not. But the police are methodical. They
went to all the London addresses in the book—there
were four—and definitely established that Miss Whar-
ton went to see Springfield early in the morning that
her mother was found dead, so it seems highly probable
that she went to London on purpose to see him."
Tom's mouth was dry, and he could not speak.
"He's an old man," Ravenhill added.
"Perhaps he's a relative."
"He's not. He doesn't even know Wharton. Appar-
ently he's Miss Wharton's friend only."
"Well, why did she go to him?" Tom managed to
ask.
"He won't say—or rather," Ravenhill corrected him-
self, "he says that she went to him for advice about
getting a job, which is the same thing as refusing in-


112 MURDER FROM BEYOND
formation. It's obviously not true. The girl didn't arrive
in London until early morning, yet she visited him at
nine o'clock. It was a more urgent matter than getting
a job. ... I wish you could make her speak, Man-
ning. I'm convinced she could do a lot towards clear-
ing up this mystery if she'd only speak."
"What about the man we chased to Daincey Green—
Captain Thomas?" Tom asked, more to change the sub-
ject than to gain information.
"The police traced him through to London. As I told
you, he went to Kensington, apparently, but that's all
they know."
"And that's how the case stands at present?"
"Not exactly. There's a lot of untabulated informa-
tion, of course, but I think we've advanced considerably.
When I'm on a case I jot down every day what is called,
in military parlance, 'an appreciation of the situation,'
and even though nothing new may have been dis-
covered there is always something to add to one's
records. That's because the subconscious mind is at
work on—"
Tom was impatient. "Well, what's the last 'apprecia-
tion of the situation'?" he demanded.
Ravenhill grinned and produced a notebook. "Here
you are, then," he said good humoredly and with the
air of a showman. "'Mrs. Wharton killed at two a. m.
on September 20 th. Possible murderer, Wharton. Pos-
sible motive, jealousy. Objections to that, the crime was
carefully thought out and her affair with Winter had
only just been discovered by him. Wharton's confession
is not important since it might be the act of a guilty


THE WATCHER IN THE GARDEN 113
or an innocent man. Wharton's character is against mur-
der except in passion, which Mrs. Wharton's murder
was not. The fact that Winter was not killed by Whar-
ton may also be ignored.
"'If Wharton is not guilty any of the following may
be:—Margery Wharton (doubtful) the Rector (doubt-
ful) any of the servants, Winter, Storey Martin, Jones
(the bearded man who put up at the inn at West Bill-
ington and who kept watch in the garden at Redlands
on Captain Thomas).
"'Winter is under strong suspicion. Mrs. Wharton
may have had some hold on him which forced him to
pretend to respond to her advances. He was a doctor
(aconitine). He may have been in love with Margery
Wharton and therefore anxious to stop the unwelcome
attentions of Mrs. Wharton.
"'Jones is also under strong suspicion. The local
down train from Horsham by which he left West Bill-
ington goes to Shoreham. He took a ticket to Steyning
this side of Shoreham. A bearded man is conspicuous,
especially if he be well-dressed as Jones was. No railway
servant at Steyning nor at any station between West
Billington and Shoreham saw a man of Jones's descrip-
tion alight. It is possible that the beard was removed
in the train. A well-dressed, clean-shaven man without
luggage left the train at Steyning and fifteen minutes
later caught the 'bus to Horsham—in the opposite di-
rection, the direction from which he had come. If that
was Jones why should he double in his tracks and make
a detour by road round West Billington?'"
Ravenhill paused dramatically. "If my theory is


114 MURDER FROM BEYOND
right," Ravenhill went on, "then it's obvious that Cap-
tain Thomas knew him. Jones wore the beard to avoid
recognition by the man he was watching. Then he—
No; I haven't thought that out yet. But I feel that
there is one strong argument against his being the mur-
derer. Listen. He arrived after Captain Thomas. It
would seem that Thomas had a design of which he
knew, and he intended to frustrate it. Why did Thomas
go to Redlands? Perhaps to kill Mrs. Wharton. But
we've proved he didn't; someone else did it for him.
And would that someone else be Jones, who'd followed
him apparently to prevent murder being done?"
"Hardly. But Thomas may not have contemplated
murder—at least not the murder of Mrs. Wharton.
Didn't he kill Winter next day?"
"That's so." Ravenhill broke off and frowned.
"It's frightfully complicated," Tom said.
"Why did Jones follow Captain Thomas?" Ravenhill
asked again. "To prevent a crime being committed. It
must be that. Why didn't he go to the police station
then, or warn the household? Because he didn't want
to get Captain Thomas into trouble. Why? Either be-
cause he wanted to protect Captain Thomas or because
the crime would involve himself."
Tom Manning was familiar with Ravenhill's "ques-
tion and answer" method. He marvelled at his ability
to concentrate on making it achieve for him a single
outstanding result instead of a number of disconnected
conclusions. But Ravenhill had in this instance stopped
short of being quite definite.
"For the time being," Ravenhill went on, "we must


THE WATCHER IN THE GARDEN 115
exclude the murder of Mrs. Wharton, since we are deal-
ing with Captain Thomas, who, we know, killed Win-
ter, and because we do not know whether the two
crimes are connected. The murder of Winter was pos-
sibly the result of jealousy."
He paused and looked at Tom as though he were
uncertain of himself.
"If that is so," he went on doubtfully, "we have
two important conclusions. The murderer of Winter,
(Thomas) was Mrs. Wharton's discarded lover and he
is known to, if not a friend of, Jones—whoever he is."
"Even if your reasoning is right in every detail," com-
mented Tom, "it's all built on a surmise."
"Exactly. So are some of Euclid's propositions. The
question is; does it lead to the right conclusion? There's
a tremendous lot we don't know, but—"
He stopped abruptly and looked over Tom's shoul-
der. Darkness was falling, and the garden was very
still.
"There's someone behind that yew hedge," he mur-
mured.


A NEW HORROR
117
"That's the door being closed hurriedly," said Raven-
hill.
"It's not the front door," Tom added. "Look, there's
a light in the hall. We should have seen him if he'd
gone in that way. D'you think it was Storey Martin?"
"There's a light in his room," Ravenhill answered. "I
noticed that when I came round the hedge. He'd have
turned it out if he'd left the room."
Tom looked up at the lighted window. As he did so
someone drew the curtain across.
"That's queer," he commented. "Was it just a coin-
cidence?"
"I think not. No; someone's just entered the room,
and Martin doesn't want him to be seen."
"That means that Martin's got a friend in the house.
But who could it be?"
"Who are there?" asked Ravenhill.
"Only Margery and the nurse and the servants," an-
swered Tom. "We can count my uncle out."
"I suppose the doctor's not there?"
"He may be. But surely you don't—"
"We're wasting time," Ravenhill said suddenly. "Let's
get inside. We must watch Martin's door if possible.
His friend must come out somewhere or other."
They went to the front door. It was not locked.
"If you see Miss Wharton try to get her to invite me
to stay the night," Ravenhill whispered as they entered.
"But let's get upstairs without arousing attention if
possible. By the way, where's your room?"
"Next to Martin's. That helps us."


118 MURDER FROM BEYOND
They gained Tom's room without encountering any-
one.
"Martin is on this side," Tom said, pointing.
Ravenhill put his ear to the dividing wall and stood
listening for a full minute.
"No good," he said finally. "Wall's too thick."
Tom was by the door keeping watch along the pass-
age. He thought he could hear a low rumble of con-
versation.
"We must try the keyhole," Ravenhill decided. "You
stay here. Keep the door half open."
He tiptoed along the passage, and outside Storey
Martin's room he went down on one knee. Tom saw him
peer into the keyhole. Then he put his ear to the wood.
Finally he straightened himself and crept back.
"The key's in the lock, apparently," he reported. I
couldn't hear a sound."
For some minutes they kept watch. The house seemed
now uncannily quiet. The only sound that Tom could
hear beside the noise of his own heart and restrained
breathing was the tick of a clock in the hall down-
stairs. Then out of that heavy silence footsteps sounded.
Ravenhill drew Tom back farther into the room. The
passage outside was lighted by a single electric bulb,
but there was sufficient illumination to enable them to
see clearly.
A figure came level with the doorway, paused and
looked inside inquiringly. It was Storey Martin. He
passed on. The watchers heard him open the door of his
room; then it was shut.
Again Ravenhill applied his ear to the wall but with


A NEW HORROR
119
no better result. When he shook his head Tom crept
out of the room and went along the passage to Storey
Martin's door. But all he could hear was a vague sound
of movement within, and he could see nothing through
the keyhole. He went back to Ravenhill and reported
failure.
"He can't have intended to be away long," he added,
"or he'd have switched off the light."
"Unless he left it on to make us think that he was
there," Ravenhill said. "Assuming that the man in the
garden came up here to tell Martin what he'd heard,
we weren't long behind him. He couldn't have said
much in that time."
"Therefore he didn't hear much," suggested Tom
hopefully.
"Maybe; but there are alternatives. He may not have
come here at all. The curtain may have been pulled
across the window by a servant. Or the man in the
garden may have been Storey Martin himself. Or again,
the man may have come up here. Martin, after he'd
drawn the curtain, perhaps thought it wiser to take
him elsewhere to hear what he had to say."
"Or he may not have come to Martin at all," Tom
put in.
"Exactly. We're quite in the dark. . . . Let's go
down and find Miss Wharton."
"You're not going to question her about the man
you say she went to see in London—Springfield?"
"There's no need for you to get alarmed if I do,"
answered Ravenhill. "In any case, you know, the police


120 MURDER FROM BEYOND
will question her about him—if they haven't done so
already."
He switched on the light and looked round the
room.
"Nice little room," he commented.
"It was Winter's," said Tom.
Ravenhill nodded absently. "Well, let's get down-
stairs," he shivered. "It's quite cold tonight," he went
on.
They found Margery in the library writing.
"I heard you'd come," she greeted Ravenhill easily.
"I thought you were out with Tom."
Though the look of strain was still in her eyes she
appeared to be quite composed.
"I think the Rector's benefited from the change al-
ready," she said naively after she had shaken hands
with Ravenhill. She smiled at Tom as she spoke, and he
responded eagerly with a look that put color into her
pale cheeks. "I've had some good news, too," she added.
"I'm glad of that," Ravenhill said, pulling up a
chair and sitting down. "Is it about—about Mr.
Wharton?"
She nodded. "I was allowed to see him this after-
noon, and—" she began, when Ravenhill interrupted.
"This afternoon?" he exclaimed. "But I understood
you were in the house." He looked at Tom inquiringly.
"I didn't know," Tom explained to him. "When did
you go, Margery?" he asked the girl. "You didn't tell
me."
"I had a telephone call from Inspector Service about
two o'clock and went over right away. I saw him too.


A NEW HORROR
121
He told me—well, he didn't say anything definite, of
coursej but he gave me the impression that he was keep-
» ing Daddy in—in prison just as a matter of form. He
can't release him without a magistrate's order, can he?"
Ravenhill looked puzzled. "No," he said. "But—I
don't want to destroy your hope, Miss Wharton—but
he wouldn't normally be released until the case has been
before a grand jury, you know."
"Not if they charged someone else with the—the
murder?"
"Well, that's a different matter," said Ravenhill cau-
tiously. "Tell me, what exactly did the Inspector say?"
"It wasn't what he said so much as his manner. Daddy
was very optimistic, too. By the way, we've briefed
Sir Augustus Trenchman to defend him if it becomes
necessary—but I don't think it will."
"Look here, Miss Wharton," said Ravenhill earnestly,
"let's be frank with one another." He glanced at the
closed door and lowered his voice. "Whom do you think
the police suspect? I mean, you probably know as well
as I do that until suspicion rests on someone else it's
bound to rest on Mr. Wharton. Frankly, I'm puzzled
about Service's attitude towards you today."
"I don't know why you should be. It isn't as if they've
any evidence against my father. Why shouldn't Mr.
Service—?"
"Because it isn't usual. The police are the most cau-
tious people in the world; and Service especially ignores
human feelings. I can only think he—" He stopped and
flushed slightly.
"What?" she demanded.


122 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"He didn't question you, did he?"
She frowned and hesitated. "You couldn't call it
questioning," she answered at last. "He only got me to
identify my mother's handwriting."
Ravenhill looked very disturbed. "In a letter?" he
asked with apparent difficulty. "Did you read it?"
Margery's face was red. "I was only shown a single
line," she answered.
Ravenhill let out his breath in a long sigh. Tom was
gripping the arm of his chair in his suppressed excite-
ment.
"Miss Wharton," Ravenhill said quietly, "I know a
very great deal of this affair—in fact, I think I could
name Winter's murderer. But in some respects I'm quite
in the dark. Will you help me?"
Margery did"hot answer. Tom thought he sensed an-
tagonism in her.
"Anthony Ravenhill's our friend," he said simply.
"Trust him, Margery. After all, Service didn't forbid
you to talk about that letter, did he?"
Ravenhill looked at him gratefully.
"He didn't say I wasn't to," she admitted. "It wasn't
much I saw, anyhow, and I don't think I can remember
it exactly."
"Try," urged Ravenhill.
He took his notebook from his pocket and opening
it to a blank page gave it to her with a pencil. She
frowned in an effort of thought and then began to
write. She crossed out words; then she started again and
this time completed the line without a stop. Obviously
very embarrassed, she handed the notebook back to


124 MURDER FROM BEYOND
but if I might have a shakedown here tonight I'd be
very grateful."
"You shall have more than a shakedown," she smiled.
"There's a room opposite Tom's you can have. Do you
want the car? Hammett is taking it over to West Bill-
ington to fetch my aunt. She arrives at 8.50."
"Is she coming to stay?" asked Tom.
"Yes. I tried to get her to come before, but her
daughter has been very ill and she couldn't get away."
It had not occurred to Tom until now that it was
strange that Margery had not got a woman relative
to come to stay with her. With the exception of serv-
ants she was the only woman in the house. Even in
1929 and despite the exceptional circumstances, that
would make Mrs. Grundy talk.
Ravenhill looked at his watch. "Ten past seven," he
said. "That means that Hammett would have nearly an
hour and a half to wait. I think I'd—"
"He won't mind," Margery interrupted. "And in any
case, if he doesn't want to wait it won't hurt him to
make the double journey. I'll tell him to bring the car
round at once, and Starr shall show you your room."
"I left a suitcase at the station," Ravenhill said.
"I'll pick it up, and perhaps I might come back with
your aunt in the car. I ought to have finished at West
Billington by then. Anyhow, I'll put the suitcase in
the car."
"Starr shuts up the house at eleven," she warned
him, "so don't be later than that."
She certainly had changed, Tom was thinking. In-
spector Service must have said more to her than she


A NEW HORROR
125
had revealed, for she could not have thrown off her
unhappiness and secret fear except as the result of his
certainty that her father would shortly be released.
That she showed little grief that her mother was no
longer with her was understandable, considering the
absence of affection between them.
Tom was uneasy at the thought of meeting Storey
Martin, and he put off leaving his room until the last
minute. When he went downstairs he found Martin
in the library smoking a cigarette and reading. He
looked very handsome in his dinner clothes.
He rose as Tom entered and extended his hand.
"I hear the patient is better," he remarked conver-
sationally.
Before Tom could reply Margery entered, apologizing
for being late.
"Mr. Ravenhill didn't leave me much time," she ex-
plained. "Let's go in at once, shall we?"
Tom looked in vain for any sign of unfriendliness
between her and Martin—indeed, she seemed to be on
very cordial terms with him, and in the dining room
she accepted his gallantries with smiles which Tom
would have given his ears to gain. By contrast with
Martin he felt gauche.
Then he began to consider the strangeness of the at-
mosphere. Two deaths had taken place in the house
but recently and by them Margery had lost her mother
and one who was presumably a friend. More, her father
was in custody, charged with the murder of her
mother. Yet Margery's attitude was almost gay, while
the self-styled friend of the family, Storey Martin, was


126 MURDER FROM BEYOND
certainly not a victim of sorrow. The situation was
amazing. Tom could not understand it at all. Was
Margery posing? She was in some respects a modern
girl, but she was not callous.
Tom was glad when the meal was finished. To his
surprise Storey Martin, pleading important work, re-
tired to his room at once. Margery and Tom returned
to the library.
"It is my favorite room," she explained. "I hate draw-
ing rooms."
He gave her a cigarette, and as he lighted it for her
he noticed that her cheeks were rouged and that powder
hid dark lines beneath her eyes. Under his gaze her
self-possession left her to some extent. Suddenly she
shivered and looked round.
"What's wrong, dear?" he asked anxiously.
"Someone walking across my grave," she answered
with assumed lightness. "The room's cold, isn't it?"
He bent down and stirred the fire. He did not like
to say that to him the library seemed unbearably close.
He felt stifled. Queerly, however, a sense of chill came
to him; then he was hot again. It was a big room and
doubtless there was some rational explanation for the
presence of both hot and cold air in it. But it was dis-
turbing.
"Are you really happier, Margery?" he asked her.
She was staring into the fire.
"I thought you didn't like Storey Martin," he ven-
tured when she did not answer.
"What made you think that?"
"You told me so. Besides—" he paused.


A NEW HORROR 127
"He's been very kind," she defended her guest. "He's
helped me a great deal."
Tom looked at her wistfully. "You've not given me a
chance," he said.
She made an alluring picture in the soft fire-light.
"You've snubbed me horribly since—since—"
He could not complete the sentence. She glanced at
him swiftly, and he thought that her expression
changed. He was too uncertain to take advantage of it.
She might resent any advance that he might make.
Restlessness put him on his feet. He went over to a
bookcase and idly examined it.
"I don't understand," he said without turning. "I
can't see daylight anywhere."
"What do you want me to say?" she asked him sud-
denly. He realized that she had turned and was looking
at him, but he kept his back towards her.
"You—you seem to distrust me," he explained halt-
ingly. "I might help a great deal; so might Ravenhill.
But you've gone out of your way to—"
"That's not true, Tom," she said vehemently. "I'm as
much in the dark as you are, and much more terribly
handicapped. You don't seem to realize that—"
"What?" he demanded turning round as she paused.
"I can't tell you right over there," she exclaimed.
"Why are you being so awkward?"
"God knows I don't want to be!" He crossed the
room and stood over her.
She looked pathetic now, afraid. He sat on the arm
of her chair.
"Tell me, dear," he whispered.


128 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"I want to save my father, but I'm as much in the
dark as you are, and I don't know what to do. I don't
know what "he police know and—"
To his surprise she dabbed at her eyes with her
handkerchief.
"Oh, I'm a fool," she accused herself, "but I feel so
helpless."
"Dear, do let me help," he implored. "Why not tell
me?" He was struck by a new thought. "Are you afraid
that your father—may be guilty?"
"I know he isn't!" she exclaimed passionately. "But
I'm afraid that if I say anything I might make him—
might involve him still more. Your uncle knows. Oh, if
only he could speak!"
"My uncle!" Tom was chilled, fearful. "What did
Uncle Hilary know? The mystery of the Rector's night
excursion to Redlands had never been cleared up. What
was it that had drawn him to Redlands that fateful
night? Was it the same cause that had also drawn the
men called Thomas and Jones? Tom's mind rioted. Was
it the same cause that had sent Winter into the garden,
caused Wharton and Starr to prowl about and Mar-
gery to go to London?
"Margery!" he exclaimed urgently. "Oh, my dear,
do tell me. Why did you go to London?"
Startled she looked up at him. Her face paled. She
opened her mouth to speak, and at that moment a ter-
rible scream shattered the stillness of the house.


CHAPTER XIV
HAMMETT SEES A GHOST
A clock began to chime. Though his nerves were
tense and his skin prickled with the shock of that
scream Tom noted that it was nine o'clock. Margery
had risen from her feet and had grasped his arm. She
was shaking and white faced.
"What was it?" she whispered.
There was movement in the hall. The door burst
open to reveal a scared Starr.
"Oh, Miss Margery, I thought it was you!" he quav-
ered. "It seemed to come from here."
Tom had regained command of himself. "It sounded
like a woman," he said. "Are all the servants all right?"
"We were all having supper when—the scream must
have come from outside," the butler said, trembling.
A second person appeared behind him. "What's
wrong?" demanded the voice of Storey Martin. "What
was that scream? It startled the life out of me."
"We'd better investigate," said Tom. "You're sure
it's no one in the house, Starr?"
The butler looked puzzled. "All the servants were at
supper, Sir," he answered. "There's only—"
Tom suddenly remembered his uncle and the nurse.
He brushed past Starr and Storey Martin and ran
129


130 MURDER FROM BEYOND
swiftly up to the Rector's room. The nurse stood in the
doorway.
"Oh, what is it?" she exclaimed, her hands clasped
together.
"My uncle!" he gasped. "Is he—?"
"He's asleep. I heard a scream—"
"Stay here with him. I don't know who it was." He
glanced into the room. "Shut yourself in," he went on
rapidly, "then I'll know you're all right."
His instruction was not calculated to reassure her,
but he could not stay for more. He descended the stairs
and found Margery, Martin, and the butler in the hall.
"They're all right," he reported.
"Then it must have come from outside," said Starr.
"We're all accounted for. There's only Hammett miss-
ing, and he's gone to the station."
"My aunt!" exclaimed Margery. "Perhaps—" She ran
to the front door and opened it. A draught of cold air
eddied into the hall. Outside was darkness.
"I've got an electric torch," said Starr. "I'll go and—"
Tom grasped his arm. "Wait a bit," he said in a low
voice. "Someone's coming."
His quick ears had caught the sound of footsteps on
gravel. As he peered out he saw a vague form.
"Hullo!" called Ravenhill's voice. "All on the door-
step to welcome me? That's very nice of you."
He stepped into the light from the hall; then ap-
parently seeing that something was amiss he halted.
"What's the matter?" he demanded.
"That's what we want to know," answered Tom.


HAMMETT SEES A GHOST 131
"Someone screamed. It was no one in the house. I
thought—"
He broke off as a queer noise sounded from the direc-
tion of the garage. It was like a moan.
"The torch, Starr!" he exclaimed.
Ravenhill had swung round and started to run. "I've
got one," he called over his shoulder.
A pencil of light showed on the gravel. Tom jumped
down the steps and followed him round the house.
The garage door was open. Two cars stood inside—
the big car and Margery's two-seater.
The moan sounded again.
"It's Hammett," Tom declared. "He lives over the
garage."
He ran to the stairs at the back and mounted them,
Ravenhill following and lighting the way. Bursting
open the door he looked inside. The place was in dark-
ness. Ravenhill's torch revealed a man crouching over
the bed, his hands before his face. It was Hammett.
Ravenhill characteristically took command at once.
"It's all right, Hammett," he called.
He fumbled for the electric light switch and pressed
it down. The chauffeur recoiled from the glare.
"It's all right," Ravenhill said again.
He crossed the room and knelt down beside the
chauffeur. Hammett's hands left his face and revealed
horror-stricken eyes. He looked stupidly at the intruders.
"It's—it's—" He stumbled to his feet. "It's gone?" he
whispered.
"There's no one here except friends," Ravenhill
soothed him.


132 MURDER FROM BEYOND
Hammett looked from Ravenhill to Tom; then he
sighed. A change came over him. He passed his hand
over his eyes, and when he uncovered them Tom saw
that they held a queer look.
"What is it?" called Margery's voice from below.
"Don't let her come up," whispered Hammett. "I'm
all right now. It was only—"
Ravenhill signalled to Tom, who descended to the
garage, where he found Margery and Storey Martin.
Margery seized his arm. "Is it Hammett?" she ex-
claimed. "What's wrong with him? Where's my aunt?"
Tom had forgotten the aunt. Hammett should have
brought her from the station.
"He's all right, I think," he said cautiously. "He's
alone."
"Yes, but where's my aunt?" Margery demanded tear-
fully.
"We mustn't get panicky," Tom soothed her. "He
doesn't want you to go up. Wait here, and I'll see if I
can get anything out of him. I don't know what's hap-
pened."
He went upstairs again. Hammett, looking very ill,
was sitting on the bed, and Ravenhill stood over him.
He turned as Tom entered, then he cocked his head and
listened. Tom caught the sound of wheels on the drive.
So apparently did Margery and Storey Martin, for he
heard them go to the door. A few seconds later came a
cry—from Margery.
"Auntie!"
"Good heavens!" Hammett croaked from the bed.
"And I was supposed to meet her!"


HAMMETT SEES A GHOST 133
"But what happened?" demanded Tom. "You went
to the station, didn't you?"
Hammett stood up shakily.
"Didn't you go to the station after you dropped me?"
Ravenhill asked.
"I—I don't know," Hammett stammered. "I re-
member coming back. Must have lost my memory or
something."
"It's very queer," muttered Ravenhill. Then, aloud,
"What happened when you got back? The car's in the
garage."
Hammett's face was contorted. He swallowed hard.
"I don't know," he said hoarsely.
"Oh, nonsense, man!" exclaimed Ravenhill impa-
tiently. "Was it you who screamed?"
"Did I scream?" Hammett shivered. "I—"
"Anybody'd think you'd seen a ghost," said Tom.
Hammett shrank back, and as he did so Tom remem-
bered the tales the Rector's housekeeper had told him.
"Did you—?" he began and broke off. It was ridicu-
lous. Of course there was no truth in the silly rumors.
"Is there supposed to be a ghost?" Ravenhill asked.
Hammett looked at him quickbf, then at Tom.
Hammett gulped. "It's true," ne declared. "I saw it.
It was over there." He pointed towards the fireplace.
"But how do you account for not meeting Miss
Wharton's aunt?" Ravenhill asked. He was frowning.
"You haven't been drinking, have you? You were all
right when I left you. You'd scarcely have had time in
the interval."
He suddenly went to Hammett and seized his wrist.


134 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"H'm," he commented. "Pulse's fast. D'you feel ill?"
But Hammett had become uncommunicative. "I've
told you everything," he said. "I must have lost my
memory when I dropped you at the police station—I
had a crack on the head when I was in France in the
War."
"But that doesn't explain—"
"I tell you I saw something. Perhaps I was mistaken.
I suppose I was just coming to, or something—memory
was just coming back. I—I'm sorry I made such a
disturbance."
Ravenhill looked undecided. "You'd better see a doc-
tor," he said. "I'll 'phone Dr. Dormer—"
"No, don't do that, Sir," Hammett interrupted. "I'm
all right now."
"What am I to tell Miss Wharton?" asked Tom.
"That you lost your memory?"
"It's the truth, Sir."
"And what about the ghost? Did you see something
or not?"
"Leave him alone," counselled Ravenhill. Then, to
Hammett, "You'd better not stay here alone," he said
in a more kindly voice. "I really think you ought to
have the doctor, you know."
"Honestly, Sir, I'm all right," replied Hammett
earnestly. "I've had these turns before. I'll go into the
house and—"
"I should get Starr to rig you up a bed in his room
tonight," advised Ravenhill. Then he turned to Tom.
"Come along," he said. "He'll be all right now."


HAMMETT SEES A GHOST 135
Together they went down the stairs. In the garage
Ravenhill looked into the big car.
"Well, he brought my bag all right," he commented,
lifting a suitcase from the back seat.
"D'ycm think he really lost his memory?" asked Tom.
"It's a likely explanation," said Ravenhill cautiously.
"Anyhow he's had a nasty shock. He wasn't play-
acting."
"But you don't believe in the ghost yarn?"
"It was you who put the idea into his head," Raven-
hill pointed out. "I don't understand these brain cases.
If his head is damaged it's quite possible for him to get
the horrors, I suppose."
"He oughtn't to be a chauffeur in that case."
"That doesn't enter into the matter. . . . What's the
ghost yarn?"
"Oh, the villagers have got hold of a tale. That
poacher-fellow, Spence, seems to be responsible. I believe
one of the servants got scared and left."
Ravenhill was thoughtful as they left the garage and
returned to the house. The library was deserted. Starr
told them that Mrs. Stevenage—it was the first time
Tom had heard the aunt's name—had gone to her room.
Margery was with her.
"She came up by the station fly," he added.
"Starr, you might look after Hammett tonight,"
said Ravenhill. "He says he lost his memory. Is he
subject to that sort of thing?"
"Yes, Sir, he is. He was very queer about four months
ago.
"Is it true he had a head injury in France?"


136 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Yes, Sir. I've seen the scar. He showed it me some
time ago."
"He's been rambling about seeing a ghost, and—"
"A ghost!" Starr's voice shook and his face went
white. "Did he say that, Sir. Why, he always—" He
stopped.
"Always what, Starr?"
"Well, there was rumors, Sir, about the 'ouse being
'aunted." Starr's lost aitches betrayed his concern. "But
'Ammett always scoffed at the idea. And you say he's
seen it, Sir?"
"I didn't say so, but he thinks he did. More likely
his muddled mind gave him the willies—the horrors."
Starr's hands were twitching. "Nancy Beamish, the
parlor maid, saw it, Sir," he faltered. "She gave notice
next day."
"What did she see?" asked Tom.
"It was late one night, Sir. The cook had sent her
with some coffee for Hammett. She went into the
garage but she couldn't find Hammett. Then she lets
out a scream and drops the tray and rushes back to the
house. She said that there was a ghost standing beside
the car."
"Was there a light on?"
"Yes, Sir. She—"
"And where was Hammett?"
"In the garage all the time. When she drops the tray
and bolts he runs after her."
"He hadn't seen the ghost then?"
"He laughed about it. Said she'd mistaken 'im for a
ghost. . . . But she gave notice next morning."


HAMMETT SEES A GHOST 137
"What do you think about it, Starr?"
The old man looked troubled. "There's all sorts of
tales goin' round the village," he said doubtfully. "That
there Spence swears he saw something queer when he
came up to see the cook—she's his cousin. But he
wouldn't say what it was or where 'e saw it."
"You've all got ghosts on the brain," Tom put in.
"Well, it isn't my place to contradict you, Sir," said
Starr soberly, "but I do say there's something queer
about the place. I didn't believe in ghosts and haunt-
ings till I came here, but now—well, I don't know what
to believe. I'm not what you'd call an imaginative man,
Sir, and I 'aven't got nothing particular on my con-
science but when I lays in bed of a night I don't mind
telling you I'm—" He broke off expressively.
"There's something queer about the place," he re-
peated when the others made no comment.
When they were alone Tom asked Ravenhill about
his visit to West Billington.
"I went to see Service," the reporter said. "He told
me about that letter. He found it in Winter's pocket-
book."
"Dangerous thing for him to keep," Tom com-
mented.
"It was if he contemplated murder," said Ravenhill.
"You mean—?"
"I think Service's idea is that Winter killed Mrs.
Wharton. Service has built up an elaborate theory which
unfortunately is very plausible."
"What is it?"
"He thinks that Winter wasn't really in love with


138 MURDER FROM BEYOND
her but that he'd been attracted and probably indiscreet
and that she'd become sort of proprietory. He argues
that Winter might quite possibly have gone to the
length of killing her in order to get free from the en-
tanglement. And remember he was a doctor, and aconi-
tine isn't a layman's poison."
"I've thought of that, but the motive doesn't seem
strong enough."
"I think it is. A man's judgment gets warped in such
circumstances; he's quite likely to act in an insane way.
Civilization doesn't count for much when primitive pas-
sions are— Look here, Manning," he went off at a tan-
gent, "I'm convinced that Miss Wharton holds the key
to the mystery. She's not alone. Everybody in the case
is hiding something from us. If they'd only be frank!"
"But surely—"
"I tell you everyone's keeping something vital back.
Probably none of 'em knows who Mrs. Wharton's mur-
derer is, and none of 'em separately could help us to
find him. It's like a jigsaw puzzle. No one piece means
much, but they fit together and make a whole."
"But why did you single out Miss Wharton just
now?"
"Because she was the most active of them all. All the
rest sat still and did nothing much, but Miss Wharton
actually feared something and went to see Springfield.
The fact that the crime was committed that very night
is significant. She went too late."
"You mean, I suppose, that if he had known soon
enough what she had to tell him he could have pre-
vented the murder?"


142 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Oh, good afternoon!" she exclaimed. "This is a
fortunate meeting. A minute later and I should have
missed you. I was coming up to the house."
"What's wrong!" asked Margery. It was evident to
Tom that she did not like the woman.
Miss Williams looked at Tom meaningly.
"I'll walk on," he said to Margery.
"No, no, Tom dear," the girl took his arm and re-
strained him. Both thrilled and puzzled by the vocative,
he hesitated. "Surely Miss Williams does not object to
your sharing her news."
Margery's voice was very queer. Her remark held a
meaning other than the obvious one, Tom was certain.
The woman bridled, and her sallow face flushed.
"Very well," she said. "I'm sure I don't mind if you
don't. I wanted to speak to you about your mother."
Tom looked from her to the girl uncomfortably. Her
hand still lay on his arm.
"I've just come back from town," Miss Williams went
on. "From a clairvoyant," she added impressively.
Tom s*w Margery start: her face went dead white.
"Yes?" she prompted the woman in a low voice.
"My sister was with me," Miss Williams continued,
"and—and we got a message through."
"You mean you went to a seance?" questioned Tom,
speaking to her for the first time.
She regarded him hostilely. "Yes," she said at last.
"We got your mother, Margery."
Margery gasped. Regardless of Miss Williams Tom
put his arm round the girl. She was obviously in great
distress.


THE SPY
143
'T don't think you should tell Miss Wharton about
it," he reproved the woman. "It's your own affair, after
all."
"No, let her speak," said Margery with evident dif-
ficulty.
"You're very impertinent, young man," Miss Wil-
liams snapped. "The matter doesn't concern you. What
I have to say is for Miss Wharton, not you."
"What is it?" asked Margery faintly.
"As I said, we got Mrs. Wharton through. She told
us the name of her murderer."
Her voice lingered on the last word.
"It was a doctor," she added mysteriously. "It was
your fiance, Margery—Vivian Winter."
Margery straightened herself. "The spirit was evi-
dently not very trustworthy," she said icily, "or it
would have known that Vivian Winter was not my
fiance. Good afternoon, Miss Williams," she finished. "I
have saved you the necessity of going as far as the
house."
The woman's eyes boggled; then her face went white
with anger. She opened her mouth to speak, but Tom
thought it was time he took a definite hand.
"That'll do, Miss Williams," he said evenly. "You
can believe your tale or not, as you please, and if you
want to you can go to the police with it, but be good
enough to spare us."
The woman was trembling with passion now.
"Very well," she stuttered. "I will go to the police."
She turned round and without another word passed


144 MURDER FROM BEYOND
through the gateway. Tom and Margery watched her
angular form pass round the bend in the road.
"She's mad," Tom said. "A horrible woman alto-
gether."
Margery shivered. "I wish we hadn't seen her. She—"
She broke off.
"Come along, dear." Tom looked at her white face
and cursed the woman silently. "Let's get along. Try to
forget all about it. You don't believe there's anything
in what she says, do you?"
She did not answer.
"How could there be?" he went on. "These spiritual-
ists are all humbugs. Besides," he added inconsequently,
"she's obviously insane."
Margery suffered him to draw her arm through his.
She walked beside him in silence, nor did he speak until
they had covered half a mile. Then with the memory of
her "Tom dear" he asked her gently:
"Why did you prevent my seeing you all last week,
dear?"
Her hand fluttered on his arm. "I didn't," she an-
swered in a low voice.
"Of course you did. "Were you angry with me?"
"No-o. The circumstances were difficult, weren't
they? You sometimes seem to forget that—"
"I don't, dear. It was because I didn't forget about—
all that has happened at Redlands that I felt so ter-
ribly puzzled about you. I mean," he went on hastily,
"you knew what my feelings were and that I wanted to
share your trouble."


THE SPY
147
next instant he heard an exclamation from Margery.
He swung round. She was staring at the gap in the
hedge by which they had entered the field.
"What is it, dear?" he called.
She beckoned to him, and in some alarm he ran back
to her.
"Somebody's watching us," she whispered. "He's just
crossed the gap."
"Perhaps it's only someone passing by," suggested
Tom.
"No, he was running, and he didn't make a sound,"
the girl declared. "I wish I'd seen who it was."
Tom remembered the rustle in the hedge. Someone
had been hiding there eavesdropping and had bolted for
fear of Tom's discovering him!
Tom jumped over the fallen tree and made for the
gap. The road was empty. A little higher up the hedge
ended and gave place to a wood. He beckoned to Mar-
gery and ran to where the trees began.
But the undergrowth was dense. If the eavesdropper
had taken cover in there they would never find him.
Margery had joined him by this time.
"Can't see anyone," he told her. "Are you sure—?"
"Positive," she declared. "I could just see it was a man
and that was all."
"Tall or short?"
"I don't know. He seemed to be running in a crouch-
ing position. I didn't catch sight of him until he'd
crossed the gap."
"Only a peeping Tom, I expect," said Tom dubiously.
"Let's get on."


148 MURDER FROM BEYOND
But he was disturbed. Why should anyone spy on
them? His journalist's mind looked for causes. He could
think of no reason why he, himself, should be shadowed,
and he must inevitably connect the spy with the mystery
of Redlands. Was it a police agent? He thought not.
Then it must be someone from the opposite camp.
He got no further than that. Margery, looking at her
watch, uttered an exclamation.
"We must get back," she said. "I'd no idea it was so
late."
Tom's thoughts had produced gloom. There was so
much mystery abroad. In his reaction from the scene in
the field he remembered how strangely Margery had be-
haved recently, how Ravenhill had said that she was
hiding something. There was that visit to London on the
night of the murder, too, and the man—what was his
name?—the man, Springfield.
Margery was silent as they walked home. Several
times he looked at her, and always she was preoccupied.
He wanted to talk to her normally, but he felt tongue-
tied. Even though he accused himself of lack of faith
in her and felt ashamed he could not bring himself
to speak. And as he pondered on the mystery of the
eavesdropper his depression grew. He felt sure that it
was Margery who was being watched, and he had a
queer feeling that the reason for the espionage was that
someone had realized that he and Margery were becom-
ing so intimate that she might reveal something to him.
He could not explain that feeling to himself. He sup-
posed it was the result of deductions that his subcon-
scious mind had made; deductions that were perhaps il-



THE SPY
149
logical, could he but see how they were arrived at, but
deductions, nevertheless, that caused his mind to be
strongly affected.
But how could he doubt her? Of course she was hid-
ing nothing for her own sake. He was sure now that she
loved him and that therefore she would hide nothing
from him except to shield someone else.
When they reached home it was to receive good news.
Dr. Dormer was putting on his overcoat in the hall.
"The Rector's much better," he announced. "He can
move his right arm and leg slightly. I have hopes that
he'll be able to speak shortly."
Ravenhill returned shortly afterwards. He asked Tom
if anything had happened in his absence. Tom told him
of the Rector's improvement and of the scene with Miss
Williams, but of the eavesdropper he said nothing.
"Take care of Miss Wharton, Manning," Ravenhill
said soberly and with apparent irrelevance.
"Why, what—?"
"Has it never occurred to you that she may be
in danger?"


CHAPTER XVI
THE THIRD MURDER
In bed that night Tom lay in a fever of apprehension.
Ravenhill's quiet question was responsible though he
supposed that the sudden return of heat and thundery
conditions was also affecting him. As he lay staring at
the dark sky through the uncurtained window he tried
desperately to piece things together. Who was the mys-
terious Springfield whom Margery had visited that fate-
ful night? What was the danger which, according to
Ravenhill, beset the girl? Surely except for the law's
penalty the drama which had resulted in the deaths of
Mrs. Wharton and Vivian Winter was played out now.
There could be no other victim. How then was Margery
in danger?
Then he realized that as far as motivation went the
police apparently, and Ravenhill certainly, were quite in
the dark. And what had Ravenhill said? That the mur-
der of Mrs. Wharton was not a crime of passion, but a
carefully premeditated one. That implied an unusual
motive.
The church clock struck one. From a long way off,
borne in the rising wind, the note of another bell
sounded; then the clock in the hall downstairs chimed.
Tom found himself listening intently, his head raised
from the pillow. Once he thought he heard the click
150


152 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Did you see him?" whispered Ravenhill's voice
eagerly.
"Only a glimpse. He's gone towards the other wing,"
Tom whispered back.
He followed the reporter out into the passage and
crept with him to the angle. Darkness lay beyond. Rav-
enhill did not use his torch.
"Wait here," breathed the reporter, his mouth close
to Tom's ear. "If he comes back this way, tackle him—
whoever it is."
Then he disappeared in the darkness.
Crouched against the wall Tom waited, his nerves
tense. The minutes passed. He heard nothing but the
painful beating of his own heart and the whining of the
wind. He strove desperately to keep his imagination in
check.
As he stood there he tried to recall how the passage
ran. He knew it connected the two wings of the house
and terminated at each end in a flight of stairs. And
in the other wing Margery, the Rector, and his nurse
had rooms.
It was hard to stand there doing nothing. Did Raven-
hill know about the two staircases? Surely—
The creak of a board made his nerves leap. He
quieted himself with the thought that the noise was
probably caused by Ravenhill returning. That meant
that his search had been unsuccessful. Then he heard
a thud, and again his nerves responded. The dead silence
which followed put him into a panic. He must do some-
thing. Anything was better than crouching there use-
lessly against the wall.


THE THIRD MURDER 153
He moved forward cautiously, feeling his way and
trying to judge when he would come to the next bend.
Presently he became aware of a vague light ahead and
knew it must be that of the dawn showing through the
east window round the bend. Subconsciously he noted a
draught from behind him.
He came to the bend and dimly discerned the wall. A
grey light strove with the darkness. Then he drew up
with a jerk to prevent himself from stumbling. On the
floor lay a crumpled figure.
He was on his knees at once. A man! He rolled him
over so that he could see the face. It was Ravenhill!
Now that he had something tangible to deal with,
Tom's presence of mind returned to him. Ravenhill was
inert, dead or unconscious, and must be attended to at
once. A glint on the floor revealed the reporter's torch.
Tom picked it up and regardless of its betraying him,
switched it on. Ravenhill's eyes were closed, but Tom
found that his heart was beating. He could see no sign
of any injury and concluded that Ravenhill had been
stunned.
For some seconds Tom wondered what he should do.
Should he arouse the house or act secretly? He decided
on the latter, and with difficulty he hoisted his friend
over his shoulder and laboriously went back along the
passage to his room. Switching on the light, he laid the
reporter on his bed. Then he went to the washstand and
dipped his sponge in the water ewer.
But his ministration was unnecessary. Ravenhill's eyes
were open when he returned to the bed and staring stu-
pidly at the ceiling.


154 MURDER FROM BEYOND
The reporter tried to raise himself and fell back with
a groan.
"He got me on the head," he murmured weakly, as
Tom bent over him. "Be all right in a minute." He
closed his eyes.
Tom poured out a glass of water and then, propping
his friend up with his arms, put it to his lips. Ravenhill
drank thirstily.
"That's better," he sighed as he sank back and
closed his eyes again.
Suddenly he stirred and seized Tom's hand. "Did you
see him?" he demanded.
Tom shook his head. "No." he answered. "He must
have gone down the stairs in the other wing. Who was
it?"
"God knows!" returned the reporter. "But he had
the strength of the devil! He— Manning, how long is
it since he knocked me out?"
"Not long. Fifteen minutes at the most, I should
say."
"There's still time, then," the reporter muttered,
struggling off the bed. He swayed a little. "If he didn't
go back your way he must have gone downstairs. But
that doesn't matter much. He could have come up by
the other staircase again. Manning, we must search!"
He went unsteadily to the door and opened it. Tom
followed him. The passage outside was grey in the dawn
light.
"What do you think he was after?" Tom murmured.
Then he remembered his friend's earlier words. Margery


THE THIRD MURDER 155
was in danger! He grasped Ravenhill's arm. "Was it
Miss Wharton he- was after?" he demanded.
"Hush!" Ravenhill reproved him in a whisper. "He
didn't do anything anyhow—except knock me out. He
was in the passage all the time. Seemed to be waiting for
something. Perhaps he sensed me."
"But you couldn't see him in that darkness."
"Not so loud, Manning. No; I couldn't see him, nor
he me. It was too dark. But I knew he was there. . . .
I'm going to try Martin's room. You stay here."
He tiptoed along the passage to the neighboring door
and bending down applied his eye then his ear to the
keyhole. Then he straightened himself and slowly
turned the handle. He opened the door. Finally he
closed it softly and returned.
"Martin's there right enough—fast asleep, unless he's
shamming. We'll go downstairs. You take this way,"
pointing to the staircase, "and I'll go round the passage
and down the other stairs. Meet in the hall."
Tom went back into the room and put on his dress-
ing gown, then he separated from Ravenhill. The house
was still quite quiet though birds twittered outside and
a cock crowed in the distance. He got to the hall with-
out encountering anyone, and a few minutes later Rav-
enhill joined him.
"I looked into the empty rooms upstairs," the re-
porter said. "Now we'll search down here. You stay here
in case he hears us and slips out."
Ravenhill began his investigation. In five minutes he
had finished. There was a puzzled look on his face when
he rejoined Tom.


156 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Not a trace of him," he said, "and every window's
fastened. Have a look at the front door while I try the
back."
But the front door was bolted; so also, reported Rav-
enhill, was the back.
"There are only two possibilities left," said Tom.
"Either he's in the servants' quarters, or he escaped by
an upper window."
Ravenhill looked at his wristwatch. "The servants'll
be getting up by now," he reflected aloud. Then, "D'you
know which is Starr's room?"
Tom had only a vague idea. "But there's a bell con-
nects with it from the library," he said. "Hadn't we
better get him down?"
"Perhaps it would be better. Go and ring for him,
then, will you?"
Tom did so. In two minutes the butler, looking very
startled, joined them. He was dressed in trousers and
shirt only.
"It's all right, Starr," Ravenhill said at once. "Some-
body—that is, we thought we heard someone prowling
about in the night, and—"
"Somebody in the house, Sir?" Starr looked scared.
"You mean—a burglar?"
"I can't say. The windows and doors are all bolted,
and unless he escaped somehow from upstairs he's still in
the house—if we weren't mistaken about him," he added
quickly. "We've searched all the empty rooms. What
about yours and the other servants'?"
"I can answer for mine, Sir," Starr quavered.
One of the maids appeared on the stairs at that


158 MURDER FROM BEYOND
The lead roof was wet with dew, and large footprints
stood out boldly on it. They went in one direction only
—away from the window.
"He didn't come in this way, anyhow," said Tom.
Somehow he felt that he was on the defensive. There
had been a suspicion at the back of his mind that per-
haps the unknown had entered while he slept. •
"Apparently not," agreed Ravenhill. "I suppose that's
dew and not rain?" he added doubtfully.
"What difference does it make?"
"Only that if it's rain it might have fallen after he
entered. That would explain the footprints going in one
direction only. But it's dew right enough."
He examined the windowsill. Then he lowered the
window. It made no sound.
"Well oiled," he commented. "I'd better go down
again and see what I can find outside. Don't speak to
anyone about this, mind."
Tom was dressed when he returned. Ravenhill looked
very puzzled.
"What's happened?" asked Tom.
"He seems to have gone round to the drive when he
clambered off the roof," said Ravenhill. "At least," he
added, "I should say he did. There are several prints on
the wet stones beyond the garage door, and—"
"Then it wasn't Hammett?"
"Did you suspect him?" Ravenhill was looking ab-
stractedly at Tom's feet. Then he glanced up. "I suppose
you don't sleep-walk, Manning, do you?" he asked.
"What on earth do you mean?"
For answer, Ravenhill went to the corner, picked up


160 MURDER FROM BEYOND
run towards me, and leave the way clear for his escape.
He knew he'd leave footprints, and so he collared your
shoes, entered your room and put them on—probably
over his own!—and then cleared out, shutting the win-
dow behind him."
"A good reconstruction," commented Tom a little
maliciously, "but based entirely upon hypotheses instead
of data. You're suggesting that the man knew the house
intimately and that he knew we had both followed him.
He doesn't belong here, that's certain."
"I haven't suggested that he does. But why not, any-
how?"
"Because he wouldn't have left the house if he be-
longed here."
"There's Hammett."
"I know. But you apparently don't think he's the
man."
"I don't suspect him more than I do anyone else.
Everyone's suspect at present. As a matter of fact, I
suspect him less than others, because—well, the man
who biffed me over the head had something to do with
the murder of Mrs. Wharton, and the motive of that
was too big to involve Hammett—at least it seems so."
"But why do you think the man last night was Mrs.
Wharton's murderer?"
"You don't believe he was a common or garden bur-
glar, do you? The place is too much in the limelight at
present for anyone to attempt a burglary here. Don't
forget, Manning," he went on in a new tone, "we
haven't solved the mystery of Mrs. Wharton's death
yet. The motive of that was a deep one: in all proba-


THE THIRD MURDER 161
bility the cause of that murder, the motivation, has other
effects yet to follow it. I warned you that Miss Wharton
was in danger. I didn't say that lightly. She's involved,
Manning, because she knows something, and the mur-
derer knows she knows something. He came in last night
for that reason."
"To murder her?" exclaimed Tom, horrified.
"Maybe. Didn't someone spy on you yesterday?"
"How did you know that? I never told you."
"Miss Wharton did. She's afraid, Manning. D'you
know why?"
Tom's mouth was too dry for speech.
"She knows that someone fears that your intimacy
with her will cause her to reveal what she knows."
Ravenhill spoke deliberately. "She didn't say so, but she
believes that the spy yesterday was listening to see if that
revelation was made. That's why she's afraid—for you,
Manning."
"Melodrama!" Tom burst out thickly.
"D'you think so! Real life often is. But listen. We'll
assume that he believes you haven't heard Miss Whar-
ton's secret yet. What then? The secret may be safe all
the while only Miss Wharton knows it, and because she
has some big reason for not making it public. But that
doesn't apply to you. If she told you, the whole mystery
might be capable of being cleared up—not would be
cleared up, mark you. Therefore, argues the Unknown,
she must not tell you. Now do you see?"
"But, good God! you are suggesting that Miss Whar-
ton is involved in crime? I don't believe it."
Ravenhill shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't say she


162 MURDER FROM BEYOND
was involved in crime," he said patiently. "What I do
say is that she knows something at least of the motive
of Mrs. Wharton's murder. She—"
Running feet in the passage made him break off. He
sprang to the door and opened it as someone knocked
frantically. The Rector's nurse stood in the doorway.
"The Rector!" she cried hysterically. "He's dead!"


CHAPTER XVII
TOM LOSES HIS SHOES
"Dead!" repeated Tom stupidly. Then understanding
came. "Where is he? When did he die?" he demanded
wildly, thrusting Ravenhill aside and seizing the nurse
by the arm.
Ravenhill's face was tragic. "The Rector dead!" he
muttered. He let out his breath in a great sigh. "God!
what a fool I've been!" he exclaimed.
The change in his face was extraordinary, even to the
distraught Tom. He looked as though he would burst
into tears.
The nurse was speaking hysterically. ". . . to wake
him up. I thought something was wrong. He—"
But Tom did not wait for more. He pushed past the
nurse and ran wildly along the passage. His uncle's door
was open. On the threshold he drew himself up. The
light was switched on and shone on to the bed. His
uncle lay on his side; the bedclothes were pulled back.
Ravenhill had followed his friend. He went past him -
into the room.
"Mustn't touch anything," Tom heard him say. Then
he knelt down by the bedside and peered at the dead
man's neck. Tom went fearfully into the room.
"Look!" said Ravenhill, pointing to the neck.
But Tom had seen part of his uncle's face and was
163


164 MURDER FROM BEYOND
frozen with horror. It was twisted almost beyond rec-
ognition, and the eyes bulged with fear.
"He died as Mrs. Wharton died," whispered Ravenhill
in a shocked voice, "only he saw it coming—she didn't."
He drew Tom away from the terrible sight and
pulled him outside the room. The nurse stood trembling
in the passage.
"Listen, nurse!" exclaimed Ravenhill urgently and in
a low voice. "He's been murdered—you know that,
don't you? I'm going to telephone for the doctor and
the police at once, and I want you to go back to your
room and stay there till they come. Do you under-
stand?"
"You mean—?"
"No, no! I don't suspect you. I mean I don't want
anyone to know what's happened till the police come.
Go to your room." He turned to Tom impatiently.
"Look after her, Manning," he said. "I want things kept
secret until the police come."
Then he locked the door of the Rector's room and
pocketing the key strode quickly towards the stairs.
Tom was scarcely conscious of what was happening.
One terrible fact overwhelmed every other considera-
tion. Uncle Hilary was dead.
He found himself in the nurse's room. It was she,
after all, who had taken charge. He realized that he
was sitting down and that he held a glass of water in
his hand; that the nurse was bending over him. Then
he found that Ravenhill had returned, and was patting
him awkwardly on the back.
"Poor old man!" murmured the reporter. He turned


TOM LOSES HIS SHOES US
to the nurse. "The police'll be here in a few minutes,"
he went on. "Fortunately Inspector Service lives only a
stone's-throw from the police station. When did you last
see the Rector?"
"Just before I went to bed last night," the nurse an-
swered. "About half-past eleven, I suppose."
"And you heard nothing in the night?"
""Well—" The nurse hesitated. "Early this morning I
thought I heard a sound out in the passage. It woke me
up. But I thought I'd been dreaming."
"You heard nothing in the Rector's room?"
"Not a sound. And the communicating door was
wide open too."
"Did you have the light on?"
"I had a night light—on that table by the door. I
didn't put it in the Rector's room for fear of its dis-
turbing him."
Tom listened stupidly. But the numbness was leav-
ing his mind.
"Can't we—can't we do something?" he muttered.
"I want you to come downstairs as soon as you're fit.
I've locked front and back doors and I've got the keys,
but we'd better be downstairs, I think. D'you mind
staying here alone, nurse?"
She shook her head. Tom struggled to his feet, and
Ravenhill, slipping an arm through his, led him outside.
"What about my room?" Tom asked, thinking of the
exit the window afforded.
"I've locked it."
Downstairs he took Tom into the library and made
him sit down. Then he went to the door.


TOM LOSES HIS SHOES 167
felt sick with misery. His brain hammered ceaselessly
on the one refrain: Uncle Hilary was dead.
And he had to tell Margery. Mechanically he looked
at his watch. She'd be getting up, he supposed. Then he
noticed the maid at the back of the hall. She was stand-
ing against the wall with her hands clasped and staring
up the stairs. Then she cast a fearful glance at the
policeman by the door.
Tom went to her.
"Oh, Sir!" she exclaimed. "What is it? Not another
murder, Sir?"
He ignored the question, uncertain how he should
answer. Instead, "Will you go up to Miss Margery," he
said, "and ask her to come down to me in the library?
Tell her it's very urgent. Say— No, wait a bit. I'll give
you a note."
He went back to the library, and taking paper and
pen he wrote swiftly. His mind was functioning better
now.
"Dearest, something dreadful has happened," he
wrote. "Come down at once to me in the library. Don't
speak to anyone on the way."
The note was so effective that it brought Margery
down in her dressing gown within three minutes. She
looked terrified.
"Oh, Tom, what's happened?" she demanded, seizing
his arm.
"The Rector's dead," he said dully.


168 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"The Rector!" She gazed at him stupidly. "The Rec-
tor! Oh, surely not the Rector!"
"He's been—been murdered," Tom stuttered thickly.
"Like—like your mother."
Horror filled the girl's eyes and distorted her face.
"The police are here," Tom forced himself to con-
tinue. "We— Please sit down, Margery," he broke off.
The misery and fear which had taken the place of hor-
ror in her eyes made him turn away.
She obeyed him. Then he told her incoherently of the
events of the night. When he had done she made no
sound, neither did she move. The clock ticked loudly
on the mantel-shelf and beat upon his brain.
He found that he was watching her covertly. He was
afraid of her, conscious of suspicion in himself, con-
scious that she held a secret which might have prevented
this third murder.
"Now you must speak," he said hoarsely.
She raised her head slowly and looked at him. The
tragic eyes made him gulp. She got on to her feet. He
held out his hands to her pleadingly.
"Won't you tell me, dear," he said in a different tone.
He thought that she was going to speak. The next
instant she was running out of the room.
He did not follow her. He fell wearily into the chair
she had vacated and closed his eyes. He was suddenly
very tired. Even when he heard voices in the hall he did
not move. . . .
Someone was shaking him by the shoulder. He strug-
gled out of stupor and looked up. Ravenhill was bend-
ing over him. A shaft of sunlight showed the whiteness


TOM LOSES HIS SHOES 169
of the reporter's face and the dark hollows beneath his
eyes.
"Come outside," said Ravenhill. "It'll do you good to
get into the air."
Tom sat up and looked at the clock. He must have
been asleep. Queer thing for him to do in the circum-
stances. Then he saw the Inspector behind Ravenhill.
"I want to have a talk with you, Mr. Manning,"
Service said.
"Won't presently do?" asked Ravenhill. "He's—"
"Let's get it over now," said Tom wearily.
The Inspector shut the door. "Mr. Ravenhill has told
me his story," he said. "Now I want yours."
He produced his notebook, and Tom started. Until
he got to his description of finding Ravenhill uncon-
scious in the passage he was uninterrupted.
"Just a bit," the Inspector halted him. "Cast your
mind back again to the thud. Can you recall any other
sounds?"
"Yes, I'd heard a floor board creak just before. I
thought it was Mr. Ravenhill coming back."
"Anything else?"
"Well, it isn't important. When I rounded the angle
of the passage I saw that the dawn was breaking and—
yes; there was something else. I noticed a draught."
"From which direction?"
"Behind me."
"You hadn't noticed it before?"
Tom shook his head.
"How long did you feel it?"
"There was just the draught of cold air, then—"


170 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"It didn't last long?"
"I don't think so. I— By Jove! I never thought of it
before! Yes, of course. It was just as though someone
had opened a window."
"Your own, for instance?" commented Service.
"You're not suggesting that I've made that up?" de-
manded Tom.
"Oh, I don't suspect you" said the Inspector. "Why
should you make it up? It isn't evidence for a jury, but
—well, go on with your tale."
Tom finished his story and waited to be questioned.
"Now about your shoes?" the Inspector prompted
him. "Are you sure you put 'em out to be cleaned last
night?"
"Positive."
"Were they there when you first left your room in
the night?"
Tom thought hard. "I'm not sure," he said at length.
"I should probably have noticed them if they had been."
"They were there," put in Ravenhill, "but they
weren't immediately outside the door. They were on one
side."
"Then they'd been moved," Tom declared.
That was the end of the examination.
"The butler says Hammett cleans the shoes," Service
said. "We'll go and see him."
Though built on to the house, the garage was not
connected with it. The three let themselves out of the
front door.
Hammett was not in the garage nor in his room.


172 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"He'd make less noise on the soft sand," volunteered
Tom.
"He'd make less still on the grass," Service pointed
out. "But of course, there are those hurdles to prevent
his walking there."
They walked on about twenty yards.
"He was running," said the Inspector suddenly.
The footprints suddenly stopped.
"This is as far as I got," Ravenhill said. "I—" He
broke off and pointed. "Look!" he exclaimed.
At the foot of an old oak tree stood a pair of shoes!
"Yours, I think, Manning," Ravenhill chuckled.
There was no doubt of it. Tom recognized them at
once. The Inspector went gingerly towards them while
Tom and Ravenhill, obedient to his gesture, stayed on
the road. Ravenhill suddenly uttered an exclamation.
"Inspector," he called, "he had a bicycle! Here's the
track on the sand."
"I know," said Service quietly over his shoulder. "He
propped it up against this tree."
He squatted down and examined the grass.
"Can I come, Inspector?" asked Ravenhill and with-
out waiting for permission made a detour to the tree,
Tom following.
"That's it," Ravenhill said. "He propped the bicycle
against the tree while he went to the house; then when
he got back he took off the borrowed shoes and cycled
away." His voice trailed off and a look of puzzlement
came into his face. "But why the devil is there only one
set of footprints?" he demanded.
"That's what I want to know," grunted Service.


TOM LOSES HIS SHOES 173
"Perhaps he didn't go straight to the house," sug-
gested Tom.
The Inspector took out his handkerchief and wrap-
ping it round his hand picked up the shoes. Then he
went back to the road.
"Let's see if we can follow the bicycle for a bit,"
he said. "We'll go as far as the lodge, anyhow."
But except where the cycle had been wheeled off the
grass there were no tracks. Evidently the unknown had
kept to the hard center of the drive.
The three rounded the bend and came in sight of the
lodge. Old Thompson sat on the doorstep, smoking.
The Inspector suddenly halted and stayed the others.
But Ravenhill was already on his knees.
"He had a spill," he said tensely.
The gravel of the road was disturbed, and it showed
where the cycle had apparently skidded. Tom suddenly
dived for something that glinted in the sunlight. It was
a flake of what appeared to be nickel plating. He handed
it to the Inspector.
"Yes, he had a spill right enough," commented
Service. "Not damaged much though. Queer it should
happen here on the straight. There's no obstacle."
Tom's attention was distracted by Thompson. The
old man was still sitting on the lodge doorstep, but he
had taken his pipe from his mouth and was laughing
silently. Finally he clambered to his feet.
"Hi!" he called. "If you're looking for a bike, here
it be."
He pointed to the rail fence that divided the estate
from the main road. Lying against it was a bicycle.


174 MURDER FROM BEYOND
The three went on to the grass and crossed to the
fence, while old Thompson lumbered for the same ob-
jective.
"Bloke's 'ad a haccident," he called to them.
They were near enough to see that the front wheel
of the bicycle was buckled and the handle bars were
twisted.
"When did you find it, Thompson?" demanded the
Inspector.
"When I looked out o' my bedroom winder first thing
this marnin'," chuckled the old man.
"You haven't touched it?"
"That I ain't, Mr. Service. I ain't no fool."
"D'you know whose it is?"
"The name's on the tool-bag," Thompson said mys-
teriously.
The Inspector looked. Then he frowned and glanced
at Thompson apparently for enlightenment. Finally
Ravenhill went and looked at the tool-bag.
"'Terence Wharton,' " he read aloud.
"Mr. Wharton used to ride a bike fer 'is health,"
Thompson explained, between puffs as he re-lighted his
pipe.
"Then it comes from the house!" exclaimed Tom in
bewilderment.
"Kept in the garage, I suppose?" the Inspector asked
Thompson.
"It used to be," answered the old man, "but it ain't
lately. Master told 'Ammett about three weeks ago—
no; a month more like—he didn't want it no more, and


TOM LOSES HIS SHOES 175
said 'e could do what 'e liked with it. So 'Ammett, 'e
sells it to Rufus Spence."
"The poacher!" interjected Tom.
"They say 'e is," the old man answered complacently.
"But why hadn't he taken Mr. "Wharton's card from
the tool-bag?" Tom asked.
The Inspector pointed to a pencil mark. "The name's
been badly penciled out," he said. "Look, there's Spence's
name scrawled above it."
Ravenhill was on his knees examining the wheels
closely. Presently he looked up.
"Thompson," he said, "I want to try an experiment.
Look, the front tire's punctured. I want to find out if
you could hear the report of a blow-out. Will you go
to your bedroom and listen? See that the window is the
same as it was last night."
Tom and the Inspector looked at Ravenhill in sur-
prise. A frown of suspicion rested on Thompson's face.
"I tell 'e—" he began.
"Go on, Thompson," Ravenhill urged him impa-
tiently. "It's just an experiment."
The old man turned slowly and shambled off.
"How are you going to imitate a blow-out?" asked
Service sarcastically.
"We'll all clap together," grinned Ravenhill. "We—"
"What's the great idea? It seems idiotic to me. 'Tisn't
necessary, anyhow."
"It isn't," agreed Ravenhill in a low voice. "I wanted
to get him out of the way. We don't want him to hear
everything. . . . That tire isn't punctured, Inspector.
The valve's missing!"


CHAPTER XVIII
THE MISSING VALVE
Obsessed by the tragedy of his uncle's death, Tom
scarcely remembered afterwards how he got through
that awful day. In following the footprints and tire
tracks to the lodge he hed certainly been diverted from
thinking of his loss, but that was but due to the excite-
ment of action. Back in the house, despite the presence
of the police and later of reporters, his mind concen-
trated on the fact of his uncle's terrible death.
Uncle Hilary had been father and friend, the dearest
person on earth to him. And the Rector had suffered.
Tom realized that. There was a secret in his life beyond
that of his love for Margery which in some way linked
him with the Whartons to such an extent that he had
now shared Mrs. Wharton's fate. If not, why had he
been killed?
Late that afternoon Ravenhill came to him as he sat
in the garden miserably recalling his early life with his
uncle. The reporter sat down quietly beside him.
"Feel like talking?" he asked.
Tom did not answer. He was afraid that expressed
sympathy might cause him to break down.
"The inquest's fixed for the day after tomorrow,"
Ravenhill said. "They've taken the—the Rector away."
Tom shivered.
176


THE MISSING VALVE 177
"Had to tell you," muttered Ravenhill, ingenuously
slipping his arm under Tom's. "Scotland Yard has been
called in. Inspector Miller's coming down."
"About time too!" Tom blurted out.
"Oh, come!" Ravenhill protested. "Service is a sound
man. As good as Miller, anyhow; but there'd be a row
if he carried on alone any longer."
He broke off. Tom, looking at him covertly, saw that
his face was strained.
"If I hadn't been a fool," Ravenhill said presently,
"your uncle wouldn't have been killed."
"But what could—?"
"I thought that either Miss "Wharton or you would
be the next victims."
"Me!" Tom looked his amazement. "But what have I
done? How do I come into the affair?"
"You are engaged to Miss Wharton. Miss Wharton
has a secret which she might pass on to you. Hence the
eavesdropping yesterday. I keep on telling you that if
only Miss Wharton'd say what she knows we'd soon
have the murderer. You know that." He looked at Tom
shrewdly. "You've asked her what the secret is, and she's
either refused to tell you or put you off. The eaves-
dropper of yesterday knows that. That's why he's made
no attempt to kill you—yet."
"Yes, but the Rector? How—?"
"What did the doctor say yesterday? That the Rector
was so much better that it was probable he'd be able to
speak soon. Don't you see? If he could have spoken he
could have put us on the track."
Tom gasped. He dared not ask the question which


180 MURDER FROM BEYOND
carded my shoes and rode off. Then he had an accident
and—"
"What sort of accident? Remember the buckled
wheel."
"I don't know. It's very queer. I suppose he must
have collided with something."
"With what?"
"Well, there are sheep and cows on the estate. One
might have been crossing the drive."
"It couldn't have been a cow unless it was lying
down," Ravenhill pointed out. "It's body is too high
from the ground for a bicycle wheel to bump against it.
And I shouldn't think a sheep'd be heavy enough. In
any case, it wasn't a cow or a sheep, for they've all
been examined, and none of 'em is injured."
"What was it then?"
"A blind, Manning. There was no accident at all. The
murderer chucked his bike on the ground to knock
some of the plating off and faked the marks of a skid."
"But the wheel was buckled. He couldn't do that by
chucking his bike on the ground."
"Nor did he," Ravenhill grinned. "Did you notice
how the rim of the wheel was bent? No? Well, there
were two dents in it. It's quite simple what happened.
He wheeled the bike to the rail fence and slammed it
against it. Then he left it there to make us believe he'd
tried to wheel it away—or even ride it—from the scene
of the faked accident and then had given it up in de-
spair and left it against the fence."
"I don't see why he should take all those precautions,"
said Tom. "Surely he wouldn't waste time like that


THE MISSING VALVE 181
when obviously the best thing he could do would be to
get as far away as possible?"
"This man doesn't think on those lines," declared
Ravenhill. "The whole scheme was carefully thought
out beforehand."
"Even where my shoes were concerned?" asked Tom
with a ghost of a smile.
"Even where your shoes were concerned," said Raven-
hill soberly.
"What about the missing valve?" he asked.
"Surely you can see? That's the most important clew
of the lot, since it represents almost his only mistake.
He let the air out of the tube before he smashed the
wheel against the fence—"
"—to avoid the noise of a burst tire!" exclaimed
Tom.
"Of course. Old Thompson lives only a few yards
away. He'd have heard—"
"Whose bicycle is it?" Tom interrupted. Animation
was coming back to him now. "Had Hammett really
sold it to Rufus Spence?"
"Yes. Wharton gave it to him some time ago, but
he didn't sell it till last week."
"Then—"
"No; Spence isn't suspected. He kept it in a shed in
his garden, and it was there when he went to bed last
night—so he says; he was probably poaching as usual."
Tom pondered on that. Could Spence possibly be the
murderer?
"Spence isn't exactly the sort of man who could climb


182 MURDER FROM BEYOND
on to the garage roof and steal through my room with-
out waking me up," he mused aloud.
"We've yet to prove that the murderer came in that
way," said Ravenhill quietly. "If he did how is it he
left no tracks in the dew on the roof?"
Tom wondered how he could have overlooked such
an elementary piece of reasoning. He remembered too
that early that morning when the footprints had been
found on the garage roof Ravenhill had made a remark
about the single track. That complicated things enor-
mously.
"Anyhow, let's keep to one point at a time," said
Ravenhill, lighting his pipe. "This Rufus Spence is
apparently not nimble enough to do all that, and he
most certainly doesn't appear to be the sort of person
who could possess and handle a hypodermic syringe and
who would know anything about aconitine—for the
poison used undoubtedly was aconitine."
Tom noticed the stresses and became excited.
"You mean," he said eagerly, "that there's some doubt
about him?"
"If Spence isn't what he seems," Ravenhill smiled,
"he's been foresighted enough to have had generations
of Spences living in the village before him! Also," he
added, "don't forget that the cook here is a relative of
his."
"Perhaps," suggested Tom extravagantly, "he's not
Spence at all, but that the real Spence is dead and he's
impersonating him."
"My dear chap," said Ravenhill, "this case is bizarre
enough already; don't make it fantastic."


THE MISSING VALVE 183
"Still it's a possibility," Tom maintained stubbornly.
"What about that impersonator in that last case of
yours who even deceived his own aunt?" *
"That was quite different. No; Spence is Spence, and
he's not capable of all those exploits. I deny that it's a
possibility. It's against common-sense."
"That means that someone borrowed his bicycle last
night, then."
"You're not a lawyer so you can say someone stole
it," corrected Ravenhill, "for Spence swears he didn't
lend it to anyone. If he's speaking the truth he last saw
it at eleven-thirty last night when he went to the shed
to put away some tools before he turned in. He said he
wasn't asleep before twelve, for he heard the church
clock strike the hour, and I expect he'd have heard any-
one prowling about while he was awake. We may
assume that the murderer took the bike some time after
twelve. He left no footprints or other clews, and the
chances are he was wearing gloves, so there'll be no
fingerprints."
He broke off and rose to his feet.
"It's getting cold," he said. "Let's go inside."
Tom looked round the garden, quiet in the evening
light. Then he rose, too, and walked with Ravenhill
slowly across to the house. The sunset color promised a
fine day on the morrow.
"I sent Hammett down to the village to buy me some
tobacco," said Ravenhill when they reached the drive.
"He ought to be back by now. I'll go and get it from
him."
* "The Moat House Mystery" (Macaulay, 1930).


184 MURDER FROM BEYOND
Having nothing better to do, Tom went with him.
Voices sounded as they reached the garage window. Tom
caught the word "ghost" and involuntarily halted.
Ravenhill did likewise.
"Ghosts can't use hypodermic syringes," Hammett's
voice came to them.
Peering cautiously in at the window Tom saw Starr
sitting on the running board of the car. Hammett was
not to be seen, but his reflection shone in the bonnet of
the car.
"That's as it may be," the butler's voice replied. "But
if it wasn't a ghost who was it then?" His voice rose
suddenly and a note of hysteria entered it. "God
A'mighty, man! 'Ere's three murders done, and— Oh,
it's terrible. It ain't 'uman."
"Steady on, Starr!" Hammett soothed him. "You'll
make yourself bad. There's one thing proved," he went
on, "and that is that Mr. Wharton can't be guilty of
that first murder. The man who killed the poor old Rec-
tor was the same one who killed Mrs. Wharton."
"That's true," answered Starr more quietly. "But
then I never did suspect the master, nor didn't the
police, I'll lay. That there Mr. Ravenhill didn't anyhow.
He's a good 'un, he is."
"That he is," agreed Hammett. "D'you read his y?rn
in The Planet today?"
"No. About this affair?"
"How could it be? It only happened early this morn-
ing. No; about the other murder. He was giving a sort
of summing up of the case—all that's known so far. A
wonderful bit of work. Do you know, Starr?" he went


THE MISSING VALVE 185
on impressively, and in a lower voice, "I believe Raven-
hill knows who the murderer is, only he can't prove
it yet!"
"I don't believe it," declared Starr.
"How did he come to be practically on the scene last
night then when the Rector was murdered?" demanded
Hammett. "He'd foreseen what'd happen."
"No, 'e hadn't," Starr contradicted. "He heard the
murderer moving about. So did Mr. Manning."
Ravenhill touched Tom's arm. "Come," he whispered.
Tom was painfully conscious of the fact that he'd
been eavesdropping, though certainly nothing had been
said that he should not have heard.
The two servants sprang to their feet as Ravenhill
appeared in the doorway.
"Got my tobacco, Hammett?" asked the reporter.
"Yes, Sir. I couldn't find you in the house, Sir. I
thought you'd gone out."
The butler edged towards the door. To Tom he
seemed very nervous. He muttered an apology and left.
"I picked up something by the fence where you found
the bicycle, Sir," Hammett said confidentially. He felt
in his waistcoat pocket and handed something to the
reporter.
"The tire valve!" exclaimed Ravenhill.
Tom sensed repressed excitement in the reporter and
wondered what significance the find had.
"May I see it?" he asked.
RavSnhill handed the "exhibit" to him. It was an
ordinary kind of cycle tire valve complete with its piece
of tubing.


186 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"How did you discover it?" Ravenhill questioned the
chauffeur.
"Thompson was showing me the spot where you found
the bike," answered Hammett, "and suddenly I saw
something shining in the grass. It was this."
"It's a good find," the reporter complimented him.
"We hunted for it at the time and came to the con-
clusion that the man must have put it in his pocket.
I'll give it to the Inspector. I wouldn't be surprised,"
he added, taking the valve from Tom and looking at it,
speculatively, "if this little chap isn't the most impor-
tant clue we've found so far."


CHAPTER XIX
THE NECROMANCERS
Detective Inspector Miller of the Criminal Inves-
tigation Department arrived that evening. To Tom he
looked more like a butcher than a detective, but Raven-
hill answered that he was one of the cleverest men at
Scotland Yard.
Tom wondered what had happened to Storey Martin
and Mrs. Stevenage. Ravenhill told him that Storey
Martin had been "knocking about" in the grounds, but
that Mrs. Stevenage was suffering from shock and had
been put to bed by Dr. Dormer. At her request she had
been shifted to Margery's room. At dinner that evening
only Tom, Ravenhill, and the two inspectors were pres-
ent. Starr waited on the four men as though he had been
accustomed to detectives and reporters all his life.
Afterwards Miller announced that he had requested
Miss Wharton and Storey Martin to attend a sort of
conference in the library, and he would be obliged if
Ravenhill and Tom would also be present. He led the
way into the other room.
Presently Margery appeared. She glanced nervously
at the Scotland Yard man and then at Service. Tom had
gone to her at. once.
"Come over here with me, dear," he whispered.
She suffered herself to be led to a chair and sat down
187


188 MURDER FROM BEYOND
wearily. Her face was white in the lamplight. She had
obviously been weeping.
Then Storey Martin entered. He bowed slightly, and
Tom detected a change in him. His eyes were pouchy
and his cheeks sagged. The hand which he put out to
push a chair into position shook.
But those signs were natural in the circumstances,
Tom told himself—especially in an oldish man.
Detective Inspector Miller cleared his throat. "I won't
detain you long," he said. "Inspector Service has given
me all the preliminary information I require, and Miss
Wharton has kindly invited me to stay here at Redlands
while the inquiry proceeds." He cleared his throat again
and looked at Margery. "The case is so unusual that I
must adopt unusual methods," he went on, evidently
choosing his words carefully. "Two murders have been
committed since Mr. Wharton's—er—arrest, and one of
them bears a strange resemblance to the first. I will not
say that that affects Mr. Wharton's defense to any ex-
tent; he will, of course, remain in custody in any case.
What I want to point out is that the murderer or mur-
derers of Mr. Winter and the Reverend Mr. Starmer are
at large and that since we have not found the motive
for the crimes we do not know whether the motive still
exists. In other words, there may be danger for other
people."
He looked round at his audience. Someone sighed.
"The question has arisen," he went on, "as to whether
the house should be vacated."
He was obviously enjoying himself. He looked at
Margery.


THE NECROMANCERS 189
"There are obvious reasons why it should not be," he
said, "and I think, if we take reasonable precautions we
can remove the possibility of danger. What do you say,
Mr. Ravenhill?"
The reporter started. "How should I know?" he asked
meekly.
"Anyhow, Inspector Service agrees with me," the
Scotland Yard man went on. "There will be a constable
on duty in the grounds each night until further notice
in future."
"And inside?" suggested Ravenhill.
"Mr. Ravenhill surely isn't suggesting—?" began
Storey Martin; then he coughed.
"What?" demanded the reporter.
"Perhaps you're right," murmured Storey Martin,
"though for my part I'd rather clear out." He looked
across at Tom. "My presence isn't really necessary now.
I came here, as you know, as Mr. Wharton's friend, to
see if I could help his daughter. If—"
"We understand that, Mr. Martin," Miller said. "I
think we should prefer you to stay. You'll be wanted
at the inquest anyway."
"I was wondering," said Margery faintly, "whether
it would not be better if I sent my aunt home."
"Perhaps she wouldn't go," said Ravenhill. "I don't
think she's lacking in courage. She's—"
"She's in her room now suffering from shock," In-
spector Service pointed out.
Ravenhill did not answer. An uncomfortable pause
followed.
"I think that is all," said Miller at length. "There is


190 MURDER FROM BEYOND
no occasion for any alarm. . . . We'd like a word in
private with Mr. Manning, please."
"May I stay?" asked Ravenhill as Margery and Storey
Martin left the room.
"I suppose so," answered the Inspector.
When the door was closed he took out his pipe and
filled it slowly. Not until he had lighted it and it was
going well did he speak again. Then, looking at Tom
judicially:
"Have you any suspicions, Mr. Manning," he asked
in a low tone, "why your uncle came to Redlands on
the night Mrs. Wharton was killed? Speak low."
Tom felt that his face was flushed. "None," he an-
swered in a troubled voice.
"I believe you saw him on his return?"
"Yes."
"Was he—? Well, what was his manner?"
"I thought he was agitated," Tom answered truth-
fully. "I'd better tell you everything, I suppose. The
Whartons were not happy together, and Mr. Wharton
confided his trouble in my uncle. They were great
friends."
"Yes?"
"I think my uncle had got it on his mind. He went
for a walk in the ordinary way that night and—"
"I understand that he had a fall?"
"Yes, he tripped up in a rabbit hole." Tom went on
to describe how the Rector had lost his memory tem-
porarily after that and wandered towards Redlands.
The Inspector considered for a while. Then:
"You know of no appointment for that evening?"


THE NECROMANCERS 191
"I'm positive he had none."
The Inspector took out his pocketbook and extracted
a sheet of paper which he unfolded and laid on the
table.
"What do you make of that?" he asked.
Both Tom and Ravenhill left their seats and went to
the table. The sheet of paper bore the heading, "Red-
lands, Stanmead, Sussex" and the date "Sept. 25th";
underneath was a brief note:
"Tonight at 10.45.
"I. W."
"Whose initials are those?" asked Miller.
"Mrs. Wharton's," Tom answered thickly.
"Do you recognize the writing?"
"It is hers."
"You see the date? It was on the night of the 25th-
26th of September that Mrs. Wharton was killed. What
time did your uncle leave the Rectory?"
"Half-past ten," gulped Tom.
"To keep this appointment?"
"No!" exclaimed Tom fiercely. "He went out at that
hour, but it wasn't to keep the appointment, I'm sure."
He described how the Rector had paused in the road
and how finally he had gone in the opposite direction.
"Where did you find that note, Inspector?" de-
manded Ravenhill.
"There's no reason why I shouldn't tell you. In the
Rector's diary. It was apparently to remind him to enter
up the event afterwards. He never did."
Tom slumped in his chair. The possibilities were enor-


THE NECROMANCERS 193
The other volumes contain no possible references to the
case, and they've nothing to do with us. I've left them
locked in his case. Listen." He opened the book. "Here's
the entry for March 25 th.
"'T. W. told me today that he is not really a Chris-
tian, but that he believes in survival after death, be-
cause he has evidence of it. I asked him if he was re-
ferring to the ghost which, according to village gossip,
haunts Redlands. He'd never heard of it. I think he
was frightened. He asked when the gossip had started.
I said I did not know, but that there had been no talk
of a ghost until he came to the village.'"
The Inspector broke off, and looked at Tom.
"There's nothing in that," Tom said.
"It seems to be the beginning of a series of strange
entries," explained the detective. "Here's the next—
dated March 30th.
"'After T. ¥'s talk today I resolved to investigate.
There could surely be no harm in it. It isn't as though
I were more than an inquirer. I'm interested—and un-
biassed—that's all. I'm going to Redlands tomorrow
night.
"'April 1st. It was rather eerie and horrible. We saw
nothing. I think I ought to consult the bishop about
this. Yet I know he would disapprove. On the face of
it there seems to be something unholy in it. But I am
not convinced. After all, I haven't seen anything. It
may not be true. I think I'd better act on my own ini-
tiative and keep my own counsel.


194 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"'April 7th. I don't like the secrecy of the affair.
That's against it. I've even had to swear not to mention
names in any way. Why shouldn't I if it's not essen-
tially wrong? I suppose, strictly speaking, I mustn't even
write initials in this journal.
"'Something happened last night. I think I was too
frightened to be a sane witness. Certainly there was a
voice. I thought I saw something too. One of those
present—a woman—declared she saw the spirit, but I
feel she is not to be trusted.'"
The Inspector stopped and looked at Tom.
"What d'you make of it?" he asked.
"Sounds like ghost-hunting," Tom answered, bewil-
dered and vaguely afraid.
"It goes on like that for months," the Inspector said.
"Apparently the hunting went on one day every week.
Then for July 30th there's an interesting entry."
"'Someone's frightened—I wish I hadn't sworn that
oath about names. He declares he can't go on with it,
and he's forbidden us to do so too. I respect his judg-
ment, but I think he's wrong to stop when things are
becoming so interesting. I'm half convinced—perhaps
wholly so, only I'm in too excited a state to think
calmly. I daresay the business would be dangerous for
some people; they'd get neurotic and fanciful, perhaps
even obsessed by it. It has a queer fascination.
"'I tried to examine myself tonight, to see where I
stood. I do believe what I have seen, and heard. My
faith is supported by evidence. Far from turning me


THE NECROMANCERS 195
from Christianity as it did T. W. (I mentioned him
before I took the vow and so there's no harm in men-
tioning him in the same connection now) it strengthens
my belief. It is indeed altogether wonderful.
"'My health is not good these days. I fancy I am
nervy. Somehow I can't eat, and when I sleep I am
disturbed by dreams. I must take more exercise.'"
The Inspector looked at his audience. "Is it any
clearer?" he asked softly.
Tom's mouth was dry. His thoughts rioted.
"Go on," urged Ravenhill.
"There isn't much more," said Miller. "The next
entry is for August 28 th. Before I read it I want you
to see that whereas before this new interest enters the
Rector's life he made entries of more and less common-
place events almost every other day, afterwards he
'reported' nothing except this one thing and sometimes
there is as much as a ten days' interval between entries.
The entry for August 28 th is a significant one.
"'I've felt very queer all day. I've been terribly nervy
for weeks past and inclined to be either extremely
excited and elated or horribly depressed. I hesitate to
go to the doctor. There is nothing really wrong with
me, I know.
"'Tom starts his holiday very soon, and of course he
will come here. Somehow I don't altogether welcome his
coming this time. I want to be alone with this new thing.
I feel as though I were constantly on the fringe of the
other world and learning wonderful uncommunicable


THE NECROMANCERS 197
the door. She was dragged back. To break the circle
was dangerous. Indeed danger had already come.
Whether it was physical or not I don't know, but there
was a fiendish din, and all the time the woman clung
to me and kept screaming, "It's Stephen!" Nothing
more horrible has ever happened in my life. I cannot
begin to describe it except to say it was just as though
Hell had broken loose. The medium was writhing on the
ground, foaming at the mouth and screaming the
most awful blasphemies; the woman was raving about
Stephen—whoever he is—the rest of the company were
frozen into silence, and all the time was this furious din
that I did not so much hear as sense in some mysterious
way.
"'I could bear it no longer. I daresay I should have
stayed, but the evil of it—for I saw it as such now—
drove me to escape. The only light was from a red lamp.
I ran to the door and opened it and got into the hall in
time to hear someone coming down the stairs. It was
T. W.! The room I had left was utterly quiet now ex-
cept for a woman's low moaning. (Indeed perhaps one
had to be in that awful atmosphere in order to sense the
chaotic confusion.) I was mad with fear. I hid myself
in the alcove by the front door, in shame and terror.
Then T. "W. entered the library.
"It was here then!" exclaimed Ravenhill, looking at
the heavy curtain by the window. "I thought as much."
"There are a few more lines yet," said the detective.
"Here they are:


198 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"'I let myself out of the front door. I think I ran all
the way home—I, Rector of Stanmead, the trusted par-
ish priest!
"'I thought I should not sleep, but I must have slept
immediately I got into bed. The queer thing was that
when I awoke I no longer saw the seance as being in-
trinsically evil. What had happened had been the result
of an accident—perhaps the breaking of the circle. And
now, twelve hours later, I am in doubt. Until last night
certainly nothing was wrong. And now—God help me!
I cannot trust myself.'"
"That's all," said the Inspector, closing the book.
"What's the date of that entry?" asked Ravenhill.
"September fifth," answered Miller.
For some seconds there was silence. Tom was trying
to adjust himself to this new knowledge. He knew little
about spiritualism—and assumed that it was all char-
latanry. That his uncle was mixed up in it seemed im-
possible, yet here was the evidence of the diary.
"May I see the handwriting?" he asked suddenly.
Yes; it was his uncle's right enough. He glanced at
Ravenhill. The reporter's face was grave.
"This, of course, alters the whole aspect of things,"
Miller said. "The extraordinary thing is that such a
clever man as the murderer of Mrs. Wharton and the
Rector—" He broke off. "I've shown you my mind,"
he went on. "Yes; I believe they were murdered by the
same person, and he, of course, cannot be Mr. Wharton."
"What is the extraordinary thing?" asked Ravenhill.
"That the murderer—let's call him X, shall we?—


THE NECROMANCERS 199
didn't think of the possibility of a journal being kept by
one of the circle."
"Why should he?" asked Ravenhill. "The Rector was
an unusual man, which X didn't appreciate. The Rector
was a man with a very tender conscience—as Manning
knows. He was convinced that he was doing no wrong
in attending those seances, but his subconscious think-
ing made him doubtful. That is why he set it all down
in his diary."
"Perhaps you're right," said Miller.
"One or more of the others may have been similarly
affected," put in Service. "There may be other diaries."
Tom was still struggling to fit in the revelation with
what he knew of his uncle.
"The diary doesn't throw much light on the mur-
ders," said Miller, "but it may provide a clue."
"We mustn't neglect the obvious," observed Raven-
hill.
"Which is—?"
"That the secret the Rector held was possibly what
the diary reveals and that he was killed to prevent his
revealing it."
"If that is so—though I can't see what the real motive
for the first murder is, even now—if that is so," said
Miller, "then there are other people in danger."
Margery! The thought stunned Tom. Was she one of
the circle? He looked fearfully at Ravenhill who, as
though he knew his thought, shook his head.
"Let's estimate who were in the circle," suggested
Ravenhill. " 'T. W.' is, of course, Mr. Wharton. He left
it later on. Who is the woman referred to?"


200 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Mrs. Wharton," answered Inspector Service
promptly.
"How do you know?" demanded Miller.
"'Stephen' provides the clue," said Service, produc-
ing his notebook and turning the pages. "Here we are.
Isobel Wharton," he read, "aged forty-two. Married
Terence Wharton in London in 1909 and—"
"Then Miss Wharton—? She's twenty-three," began
Ravenhill.
"—is the daughter of Terence Wharton and his first
wife, Sybil, whom he divorced in 1908. It's easy to
understand why Miss Wharton has been allowed to
think that Isobel Wharton was her mother. ... In 1910
Isobel went with her husband and his daughter, Mar-
gery, to India where he had a tea plantation near
Coonoor in the Nilgherries. They returned on leave at
the beginning of the war, when Wharton joined the
Berkshire Regiment and received a commission. The girl
was sent to a boarding school. While her husband was
in France Mrs. Wharton had an affair with a Captain
Stephen Blanchison—"
"Ah!" exclaimed the other detective. "You men-
tioned that before, but I didn't recognize the name. Go
on, Service. These gentlemen might as well hear the
rest."
"I suppose Blanchison wanted Mrs. Wharton to desert
her husband," Service continued, "but she didn't—out-
wardly. Perhaps the fact that Blanchison had only his
army pay and no prospects affected matters. Anyhow,
in 1915 he was found shot in barracks, and the verdict
at the inquest was 'Suicide during temporary insanity.'


THE NECROMANCERS 201
"Wharton was demobilized in early '19 and he re-
turned with his wife to India at once, leaving Margery
at the boarding school."
He broke off.
"There was another affair in India," said Ravenhill.
"Have you any information about that?"
"I've heard of it, but it doesn't appear to be relevant.
She was apparently always having affairs—there was the
one with Winter, you remember."
Ravenhill nodded.
"Well, we'll assume that Mrs. Wharton was one of
the circle, then," Miller said briskly, "though the evi-
dence isn't conclusive. Who else is there?"
"Winter," suggested Tom.
"Possibly, but not proven," said Miller.
Ravenhill grunted.
"Don't you agree?" demanded Miller.
"There's no real evidence," answered the reporter,
"but I'd like to know what he was really doing in the
garden that night."
The others looked at him in surprise, but he would
vouchsafe no more.
"What about Miss Wharton?" asked Miller.
Tom opened his mouth to protest but said nothing.
Neither did the others speak.
"No evidence," commented Miller. "Who else is
there?"
"Miss Williams!" exclaimed Tom. He told the In-
spector of his and Margery's meeting with the woman
the day before.
"Yes; she came down to the station afterwards and


202 MURDER FROM BEYOND
pitched a long yarn to me," said Service. "I went to her
cottage this afternoon after we'd found the Rector's
diary, but both she and her sister had gone to London."
"The sister is a spiritualist too?" demanded Miller.
"Probably. I don't know."
"Why have they gone to London?" asked Ravenhill.
"That's what I'd like to know. Anyhow, we're trying
to trace them."
"Is there anyone else?" asked Miller.
Nobody spoke.
"No one apparently," commented Miller. "Well,
here's a bit of information for you. The man Springfield
whom Miss Wharton went to London to see on the
night her step-mother was killed is a well-known spirit-
ualist—a medium, though he doesn't practice now."


CHAPTER XX
TOM SEES THE GHOST
The preliminary inquiry into the death of the Rector
was over: the inquest stood adjourned. The medical evi-
dence was to the effect that death was due to aconitine
poison hypodermically injected in the neck, and Inspec-
tor Service hinted that the police* had clues which they
were strenuously following up. Ravenhill afterwards
said that the evidence already held the vital clue—if
they could but distinguish it. Storey Martin had a long
"interview" with Margery. Margery told Tom that he
had urged her to leave Redlands with him, that her aunt
had done likewise, but that she had refused to go. And
both Storey Martin and the aunt stayed also.
The inquest was held early in the morning, and im-
mediately afterwards Inspector Miller was seen boarding
a London train. But he arrived back at Redlands just
after dinner. He had news obviously. In the library he
divulged it. He had effected an arrest.
"Well, not exactly an arrest," he added. "You see the
man was already in prison."
"You're referring to the man who called himself Cap-
tain Thomas," said Ravenhill quietly.
The detective looked surprised. "How could you know
that?" he exclaimed. "Yes; it's Thomas. We've been
203


204 MURDER FROM BEYOND
looking for him ever since Service put us on to him. He
was found this morning."
"Where?" asked Tom.
"In custody. An old dodge. He's got himself arrested
for being drunk and disorderly and assaulting a con-
stable. He's being charged tomorrow morning with the
murder of Vivian Winter—if he's alive and sane," added
the Inspector impressively.
"If he's alive?" queried Ravenhill.
"He's in a terrible state. The doctor says he's a drug
fiend, and he hasn't had any dope since he's been in
custody."
Ravenhill had risen to his feet. He walked over to
the window, and drew the heavy curtains. Presently he
turned.
"Inspector," he said, "is there—? Can't you postpone
charging him?"
"Why should we?"
"Well, he can't escape, can he?"
"He's in the prison hospital at present. No; he can't
escape. But—"
"You'll damage your chances with the other mur-
derer if Thomas is charged with the murder of Winter."
"I don't agree. This is a separate crime."
Ravenhill nodded. "But it's connected in a queer way
with the others—accidentally connected. You'll scare
someone if you—"
"What are you getting at?" demanded Miller. "What's
your theory?"
"I haven't worked it out. I'll tell you this though.
There were two men in the garden—besides Winter—


TOM SEES THE GHOST 205
the night Mrs. Wharton was murdered. Who was the
second one? He called himself Jones. It's that second
man I'm afraid of, because he is the connecting link
between the murder of Winter and the other murders."
"How do you know that?"
"I don't actually know it," Ravenhill acknowledged.
"I'm putting two and two together. The man who
watched Thomas that night did so either to prevent a
crime or to help Thomas afterwards to make his escape.
He can have been there for no other purpose."
"Well?"
"It was late at night. He wasn't there by accident.
Therefore he knew beforehand what Thomas intended
to do. We know that Thomas intended murder because
he came next day and committed it. Why didn't he do
it that night? Either because he had no chance or be-
cause the other watcher—Jones, self-styled—prevented
it."
"I know all that. What—?"
"Yes, but have you thought what it means? Thomas
went away, having achieved nothing. We can assume
that Jones went away too, though we don't know
whether he had any necessity to reveal himself to
Thomas. I think myself that he did not reveal himself.
Now Jones left by an early train for Steyning—that is,
in the opposite direction to that he came from the night
before. Why did he go away? There's only one answer.
He couldn't have avoided learning of Mrs. Wharton's
murder. If my reasoning is correct he saw that the
crime he'd come to prevent had been committed after
all, and he went away as he did in order that it should


TOM SEES THE GHOST 207
not switch on the light. As he went to the sideboard he
heard a slight movement and swung round. Margery
was sitting on a footstool by the fireplace, half-hidden
by a chair. She held out a hand to him and with the
other enjoined silence.
"What is it, dear?" he whispered.
"I want to talk to you. Come and sit down here."
She pointed to the chair beside her.
"I came for a drink for Ravenhill," he said. "Let me
take it in to him first. I won't be long."
He left the room with the tantalus and glasses. When
he had explained matters to Ravenhill he returned.
Margery did not speak as he sat down but shifted her
position a little and cuddled her head against his knees.
The room was very peaceful in the subdued glow
from the fire. Outside an owl mourned in the elms. Tom
bent down.
"I'm sorry for what I said yesterday, darling," he
whispered. "I was—distraught."
She did not answer.
"If only you'd spoken earlier!" he went on.
"You're reproaching me," she said, looking up at him.
"You're—"
"No, I'm not," he defended himself. "You held a
secret and you overestimated its importance."
He really believed what he said. Her secret was, of
course, the Rector's, but for all that Ravenhill and
Miller had seemed to think it important, he himself
could not see that it had any significance. Spiritualism
wasn't criminal, after all. The mere fact that several of
the actors in the drama which had brought about the


TOM SEES THE GHOST 209
gery was trying to stay him. Hardly knowing what he
was doing he shook her hand free and then, picking up
the poker from the grate, forced himself across the
floor. A step from the window he halted. His head
drummed, and though he knew he was sweating he felt
icy cold. He could hardly breathe.
The curtains did not move. Behind him the fire
crackled softly.
"Tom!" came Margery's thrilling whisper behind him.
"Tom! Don't! Please don't!"
He scarcely realized what she was saying. He bent
forward and seized the curtain, at the same time raising
the poker in readiness to strike. Then with a sudden
motion he flung the curtain to one side. The alcove of
the window was empty.
But reaction did not come. The thing was there some-
where, only he could not see it. His heart still pounded,
and his head drummed. And he was still stark with fear,
though he compelled himself not to submit to it en-
tirely.
He went stiffly into the alcove, and the heavy cur-
tains closed behind him, shutting out the glow of the
fire. The window was a faint patch against the darkness.
He could see through it the outline of a tree.
He heard a thud behind him in the room, but he
took no notice. His attention was fixed by a grey
smudge against the tree trunk. It had a vague shape.
It moved away. It came back again. It took form—
human form. And it raised an arm and pointed.
At the same moment a sobbing scream tore at Tom's
nerves. The grey shape wavered and disappeared. He


210 MURDER FROM BEYOND
heard a commotion somewhere in the house, and parting
the curtains he stepped back into the room. He found
that he was grasping the poker so firmly that he could
scarcely straighten his fingers because of the rigid
muscles.
Margery lay across a chair in a dead faint. Remorse
for having left her made him run towards her. Then
the door burst open.
"Manning!" called Ravenhill urgently. "What was
that scream?"
Tom knew that it had not come from Margery. It
was from outside. Then Mrs. Stevenage appeared in the
doorway clad in a dressing gown. She switched on the
light.
"She's fainted," Tom exclaimed, pointing at Margery.
As Mrs. Stevenage went quickly to her, he joined Raven-
hill, knowing that the girl would be in capable hands.
"Outside," he whispered. "Somewhere by the front
door."
"It must be Hammett again," exclaimed Ravenhill.
Inspector Miller was in the hall, and Storey Martin
was coming down the stairs. Ravenhill ran to the front
door and opened it. The night air belched in. At the
foot of the steps a figure crouched, its head buried in
its arms. Ravenhill and Tom reached it together and
bent down. The figure was that of a man, and he was
trembling violently.
"What's wrong?" asked Ravenhill, touching his
shoulder.
Slowly the man uncovered his head. Starr, the butler,
looked up at them fearfully.


TOM SEES THE GHOST 211
"Where is it?" he mumbled. " 'As it gone?"
"What?" demanded Ravenhill. "There's only Mr.
Manning and myself and the Inspector. What—?"
"The ghost!" Starr clung to Tom's legs. "The ghost!"
he whimpered. "It was Mrs. Wharton—I swear it was!
And she pointed at me!"


214 MURDER FROM BEYOND
Hammett's mouth opened, and his eyes boggled. Then
he shivered again.
"It couldn't have been Mrs. Wharton I saw," he mut-
tered. He looked at each of his visitors in turn. "You
must be joking," he said hopefully.
"Not at this time o'night," answered the detective.
"Well, sorry to have woken you up, Hammett."
No wonder Hammett looked after them in a puzzled
fashion, Tom thought as he bade the chauffeur good-
night. Theirs was a queer errand.
Back in the house they found Storey Martin seated
in the library sipping from a tumbler. The tantalus
stood on the table beside him. He seemed very shaky,
and his face was pale and cadaverous in the glow of the
electric light. He had drawn his chair close up to the
dying fire, and his dressing gown was wrapped closely
about him."
"Did you find anything?" he asked tremulously.
"Nothing," answered the detective. "I think we'd
better follow your example and have a whisky apiece.
It's chilly tonight. . . . No; we didn't find anything.
All moonshine, I expect—or lampshine!"
Storey Martin stared into the fire. "I wonder," he said
at length. Tom had poured out whisky for himself and
the others and had squirted soda into the tumblers. They
sat down. "I wonder," repeated Storey Martin.
"You believe in ghosts?" asked Ravenhill.
"I'm old enough to have an open mind," answered
Storey Martin quietly. "If one believes in the super-
natural—and most people do—then I suppose we might
expect to see spirits sometimes."


GERALD MARTIN GOES MAD 215
"If they can materialize themselves," put in Tom.
Storey Martin looked at him quickly. "That's so," he
agreed. "They're supposed to do so at seances."
"Fraud," said the inspector briefly. "Or else hallucina-
tion," he added.
"Maybe," Storey Martin did not look up. "But you'd
scarcely expect materialistic-minded scientists to be the
subject of fraud or hallucination. They've simply not
been able to explain the phenomenon of materializa-
tion—those that have investigated the matter, I mean."
"Have you ever seen a ghost?" demanded Ravenhill
abruptly.
Storey Martin's gaze left the fire, and he looked at
the reporter. "No," he answered definitely.
"You've never been to a seance?"
"No. I was going to one once, but—well, I didn't
like the idea of it. The business seemed unholy some-
how." He lapsed into silence.
The reporter looked at his watch. "Well, we've a
heavy day ahead of us," he observed. "Supposing we
turn in."
Ravenhill yawned and finished up his drink. The
detective rose.
"I wanted to ask you something, Inspector," Storey
Martin said. "This business tonight has upset me, and
I'm not a young man. I've had about enough of this
place. I've tried to get Miss Wharton to leave, but she
won't, and I don't see that I can be of much use now
that her aunt's here. Is there any objection to my going
back to London tomorrow?"


218 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"I could have no motive for taking it. If I'd wanted it
I daresay you'd have given it to me to look at. Depend
upon it, someone else knew you had the thing, and he's
taken it."
"There's only Storey Martin—" began the Inspector.
Then he stopped. "The butler!" he exclaimed. "When I
was bending over him! That scare was a sham!"
"But I saw the cause of it," Tom pointed out.
The Inspector sat down on the bed and began to
bite his nails. "I'll never hear the last of this if it gets
out," he muttered. He looked at Ravenhill. "Could it
have been Starr?" he asked.
"Why ask me?" returned the reporter.
"Because— Look here, Mr. Ravenhill, we've worked
together before. I know your ways. You're working in
this case independently, and it's quite possible you've
got information we haven't."
"Well?"
"I'll put my cards on the table if you will yours."
Then he appeared to remember Tom. He looked at him
doubtfully.
"I'll go if you like," Tom volunteered.
"No; stay," said Ravenhill. "All right, Inspector, I'll
tell you what I know. It's not much. You probably
know more."
He went to the door and opening it looked into the
corridor. Then he shut the door and came and sat on
the bed and began to fill his pipe. The others sat down.
"It'll seem like guesswork to you," he began, puffing
hard at his pipe, "but that it isn't is proved by results.
You know I've held that the murder of Mrs. Wharton


GERALD MARTIN GOES MAD 219
and the murder of Winter were separate crimes in-
spired by different motives and committed by different
people. It was a coincidence that they occurred so close
to each other, but I'm certain when we know all we
shall see that the coincidence isn't so peculiar after
all."
"I don't understand you," interposed the detective.
"Can't you—?"
"Let me tell the story in my own way. . . . I've
said some of this before. A man who called himself Cap-
tain Thomas, who was a stranger to the landlord of the
Station Hotel at West Billington and who'd apparently
come from London hid in the garden here and was
watched by an older man who apparently came from
London and who called himself Jones. You don't doubt
that Jones was watching Thomas, do you?"
"Well, it isn't proved," said the Inspector cau-
tiously.
"I've already argued as to why he was watching him.
In some way he suspected that he meant to kill Mrs.
Wharton."
"Why are you certain of that?" demanded Tom.
"Because he left the neighborhood by train as soon
as the news of the murder got to the hotel—I've proved
that—and returned later on in a different guise—per-
haps as himself."
"But I don't see—" began Tom.
"He thought that the murder had been committed
despite his watch on Thomas, and he returned in order
that he might learn what was going on. He wanted to
find out whether Thomas was in danger. More than


GERALD MARTIN GOES MAD 223
come from London. As I say, he came in order to watch
events—to see if his son was in danger. Meanwhile Ger-
ald had returned to Redlands and killed Winter."
"You haven't explained that," Tom pointed out.
"It's simple," answered Ravenhill. "Wasn't he in love
with Mrs. Wharton?"
"Yes, but—"
"Mrs. Wharton and Winter returned from the theatre
that night, and Rufus Spence witnessed a love passage
between them in the car. If he could see that, so could
anyone else who was in the vicinity. So could Gerald
Martin, in other words. Next morning Gerald, eaten up
with jealousy, returned to Redlands. He probably didn't
know of Mrs. Wharton's murder. He caught sight of
Winter through the window and recognized him as the
man who'd been with Mrs. Wharton the previous night.
Then he saw him go out and, overcome with jealousy,
fired at him."
"He must have meditated violence," put in the de-
tective, "otherwise he wouldn't have had a pistol on
him."
Ravenhill shook his head. "Gerald's lived in the East,"
he pointed out, "and moreover he's an ex-officer. I
don't think there's anything strange in his having a
pistol on him."
"You said just now that the two crimes were sep-
arate, yet linked up in the person of Jones—that is,
Storey Martin," said Miller. "What exactly does that
mean?"
The reporter looked troubled. "As I saw things at
first, they were linked," he answered doubtfully.
s


224 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Telling the tale has upset the theory, though. I can't
see—the theory depended on Storey Martin's believing
that Gerald came here to kill Mrs. Wharton, but we
don't know that he did believe that. Here's the link,
anyhow. Gerald did not kill Mrs. Wharton but her
lover, yet Mrs. Wharton was killed all the same."
"It almost suggests," said Tom, "that Storey Martin
killed her."
Ravenhill shook his head. "Maybe, but—" His voice
trailed off. He appeared to be listening intently. Sud-
denly he rose to his feet and went swiftly but silently
to the door. The others were beside him at once. He
stood listening for some seconds. Tom thought he heard
a slight sound. Then Ravenhill opened the door.
The corridor was in darkness, though Tom knew
that he had left the electric light switched on. A vague
whiff of perfume came to him. He knew it at once.
But Margery was in her room fast asleep—Mrs. Steven-
age had told him so.
Ravenhill was fumbling along the wall. "Where's the
switch?" he muttered.
Tom found it for him and pressed it down. The elec-
tric bulb glared.
"Did you leave your door open, Manning?" asked
Ravenhill pointing.
"I don't think so. No; I'm sure I didn't."
Ravenhill had entered Tom's room. He switched on
the light.
"Inspector!" he called softly from inside.
But Miller had gone to the bend in the passage. Tom


GERALD MARTIN GOES MAD 225,
went instead. Ravenhill pointed to the dressing table.
On it lay the missing diary.
Tom knew that it was Margery who had put the
diary in his room. That whiff of perfume had been un-
mistakable. And by the way Ravenhill looked at him
it was evident that he shared his knowledge. The re-
porter stood, obviously undecided, in the doorway.
"Why was it left here?" demanded Tom in a whisper.
"Because we were all in my room," Ravenhill re-
plied.
"But how could Margery have taken it? It's impos-
sible. She couldn't."
"She didn't. Her faint in the dining room was gen-
uine. She was nowhere near Miller." Ravenhill frowned
in thought. "Could Mrs. Stevenage have taken it? But
no; that's impossible. Neither of them knew about it."
"Miss Wharton did," said Tom hesitantly. "I told
her before I saw the—the ghost, or whatever it was."
At that moment Inspector Miller appeared in the
passage. Ravenhill beckoned him inside and pointed at
the diary. The Inspector stared.
For some moments nobody spoke. Miller crossed the
room and examined the book; then he slipped it into
his pocket and made for the door. There he turned.
"Good-night," he said abruptly and went outside.
Ravenhill made as if to follow him. Instead he closed
the door and returned. His face looked very troubled.
"The Lord knows what he thinks," he commented.
"I hope he doesn't jump to conclusions." He sat down
on the bed and looked at Tom. "Things are moving," he
observed, "and they're getting serious."


226 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Serious!" exclaimed Tom bitterly. "Surely—" He
broke off and listened. A bell was shrilling faintly.
Ravenhill sprang to his feet. "The telephone!" he
ejaculated, and ran to the door and opened it.
Tom followed him out into the passage and down-
stairs. The noise stopped and a man's voice spoke. There
was no mistaking whose it was. Inspector Miller was at
the telephone. Tom noticed that he had switched on the
light.
"When did it happen?" Miller was saying when the
two reached the hall. "H'm. Well, that's that, anyhow.
. . . Raving is he? Better take a note of anything that
seems important. . . . What? . . . No, I'd better stay
here. . . . Yes, keep it quiet for the time being. Good-
bye—Oh, I say—" He glanced round and saw his au-
dience. Then he looked up the stairs. He lowered his
voice so that Tom could only just hear what he said.
"Send Sanders along to the India Office in the morning
to find out all he can about—"
Tom heard the creak of a loose board upstairs. He
suddenly coughed loudly, and when the Inspector
looked round pointed upwards. Miller apparently under-
stood. "I'll telegraph the name in the morning," he
spoke into the receiver. "Good-bye." Then he rang off.
Ravenhill and Tom descended the remaining stairs.
"Thomas—Gerald Martin, that is—" announced the
Inspector in a whisper, "has gone mad—raving."


CHAPTER XXII
MARGERY DECIDES TO SPEAK
The following morning as a result of his late going to
bed Tom did not get down till nearly ten o'clock. He
had breakfast alone, served by the maid. The butler,
she said, was ill.
Inspector Miller and Ravenhill had disappeared. The
maid told him that they had breakfasted early and left
the house soon afterwards. Further she informed Tom
that Storey Martin was catching the midday train to
London.
He asked after Margery. She, said the maid, had had
breakfast with Mrs. Stevenage in her room. Wondering
how he could manage to see her, Tom went out into the
hall—and came face to face with her.
"Oh, Tom!" she exclaimed in a troubled voice.
"Starr's given notice."
"I'm not surprised," he answered. "The wonder is he
hasn't done so before."
"It means the maids will go too," she went on tear-
fully.
He took her arm and led her into the library and put
her into a chair. She was crying quietly. He wanted to
question her, yet he could not, he felt, in the circum-
stances. He sat on the arm of her chair and put an arm
round her shoulders.
227


228 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"Dear," he said, "won't you leave this place? Come
up to London and—"
"How can I?" she exclaimed. "I must stay here while
Daddy is— How can I go away?"
"You're doing no good by staying here. Besides—"
he scarcely knew what he meant—"it's dangerous."
She had stopped crying. Could he ask her about that
diary? He looked at the top of her head speculatively.
Perhaps Miller had already questioned her—if he had
guessed that it was she who had returned the diary last
night.
She was staring into the fire, twisting a handkerchief
in her lap. He tightened his arm about her and rested
his cheek against her head.
"Margery dear," he whispered, "will you believe I'm
—I'm only thinking of you now?"
"What do you mean?" she faltered, half turning her
head towards him.
"I mean," he explained awkwardly, "I'm not—that
is, I've only got one aim now, that is to—to take care of
you. Will you believe that?"
No answer.
"Will you? You know it's true."
"There's Mr. Ravenhill. He's your friend."
"He's not a policeman. Besides, his being my friend
doesn't make any difference. Why should you keep
things from me, Margery?"
"Why do you think I am? There's nothing to tell
you."
"What about that diary?"


MARGERY DECIDES TO SPEAK 233
Martin stood at the door, hat and overcoat on. Ham-
mett left the car and going up the steps took a port-
manteau from just inside the hall.
So Storey Martin was really going! Tom did not feel
inclined to go and bid him good-bye. Instead he re-
mained where he was. He watched Storey Martin enter
the car and Hammett take his seat. No one was at the
door to speed the guest. The car moved off and went
down the drive. It passed round the bend. Tom resumed
his pacing.
Did Storey Martin know, he wondered, that his son
was in prison? Probably not. He would scarcely have
remained at Redlands if he had. It was a queer busi-
ness altogether. Perhaps the man called Thomas was
not his son after all. Yet the evidence seemed conclusive.
Ravenhill had deduced that Jones was Storey Martin
and that he was connected in some way with Thomas,
and his inquiries had revealed the existence of a son who
had been mixed up with Mrs. Wharton. Yes; it was
conclusive enough.
And now Gerald Martin was insane. That meant, he
supposed, that he could not be tried for the murder of
Winter. And the murderer of Mrs. Wharton and the
Rector was still at large. Could he be Storey Martin?
Motive. What was the motive? If only that were
known the murderer would soon be found.
Tom sat down again. Where was Ravenhill? With
Inspector Miller, he supposed.
His thoughts grew indistinct. He was back in hap-
pier days with the Rector—yarning in the Rectory
study, punting on the river, tramping over the downs.


236 MURDER FROM BEYOND
Needless to go into details. "Yes," he answered, "but
he's mad."
"Does his father know?"
"I don't think so." He took her hand. "I wish you
hadn't made me tell you," he exclaimed.
"Did he kill my—kill Mrs. Wharton?" she asked
faintly.
"No. At least," he added cautiously, "I don't think so.
The police think the two crimes are unconnected."
She drew her hand away and sank into a chair. For
some time she stared into the fire, while he moved aim-
lessly about the room.
"Will you find Hammett for me?" she said suddenly.
"Hammett? But you're not—"
"I want him to take me down to the police station."
Tom stared at her. "Why, Margery?" he asked.
She did not reply. He went to her and knelt down be-
side her. "Why won't you tell me?" he asked wistfully.
Almost unconsciously it seemed to him, she raised
her hand and touched his cheek. He seized it and kissed
it.
"No; you must stay out of this, dear," she said earn-
estly. She bent towards him. "Do you really love me,
Tom dear?" she asked.
"You know I do!" he exclaimed, taking her in his
arms.
"Then will you do as I ask?"
"What is it?"
"Promise?"
"How can I? Oh, darling, you can't stand alone. Tell
me what you're going to do."


MARGERY DECIDES TO SPEAK 237
"Something that's going to be painful to both of us.
But it must be done now. Will you do as I ask? It's for
the best, Tom."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Don't hate me for what I'm going to do, dear," she
pleaded, "and don't interfere. Stay in the background.
You've promised, mind."
He gulped.
"Now, kiss me, Tom, and then go for Hammett."


CHAPTER XXIII
AT THE HUMPED BRIDGE
Tom delivered Margery's message, then he went back
to the garden. A mist was driving up over the hills, and
distant landmarks were blotted out. Still the garden was
better than the house. He heard the car being driven
round to the front door. He could not trust himself to
speak to Margery again before she left, and he had
promised to keep in the background. Her going to the
police station doubtless meant that she was going to
make a revelation.
He paced up and down the sheltered lawn. Presently
the sound of a horse trotting and the rasp of wheels on
gravel came to him. Peering through the yew hedge he
saw the station fly coming up the drive. It came to a
halt at the front door by the car, and a man alighted
just as Margery appeared. Tom saw her start, then a
look of welcome came into her face and she hastened
down the steps.
The newcomer was an old man. When he took off
his hat Tom saw that his hair was grey. He greeted the
girl and then paid the cab-driver, who mounted his an-
cient vehicle and pulling the horse round drove away.
Margery said something to Hammett who touched his
cap. He got into the car and backed it round the bend
238


AT THE HUMPED BRIDGE 239
and into the garage. Evidently Margery had changed her
mind. She and the stranger disappeared.
Perplexed, Tom resumed his pacing.
The mist grew denser. He resolved to go inside and as
he passed through a gap in the yew hedge the luncheon
gong sounded. The morning had gone quickly, he re-
flected as he walked into the house.
Margery and the stranger were in the library. She
called Tom in as he entered the hall. She introduced the
old man as "Mr. Springfield." For a moment the name
teased Tom's memory; then as he shook hands with the
man recollection came. This was the man whom Mar-
gery had gone to London to see on the night that Mrs.
Wharton was murdered!
So disconcerted was he that he was tongue-tied. Mean-
while a pair of queer grey eyes searched his. He had the
uneasy feeling that all his thoughts were known to the
man.
"We shall have to have a scratch lunch," he heard
Margery say. "Everything's at sixes and sevens."
It was a strange meal. Studying the newcomer Tom
did not know what to make of him. There was some-
thing queer about him, yet somehow those keen grey
eyes held no unfriendliness. Tom felt that he was being
judged and that the verdict was favorable. Occasion-
ally Springfield addressed a remark to his hostess and
she answered. Tom could not afterwards remember that
he had said anything at all.
At last the meal was over. Excusing himself Tom
went upstairs, intending to spend the afternoon in his
room, but he remembered that he had made no inquiries


240 MURDER FROM BEYOND
about Starr, so he altered his course and found the but-
ler's room. Starr was on his knees, packing a trunk.
"Why, Starr!" exclaimed Tom. "You're not going
yet, are you?"
Starr did not even rise from his knees. "Catching the
four-fifteen to London," he muttered. "Can't stand any
more o' this."
It was useless to argue with him. The butler was not
likely to be dissuaded from flight. Probably Margery
knew all about it. Tom watched him moodily for a few
minutes, then left the room and sought his own.
But he was too restless to stay there. In a little while
he descended to the hall and taking his hat and stick
left the house. Outside the mist enveloped everything
except where a stray draught sent it wreathing and
twisting fantastically among the elms. He began to walk
briskly towards the lodge gates.
Half way along the drive he nearly collided with
someone on a bicycle. It was a telegraph boy.
"You oughtn't to be scorching at that rate in a thick
fog," Tom told him irritably. "You—"
"You're Mr. Manning, aren't you, Sir?" the boy in-
terrupted, opening his wallet. "'Ere's a telegram for
you."
Tom took the envelope from the boy and quickly
opened it. The telegram ran:
PROBABLY NOT RETURNING TONIGHT. RAVENHILL.
He noticed that the office of origin was "London,
E. C. 4."
"No reply," he told the boy absently. The boy


AT THE HUMPED BRIDGE 241
grinned and swinging his bicycle round, mounted and
disappeared at once in the fog.
Tom wondered if Inspector Miller had gone to Lon-
don also. He resumed his walk and reaching the lodge
gates turned towards the village. At the back of his
mind was the vague idea that he would visit the Rec-
tory and get some of his things together. Now that
Uncle Hilary was dead he could scarcely continue to
keep his belongings there. There were a good many
things he had to pack and despatch to London. He re-
flected that his uncle's lawyer who had paid a flying
visit to Redlands on the day of the inquest would be
coming down again in a day or two in connection with
winding up the estate—Tom was vague as to the legal
terms—and he ought to have everything straight by
then. As his uncle's nearest relative he should have
"seen to things" before this.
As he neared the village a car sounded behind him,
and he stepped to the side of the road. It was going
dangerously fast, considering the fog. He wondered if it
were the Redlands car and peered at it as it passed. The
disturbed mist wreathed about it. He could not see in-
side. But it was the Redlands car, he was sure.
He walked on and came level with the Rectory. He
opened the gate and walked up the path, memories
crowding upon him. The housekeeper who admitted
him took him into the study where the locum wel-
comed him. Tom explained his errand and later went
to his room and spent an hour packing.
He had tea in the study with the locum and a little


242 MURDER FROM BEYOND
after five o'clock started for Redlands. The growing
darkness added to the thick fog made seeing more than
a yard or so impossible.
He picked his way carefully back along the road,
passing no one. Once or twice he stopped, fascinated
by the heavy stillness. He thought that he could hear
a ship's siren out at sea, and a little later came the mut-
ter of a distant train. The mist filled his lungs and made
his eyes smart. He lighted his pipe and putting up his
coat collar resumed his walk. Presently he stopped again.
He had the uncanny feeling that he was being followed.
But he heard nothing. He walked on. The feeling per-
sisted. Conscious of the glow of his pipe he covered it
with his hands and stopping again turned round and
"marked time" in the road with the idea of misleading
anyone who might be following him.
He thought he saw a vague form, but it vanished at
once.
"Who's there?" he called, his heart pounding.
No answer.
He called again; then, convinced that he was de-
ceiving himself, he turned about and resumed his walk.
He came level with the lodge gates. He hesitated and
then walked on a few steps and turned, waiting. He dis-
tinctly saw a form pass into the drive. Perplexed and
apprehensive, he went silently back. He reached the gate,
and as he did so something brushed against him. Then
he heard the beat of feet on the road, and silence closed
on him again.
There was no doubt about it now. He had been fol-
lowed, and his pursuer had realized too late that he


AT THE HUMPED BRIDGE 243
had not entered the drive and had returned. But who
was he? And why the shadowing?
A vague radiance showed ahead down the drive. It
became a blurred light.
"Hullo!" called Tom.
He was answered. Out of the fog came a man carry-
ing a hurricane lamp.
"Who are you?" demanded Tom.
The man lifted the lantern, and Tom saw his face.
It was Springfield.
"What's wrong?" Where are you going?" asked Tom
suspiciously.
"Who is—? Oh, Mr. Manning! It's I—Springfield.
I'm looking for Miss Wharton."
Apprehension seized Tom. "Why, what's happened?"
he exclaimed. "Hasn't she come back?"
"She hasn't," returned Springfield soberly. "She went
in the car to West Billington three hours ago . . . and
in this fog. ..."
Apprehension became alarm; alarm grew to panic. In
vain Tom told himself that three hours was not long.
The police might have kept her, questioning her. Some-
thing had happened! Margery was in danger!
He realized the need for coolness and pulled himself
together.
"I saw the car," he said soberly. "It was going danger-
ously fast." He thought for a moment. "We'd better
go back to get her two-seater and—"
"I thought of that," Springfield interrupted, "but
it's no use. There's something wrong with the engine."


244 MURDER FROM BEYOND
That explained why Margery had got Hammett to
take her in the big car.
"We shall have to walk," Springfield went on. "Do
you know the way she went?"
"There's only one way by road," answered Tom.
"Come on, then. If she's had an accident—"
He did not finish his sentence. He had a vision of
Margery lying senseless by the roadside. He thrust it
out of his mind. He must keep cool.
The darkness was intense, and the hurricane lamp
gave but a feeble radiance. On the way to the village
they met no one, and the street itself was empty. Tom
considered whether he would make inquiries at the
inn but came to the conclusion that that would be use-
less. If there had been an accident and anyone had wit-
nessed it or come upon the wrecked car afterwards he
would have gone to the police station and the police
would have 'phoned Redlands right away.
On the other side of the village the ground dropped
towards the water meadows, and there the fog was suf-
focatingly thick. Tom suddenly remembered the
humped bridge over the river—narrow and just beyond
a twist in the road. If there had been an accident that
was where it had taken place. But surely someone would
have discovered the car. Many of the villagers at Stan-
mead were employed at West Billington and went to
and from their work along this road.
He told his companion of his suspicion.
"I remember it, I crossed it this morning in the sta-
tion fly," said Springfield. "It's a nasty place. Please


AT THE HUMPED BRIDGE 24 J
God she hasn't had a smash! Perhaps, after all, she's
stayed at West Billington because of the fog."
"She'd have 'phoned," answered Tom gloomily.
He could smell the river now. The road was almost
level.
"We're near the bridge," he said. "Here, give me the
lantern."
They went cautiously forward, feeling their way.
The gurgling of the water told him that they had
reached the river lands. Neither hedge nor fence sep-
arated the road from the treacherous swamps, and on
one side ran a tributary stream.
"There it is," exclaimed Springfield, pointing, and as
Tom gasped he added—"the bridge, I mean."
The old stone gleamed in the light of the lamp. The
two crossed the bridge and then halted. "Nothing here,"
said Tom, thankfulness in his voice.
"Wait a bit," returned Springfield. "Let's go back
to the other side. They may have missed the bridge al-
together."
Tom was sick with apprehension. He followed Spring-
field to the other end of the bridge and held the lantern
high.
Springfield pointed to the stonework at the end on
the left of the road. "That looks as if it had been newly
broken," he said ominously. "But it's an old bridge. Per-
haps—"
"It's newly damaged," Tom said in a strained voice,
peering at the stone.
He shone the lantern over into the river. On its side,


246 MURDER FROM BEYOND
half in the water and half on the low bank, was the
Redlands car.
For a few seconds neither man moved. Then, without
a word, they left the bridge and scrambled down the
low embankment on to the water meadow. Their feet
sank into the soggy ground.
The bonnet of the car was under water and the
broken hood sprawled under the arch of the bridge.
Flowing on the water and caught by the damaged wind-
shield was a silk scarf—Margery's without a doubt.


THE CLUE OF THE ALTERED CLOCK 249
ice came in his car and the four packed themselves into
it. A constable mounted the running board.
"What about lanterns?" asked Tom. "We shall—"
"We've got a flash light apiece," Ravenhill told him.
The fog seemed to be dispersing. As they left the out-
skirts of the little town Tom noticed that he could see
some yards to the right and left even though in the
light of the car lamps there seemed to be a solid wall of
mist ahead.
In a few minutes the bridge was reached. Springfield
stood on the far side holding the lantern above his
head.
"If you could turn the car and direct the headlights
down there," he said, pointing to where the wrecked car
lay, "we should be able to see better."
Service nodded. The constable stepped down from the
running board, and Ravenhill and Miller got out. Tom
followed. Service ran the car a little way up the road
and then started the difficult task of turning it in that
narrow space. The others waited. At length Service had
the car round. He drove slowly back to the foot of the
rise where he swung the front wheels as near the edge of
the road as he dared and switched on the headlights. In
the glow the wrecked car could be plainly seen.
The search for the missing couple began afresh. Al-
most at once Service drew the attention of the others to
blood on the right side of the smashed windshield.
"It's queer there's no broken glass on the road," said
Miller.
"The windshield wasn't smashed until the car fell,"
hazarded Ravenhill. "The car was traveling on the left


THE CLUE OF THE ALTERED CLOCK 251
"Pretty deep at this time of year," answered Service
sombrely. "If they were flung forward they might—"
He left the sentence unfinished.
"I wonder if Miss Wharton sat beside the chauffeur or
behind," said Ravenhill.
"Beside him," answered Springfield promptly. "I saw
her get in."
"The next thing to do is to inquire at the nearest
house," said Service. "That'll be Johnson's, a couple of
hundred yards away. They'd both know that that was
nearest. The next is a quarter of a mile away."
But the missing couple were not at the Johnson's nor
were they at the next house. The two inspectors, Raven-
hill, Springfield, and Tom—the constable had been left
on guard by the bridge—went on to the village. In-
spector Service drew up his car at the inn, and inquiries
were made there, but without result. He drove his little
party on to Redlands. The maid who answered the door
said that her mistress had not returned. Inspector Service
'phoned through to West Billington and gave instruc-
tions for the relief of the constable he had left at
the bridge and for dragging the river on the morrow.
The news was imparted to Mrs. Stevenage. She ex-
pressed her intention of immediately visiting the scene
of the accident, and only the united efforts of all of
them could dissuade her. At her suggestion Inspector
Service telephoned the cottage hospital and Dr. Dormer,
but no news was obtained of Margery and Hammett.
Tom went to his room. It was useless to ignore facts
any longer. Margery was drowned. He sat on his bed in
the darkness and gazed bleakly at the wall. He heard


252 MURDER FROM BEYOND
the church clock chime nine, but it conveyed nothing
to him. One thought obliterated all others. Margery was
dead.
Time passed. The church clock chimed the quarter
hour. He sat motionless. Occasionlly the rumble of
voices came to him; once he caught the distant sound
of a siren out at sea, once the cry of a night bird.
Through the open window the fog drifted.
He became conscious of chill. Mechanically he went
to the window and closed it. His mind registered the
fact that the fog was wreathing fantastically over the
garage; a breeze was springing up.
He returned to his bed and lay down. He felt un-
utterably weary. Stars showed through the window. At
times they were blotted out; then at last they shone
clearly. He closed his eyes. Everything was finished—
Uncle Hilary dead, Margery drowned. The thought
hammered in his numbed brain. He opened his eyes
again and saw the quiet stars. Margery was dead—
drowned. He was too numb with misery to grapple with
the thought. And the quiet stars contradicted him. It
was a dream. He was in bed and had dreamt. Sleep had
made his mind heavy, and he could not think. Better
to sleep. A long time before dawn. He closed his eyes
again. . . .
Dimly he was aware that someone was bending over
him, wrapping something round him. He thought that
he was in bed and being tucked in by his mother. He
murmured something and snuggled against the pillow.
He opened his eyes in a gray light. He was very cold.
A cock was crowing and birds twittered in the ivy out-


THE CLUE OF THE ALTERED CLOCK 255
"Positive. Springfield doesn't know the countryside."
Ravenhill grunted again.
"You don't suspect him, do you?" demanded Tom.
"How long would it take the car to get from where
it passed you to the bridge?" Ravenhill demanded, ig-
noring the question.
"At the rate it was going, not more than five min-
utes."
"So that it should have arrived there just after two-
thirty."
"I suppose so. Why?"
"The clock on the dashboard had stopped at four-
ten."
Tom was startled.
"There's a chance, of course, that it was out of or-
der," Ravenhill went on, "but it's only a slim one.
When one has a chauffeur things like that are looked
after. He'd have had it repaired."
For some distance neither spoke. Tom was trying to
digest this piece of information, but it conveyed noth-
ing to him save that possibly the car had not gone direct
to the police station. But that was an unlikely solution.
Several times on the main road they were stopped
and Tom was asked by villagers about the accident, but
no information was gained in exchange. The opinion of
the village was apparently that Margery and the chauf-
feur were drowned. The stream was very strong at that
time of year, said the landlord of the inn, who was out
with his dogs. If Miss Wharton and Hammett had been
thrown into the water, ten chances to one they'd been
swept away.


THE CLUE OF THE ALTERED CLOCK 257
wheel mark on the road. He followed it to the bridge.
Then he went back to the car. Tom went and looked
down over the parapet. Finally Ravenhill came back
and beckoned to Gundridge.
"When did you come on duty?" he asked.
"I relieved the other man at twelve," he answered.
"A long stretch," commented Ravenhill. "You've
been here all the time?"
"Look here," said Gundridge, "what are you getting
at?"
"Only that someone's been tampering with the car,"
the reporter said, lighting a cigarette.
Gundridge's face went white. He started to bluster.
"No one ain't been here while I was on duty," he
answered.
"Perhaps it was while the other man was on duty
then," Ravenhill suggested. "Someone's been here, any-
way. You'll have to satisfy Inspector Service about that
—if he discovers it; I shan't tell him."
The constable looked scared. "What are you getting
at, Sir?" he asked in a different voice.
"Last night," said Ravenhill evenly, "the clock on
the dashboard of that car gave the time as ten past
four. This morning it shows the time as being quarter
to three."


CHAPTER XXV
RAVENHILL RECONSTRUCTS
Ravenhill descended again to the marshy river level.
"Useless to look for tracks," he told Tom moodily.
"The ground's so soggy that they don't last more than
a few minutes." He plunged a foot into the swamp and
withdrew it. "Look," he went on. "The impression fills
in at once."
"What about that clock?" asked Tom.
"Isn't it obvious?" was the reply. "We are to think
that the accident occurred at two-forty-five whereas
we know it occurred at four-ten, nearly an hour and a
half later. In other words, we are meant to believe that
the accident took place when the car was going to the
police station. The question is, what happened between
those two hours, and also why was the car in first
gear?"
"It may have had to travel slowly because of the
fog. After all, it is a dangerous road."
"All roads are dangerous in fog. In any case, this is
a high-powered car which was capable of traveling
dead slow in top gear. If—"
He broke off and went to the car again and climbed
into it. He leant over the side and looked into the front
of the tonneau.
258


RAVENHILL RECONSTRUCTS 261
would be here. Can't you see? I don't want to horrify
you with details, but here's evidence of a smash, and
if there were a body here and the injuries were con-
sistent it would be assumed that death had been due to
the accident. A clever man like the man we're up
against wouldn't overlook that. No; Miss Wharton is
alive—somewhere."
His tone of conviction had its effect on Tom, but the
reaction almost unmanned him. An obvious thought
came to him.
"Hammett?" he stated rather than asked.
Ravenhill looked up to the embankment where the
group of villagers stood watching them.
"I don't think they can hear from that distance, nor
can Gundridge," he said, "but we must be cautious.
Talk low."
But Tom had suddenly remembered the blood that
had been found on the windshield. Ingenious though it
was, Ravenhill's theory must be wrong.
"What about that blood?" he asked.
"Artistry," returned Ravenhill, smiling. "It lends
reality to the deception. It probably isn't human blood,
or if it is a prick on the ball of the finger would pro-
duce enough to leave a distinct trace. No, Manning;
that was just artistry."
He glanced at the car again and then at his watch.
"I don't think we can learn anything more here," he
went on. "Let's get back; then we can talk."
They climbed on to the embankment.
"That looks like Inspector Service," the constable


262 MURDER FROM BEYOND
said, pointing to a car coming from the direction of
West Billington.
"I thought he'd have been here before this," com-
mented Ravenhill.
Gundridge was right. As the car came nearer, Service
was easily recognizable. He was in uniform. When he
stopped the car Tom saw that he was frowning.
"What's this crowd doing here?" he demanded.
"Couldn't make 'em go away, Sir," the constable
apologized.
Service nodded to Tom and Ravenhill. "You're early,"
he grunted. "I've been making arrangements for drag-
ging the river."
"I shouldn't bother, Inspector," said Ravenhill laconi-
cally. "The whole business is a fake."
"You seem pretty sure of yourself, Mr. Reporter,"
sneered Service. Evidently he "had a liver" this morn-
ing, Tom reflected: he was usually good tempered
enough. "I suppose you're going on the clock?"
"So you saw it?"
"It was rather obvious, wasn't it?"
"Well, we'll be getting along," Ravenhill said to Tom.
He looked at the Inspector as he moved away. "Look
at the clock now," he recommended, "and look at the
gear lever and the hand-accelerator. They tell a con-
vincing story."
He took Tom's arm and piloted him in the direction
of Redlands. The group of villagers made way for them
and then closed in again to watch the Inspector at work.
For some distance neither Tom nor Ravenhill spoke.


RAVENHILL RECONSTRUCTS 263
Then when they were breasting the slope to the village
Tom asked the question which had been burning him.
"Is it Hammett?" he demanded.
"Without jumping to conclusions—yes," answered
Ravenhill quietly. "I wasn't sure until this morning, but
I had suspected him ever since he gave me the valve of
that bicycle."
Tom recalled the occasion. He and Ravenhill had
played eavesdroppers when Hammett was discussing the
case with Starr in the garage. But he could not see the
significance of what had happened.
"Do you remember the circumstances?" Ravenhill
said. "I went to ask him for the tobacco I'd sent him
for. He was in the garage talking to Starr. Starr was
sitting on the running board of the big car, and we
could see Hammett's reflection in the bonnet."
"Yes, but—"
"They were discussing the case," Ravenhill went on,
"and Hammett talked in a wonderfully disarming way.
He was convincingly an innocent man."
"I remember," Tom said. "He was praising you.
Said you knew who the murderer was. But I don't see
that—"
"You forget that if his face could be reflected in the
bonnet and we could see it our faces could be too and
that he could see them."
Tom gave an exclamation. Of course! He had not
thought of that.
"Then he gave me the valve," Ravenhill went on,
"yet there were four people only who knew that the
valve was missing from that smashed bicycle. You re-


RAVENHILL RECONSTRUCTS 267
derer. He must have thought it easier to escape by your
window than to come into the house that way. In any
case, remember that he had no need to come in that way
since he was already inside, and he obviously wouldn't
take needless risks. It's certain he omitted to take into
consideration the fact that there would be only one line
of footprints."
"One other point, why did he leave the bicycle by
the fence? Surely it would have been better to take it
back to Spence's?"
"The faked accident was simply to supply us with an
apparent reason for his discarding the bicycle. He
wanted to get to his room as soon as possible in case a
search were made. Hammett has wonderful imagina-
tion, but his mind seems to be incapable of dealing with
details—remember the clock on the dashboard."


OLD THOMPSON TALKS 273
"Shouldn't be surprised. Hello? What's this?" He
held up a piece of gold braid. "A wound stripe. That's
interesting."
"Hammett said he'd been wounded," Tom explained.
Ravenhill grunted. Then he began putting the articles
back into the tin. He turned his attention to a port-
manteau which lay beside the bed. It was empty.
Methodically he searched the room. Finally he came
to a shelf of books over the bed. He took down several
volumes. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and
handed a book open at the first page to Tom. The
name "T. Hammett" was written on it.
"Now look at this," commented Ravenhill, giving
Tom another book open in the same way.
Tom studied it. "What's wrong?" he asked. "He's—"
And then he saw. "Why, he's spelt his name differently,"
he exclaimed. "There's only one V in it."
Ravenhill took the book back without a word and
continued his search. He came to the last volume, but
apparently it did not interest him. He returned it to his
place.
"We must hurry," he said. "The police'll be here
before long. Suppose you keep watch down below,
Manning?"
Somewhat unwillingly, Tom descended to the garage
and went outside. No one was about that he could see.
He waited impatiently.
It was twenty minutes before Ravenhill joined him.
The reporter's eyes were bright. He looked cautiously
about him; then he produced a printed sheet from his
pocket and unfolded it.


274 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"I found it in one of the books," he said. "Good thing
I thought to examine them again." He unfolded the
paper and displayed it. Tom saw that it had been ex-
tracted from The Lancet. It featured a report of an
address to the Cancer Research Society given by a Dr.
Tremayne Winter.
The coincidence of the name struck Tom at once.
He looked at Ravenhill inquiringly.
"That's Winter's father," the reporter explained.
"Queer, isn't it? Why should Hammett keep this?"
"Perhaps because it referred to Winter's father," sug-
gested Tom.
"Exactly, but you're not quite right. The page was
not kept because it referred to Winter's father, but
because it referred to Dr. Winter who happens to be
Winter's father. The interest is in the man himself."
"But how do you know that?"
"How came a chauffeur to have discovered such a
report in The Lancet? He would never see the paper
normally. There's a lot in this, Manning. Either Ham-
mett regularly had The Lancet or someone sent him or
gave him this cutting. And that someone obviously
wasn't young Winter. Now then, do a little thinking.
What does the average man know of aconitine—the
poison used in two of the murders? And how does he
know how to use it? Did you know anything about it?"
"No," Tom confessed.
"Point number one. Point number two, the R.A.M.C.
button—medical again. Point number three, the Win-
ters are friends of the Whartons. Is it mere coincidence
that Hammett who has sufficient medical knowledge to


OLD THOMPSON TALKS 27 J
know about and administer aconitine and who was in
the R.A.M.C. during the War and who is apparently
interested in Dr. Winter—is it a mere coincidence that
he should be acting as chauffeur to the Winters'
friends?"
"I think you're straining the facts, Ravenhill," said
Tom. "But supposing you're right. What then? Perhaps
Hammett was under Dr. Winter during the War and
Dr. Winter recommended him as a chauffeur to the
Whartons."
"Perhaps you're right. But would a private soldier—
you suggest that that's what he was, don't you?—know
how to use aconitine?"
"He might have mugged it up."
"We're wasting time," exclaimed Ravenhill. "I'm go-
ing to see Dr. Winter right away."
Tom looked at him in dismay. "That means going
to London," he said. "What about Margery? Surely—"
Ravenhill appeared to be undecided. Finally,
"I promise to be back tonight," he said. "Trust me,
Manning. She's in no danger—no immediate danger.
If Hammett had wanted to kill her he'd have done so
at once and made it appear that she'd died in the 'acci-
dent.' Anyhow, I must go and see Dr. Winter."
He wasted no time. He was gone in less than half an
hour, and Tom was left with his thoughts. Restlessly
he wandered about the house and the grounds. Once he
saw Inspector Service in the drive, but he had dis-
appeared before Tom could get to him.
He was served with a cold lunch. The maid who
attended to his wants informed him that she and the


276 MURDER FROM BEYOND
cook—the only servants remaining—had arranged to
sleep in the village that night.
In the middle of the afternoon Springfield appeared.
He said that he had taken Mrs. Stevenage over to the
Station Hotel at West Billington. Where was Raven-
hill? Cautiously Tom replied that he was somewhere
about; he didn't know where. Springfield asked when
he would be back.
"This evening," Tom answered irritably. Then his
feelings changed. After all, he had nothing against
Springfield, and Ravenhill, despite all the circumstances,
apparently had no suspicions where he was concerned.
"I'm sorry," Tom said. "I'm—"
"That's all right," returned Springfield amiably. "Of
course you're upset. But don't worry. Margery isn't far
away."
"How do you know?"
"There was only one car used," answered the older
man confidently. "And that was smashed. The police
think she's somewhere in the neighborhood. So do I. . . .
No, don't ask me why," he went on, smiling. "I'm
afraid you're rather in the dark, and I don't know
enough yet to speak with surety." He took off his spec-
tacles and polished them. "We must not be impatient,"
he went on. "We might rescue Margery, certainly, but
—well, we want evidence, don't we?"
"I don't understand," said Tom, puzzled.
"Be patient," counseled Springfield, and went out
again.


CHAPTER XXVII
PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE
Ravenhill returned about eight o'clock, looking tri-
umphant. Tom was with Springfield in the library
where they had dined off a tray. The servants had gone.
"Things are moving," said Ravenhill. "Any grub
left? I haven't had a bite since I left."
Tom and Springfield had eaten little. A plate half
full of sandwiches stood on the tray. Ravenhill went to
the table and started to eat. Finally he lit his pipe and
went and warmed himself by the fire. Tom wanted to
ask questions, but Springfield's presence deterred him.
To his surprise Ravenhill asked him:
"Have you told Springfield of our discoveries this
morning? . . . No? I thought you understood that
Springfield was all right."
The older man smiled. "He's been commendably
cautious," he observed. "But then he really knows noth-
ing about me."
Tom flushed uncomfortably. "I didn't know—" he
muttered.
"Springfield's an ex-Spiritualist," Ravenhill explained.
"He was a leading light once. He—but you tell the tale,
Springfield."
Springfield looked serious, and mechanically taking a
cigarette from the box on the little table by his side, lit
277


278 MURDER FROM BEYOND
it and sat staring into the fire. Finally he threw the
spent match into the flames and looked at Tom.
"Yes, I was an ardent Spiritualist once," he said in a
low voice. "I'd never had any particular religion. I was
a research chemist. Spiritualism interested me when I
got to know something about it, and I investigated it.
At first—well, I had the usual prejudices. There's a lot
of fraud in it, and I thought it was all fraud; then I
took the usual scientific view that Spiritualists were
fooling themselves, that the manifestations were subjec-
tive not objective. I needn't go into all that. When I'd
got behind the hysteria of it all I saw that there was
something in it that—well, that wasn't natural."
"D'you mean to say," Tom interrupted, "that you
believed in it?"
"I couldn't help myself. There were materializations
that were definitely objective. I made tests—elaborate
ones. Things were told me by so-called spirit voices and
in spirit writing that no one else could have known and
which I didn't know myself until I made inquiries
afterwards. Thought transference in that case was ob-
viously impossible."
He broke off and looked reflectively at the fire.
"I began to have a horror of it, but I couldn't stop
investigating. It seemed unclean, altogether wrong; but
I still went on. And then I came slap up against a case
of possession."
Tom looked a question.
"You know the ancient idea that men could be pos-
sessed of devils?" explained Srpingfield. "The medieval
Church held that a man could either be obsessed by a
--


PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE 279
devil—that is, affected from outside—or that a devil
could take possession of him and act through his body.
Well, I've seen cases of obsession—there are scores
among the Spiritualists—and I've seen three cases of
possession. One was that of a medium; he was the first.
He committed suicide. Another was a young woman, a
Society girl. She's now in a lunatic asylum."
"You mean—?" began Tom in a horrified voice.
"I mean that the spirits which Spiritualists call up,"
said Springfield grimly, "are not the spirits of the dead
but evil spirits—devils, if you like."
"But how about cases of dead relatives speaking in
recognizable voices and saying things which only they
could know?" Tom asked.
"Some of it is undoubtedly fraud on the part of the
mediums," answered Springfield, "and perhaps some of
it is subjective, but I am convinced that often it is im-
personation—that's not the word, but you'll under-
stand—by evil spirits. People in this world can learn
things about other folk and imitate them; why shouldn't
spirits do the same? Besides, for all we know, in the
supernatural life it may not be possible to preserve any
secrecy or mystery. I mean when we die perhaps in
losing our earthly bodies we also lose the ability to keep
our thoughts and private actions secret. You can go
further than that and say that if our life here on earth
is for the purpose of building up our souls, maybe when
those souls leave our bodies they tell their own tale by
their appearance."
He stopped. Neither of the others spoke.
"That's only speculation," Springfield proceeded.


280 MURDER FROM BEYOND
"What I do know is that the spirits that Spiritualists
conjure up are definitely evil although they pretend in
the first place to be friendly. It's when they begin to
gain influence over Spiritualists that they show their
true characters. The evil in them makes them try to use
living human creatures to express it. I could tell you
horrible tales of debauchery and crime the direct result
of Spiritualism and, as I would say, the result of obses-
sion and possession."
Tom shivered.
"I once saw a case of exorcism," Springfield went on,
"and if nothing else had convinced me that would have
done. It was—horrible. A young painter, a renegade
Catholic, was possessed. He's the third case I spoke of.
He was certified insane and put into a private asylum
as a dangerous case. He had phases of sanity, but on such
occasions he was just alive and no more and would lie
about unable to move. When the evil spirit had let him
alone temporarily his own soul was powerless to animate
him. Then he'd begin to get lively again. One minute
he was lying scarcely alive, the next he'd be screaming
blasphemies. It was a ghastly case."
"What happened?" asked Ravenhill in a low voice.
"His brother was a priest—a well-known man. He
believed it was a case of genuine possession, and he
acted. He exorcized the devil. There was a terrible
scene. The poor fellow was held by a couple of attend-
ants. As soon as the priest started the man flung him-
self on the floor and began to writhe. Then he shook
the attendants off and—"
Springfield suddenly stopped and covered his face


PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE 281
with his hands. When he removed them his face was
grey.
"The man was my dearest friend," he said in a
strangled voice. "I was there. The priest had got me
to help him, although I wasn't of his faith. I thought
my friend would have killed himself or his brother.
And then suddenly he collapsed, unconscious. He was
unconscious for three days afterwards." He gulped.
"Then he came to. He was sane again and wanted his
brother's ministration. He knew what had happened,
and he knew he was going to die."
"And did he?" Tom whispered as Springfield stopped.
"A few hours later," said Springfield briefly.
A long silence followed. Then Ravenhill re-lighted his
pipe and looked at his watch.
"We mustn't waste time," he said shakily.
Tom was jerked into the present. "You mean," he
asked, "that we are going to do something?"
"We are," Ravenhill answered. "We're going to bring
this unhappy case to a close. But there's a lot to be said
first."
Tom looked from one to the other, conscious that
much must have happened of which he knew nothing.
"What about the police?" he ventured.
"What do you think?" smiled Ravenhill. "Did you
imagine we're working on our own? My dear chap,
Service and Miller know as much as we do—possibly
more. They're not fooled, by any means. We pooled
our knowledge, anyhow. . . . But we're wasting time."
He refilled his pipe. "Everything's practically cleared
up now," he went on. "I discovered what I wanted to


284 MURDER FROM BEYOND
terrified. Obviously she is very 'psychic' indeed, for
even a materialization was gained. She did not know
what occurred when she was in the trance, of course,
but she remembered the early stages of it and the com-
ing to. It was a terribly dangerous experiment that
might have ruined Margery for life. As it was, the
scene frightened her father so much that he swore he'd
never dabble in Spiritualism again and forbade his wife
to do so."
"That explains one of the entries in the Rector's
diary," commented Ravenhill.
"Margery was ill for days afterwards. Then the fas-
cination of Spiritualism began to affect her, and she
resolved to read all she could on the subject. Amongst
the books she got was mine. That, apparently, convinced
her. Poor girl! She had no one to guide her, for her
father lacked knowledge and her only reliable friend,
the Rector, was dabbling in Spiritualism himself. He
couldn't make up his mind about it, apparently.
"Then she realized that the seances were still going
on, but in the garage as she thought—not in the house.
That she could not understand. It never occurred to her
that her father was not attending the seances and that
they were held outside the house so that he should not
know about them. And the place was getting the repu-
tation of being haunted. She herself said she saw some-
thing on one occasion.
"It was then that she came to me. I didn't see what
I could do, for I obviously couldn't interfere. I did,
however, tell her to give the Rector my book, but he
was apparently so far gone that he wouldn't even read


PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE 287
sent a wire. It was addressed to Gregory Fairchild at
the hotel in Northumberland Avenue and contained
just three words. 'Tonight at ten.'"
"Gregory Fairchild is, I suppose, Storey Martin?"
asked Tom.
"Undoubtedly."
"And what does 'Tonight at ten' mean?" Tom's
voice was shaky.
"We don't know. We're held up all round because
we can't find a motive for anything so far—except the
death of Winter. But Miss Wharton is safe, you may be
sure. And she's in no danger. As I said before, if they
wanted to kill her, they'd have—"
"But surely the police should have arrested the Wil-
liams!" exclaimed Tom. "Is Margery there?"
"I think so."
"I can suggest why she's there and what's going to
happen," said Springfield quietly, "though I suppose,
since you know little about Spiritualism, you'll doubt
me.
"You're going to say there's to be a seance at ten
o'clock," broke in Ravenhill.
"Exactly. For some reason or other their usual medium
has failed them. They want Miss Wharton to act. Surely
there can be no other reason for abducting her?"
"But what about—afterwards," Tom interposed.
"What would they do with her afterwards. She'd in-
form the police, wouldn't she?"
"Maybe she doesn't know where she is," suggested
Ravenhill.
"Even so, she'd recognize the Miss Williams and


292 MURDER FROM BEYOND
were morbidly acute. A slight movement of either of
his companions or a rustle of wind in the dead leaves
would stop the roar; then it filled his ears again. Like
a soldier staring into No-Man's-Land he saw movement
that did not exist. Vague shapes formed and edged
stealthily across the space in front of him. When he
blinked his eyes they were back in their first positions.
His tensed nerves made him conscious of the beating of
every pulse in his body.
And when someone touched his arm he was so startled
that he let out a gasp.
"The police are here," Ravenhill whispered. "Can you
see all right?"
"I—I think so," he faltered, staring at the light in
the windows of the house.
"Don't look at that," Ravenhill murmured. "You
won't be able to see anything if you do."
A vague form came from the reporter's other side
and stood so that the light was blotted out. Tom rec-
ognized Inspector Miller's stocky figure.
"You fellows oughtn't really to be here," he mut-
tered. "Still. . . . We're going in by the back way,"
he went on. "I've fixed it up with the gardener. The
other servants have got the night off."
"Is Miss Wharton there?" whispered Tom.
"I don't know. The Miss Williams are; so's Storey
Martin. She ought to be there."
"She is there," put in Ravenhill confidently. "What
happens when we get inside, Inspector? I suppose
they're in that room where the light is?"
"Apparently. It's a double room with folding doors


THE GHOSTLY KILLER 295
—drawing room. Covers all the first floor, but there's
no light at the back windows."
"That means—?"
"The connecting door must be closed. We're going
to make for that room—the back part, that is."
Another form showed beside him.
"All clear," came the voice of Inspector Service.
"They've started."
Tom guessed what he meant.
"We'd better get inside," Service went on in a low
tone. "The men are all posted."
"Come on, then," said Miller. "Keep behind us," he
bade Ravenhill and Tom. "And mind, no noise!"
Springfield suddenly materialized out of the darkness,
and as he did so a weird sound floated to them on the
wind from the direction of the house. It was at once a
wail and a moan, yet it was not human. Vaguely it was
recognizable, but Tom, who, with the others, had in-
stinctively halted, could not identify it. The sound
came again, making the hair prickle on the back of his
neck.
"A cat!" he heard Springfield exclaim. "That sounds
bad."
Tom did not understand. The sound came again, rose
to a crescendo and died away to shuddering silence.
Then came a shriek and a rustle of dead leaves.
"Come on!" exclaimed Tom, horror-struck.
"It's all right," Springfield restrained him. "It's only
that cat. Cats can't stand—ghosts."
It sounded absurd, and Tom did not understand what
r


THE GHOSTLY KILLER
295
doors. Inspector Miller was crouching beside the further
one. He was trying the handle.
The torch was switched off at a sign from him, and
immediately afterwards the level voice sounded clearly.
A hand touched. Tom's arm and drew him towards the
door. It was open. Within was darkness except for a
glow on one side. The hand pressed his arm reassur-
ingly and left it. He sensed rather than felt the door
being closed behind him. The voice had stopped. He
stood motionless.
How long he waited he did not know. He heard an
occasional crackle from the fire in the adjoining room
and sometimes the sound of slight movement. He could
see that heavy curtains partly concealed the connecting
doorway. Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to
the gloom, he saw a seated figure beside the curtains.
With a vague idea of what happened at seances he took
the person to be the medium. Of his companions he
could see nothing, though he sensed someone beside
him.
"You are willing yourself not to go under!" The
words came menacingly from the next room in a man's
voice.
Tom heard the scrape of a chair, and a moment later
a figure stood between the curtains.
"I don't understand you," Storey Martin went on in
a softer tone. "No harm can come to you, and you'll
be helping me."
The reply was whispered, and though Tom could not
hear the words he recognized the voice. A sudden
-


296 MURDER FROM BEYOND
hatred of Storey Martin made him clench his fists. But
he stayed where he was.
"You're frightened," the ex-actor went on. "You
shall come in the other room by the fire for a few min-
utes."
He bent down. Tom realized that he had picked up
Margery, chair as well. That meant that she was bound
to it: it could mean nothing else. A hand closed over
his wrist. But for that he would have lost control of
himself.
Storey Martin carried the girl into the adjoining room.
"You're very silly, Margery," a woman's voice said—
one of the Williams women, Tom supposed. "What are
you afraid of? Mr. Martin only wants to—"
"Never mind that," Storey Martin interrupted.
"Look here, Margery, do as I want, and you shall go
free immediately afterwards."
Tom could not hear the whispered reply.
"Give her a glass of wine," commanded Storey Martin.
Tom heard movement; then came the gurgle of
liquid. He badly wanted to creep to the curtains and
see what was happening, but the hand on his wrist—
Ravenhill's hand, he supposed—restrained him.
"If she—" began the woman's voice again and broke
off in a cry. There was a startled gasp, then came a
queer bubbling sound. Tom tried to wrench his wrist
free, but it was held in an iron grip.
"Not a sound!" murmured Ravenhill. "She's all
right."
Storey Martin let out an oath, and it was followed
by a frenzied babble of blasphemy from someone else.


THE GHOSTLY KILLER 297
Tom was chilled with horror. The voice seemed scarcely
human. And some sort of struggle was going on. The
women screamed; there was a thud as though someone
had fallen.
Ravenhill had his arms round Tom now. "It's all
right," he whispered urgently. "Look! Miller's by the
curtain watching. It's all right."
Tom was sweating, yet he shivered with cold. The
room seemed icy. He had the curious feeling as though
a sixth sense was listening to a pandemonium of noise
which would be unheard by the physical ear. His con-
sciousness, as it were, was extended so that he was aware
of impressions on another plane, an inferior plane of
uncontrollable riot. He felt as though he were two per-
sons of which the one stood apart watching the other
and analyzing the impressions and their effects.
He heard Springfield whispering. "It's Hammett!
He's possessed!"
The pandemonium died down.
"I killed Isobel Wharton!" chanted a strange voice
and repeated it exultantly. "I made him do it. I made
him kill Isobel Wharton. She forced her love on him."
The uncanny voice chuckled and went on to gross ob-
scenities; then in a few moments it continued. "He
hated her. He was afraid of her. And someone told her
about his past and she threatened him. That was why he
killed her. I made him do it."
"Who are you?" demanded Storey Martin's voice.
A hideous chuckle. "One you called up. I bless you
for it. You have given me a body and life. I killed
Isobel because I made him do it whose body I hold.


298 MURDER FROM BEYOND
And I made him kill Hilary Starmer because he had
guessed the truth. He was easy to kill. He was like to
die of terror when he saw me looking out of my body's
eyes."
"And did you kill Vivian Winter?" demanded Storey
Martin in a strange voice.
A snarl. "Did we kill Vivian Winter?—we, not I,
for I make this body—my body—do what I will. . . .
No, we did not kill Vivian Winter. Your son killed
Vivian Winter."
Tom heard a groan, then the uncanny voice shouted
with laughter.
"Where is my son now?" asked Storey Martin in a
voice that was broken and tired.
"In prison."
An indescribable sound followed. Then came a hid-
eous noise.
"Strangers!" screamed the voice. "Find the syringe,
you fool! These hands are as clumsy as— Find it! A
jab each! A jab!"
Inspector Miller's torch flashed suddenly. Tom leapt
towards the curtains. A furious struggle was going on
beyond them. The torch revealed Storey Martin and
Hammett on the floor, the former grasping the chauf-
feur's wrist. Bound to a chair and with eyes dilated with
fear sat Margery, staring at the struggling men. The
Miss Williams had both fainted. One sat in a chair
sprawled across a table while the other lay on the floor.
Then Tom saw that Hammett held a syringe which he
was vainly trying to jab into the hand that imprisoned
his wrist. At that moment Margery turned her head.


300 MURDER FROM BEYOND
Storey Martin raised a haggard face from his hands.
"I suppose you heard all that went on?" he said. "The
abduction was his idea." He pointed to Hammett who
lolled in his chair, an imbecile expression on his face.
"May I put a question or two to Martin, Inspector?"
Ravenhill asked Miller.
"I suppose so," answered the Scotland Yard man re-
luctantly. "It'll be unofficial, of course."
The reporter turned to Storey Martin. "I take it that
Hammett's possessed?" he said.
Storey Martin did not answer.
"All right," Ravenhill pursued. "Tell me, why did
you want Miss Wharton as a medium? Hammett was
good enough, wasn't he?"
"Hammett is—" The ex-actor broke off. "Why
should I tell you?" he demanded.
"You'll only corroborate what we already know—if
you speak the truth," Ravenhill said. "You knew he
was possessed, didn't you?"
"Well?"
"You were afraid of what would transpire if he were
the medium. You wanted information about your son,
and you feared that—"
"I did want information about my son," Storey Mar-
tin broke in. "There's no reason why I shouldn't tell
you."
"You guessed that it was he who killed Winter—
when you had tried to prevent his killing Mrs. Whar-
ton. But you weren't sure. Is that it?"
Storey Martin's face was grey.


THE GHOSTLY KILLER 301
"Since you know so much," he said slowly, "yes; I
did guess it."
Inspector Service, who was on his knees apparently
searching for something, straightened himself.
"Where's that syringe?" he demanded.
Storey Martin raised a hand and opened it. He stood
up. "Here it is," he said. "No; stand back. It won't
take a split second for me to use it on myself—as I
intend to do. If you want any information, keep back."
Tom, his arms still round Margery, watched the
drama that was being played. He saw Ravenhill getting
ready to spring at Storey Martin.
"It's no good, Ravenhill," said the ex-actor smiling
bleakly. "I've only to prick my finger—keep where you
are. Get your notebook out, Mr. Inspector, and I'll tell
you the truth. You know who Hammett is, I suppose?
He's safe enough from you. He's mad. Yes; his con-
trol's got him. Possession, the Church'd call it."
He licked his lips and smiled at the watchful Raven-
hill, who was nearest.
"I suppose you know about the affair in India, too?"
he went on. "Isobel Wharton was—well, you know
what she was. She ruined my boy, God damn her soul!
When he came home, a drug-addict, I was afraid he
meant to murder her, and I followed him down here.
He had a pistol, I know."
He looked at Miller. "You know all that? Good! I
watched him, but he didn't do— He cleared out, and I
thought he'd given up the notion. Then next morning
I heard she was dead. Of course I thought he'd done it.
But he hadn't. He wouldn't know anything about


302 MURDER FROM BEYOND
aconitine. Then Winter was killed. I couldn't see how
he could be connected with that, for as far as I knew
he didn't know him."
He paused and looked at the syringe in his hand. "As
time went on," he continued slowly, "I got suspicious
about him. I watched you and—I take it you've got
him?"
Miller nodded grimly.
"I feared the worst, but I wasn't certain," said Storey
Martin. "Then I had the idea of asking the spirits."
"Why did you abduct Miss Wharton?" demanded
Ravenhill again. "You wanted her as a medium, I sup-
pose. But why, when you'd got Hammett?"
"It was Hammett's suggestion," returned Storey Mar-
tin wearily. "I agreed because I knew that he'd be no
good. His control was out of hand. It ruled him. Things
were all wrong where he was concerned. He was in such
an unusual state that—well, he was more often under
the control than not. He even caused materialization
without meaning to. You remember that ghost scare
at Redlands?"
"Was that the only reason?" demanded Ravenhill.
Storey Martin looked across at Hammett. "No," he
said, "I guessed the truth about the other murders. I
knew he'd reveal himself if—"
"One of the women's coming to," observed Inspector
Service.
"We had to use them," said Storey Martin pointing
contemptuously to the form on the floor, "to complete
the circle. But I didn't want them to know the truth
about things. I hoped I'd be able to question Miss


THE GHOSTLY KILLER 303
Wharton indirectly when she was under control so that
they wouldn't understand the replies."
"And afterwards?" queried Ravenhill. "After the
seance, I mean."
"I'd simply have disappeared with Hammett."
"I wonder," Ravenhill mused aloud. "You're a cold-
blooded ruffian, Martin. I daresay you'd have taken ad-
vantage of Hammett's madness and got him to ensure
that Miss Wharton's mouth was shut forever."
Margery shivered, and Tom's arms tightened about
her.
Inspector Service bent down and raised the woman
who lay on the floor. She passed a hand over her head
and moaned.
"And what about these women?" Ravenhill pursued
relentlessly.
"Oh, them!" There was infinite contempt in Storey
Martin's voice. "They're just hysterical fools. They're
not worth bothering about, anyway. They'd commit
any crime if they thought the spirits had ordered it."
"And that's all?" queried Ravenhill.
"That's all," answered Storey Martin.
"In that case," said the reporter, "why all that fuss
about the hypodermic syringe? Your only crime ap-
parently is abduction. Isn't that so, Inspector?" he
asked, looking at Miller.
"There's the motor car smash," said Miller cautiously.
"I suppose you were responsible for that? You'd better
tell us all about it. To be frank is your best policy."
"I don't mind telling you," said Storey Martin. "Yes,
I arranged it. I had intended to send a fake message ask-


304 MURDER FROM BEYOND
ing Miss Wharton to go to the police station. As it hap-
pened the message wasn't necessary."
"You were lucky as regards weather," Service put
in.
"Yes." Storey Martin smiled. "The fog was provided
by Nature. It certainly helped. I boarded the car just
beyond the village. Hammett and I chloroformed Miss
Wharton. Then we left the car in that disused barn
just—"
"I know," Miller cut short his explanation. "We
found the tracks. You've no thought for details, Mar-
tin."
"If it hadn't been for the dashboard clock," Storey
Martin asserted, "you'd never have been suspicious
enough to look for tracks."
"I said you'd no thought for details," Miller re-
minded him.
Storey Martin scowled. "Well, we carried the girl
through Grainger's Wood and got her here," he went
on. "She was no trouble."
"What about the servants?"
"They'd been given a holiday while the Miss Wil-
liams were away."
"What about the faked accident?" pursued Miller.
"Supposing there hadn't been a fog?"
"You scarcely meet a soul in that road at this time
of year between early morning when the men from
Stanmead go over to the factory at West Billington and
late afternoon when they come back. You can see the
whole of the road from the barn where the car was.
We'd only to see that it was clear, then run the car
down—a matter of a minute and a half—and the ac-


THE GHOSTLY KILLER 305
cident wouldn't take a couple of minutes to fake. We
were quite safe."
"I suppose you were," commented Miller.
"Well, you know the rest. The fog helped. But Ham-
mett forgot that damned clock till afterwards. I didn't
know there was one on the dashboard."
"You also forgot the hand accelerator and the gear
lever," said Ravenhill. "However—" He broke off and
looked at Miller.
"Is that all?" asked the Inspector.
"You can guess the rest." Storey Martin was frown-
ing. "What about my son?" he demanded suddenly.
"He's a lunatic," replied Miller promptly.
"Then he won't be brought for trial?"
"I oughtn't to answer that question," said the In-
spector. "But you can't try a lunatic, can you?"
To Tom the affair was developing queerly. Were they
bluffing Storey Martin so that he would not commit
suicide?
Springfield was attending to the Miss Williams. One
of them had recovered and was moaning feebly. The
other also began to show signs of life.
"Now be sensible," Miller advised Storey Martin.
"Put that syringe on the table. You might have an ac-
cident."
Storey Martin frowned in thought. Then, apparently
making up his mind, he sighed and did as the Inspector
had directed. Immediately Inspector Service snapped
handcuffs on his wrists.
"Is this—?" began the prisoner.
"Just a precaution," smiled Miller to whom the un-
finished question was addressed. "All's fair—you know."


CHAPTER XXIX
REVELATION
A knock at the door distracted the attention of all.
"Come in," called Miller.
A woman's head appeared round the door and was
quickly withdrawn.
"It's one of the servants," said Inspector Service.
"Come in, Ellen."
With obvious reluctance the woman entered and
stood awkwardly fingering her dress.
"Has Janet come back too?" Service asked. "She has!
Good. Well, your mistresses are ill. We'll carry them
into their bedrooms and you shall attend to them there.
That'll be all right, won't it?" he asked Miller.
Miller nodded. The servant gaped. Inspector Service
went to the window and opening it, whistled twice. The
tramp of feet sounded below. A little later a sergeant of
police appeared.
"Get a couple of men and have these ladies carried
out," commanded Service. "We don't want 'em."
"You mean they're not to be detained, Sir?" inquired
the sergeant.
"You've guessed right. Ellen here'll show you where
to put 'em. Then you can take this feller along to the
station." He indicated Hammett, who still sat list-
less in his chair.
306


REVELATION
307
"What about you, Miss "Wharton?" asked Inspector
Miller solicitously. "There's no need for you to stay."
"Take her back to Redlands, Manning," advised Rav-
enhill. "I'll tell you all about it later."
Though he felt that there was much yet to be ex-
plained, Tom was glad to go. Margery, exhausted, was
leaning helplessly against him.
He led her out of the room and downstairs took off
his overcoat and wrapped it about her. She was obvi-
ously too tired to protest.
It was not far to Redlands, but Margery's weakness
made the journey a slow one. To Tom's surprise a light
showed on the ground floor. When he tried to open
the door he found it locked. He rapped. A few min-
utes later the door was opened by Mrs. Stevenage. Mar-
gery collapsed in her arms.
The explanation was soon forthcoming. Apparently
Ravenhill had 'phoned the Station Hotel at West Bill-
ington as soon as Tom and Margery had left. Mrs.
Stevenage had hired the station fly to bring her over
right away.
In a short time she had coffee ready. Lying in a big
chair in the library before the fire which her aunt had
lighted, Margery fell asleep while she was drinking it.
Between them Tom and Mrs. Stevenage got her to her
room. She revived sufficiently to wish Tom good night.
She clung to him as he kissed her, despite her aunt. Then
Mrs. Stevenage pushed him away.
"I'll stay with her," she said.
Tom went down to the library again and made up


308 MURDER FROM BEYOND
the fire. Then he settled himself to await Ravenhill's
return.
As he recalled the evening's events he was convinced
that all had not been told. There was mystery still.
Hammett was certainly the murderer of Mrs. Wharton
and the Rector, but real motive seemed to be lacking.
Also there was Storey Martin. A good deal of mystery
still surrounded him.
And trying to puzzle it out Tom fell into a doze.
He was awakened by a loud ringing. The grey light
of the morning filled the room. The fire was dead. He
rose stiffly to his feet and went to the front door and
opened it. Ravenhill and Inspector Miller and Spring-
field entered.
"Jove! I'm cold," exclaimed Ravenhill going into
the library. "Everything all right?" he asked Tom.
Still heavy with sleep Tom mumbled something and
then, kneeling down, blew at the embers of the fire.
"Lacking fire we'd better have some whisky," com-
mented Ravenhill, pouring out four stiff pegs. He
handed one glass to Tom who looked at it with dis-
taste and refused it. He turned again to his task of
reviving the fire.
Miller took one of the glasses and sipped. Then he
sank wearily into a chair. "Lord! I'm tired," he mur-
mured, closing his eyes.
"Same here," said Ravenhill.
Springfield did not speak. He lay back in his chair
obviously exhausted.
The fire began to glow. Tom fed it carefully with


314 MURDER FROM BEYOND
Wharton when he was a child, who had been mys-
teriously mixed up with her in India and who killed
Vivian Winter out of jealousy. Doesn't it all fit to-
gether?"
Tom wanted to say "no" but things were dropping
into place in his mind and he sensed rather than saw
the logical climax.
"We can't delay the denouement now," grinned Rav-
enhill self-consciously. "The boy who was brought to
see the Whartons before they went to India was Ger-
ald Martin. Mrs. Wharton thought he was her son.
She probably still continued to think so when they met
again in India, but something happened there to disil-
lusion her. Perhaps he made love to her. It sounds
horrible, but he wasn't her son, after all, and so it isn't
really so. Perhaps she learnt the truth from his father.
That seems likely since on the Whartons' return Vivian
Winter appears on the scene. The father was coerced
into producing the right son. We know what happened
to Gerald Martin. He came home, and his infatuation
took him at once to Redlands where he found himself
supplanted, as he thought, by his—half-brother."
"Then Dr. Winter and Storey Martin are the same
man!" exclaimed Springfield, speaking for the first time.
"Obviously. The doctor in him was the brain behind
the muddled Hammett. Mrs. Wharton was murdered
because she was going to confess to her husband who
Vivian Winter was and because Dr. Winter in the name
of Storey Martin had bigamously married his second
wife. Mrs. Wharton was in a state of mind when she
might have divulged the whole sorry tale."



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