Chapter XIV: The Finding of the Body

Scared by the fearful intensity of the storm, all the people flocked away from Longbridge regatta, those who could manage to find room there hurrying in to the single inn the place possessed, while, of those who could not, some invaded the houseboats along the bank, and others, more bold, and in reality more wise, made the best of a bad business and started for home. Among these last were Ralph and Gwendolen. He wrapped her up as well as circumstances allowed, and then, cramming his cap upon his head and seizing his punt pole, began to work for all he was worth. Gwendolen did not speak. She was not a little frightened by the lightning, which appeared to flash backwards and forwards between the earth and sky, and there seemed every chance that the racing punt in which they were would be swamped; not that she could have got much wetter if it were; the rain was thrashing the river and flooding the punt and she was already drenched to the skin, but, at any rate, she was speeding towards shelter and dry clothes.

Behind her Ralph was straining every nerve. His thin cashmere shirt clinging damply to him showed every muscle on his chest and shoulders, and his arms, bare to the elbows, shone with the wet, the sinews standing out like cords. He, too, was nervous on her account, and breathed a prayer of gratitude as after each blinding shaft of lightning he found her still unhurt. With set jaws and stern eyes he used all his skill and strength, taking advantage of his thorough knowledge of the river to find the best course for the punt, and listening with a grim satisfaction to the water slapping underneath his feet.

He must have covered the three miles from Longbridge in record time, and of the crowd of boats that hurried down the stream but few succeeded in outstripping him. As he came to the Manor House he shot the punt dexterously alongside of his houseboat, and, jumping on to it, helped Gwendolen to alight.

"Don't be afraid, dear," he shouted, making himself heard with difficulty against a crashing peal of thunder; "run home and change your things at once."

"And you?" she called back to him.

"I will take the punt into the boathouse and wait there. I have plenty of dry things in the dressing-room. I'll change and come up when the storm is over."

He handed her down the gangway, and stood for a moment watching her as she sped across the lawn. Once at The Grange he knew she would be all right; a fond mother and devoted servants would have prepared a cheerful fire and warm garments for her as soon as they saw the persistency of the rain, and afternoon tea would soon restore her equanimity. Then he got back into the punt and took it round the bend into the creek.

He stepped ashore and, laying the soaked cushions under the shelter of the verandah, tipped up the punt to empty it of the water it had shipped, drew it up into the boat-house, and went into the dressing-room. It was a well-appointed place, with every convenience for men who take their boating seriously. In one corner stood a shower bath, and against it a full-size bath supplied with hot water by a lightning geyser. Divesting himself of his dripping flannels, he lighted the lamp in the geyser and employed the few minutes intervening before it should get warm by rubbing himself down. Then he had a bath, followed by a cold douche, and again rubbed himself with rough towels until he glowed with warmth. From a big press in another corner he took a clean shirt and socks and a spotless suit of flannels, and, finally, feeling splendidly fit and comfortable, turned towards the inner room, meaning to have a cigarette and some spirits, and wait there until the fury of the tempest should abate.

"Suppose Sir Geoffrey was here when the storm broke," he thought, as he saw the open windows, "and thought he would be safer in the house. It was careless of him not to shut the windows; those curtains are simply drenched!"

He closed the window overlooking the creek and turned to cross to those that opened on to the grounds, but as he walked round the table that filled the centre of the room a cry rang from his lips, for prone upon the floor Sir Geoffrey lay, and something in the utter helplessness of the posture of the body told Ralph that he was dead.

"Good God!" he cried, and in an instant dropped on his knees by the side of the still figure, conquering by an immense effort a feeling of positive repugnance against touching death. He felt his uncle's wrist to see if he could detect a pulse, and uttered another exclamation of horror when, on letting go the dead hand, it dropped with a thud upon the floor.

"Uncle Geoffrey!" he called; "Uncle Geoffrey!" but no answer came; there was not a quiver in the lids that bagged over the already glazing eyes.

Perhaps it was his own lack of skill that prevented him from feeling the pulse; there could scarcely be any room for doubt if he felt the heart. Sir Geoffrey was lying on his left side, and Ralph rolled the body on to its back and unfastened the flannel collar. Again the horror of it all shook him, and he turned his head aside as he slipped his hand inside his uncle's shirt. The body was quite warm, and Ralph's pluck was returning with his hope, when his fingers fell upon the little wound and became sticky with blood; in a frenzy of terror he tore open the shirt and forced himself to look. A sob shook his whole frame.

"It is murder! it is murder! Dear God, don't let him be dead!" but the singed flannel, the tiny hole in the centre of a ring of scorched flesh, and the absence of blood in any quantity, told a tale he could not but believe. Yet he must try to recall some glimmer of consciousness before he could leave the old man alone. He poured some brandy into a tumbler, and raising Sir Geoffrey's head put a little into the mouth that lolled open and gave the face an almost idiotic expression; but the brandy merely dribbled out from the corners of the lips, and there was no sign of meaning in the eyes. Not knowing what else to do, Ralph raised Sir Geoffrey's body to lay it on the bamboo couch, but, strong as he was, he only did it with the utmost difficulty, and in making the effort he smeared his sleeves and breast with blood.

"What can I do?" he kept on muttering, and yet, oddly enough, the idea of rushing to the house and sending for the nearest doctor never entered his mind. In a hopeless, incapable way he stared about him, wondering what else he could do to recall the life he yet felt sure had flown, and then, draining the tumbler which he had partly filled, he closed the French windows and went back to his dressing-room. He took off his blood-stained jacket and flung it down by the press, washed the blood from his hands, and found another coat; and then, locking the boat-house door, rushed out into the verandah, and so into the garden, and stumbled to the house.

Going into the library he rang the bell, and strode impatiently up and down until a servant came.

"Where is Martin? I want Martin. Send Martin here at once," he said rapidly to the maid who, to his surprise, appeared in place of the old butler.

She stared at him in astonishment and some dismay, for he was white as death himself, and all his wonted quietness of manner was gone.

"He's only just got back from Longbridge, sir," the maid replied, "and he's in his room changing his clothes; they've all got dripping wet."

"Tell him I want him at once--at once," said Ralph, and, eyeing him curiously, the girl hurried downstairs.

"Mr. Ralph wants you in the library directly minute," she called to Martin through his door. "He's rarely put out about something. Gracious! there's the bell again."

"Say I'll be up in a minute," Martin called back.

"But I daren't go back," the servant said. "I'm sure something terrible's the matter. He looks as white as white, and spoke to me as never was."

Martin would have delivered himself of a kindly admonition to the girl to mend her manner of speech, but yet another peal of the bell convinced him that something was indeed amiss, and giving a tug at his tie to make it assume some semblance of a bow, he hurried out of his bedroom and up the stairs, putting on his coat and waistcoat as he went.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Ralph, for keeping you waiting," he began, but a glance at Ralph's face checked the apologies. "What is the matter, sir? Has there been an accident? Miss Gwendolen----?"

"It's Sir Geoffrey," Ralph replied, hoarsely.

"Not dead?" the butler cried, stepping forward with outstretched hands.

"Yes, dead," answered Ralph. "Murdered, foully murdered in his own home."

Martin reeled against the writing table and stared in horror at Ralph. Ralph, in his turn, gave way, and leaning his arm upon the mantelpiece hid his face and ground his teeth to keep back the tears. So they remained in silence, while the tall clock hammered out the seconds of the time that for its owner had ceased to be.

"Where?" whispered Martin.

Ralph jerked his head in motion to the window.

"In the boathouse," he said.

He seemed incapable of doing anything practical, and Martin rose to the occasion.

"You are sure it is--all over? Quite sure that he is dead?"

"Someone has shot him through the heart," said Ralph, in cold and measured tones.

Martin wiped his eyes.

"Perhaps there is a chance. God grant there may be! Will you run for the doctor, sir, while I go down to him? I'll just tell the housekeeper to get Sir Geoffrey's room in order and have the young servants out of the way, and I'll be at the boathouse with some of the men to carry him home. The poor master!"

Ralph did as he was bid, glad to accept a subordinate place, and Martin, with tears running down his cheeks, hastened to give his instructions to the housekeeper. Then, taking some cushions from the servants' hall, he hurried into the stables to summon help; a couple of long shutters were procured to serve as a litter presently, and in a few minutes the group of awestruck men reached the scene of the tragedy.

It was while they were waiting for Ralph to come with the doctor and bring the key of the boathouse that the necessity of calling in the police occurred to Martin.

"Run up to the police-station," he said to one of the stable boys, "and ask the inspector to come down with you sharp. Whether Sir Geoffrey is dead or not we won't lose any time in putting the police on the scoundrel's track. Go straight up and come straight back, and don't get talking to anybody else. We don't want all the town swarming down here."

The storm was dying. Rain still fell and thunder still rumbled in the distance, but the heavy atmospheric oppression was gone, and bird life was beginning to make itself audible again. In silence the men waited under the verandah for the doctor, from whose advent they still hoped for some relief. Presently he came, grave and with lips compressed, for he knew and loved Sir Geoffrey. Ralph came, too, even more haggard than before, and unlocking the door led the way into the inner room. But although the doctor seemed to the bystanders, in their anxiety, to take a long time over his examination, the first glance had in reality been enough to satisfy his trained eye that Sir Geoffrey was beyond all human aid. As he turned to Ralph and sorrowfully shook his head, the police superintendent walked swiftly and quietly into the room, and looked first at the body and then at the doctor.

"Is it all over, sir?"

"All over," said the doctor very sadly. "If I had been here at the time I could have done nothing. This is a matter for you, inspector."

The inspector looked at the tell-tale mark upon the shirt where the flame had scorched it, and then looked inquiringly at the doctor.

"Yes," said the doctor, understanding the unspoken question; "it is murder."

The inspector turned away.

"Who found the body?"

"I did," Ralph replied.

"Then with your permission I will come up to the house when I have just looked round and locked up the place," the inspector said, and Ralph went out with the doctor. Thus left in command, the inspector's manner changed. He cleared the room of all save Martin Somers, and carefully noted all the little details: the closed windows, the position of the furniture, the empty tumbler on the table. In the dressing-room he saw the water in the basin just stained with blood, and in the corner by the press the blood-stained shirt and jacket which Ralph had just changed, his wet sweater and blazer and soaked flannel trousers hanging upon the side of the big bath where he had left them to dry. Next, the inspector made a careful search all round the boathouse, but the almost tropical rain had obliterated all footsteps, and no clue remained outside. When he at length was satisfied, he summoned the stablemen, and, improvising a litter of the two shutters, lashed together across the boathooks from the canoe, they reverently laid Sir Geoffrey's body on it and bore all that remained of the fine old gentleman back to the beautiful home of which he had been so proud and beloved a master.