A pheasant springing into the air within a yard of me made me jump, and brought my wandering thoughts quickly back to earth. Why had I rambled up here? I could not say. I had walked and climbed in a kind of dream, so deeply was my mind engrossed with thoughts of what had happened and with conjectures as to the future. And now, unconsciously, my attention gradually became centred upon the lake, or rather upon a curious-looking, dark object among the weeds upon its surface, within a stone’s throw of the bank.
I glanced at my watch. It was barely three o’clock. I had nothing at all to do, so decided to make my way down through the undergrowth and find out what this strange object might be.
Yes, I had not been mistaken. The first impression I had formed had been the right one, though I had tried to persuade myself it could not be. I was standing on the bank now, not ten yards from the object, and I could see distinctly what it was. A human body, fully clothed, lay there motionless—a man’s body, face downward, the head almost submerged.
My first thought was to plunge in and swim out to it and try to rescue the drowning man. But an instant’s reflection caused me to refrain. The man, whoever he was, must be dead. He had been there a long time, or the head would not have sunk, nor, indeed, would the body have floated.
I made my way as quickly as I could along the footpath on the bank until I reached the boathouse, a hundred yards away. It was locked. With a big stone I shattered the padlock, and in a minute I was rowing towards the body.
With some difficulty I succeeded in hitching the painter round the feet. Having at last done so, I rowed back to the bank, towing the drowned man.
And there I turned the body over. It must have been in the water many hours, probably all night, I saw at once. And directly I saw the face I recognised it, drawn and disfigured though it was.
The drowned man was Thorold’s butler, James.
What had happened? Had he fallen into the lake while under the influence of drink? Had he committed suicide? Or had he—
Somehow this last reflection startled me. Was it possible there had been foul play?
I had to leave the body there, for I found it impossible to lift it on to the bank without help.
“The great house,” as the tenantry called it, was still locked when I got back there. Silence still reigned everywhere. The driver of my taxi was fast asleep on his seat.
When I prodded him with my stick he sat up with a start, and apologised.
“Get back to Oakham as quickly as you can,” I said to him as I stepped into the car and slammed the door.
He turned his starting handle without result. He lifted the bonnet, and for a long time examined the machinery. Then, removing his coat, he wormed himself underneath the car, lying flat upon his back.
When at last he emerged he was red in the face and perspiring freely.
“Oh, by the way, sir,” he said suddenly, picking up his coat and thrusting his hand into one of its pockets, “I think you dropped this.”
As he stopped speaking he pulled his hand out and held out to me a little silver flask about four inches square.
I took it, and examined it.
“This isn’t mine,” I said. “Where did you find it?”
“Just there, sir,” and he pointed to the ground beside the car.
When I looked at the flask again, I noticed that the tiny shield in the middle was engraved. The engraving was a cipher, which, on scrutinising closely, I made out to be the letters “D.P.” intertwined.
I unscrewed the stopper and smelt the contents. The smell, though peculiar, was not wholly unfamiliar. Still, for the moment I could not classify it.
“Didn’t you drop it, sir?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps I had better take it,” and he held out his hand.
“No, I’ll keep it—you needn’t be anxious,” I said. “I have been staying here, and probably it belongs to somebody in the house, or to somebody who has called.”
I fumbled in my pocket and produced two half-crowns, which at once allayed any conscientious squeamishness afflicting the driver at the thought of handing over his treasure-trove to a stranger.
But where was Vera? Where, indeed, were the Thorolds?
The chauffeur continued to overhaul his engine and its complicated mechanism. While he was thus engaged I poured a little of the fluid out of the flask, which was quite full. The colour was a dark, transparent brown, almost the shade of old brandy. Somehow I could not help thinking that this flask might—
And yet, why should it prove a clue? What reason was there to suppose it had been dropped by the strange visitor on the previous day, the mysterious Smithson?
“Hullo, sir, this is curious!”
My driver was bending over the machinery he had been examining so closely. His hands, which had previously been in the gear-box resembled a nigger’s, only they looked more slimy.
“What is it?” I asked, approaching him.
“The plugs have been tampered with. No wonder she wouldn’t start. Look.”
He was holding out a damaged sparking-plug.
I own a car and, being well acquainted with its intricacies, saw at once that what he said was true. Somebody—presumably while he was wandering about the lawns and back premises—must have lifted the bonnet and injured the plugs. There was no other solution. The car could not have travelled out from Oakham, or travelled at all, had that damage been done before.
We looked at each other, equally puzzled.
“You ain’t been playing me a trick, sir?” he said suddenly, an expression of mistrust coming into his eyes.
“Oh, don’t be a fool!” I answered irritably.
He turned sulky.
“Some one ’as, anyway,” he grunted. “And it’s just a chance I’ve some spare plugs with me.”
He produced his tool-box, rummaged among its contents with his filthy hands, discovered what he wanted, and adjusted them. Then he shut down the bonnet with a vicious bang and set his engine going.
He was about to step on to his seat, when simultaneously a sharp report a good way off and the “zip” of a bullet close to us made us spring away in alarm.
Together, without uttering a word, we gazed up towards the wood on the hill, where the sound of the report had come from.
Another shot rang out. This time the bullet shattered the car headlight.
“Ah! God!” the driver gasped. “Help! I—I—”
Poor fellow. Those were his last words. Almost as he uttered them there came a third report, and the driver, shot through the head, collapsed into a heap beside the car.
And then, what I saw as I turned sharply, sent a shiver through me.
I held my breath. What further mystery was there?
Surely some great evil had fallen upon the house of the Thorolds.
Chapter Three.
The Name of “Smithson.”