‘I can’t imagine. Whoever did it put the revolver in my drawer, I suppose. Must have been watching us pretty closely.’
‘That seance business was damned funny. “Don’t go home.” Meant for poor old West. He did go home, and got shot.’
‘It applies to me to,’ said Dermot. ‘I went home and found a planted revolver and a police inspector.’
‘Well, I hope it doesn’t get me too,’ said Trent. ‘Here we are.’
He paid the taxi, opened the door with his latch-key, and guided Dermot up the dark stairs to his den, which was a small room on the first floor.
He threw open the door and Dermot walked in, whilst Trent switched on the light, and then came to join him.
‘Pretty safe here for the time being,’ he remarked. ‘Now we can get our heads together and decide what is best to be done.’
‘I’ve made a fool of myself,’ said Dermot suddenly. ‘I ought to have faced it out. I see more clearly now. The whole thing’s a plot. What the devil are you laughing at?’
For Trent was leaning back in his chair, shaking with unrestrained mirth. There was something horrible in the sound – something horrible, too, about the man altogether. There was a curious light in his eyes.
‘A damned clever plot,’ he gasped out. ‘Dermot, my boy, you’re done for.’
He drew the telephone towards him.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Dermot.
‘Ring up Scotland Yard. Tell ’em their bird’s here – safe under lock and key. Yes, I locked the door when I came in and the key’s in my pocket. No good looking at that other door behind me. That leads into Claire’s room, and she always locks it on her side. She’s afraid of me, you know. Been afraid of me a long time. She always knows when I’m thinking about that knife – a long sharp knife. No, you don’t –’
Dermot had been about to make a rush at him, but the other had suddenly produced an ugly-looking revolver.
‘That’s the second of them,’ chuckled Trent. ‘I put the first of them in your drawer – after shooting old West with it – What are you looking at over my head? That door? It’s no use, even if Claire was to open it – and she might to you – I’d shoot you before you got there. Not in the heart – not to kill, just wing you, so that you couldn’t get away. I’m a jolly good shot, you know. I saved your life once. More fool I. No, no, I want you hanged – yes, hanged. It isn’t you I want the knife for. It’s Claire – pretty Claire, so white and soft. Old West knew. That’s what he was here for tonight, to see if I was mad or not. He wanted to shut me up – so that I shouldn’t get Claire with the knife. I was very cunning. I took his latchkey and yours too. I slipped away from the dance as soon as I got there. I saw you come out from his house, and I went in. I shot him and came away at once. Then I went to your place and left the revolver. I was at the Grafton Galleries again almost as soon as you were, and I put the latchkey back in your coat pocket when I was saying good night to you. I don’t mind telling you all this. There’s no one else to hear, and when you’re being hanged I’d like you to know I did it … God, how it makes me laugh! What are you thinking of? What the devil are you looking at?’
‘I’m thinking of some words you quoted just now. You’d have done better, Trent, not to come home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look behind you!’ Trent spun round. In the doorway of the communicating room stood Claire – and Inspector Verall …
Trent was quick. The revolver spoke just once – and found its mark. He fell forward across the table. The inspector sprang to his side, as Dermot stared at Claire in a dream. Thoughts flashed through his brain disjointedly. His uncle – their quarrel – the colossal misunderstanding – the divorce laws of England which would never free Claire from an insane husband – ‘we must all pity her’ – the plot between her and Sir Alington which the cunning of Trent had seen through – her cry to him, ‘Ugly – ugly – ugly!’ Yes, but now –
The inspector straightened up again.
‘Dead,’ he said vexedly.
‘Yes,’ Dermot heard himself saying, ‘he was always a good shot …’
‘The Mystery of the Blue Jar’ was first published in Grand Magazine, July 1924.
Jack Hartington surveyed his topped drive ruefully. Standing by the ball, he looked back to the tee, measuring the distance. His face was eloquent of the disgusted contempt which he felt. With a sigh he drew out his iron, executed two vicious swings with it, annihilating in turn a dandelion and a tuft of grass, and then addressed himself firmly to the ball.
It is hard when you are twenty-four years of age, and your one ambition in life is to reduce your handicap at golf, to be forced to give time and attention to the problem of earning your living. Five and a half days out of the seven saw Jack imprisoned in a kind of mahogany tomb in the city. Saturday afternoon and Sunday were religiously devoted to the real business of life, and in an excess of zeal he had taken rooms at the small hotel near Stourton Heath links, and rose daily at the hour of six a.m. to get in an hour’s practice before catching the 8.46 to town.
The only disadvantage to the plan was that he seemed constitutionally unable to hit anything at that hour in the morning. A foozled iron succeeded a muffed drive. His mashie shots ran merrily along the ground, and four putts seemed to be the minimum on any green.
Jack sighed, grasped his iron firmly and repeated to himself the magic words, ‘Left arm right through, and don’t look up.’
He swung back – and then stopped, petrified, as a shrill cry rent the silence of the summer’s morning.
‘Murder,’ it called. ‘Help! Murder!’
It was a woman’s voice, and it died away at the end into a sort of gurgling sigh.
Jack flung down his club and ran in the direction of the sound. It had come from somewhere quite near at hand. This particular part of the course was quite wild country, and there were few houses about. In fact, there was only one near at hand, a small picturesque cottage, which Jack had often noticed for its air of old world daintiness. It was towards this cottage that he ran. It was hidden from him by a heather-covered slope, but he rounded this and in less than a minute was standing with his hand on the small latched gate.
There was a girl standing in the garden, and for a moment Jack jumped to the natural conclusion that it was she who had uttered the cry for help. But he quickly changed his mind.
She had a little basket in her hand, half full of weeds, and had evidently just straightened herself up from weeding a wide border of pansies. Her eyes, Jack noticed, were just like pansies themselves, velvety and soft and dark, and more violet than blue. She was like a pansy altogether, in her straight purple linen gown.
The girl was looking at Jack with an expression midway between annoyance and surprise.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the young man. ‘But did you cry out just now?’
‘I? No, indeed.’
Her surprise was so genuine that Jack felt confused. Her voice was very soft and pretty with slight foreign inflection.
‘But you must have heard it,’ he exclaimed. ‘It came from somewhere just near here.’
She stared at him.
‘I