The Bittermeads Mystery

E >> E. R. Punshon >> The Bittermeads Mystery

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"Did you want to see Mr. Dawson?" she asked, her voice more
confident now and even with a questioning note in it.

"Mr. Dawson! Who's he?" Dunn asked, disconcerted by the question,
but not wishing to seem so.

"My stepfather, Mr. Deede Dawson," she answered. "I think you knew
that. If you want him, he went to London early today, but I think
it's quite likely he may come back tonight."

"What should I want him for?" growled Dunn, more and more,
disconcerted, as he saw that he was not playing his part too well.

"I don't know," she answered. "I suppose you do."

"You suppose a lot," he retorted roughly. "Now you listen to me.
I don't want to hurt you, but I don't mean to be interfered with.
I'm going over the house to see what I can find that's worth
taking. Understand?"

"Oh, perfectly," she said.

She was watching him closely, and she noticed that he still made no
attempt to take possession of her jewellery, though it lay at his
hand, and that puzzled her very much, indeed, for she supposed the
very first thing a burglar did was always to seize such treasures
as these of hers. But this man paid them no attention whatever, and
did not even notice them.

He was feeling in his pockets now and he took out the revolver and
the coil of thin rope he had secured from the burglar.

"Now, do you know what I'm going to do?" he asked, with an air of
roughness and brutality that was a little overdone. He put the
revolver and the rope down on the bed, the revolver quite close to
her.

"I'm going," he continued, "to tie you up to one of those chairs.
I can't risk your playing any tricks or giving an alarm, perhaps,
while I'm searching the house. I shall take what's worth having,
and then I shall clear off, and if your stepfather's coming home
tonight you won't have to wait long till he releases you, and if he
don't come I can't help it."

He turned his back to her as he spoke and took hold of one of the
chairs in the room, and then of another and looked at them as though
carefully considering which would be the best to use for the
carrying out of his threat.

He appeared to find it difficult to decide, for he kept his back
turned to her for two or three minutes, during all of which time the
revolver lay on the bed quite close to her hand.

He listened intently for he fully expected her to snatch it up, and
he wished to be ready to turn before she could actually fire. But,
indeed, nothing was further from her thoughts, for she did not know
in the least how to use the weapon or even how to fire it off, and
the very thought of employing it to kill any one would have terrified
her far more even than had done her experiences of this night.

So the pistol lay untouched by her side, while, very pale and
trembling a little, she waited what he would do, and on his side he
felt as much puzzled by her failure to use the opportunity he had put
in her way as she was puzzled by his neglect to seize her jewellery
lying ready to his hand.

He was still hesitating, still appearing unable to decide which chair
to employ in carrying out his proclaimed purpose of fastening her up
when she asked a question that made him swing round upon her very
quickly and with a very startled look.

"Are you a real burglar?" she said.

CHAPTER VI

A DISCOVERY

"What do you mean?" Dunn asked quickly. The matted growth of hair
on his face served well to hide any change of expression, but his
eyes betrayed him with their look of surprise and discomfiture, and
in her own clear and steady glance appeared now a kind of puzzled
mockery as if she understood well that all he did was done for some
purpose, though what that purpose was still perplexed her.

"I mean," she said slowly, "well--what do I mean? I am only asking
a question. Are you a burglar--or have you come here for some
other reason?"

"I don't know what you're getting at," he grumbled. "Think I'm here
for fun? Not me. Come and sit on this chair and put your hands
behind you and don't make a noise, or scream, or anything, not if
you value your life."

"I don't know that I do very much," she answered with a manner of
extreme bitterness, but more as if speaking to herself than to him.

She did as he ordered, and he proceeded to tie her wrists together
and to fasten them to the back of the chair on which she had seated
herself. He was careful not to draw the cords too tight, but at the
same time he made the fastening secure.

"You won't disturb mother, will you?" she asked quietly when he had
finished. "Her room's the one at the end of the passage."

"I don't want to disturb any one," he answered. "I only want to get
off quietly. I won't gag you, but don't you try to make any noise,
if you do I'll come back. Understand?"

"Oh, perfectly," she answered. "May I ask one question? Do you
feel very proud of yourself just now?"

He did not answer, but went out of the room quickly, and he had an
impression that she smiled as she watched him go, and that her smile
was bitter and a little contemptuous.

"What a girl," he muttered. "She scored every time. I didn't find
out a thing, she didn't do anything I expected or wanted her to.
She seemed as if she spotted me right off--I wonder if she did? I
wonder if she could be trusted?"

But then he thought of that photograph on the mantelpiece and his look
grew stern and hard again. He was careful to avoid the room the girl
had indicated as occupied by her mother, but of all the others on that
floor he made a hasty search without discovering anything to interest
him or anything of the least importance or at all unusual.

From the wide landing in the centre of the house a narrow stairway,
hidden away behind an angle of the wall so that one did not notice it
at first, led above to three large attics with steeply-sloping roofs
and evidently designed more for storage purposes than for habitation.

The doors of two of these were open and within was merely a collection
of such lumber as soon accumulates in any house.

The door of the third attic was locked, but by aid of the jemmy he
still carried, he forced it open without difficulty.

Within was nothing but a square packing-case, standing in the middle
of the floor. Otherwise the light of the electric torch he flashed
around showed only the bare boarding of the floor and the bare
plastered walls.

Near the packing-case a hammer and some nails lay on the floor and
the lid was in position but was not fastened, as though some
interruption had occurred before the task of nailing it down could
be completed.

Dunn noted that one nail had been driven home, and he was on the
point of leaving the attic, for he knew he had not much time and
hoped that downstairs he would be able to make some discoveries of
importance, when it occurred to him that it might be wise to see
what was in this case, the nailing down the lid of which had not
been completed.

He crossed the room to it, and without drawing the one nail, pushed
back the lid which pivoted on it quite easily.

Within appeared a covering of coarse sacking. He pulled this away
with a careless hand, and beneath the beam of his electric torch
showed the pale and dreadful features of a dead man--of a man, the
center of whose forehead showed the small round hole where a bullet
had entered in; of a man whose still-recognizable features were those
of the photograph on the mantel-piece of the room downstairs, the
photograph that was signed:

"Devotedly yours,
Charley Wright."

For a long time Robert Dunn stood, looking down in silence at that
dead face which was hardly more still, more rigid than his own.

He shivered, for he felt very cold. It was as though the coldness
of the death in whose presence he stood had laid its chilly hand on
him also.

At last he stirred and looked about him with a bewildered air, then
carefully and with a reverent hand, he put back the sackcloth covering.

"So I've found you, Charley," he whispered. "Found you at last."

He replaced the lid, leaving everything as it had been when he
entered the attic, and stood for a time, trying to collect his
thoughts which the shock of this dreadful discovery had so
disordered, and to decide what to do next.

"But, then, that's simple," he thought. "I must go straight to the
police and bring them here. They said they wanted proof; they said
I had nothing to go on but bare suspicion. But that's evidence
enough to hang Deede Dawson--the girl, too, perhaps."

Then he wondered whether it could be that she knew nothing and was
innocent of all part or share in this dreadful deed. But how could
that be possible? How could it be that such a crime committed in
the house in which she lived could remain unknown to her?

On the other hand, when he thought of her clear, candid eyes; when
he remembered her gentle beauty, it did not seem conceivable that
behind them could lie hidden the tigerish soul of a murderess.

"That's only sentiment, though," he muttered. "Nothing more.
Beautiful women have been rotten bad through and through before
today. There's nothing for me to do but to go and inform the police,
and get them here as soon as possible. If she's innocent, I suppose
she'll be able to prove it."

He hesitated a moment, as he thought of how he had left her, bound
and a prisoner.

It seemed brutal to leave her like that while he was away, for he
would probably be some time absent. But with a hard look, he told
himself that whatever pain she suffered she must endure it.

His first and sole thought must be to bring to justice the murderers
of his unfortunate friend; and to secure, too, thereby, the success
almost certainly of his own mission.

To release her and leave her at liberty might endanger the attainment
of both those ends, and so she must remain a prisoner.

"Only," he muttered, "if she knew the attic almost over her head
held such a secret, why, didn't she take the chance I gave her of
getting hold of my revolver? That she didn't, looks as if she knew
nothing."

But then he thought again of the photograph in her room and
remembered that agony of grief to which she had been surrendering
herself when he first saw her. Now those passionate tears of hers
seemed to him like remorse.

"I'll leave her where she is," he decided again. "I can't help it;
I mustn't run any risks. My first duty is to get the police here and
have Deede Dawson arrested."

He went down the stairs still deep in thought, and when he reached
the landing below he would not even go to make sure that his captive
was still secure.

An obscure feeling that he did not wish to see her, and still more
that he did not wish her to see him, prevented him.

He descended the second flight of steps to the hall, taking fewer
precautions to avoid making a noise and still very deep in thought.

For some time he had had but little hope that young Charley Wright
still lived.

Nevertheless, the dreadful discovery he had made in the attic above
had affected him profoundly, and left his mind in a chaos of
emotions so that he was for the time much less acutely watchful than
usual.

They had spent their boyhood together, and he remembered a thousand
incidents of their childhood. They had been at school and college
together. And how brilliantly Charley had always done at work and
play, surmounting every difficulty with a laugh, as if it were merely
some new and specially amusing jest!

Every one had thought well of him, every one had believed that his
future career would be brilliant. Now it had ended in this obscure
and dreadful fashion, as ends the life of a trapped rat.

Dunn found himself hardly able to realize that it was really so, and
through all the confused medley of his thoughts there danced and
flickered his memory of a young and lovely face, now tear-stained,
now smiling, now pale with terror, now calmly disdainful.

"Can she have known?" he muttered. "She must have known--she can't
have known--it's not possible either way."

He shuddered and as he put his foot on the lowest stair he raised
his hands to cover his face as though to shut out the visions that
passed before him.

Another step forward he took in the darkness, and all at once there
flashed upon him the light of a strong electric torch, suddenly
switched on.

"Put up your hands," said a voice sharply. "Or you're a dead man."

He looked bewilderedly, taken altogether by surprise, and saw he
was faced by a fat little man with a smooth, chubby, smiling face
and eyes that were cold and grey and deadly, and who held in one
hand a revolver levelled at his heart.

"Put up your hands," this newcomer said again, his voice level and
calm, his eyes intent and deadly. "Put up your hands or I fire."

CHAPTER VII

QUESTION AND ANSWER

Dunn obeyed promptly.

There was that about this little fat, smiling man and his unsmiling
eyes which proclaimed very plainly that he was quite ready to put
his threat into execution.

For a moment or two they stood thus, each regarding the other very
intently. Dunn, his hands in the air, the steady barrel of the
other's pistol levelled at his heart, knew that never in all his
adventurous life had he been in such deadly peril as now, and the
grotesque thought came into his mind to wonder if there were room
for two in that packing-case in the attic.

Or perhaps no attempt would be made to hide his death since, after
all, it is always permissible to shoot an armed burglar.

The clock on the stairs began to strike the hour, and he wondered if
he would still be alive when the last stroke sounded.

He did not much think so for he thought he could read a very deadly
purpose in the other's cold grey eyes, nor did he suppose that a man
with such a secret as that of the attic upstairs to hide was likely
to stand on any scruple.

And he thought that if he still lived when the clock finished striking
he would take it for an omen of good hope.

The last stroke sounded and died away into the silence of the night.

The revolver was still levelled at his heart, the grim purpose in
the other's eyes had not changed, and yet Dunn drew a breath of
deep relief as though the worst of the danger was past.

Through his mind, that had been a little dulled by the sudden
consciousness of so extreme a peril, thought began again to race
with more than normal rapidity and clearness.

It occurred to him, with a sense of the irony of the position, that
when he entered this house it had been with the deliberate intention
of getting himself discovered by the inmates, believing that to show
himself to them in the character of a burglar might gain him their
confidence.

It had seemed to him that so he might come to be accepted as one of
them and perhaps learn in time the secret of their plans.

The danger that they might adopt the other course of handing him
over to the police had not seemed to him very great, for he had his
reasons for believing that there would be no great desire to draw
the attention of the authorities to Bittermeads for any reason
whatever.

But the discovery he had made in the attic changed all that. It
changed his plans, for now he could go to the police immediately.
And it changed also his conception of how these people were likely
to act.

Before, it had not entered his mind to suppose that he ran any
special risk of being shot at sight, but now he understood that the
only thing standing between him and instant death was the faint
doubt in his captor's mind as to how much he knew.

It seemed to him his only hope was to carry out his original plan
and try to pass himself off as the sort of person who might be
likely to be useful to the master of Bittermeads.

"Don't shoot, sir," he said, in a kind of high whine. "I ain't
done no harm, and it's a fair cop--and me not a month out of
Dartmoor Gaol. I shall get a hot 'un for this, I know."

The little fat man did not answer; his eyes were as deadly, the
muzzle of his pistol as steady as before.

Dunn wondered if it were from that pistol had issued the bullet that
had drilled so neat and round a hole in his friend's forehead. He
supposed so.

He said again

"Don't shoot, Mr. Deede Dawson, sir; I ain't done no harm."

"Oh, you know my name, do you, you scoundrel?" Deede Dawson said,
a little surprised.

"Yes, sir," Dunn answered. "We always find out as much as we can
about a crib before we get to work."

"I see," said Mr. Dawson. "Very praiseworthy. Attention to
business and all that. Pray, what did you find out about me?"

"Only as you was to be away tonight, sir," answered Dunn. "And that
there didn't seem to be any other man in the house, and, of course,
how the house lay and the garden, and so. But I didn't know as you
was coming home so soon."

"No, I don't suppose you did," said Deede Dawson.

"I ain't done no harm," Dunn urged, making his voice as whining and
pleading as he could. "I've only just been looking round the two
top floors--I ain't touched a thing. Give a cove a chance, sir."

"You've been looking round, have you?" said Deede Dawson slowly.
"Did you find anything to interest you?"

"I've only been in the bedrooms and the attics," answered Dunn,
changing not a muscle of his countenance and thinking boldness his
safest course, for he knew well the slightest sign or hint of
knowledge that he gave would mean his death. "I'd only just come
downstairs when you copped me, sir; I ain't touched a thing in one
of these rooms down here."

"Haven't you?" said Deede Dawson slowly, and his face was paler,
his eyes more deadly, the muzzle of his pistol yet more inflexibly
steady than before.

More clearly still did Dunn realize that the faintest breath of
suspicion stirring in the other's mind that he knew of what was
hidden in the attic would mean certain death and just such another
neat little hole bored through heart or brain as that he had seen
showing in the forehead of his dead friend.

"Haven't you, though?" Deede Dawson repeated. "The bedrooms--the
attics--that's all?"

"Yes, sir, that's all, take my oath that's all," Dunn repeated
earnestly, as if he wished very much to impress on his captor that
he had searched bedrooms and attics thoroughly, but not these
downstairs rooms.

Deede Dawson was plainly puzzled, and for the first time a little
doubt seemed to show in his hard grey eyes.

Dunn perceived that a need was on him to know for certain whether
his dreadful secret had been discovered or not.

Until he had assured himself on that point Dunn felt comparatively
safe, but he still knew also that to allow the faintest suspicion
to dawn in Deede Dawson's mind would mean for him instant death.

He saw, too, watching very warily and ready to take advantage of
any momentary slip or forgetfulness, how steady was Deede Dawson's
hand, how firm and watchful his eyes.

With many men, with most men indeed, Dunn would have seized or made
some opportunity to dash in and attack, taking the chance of being
shot down first, since there are few indeed really skilled in the
use of a revolver, the most tricky if the most deadly of weapons.

But he realized he had small hope of taking unawares this fat
little smiling man with the unsmiling eyes and steady hand, and he
was well convinced that the first doubtful movement he made would
bring a bullet crashing through his brain.

His only hope was in delay and in diverting suspicion, and Deede
Dawson's voice was very soft and deadly as he said:

"So you've been looking in the bedrooms, have you? What did you
find there?"

"Nothing, sir, not a thing," protested Dunn. "I didn't touch a
thing, I only wanted to look round before coming down here to see
about the silver."

"And the attics?" asked Deede Dawson. "What did you find there?"

"There wasn't no one in them," Dunn answered. "I only wanted to
make sure the young lady was telling the truth about there being
no servants in the house to sleep."

"Did you look in all the attics, then?" asked Deede Dawson.

"Yes," answered Dunn. "'There was one as was locked, but I tooked
the liberty of forcing it just to make sure. I ain't done no harm
to speak of."

"You found one locked, eh?" said Deede Dawson, and his smile grew
still more pleasant and more friendly. "That must have surprised
you a good deal, didn't it?"

"I thought as perhaps there was some one waiting already to give
the alarm," answered Dunn. "I didn't mind the old lady, but I
couldn't risk there being some one hiding there, so I had to look,
but I ain't done no damage to speak of, I could put it right for
you myself in half-an-hour, sir, if you'll let me."

"Could you, indeed?" said Deede Dawson. "Well, and did you find
any one sleeping there?"

But for that hairy disguise upon his cheeks and chin, Dunn would
almost certainly have betrayed himself, so dreadful did the question
seem to him, so poignant the double meaning that it bore, so clear
his memory of his friend he had found there, sleeping indeed.

But there was nothing to show his inner agitation, as he said,
shaking his head

"There wasn't no one there, any more than in the other attics,
nothing but an old packing-case."

"And what?" said Deede Dawson, his voice so soft it was like a
caress, his smile so sweet it was a veritable benediction. "What
was in that packing-case?"

"Didn't look," answered Dunn, and then, with a sudden change of
manner, as though all at once understanding what previously had
puzzled him. "Lum-me," he cried, "is that where you keep the
silver? Lor', and to think I never even troubled to look."

"You never looked?" repeated Deede Dawson.

Dunn shook his head with an air of baffled regret. "Never thought
of it," he said. "I thought it was just lumber like in the other
attics, and I might have got clear away with it if I had known, as
easy as not."

His chagrin was so apparent, his whole manner so innocent, that
Deede Dawson began to believe he really did know nothing.

"Didn't you wonder why the door was locked?" he asked.

"Lor'," answered Dunn, "if you stopped to wonder about everything
you find rummy in a crib you're cracking, when would you ever get
your business done?"

"So you didn't look--in that packing-case?" Deede Dawson repeated.

"If I had," answered Dunn ruefully, "I shouldn't be here, copped
like this. I should have shoved with the stuff and not waited for
nothing more. But I never had no luck."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Deede Dawson grimly, and as he spoke
a soft voice called down from upstairs.

"Is there any one there?" it said. "Oh, please, is any one there?"

"Is that you, Ella?" Deede Dawson called back. "Come down here."

"I can't," she answered. "I'm fastened to a chair."

"I didn't hurt the young lady," Dunn interposed quickly. "I only
tied her up as gentle as I could to a chair so as to stop her from
interfering."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Deede Dawson, and seemed a little
amused, as though the thought of his stepdaughter's plight pleased
him rather than not. "Well, if she can't come down here, we'll go
up there. Turn round, my man, and go up the stairs and keep your
hands over your head all the time. I shan't hesitate to shoot if
you don't, and I never miss."

Dunn was not inclined to value his life at a very high price as he
turned and went awkwardly up the stairs, still holding his hands
above his head.

But he meant to save it if he could, for many things depended on
it, among them due punishment to be exacted for the crime he had
discovered this night; and also, perhaps, for the humiliation he
was now enduring.

CHAPTER VIII

CAPTIVITY CAPTIVE

Up the stairs, across the landing, and down the passage opposite
Dunn went in silence, shepherded by the little man behind whose
pistol was still levelled and still steady.

His hands held high in the air, he pushed open with his knee the
door of the girl's room and entered, and she looked up as he did
so with an expression of pure astonishment at his attitude of
upheld hands that changed to one of comprehension and of faint
amusement as Deede Dawson followed, revolver in hand.

"Oh," she murmured. "Captivity captive, it seems."

At the fireplace Dunn turned and found her looking at him very
intently, while from the doorway Deede Dawson surveyed them both,
for once his eyes appearing to share in the smile that played about
his lips as though he found much satisfaction in what he saw.

"Well, Ella," he said. "You've been having adventures, it seems,
but you don't look too comfortable like that."

"Nor do I feel it," she retorted. "So please set me free."

"Yes, so I will," he answered, but he still hesitated, and Dunn had
the idea that he was pleased to see the girl like this, and would
leave her so if he could, and that he was wondering now if he could
turn her predicament to his own advantage in any way.

"Yes, I will," he said again. "Your mother--?"

"She hasn't wakened," Ella answered. "I don't think she has heard
anything. I don't suppose she will, for she took two of those pills
last night that Dr. Rawson gave her for when she couldn't sleep."

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