The Case of The Pool of Blood in the Pastor\'s Study
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Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner >> The Case of The Pool of Blood in the Pastor\'s Study
"Judging by the loss of blood, death must have come quickly."
"There was no struggle, evidently, for everything in the room was
in perfect order when we entered it."
"There is not even a chair misplaced. His Bible is there on the
desk, he may have been preparing for to-day's sermon."
"Yes, that is the case; because see, here are some notes in his
handwriting."
The Count and Judge von Kormendy spoke these sentences at intervals
as they made their examination of the room. The local magistrate
was able to answer one or two simpler questions, but for the most
part he could only shrug his shoulders in helplessness. Nothing had
been seen or heard that was at all unusual during the night in the
rectory. When the old housekeeper was called up she could say
nothing more than this. Indeed, it was almost impossible for the
old woman to say anything, her voice choked with sobs at every
second word. None of the household force had noticed anything
unusual, or could remember anything at all that would throw light
on this mystery.
"Well, then, sir, we might just as well sit down and wait for the
detective's arrival," said the judge.
"You are waiting for some one besides the doctor?" asked the local
magistrate timidly.
"Yes, His Grace telegraphed to Budapest," answered the district
judge, looking at his watch. "And if the train is on time, the man
we are waiting for ought to be here in an hour. You sent the
carriage to the station, didn't you? Is the driver reliable?"
"Yes, sir, he is a dependable man," said the old housekeeper.
Dr. Orszay entered the room just then and the Count introduced him
to the district judge, who was still a stranger to him.
"I fear, Count, that our eyes will serve but little in discovering
the truth of this mystery," said the doctor.
The nobleman nodded. "I agree with you," he replied. "And I have
sent for sharper eyes than either yours or mine."
The doctor looked his question, and the Count continued: "When the
news came to me I telegraphed to Pest for a police detective,
telling them that the case was peculiar and urgent. I received an
answer as I stopped at the station on my way here. This is it:
'Detective Joseph Muller from Vienna in Budapest by chance. Have
sent him to take your case.'"
"Muller?" exclaimed Dr. Orszay. "Can it be the celebrated Muller,
the most famous detective of the Austrian police? That would indeed
be a blessing."
"I hope and believe that it is," said the Count gravely. "I have
heard of this man and we need such a one here that we may find the
source of these many misfortunes which have overwhelmed our peaceful
village for two years past. It is indeed a stroke of good luck that
has led a man of such gifts into our neighbourhood at a time when
he is so greatly needed. I believe personally that it is the same
person or persons who have been the perpetrators of all these
outrages and I intend once for all to put a stop to it, let it cost
what it may."
"If any one can discover the truth it will be Muller," said the
district judge. "It was I who told the Count how fortunate we were
that this man, who is known to the police throughout Austria and far
beyond the borders of our kingdom, should have chanced to be in
Budapest and free to come to us when we called. You and I"--he
turned with a smile to the local magistrate--"you and I can get
away with the usual cases of local brutality hereabouts. But the
cunning that is at the bottom of these crimes is one too many for
us."
The men had taken their places around the great dining-table. The
old housekeeper had crept out again, her terror making her forget
her usual hospitality. And indeed it would not have occurred to the
guests to ask or even to wish for any refreshment. The maid brought
a lamp, which sent its weak rays scarcely beyond the edges of the
big table. The four men sat in silence for some time.
"I suppose it would be useless to ask who has been coming and going
from the rectory the last few days?" began the Count.
"Oh, yes, indeed, sir," said the district judge with a sigh. "For
if this murderer is the same who committed the other crimes he must
live here in or near the village, and therefore must be known to
all and not likely to excite suspicion."
"I beg your pardon, sir," put in the doctor. "There must be at
least two of them. One man alone could not have carried off the
farm hand who was killed to the swamp where his body was found.
Nor could one man alone have taken away the bloody body of the
pastor. Our venerable friend was a man of size and weight, as
you know, and one man alone could not have dragged his body from
he room without leaving an easily seen trail."
The judge blushed, but he nodded in affirmation to the doctor's
words. This thought had not occurred to him before. In fact, the
judge was more notable for his good will and his love of justice
rather than for his keen intelligence. He was as well aware of
this as was any one else, and he was heartily glad that the Count
had sent to the capital for reinforcements.
Some time more passed in deep silence. Each of the men was occupied
with his own thoughts. A sigh broke the silence now and then, and
a slight movement when one or the other drew out his watch or raised
his head to look at the door. Finally, the sound of a carriage
outside was heard. The men sprang up.
The driver's voice was heard, then steps which ascended the stairs
lowly and lightly, audible only because the stillness was so great.
The door opened and a small, slight, smooth-shaven man with a gentle
face and keen grey eyes stood on the threshold. "I am Joseph
Muller," he said with a low, soft voice.
The four men in the room looked at him in astonishment.
"This simple-looking individual is the man that every one is afraid
of?" thought the Count, as he walked forward and held out his hand
to the stranger.
"I sent for you, Mr. Muller," said the magnate, conscious of his
stately size and appearance, as well as of his importance in the
presence of a personage who so little looked what his great fame
might have led one to expect.
"Then you are Count ---- ?" answered Muller gently. "I was in
Budapest, having just finished a difficult case which took me there.
They told me that a mysterious crime had happened in your
neighbourhood, and sent me here to take charge of it. You will
pardon any ignorance I may show as a stranger to this locality.
I will do my best and it may be possible that I can help you."
The Count introduced the other gentlemen in order and they sat down
again at the table.
"And now what is it you want me for, Count?" asked Muller.
"There was a murder committed in this house," answered the Count.
"When?"
"Last night."
"Who is the victim?"
"Our pastor."
"How was he killed?"
"We do not know."
"You are not a physician, then?" asked Muller, turning to Orszay.
"Yes, I am," answered the latter.
"Well?"
"The body is missing," said Orszay, somewhat sharply.
"Missing?" Muller became greatly interested. "Will you please
lead me to the scene of the crime?" he said, rising from his chair.
The others led him into the next room, the magistrate going ahead
with a lamp. The judge called for more lights and the group stood
around the pool of blood on the floor of the study. Muller's arms
were crossed on his breast as he stood looking down at the hideous
spot. There was no terror in his eyes, as in those of the others,
but only a keen attention and a lively interest.
"Who has been in this room since the discovery?" he asked.
The doctor replied that only the servants of the immediate household,
the notary, the magistrate, and himself, then later the Count and
the district judge entered the room.
"You are quite certain that no one else has been in here?"
"No, no one else."
"Will you kindly send for the three servants?" The magistrate left
the room.
"Who else lives in the house?"
"The sexton and the dairymaid."
"And no one else has left the house to-day or has entered it?"
"No one. The main door has been watched all day by a gendarme."
"Is there but one door out of this room?"
"No, there is a small door beside that bookcase."
"Where does it lead to?"
"It leads to a passageway at the end of which there is a stair down
into the vestry."
Muller gave an exclamation of surprise.
"The vestry as well as the church have neither of them been opened
on the side toward the street."
"The church or the vestry, you mean," corrected Muller. "How many
doors have they on the street side?"
"One each."
"The locks on these doors were in good condition?"
"Yes, they were untouched."
"Was there anything stolen from the church?"
"No, nothing that we could see."
"Was the pastor rich?"
"No, he was almost a poor man, for he gave away all that he had."
"But you were his patron, Count."
"I was his friend. He was the confidential adviser of myself and
family."
"This would mean rich presents now and then, would it not?"
"No, that is not the case. Our venerable pastor would take nothing
for himself. He would accept no presents but gifts of money for
his poor."
"Then you do not believe this to have been a murder for the sake
of robbery?"
"No. There was nothing disturbed in any part of the house, no
drawers or cupboards broken open at all."
Muller smiled. "I have heard it said that your romantic Hungarian
bandits will often be satisfied with the small booty they may find
in the pocket or on the person of their victim."
"You are right, Mr. Muller. But that is only when they can find
nothing else."
"Or perhaps if it is a case of revenge.
"It cannot be revenge in this case!"
"The pastor was greatly loved?"
"He was loved and revered."
"By every one?"
"By every one!" the four men answered at once.
Muller was still a while. His eyes were veiled and his face
thoughtful. Finally he raised his head. "There has been nothing
moved or changed in this room?"
"No--neither here nor anywhere else in the house or the church,"
answered the local magistrate.
"That is good. Now I would like to question the servants."
Muller had already started for the door, then he turned back into
the room and pointing toward the second door he asked: "Is that
door locked?"
"Yes," answered the Count. "I found it locked when I examined it
myself a short time ago."
"It was locked on the inside?"
"Yes, locked on the inside."
"Very well. Then we have nothing more to do here for the time
being. Let us go back into the dining-room."
The men returned to the dining-room, Muller last, for he stopped
to lock the door of the study and put the key in his pocket. Then
he began his examination of the servants.
The old housekeeper, who, as usual, was the first to rise in the
household, had also, as usual, rung the bell to waken the other
servants. Then when Liska came downstairs she had sent her up
to the pastor's room. His bedroom was to the right of the
dining-room. Liska had, as usual, knocked on the door exactly at
seven o'clock and continued knocking for some few minutes without
receiving any answer. Slightly alarmed, the girl had gone back
and told the housekeeper that the pastor did not answer.
Then the old woman asked the coachman to go up and see if anything
was the matter with the reverend gentleman. The man returned in
a few moments, pale and trembling in every limb and apparently
struck dumb by fright. He motioned the women to follow him, and
all three crept up the stairs. The coachman led them first to the
pastor's bed, which was untouched, and then to the pool of blood
in his study. The sight of the latter frightened the servants so
much that they did not notice at first that there was no sign of
the pastor himself, whom they now knew must have been murdered.
When they finally came to themselves sufficiently to take some
action, the man hurried off to call the magistrate, and Liska ran
to the asylum to fetch the old doctor; the pastor's intimate friend.
The aged housekeeper, trembling in fear, crept back to her own room
and sat there waiting the return of the others.
This was the story of the early morning as told by the three
servants, who had already given their report in much the same words
to the Count on his arrival and also to the magistrate. There was
no reason to doubt the words of either the old housekeeper or of
Janos, the coachman, who had served for more than twenty years in
the rectory and whose fidelity was known. The girl Liska was
scarcely eighteen, and her round childish face and big eyes dimmed
with tears, corroborated her story. When they had told Muller all
they knew, the detective sat stroking, his chin, and looking
thoughtfully at the floor. Then he raised his head and said, in a
tone of calm friendliness: "Well, good friends, this will do for
to-night. Now, if you will kindly give me a bite to eat and a
glass of some light wine, I'd be very thankful. I have had no
food since early this morning."
The housekeeper and the maid disappeared, and Janos went to the
stable to harness the Count's trap.
The magnate turned to the detective. "I thank you once more that
you have come to us. I appreciate it greatly that a stranger to
our part of the country, like yourself, should give his time and
strength to this problem of our obscure little village."
"There is nothing else calling me, sir," answered Muller. "And the
Budapest police will explain to headquarters at Vienna if I do not
return at once."
"Do you understand our tongue sufficiently to deal with these people
here?"
"Oh, yes; there will be no difficulty about that. I have hunted
criminals in Hungary before. And a case of this kind does not
usually call for disguises in which any accent would betray one."
"It is a strange profession," said the doctor.
"One gets used to it--like everything else," answered Muller, with
a gentle smile. "And now I have to thank you gentlemen for your
confidence in me."
"Which I know you will justify," said the Count.
Muller shrugged his shoulders: "I haven't felt anything yet--but
it will come--there's something in the air."
The Count smiled at his manner of expressing himself, but all four
of the men had already begun to feel sympathy and respect for this
quiet-mannered little person whose words were so few and whose
voice was so gentle. Something in his grey eyes and in the quiet
determination of his manner made them realise that he had won his
fame honestly. With the enthusiasm of his race the Hungarian Count
pressed the detective's hand in a warm grasp as he said: "I know
that we can trust in you. You will avenge the death of my old
friend and of those others who were killed here. The doctor and
the magistrate will tell you about them to-morrow. We two will go
home now. Telegraph us as soon as anything has happened. Every
one in the village will be ready to help you and of course you can
call on me for funds. Here is something to begin on." With these
words the Count laid a silk purse full of gold pieces on the table.
One more pressure of the hand and he was gone. The other men also
left the room, following the Count's lead in a cordial farewell of
the detective. They also shared the nobleman's feeling that now
indeed, with this man to help them, could the cloud of horror that
had hung over the village for two years, and had culminated in
the present catastrophe, be lifted.
The excitement of the Count's departure had died away and the steps
of the other men on their way to the village had faded in the
distance. There was nothing now to be heard but the rustling of
the leaves and the creaking of the boughs as the trees bent before
the onrush of the wind. Muller stood alone, with folded arms, in
the middle of the large room, letting his sharp eyes wander about
the circle of light thrown by the lamps. He was glad to be alone
--for only when he was alone could his brain do its best work. He
took up one of the lamps and opened the door to the room in which,
as far as could be known, the murder had been committed. He
walked in carefully and, setting the lamp on the desk, examined the
articles lying about on it. There was nothing of importance to be
found there. An open Bible and a sheet of paper with notes for the
day's sermon lay on top of the desk. In the drawers, none of which
were locked, were official papers, books, manuscripts of former
sermons, and a few unimportant personal notes.
The flame of the lamp flickered in the breeze that came from the
open window. But Muller did not close the casement. He wanted to
leave everything just as he had found it until daylight. When he
saw that it was impossible to leave the lamp there he took it up
again and left the room.
"What is the use of being impatient?" he said to himself. "If I
move about in this poor light I will be sure to ruin some possible
clue. For there must be some clue left here. It is impossible for
even the most practiced criminal not to leave some trace of his
presence."
The detective returned to the dining-room, locking the study door
carefully behind him. The maid and the coachman returned, bringing
in an abundant supper, and Muller sat down to do justice to the many
good things on the tray. When the maid returned to take away the
dishes she inquired whether she should put the guest chamber in
order for the detective. He told her not to go to any trouble for
his sake, that he would sleep in the bed in the neighbouring room.
"You going to sleep in there?" said the girl, horrified.
"Yes, my child, and I think I will sleep well to-night. I feel
very tired." Liska carried the things out, shaking her head in
surprise at this thin little man who did not seem to know what it
was to be afraid. Half an hour later the rectory was in darkness.
Before he retired, Muller had made a careful examination of the
pastor's bedroom. Nothing was disturbed anywhere, and it was
evident that the priest had not made any preparations for the
night, but was still at work at his desk in the study when death
overtook him. When he came to this conclusion, the detective went
to bed and soon fell asleep.
In his little hut near the asylum gates, shepherd Janci slept as
sound as usual. But he was dreaming and he spoke in his sleep.
There was no one to hear him, for his faithful Margit was snoring
loudly. Snatches of sentences and broken words came from Janci's
lips: "The hand--the big hand--I see it--at his throat--the
face--the yellow face--it laughs--"
Next morning the children on their way to school crept past the
rectory with wide eyes and open mouths. And the grown people
spoke in lower tones when their work led them past the handsome
old house. It had once been their pride, but now it was a place
of horror to them. The old housekeeper had succumbed to her
fright and was very ill. Liska went about her work silently,
and the farm servants walked more heavily and chattered less than
they had before. The hump-backed sexton, who had not been allowed
to enter the church and therefore had nothing to do, made an early
start for the inn, where he spent most of the day telling what
little he knew to the many who made an excuse to follow him there.
The only calm and undisturbed person in the rectory household was
Muller. He had made a thorough examination of the entire scene of
the murder, but had not found anything at all. Of one thing alone
was he certain: the murderer had come through the hidden passageway
from the church. There were two reasons to believe this, one of
which might possibly not be sufficient, but the other was conclusive.
The heavy armchair before the desk, the chair on which the pastor
was presumably sitting when the murderer entered, was half turned
around, turned in just such a way as it would have been had the man
who was sitting there suddenly sprung up in excitement or surprise.
The chair was pushed back a step from the desk and turned towards
the entrance to the passageway. Those who had been in the room
during the day had reported that they had not touched any one of
the articles of furniture, therefore the position of the chair was
the same that had been given it by the man who had sat in it, by
the murdered pastor himself.
Of course there was always the possibility that some one had moved
the chair without realising it. This clue, therefore, could not be
looked upon as an absolutely certain one had it stood alone. But
there was other evidence far more important. The great pool of
blood was just half-way between the door of the passage and the
armchair. It was here, therefore, that the attack had taken place.
The pastor could not have turned in this direction in the hope of
flight, for there was nothing here to give him shelter, no weapon
that he could grasp, not even a cane. He must have turned in this
direction to meet and greet the invader who had entered his room in
this unusual manner. Turned to meet him as a brave man would, with
no other weapon than the sacredness of his calling and his age.
But this had not been enough to protect the venerable priest. The
murderer must have made his thrust at once and his victim had sunk
down dying on the floor of the room in which he had spent so many
hours of quiet study, in which he had brought comfort and given
advice to so many anxious hearts; for dying he must have been--it
would be impossible for a man to lose so much blood and live.
"The struggle," thought the detective, "but was there a struggle?"
He looked about the room again, but could see nothing that showed
disorder anywhere in its immaculate neatness. No, there could have
been no struggle. It must have been a quick knife thrust and death
at once. "Not a shot?" No, a shot would have been heard by the
night watchman walking the streets near the church. The night was
quiet, the window open. Some one in the village would have heard
the noise of a shot. And it was not likely that the old housekeeper
who slept in the room immediately below, slept the light sleep of
the aged would have failed to have heard the firing of a pistol.
Muller took a chair and sat down directly in front of the pool of
blood, looking at it carefully. Suddenly he bowed his head deeper.
He had caught sight of a fine thread of the red fluid which had
been drawn out for about a foot or two in the direction towards
the door to the dining-room. What did that mean? Did it mean that
the murderer went out through that door, dragging something after
him that made this delicate line? Muller bent down still deeper.
The sun shone brightly on the floor, sending its clear rays
obliquely through the window. The sharp eyes which now covered
every inch of the yellow-painted floor discovered something else.
They discovered that this red thread curved slightly and had a
continuation in a fine scratch in the paint of the floor. Muller
followed up this scratch and it led him over towards the window and
then back again in wide curves, then out again under the desk and
finally, growing weaker and weaker, it came back to the neighbourhood
of the pool of blood, but on the opposite side of it. Muller got
down on his hands and knees to follow up the scratch. He did not
notice the discomfort of his position, his eyes shone in excitement
and a deep flush glowed in his cheeks. Also, he began to whistle
softly.
Joseph Muller, the bloodhound of the Austrian police, had found a
clue, a clue that soon would bring him to the trail he was seeking.
He did not know yet what he could do with his clue. But this much
he knew; sooner or later this scratch in the floor would lead him
to the murderer. The trail might be long and devious; but he would
follow it and at its end would be success. He knew that this scratch
had been made after the murder was committed; this was proved by the
blood that marked its beginning. And it could not have been made by
any of those who entered the room during the day because by that
time the blood had dried. This strange streak in the floor, with
its weird curves and spirals, could have been made only by the
murderer. But how? With what instrument? There was the riddle
which must be solved.
And now Muller, making another careful examination of the floor,
found something else. It was something that might be utterly
unimportant or might be of great value. It was a tiny bit of
hardened lacquer which he found on the floor beside one of the legs
of the desk. It was rounded out, with sharp edges, and coloured
grey with a tiny zigzag of yellow on its surface. Muller lifted it
carefully and looked at it keenly. This tiny bit of lacquer had
evidently been knocked off from some convex object, but it was
impossible to tell at the moment just what sort of an object it
might have been. There are so many different things which are
customarily covered with lacquer. However, further examination
brought him down to a narrower range of subjects. For on the inside
of the lacquer he found a shred of reddish wood fibre. It must have
been a wooden object, therefore, from which the lacquer came, and
the wood had been of reddish tinge.