William Le Queux - Whatsoever a Man Soweth

“Here it is. But how can we search him without a light? If we strike a match it can be seen by anyone coming up the hill.”

I knelt at his side and ran my hands over the cold corpse. Ah! it was a gruesome moment. My eager fingers unbuttoned his jacket that was wet and clammy with blood, and quickly I put my fingers in his inner pocket. Yes! there were papers there. Quick as thought I thrust them into my own pocket, and then in the darkness searched his clothes thoroughly. In his hip-pocket I felt a small leather wallet or card-case, and in his left-hand trousers pocket was a pen-knife, both of which I secured; while Eric, making another search of his waistcoat, discovered an inner pocket which contained some paper or other, which he handed to me.

To search a dead man in the darkness is not the easiest thing, and even though we had gone through his pockets, yet I was not satisfied.

My friend urged me to creep away and go back to meet Booth, but I hesitated. I wanted a light in order to satisfy myself thoroughly that I had overlooked nothing, and I told him so.

In a moment he threw off his jacket, and covering the prostrate figure with it, said, “Strike a match underneath. This will hide the light.”

I did so, and the fickle flame from the wax vesta fell upon the hard white face, a face that in death bore a wild, desperate look that was truly horrifying.

The pockets were, however, my chief concern, and, striking match after match, I made a methodical examination, finding a screwed-up piece of paper, the receipt for a registered letter. In feeling within his vest my hand touched something hard beneath his shirt.

I felt again. Yes, there was something next his skin. Therefore I carefully opened his saturated shirt, and placing my hand within, drew out something about the size of a penny, a kind of medallion that he wore suspended around his neck by a fine gold chain.

A quick twist broke the latter, and I secured both medallion and chain.

“Make haste!” cried my companion in quick alarm. “Lights are coming up the hill! It’s Richards’s dog-cart with Booth. Let’s fly. We must get back to the road, or they may suspect.”

“A moment!” I cried. “Let me adjust his clothes,” and with eager, nervous fingers I re-buttoned the dead man’s clothing, and carefully rearranged the body as we had found it.

Those moments were exciting ones, for already the trap was coming on at a brisk pace, the lights shining clear along the road, and we yet had two large fields to cross before reaching the point where it was necessary to meet the doctor and constable.

Eric slipped on his coat, and we scrambled through the undergrowth by the way we had come, and then under the shadow of the wall, tore on as quickly as our legs would carry us.

Just, however, as we got out of the turnip field, my companion turned to me, and gasped, —

“Look there – to the left! There’s someone over in that clump of bushes there. By Heaven! old fellow, we’ve been seen!”

“Are you sure?” I cried hoarsely, glancing at the same moment in the direction he had indicated.

“Certain. I saw the figure draw back as we passed. My eyes don’t deceive me in the dark – I’m used to it.”

“Then we’re betrayed!” I said breathlessly.

“Yes. That’s quite certain,” was his hard response. “We’ve been watched – just as I feared.”

To halt would be to reveal our visit to the wood to the village constable, therefore we sprang across a stile, skirted the grass land, keeping beneath the high hawthorn hedge, and emerging into the roadway just as the lights of the gig came around the bend.

“Halloa! doctor!” I shouted, as he approached with the constable at his side, and the groom behind.

“Who’s that?” he inquired, peering into the darkness.

“Hughes – Wilfrid Hughes,” I answered, and a moment later he pulled up, and both Eric and I greeted him.

“We can go across the fields from here,” Booth remarked. Therefore they all three descended, and leaving the groom with the horse, we allowed ourselves to be guided by the constable to the spot where the body was lying.

“I hope, gentlemen, you haven’t been waitin’ long,” said Booth, addressing us, as he lit the hurricane lamp he had brought.

“Not at all,” declared Eric, quite unconcernedly, “but we’re naturally very anxious to ascertain who the poor fellow is.”

“From what Booth says, it seems a clear case of murder,” remarked Richards, the hard-working country practitioner.

“A mystery, evidently,” said Domville. “Has no weapon been found?”

“We haven’t searched yet, sir,” the constable replied. “We’ll have to wait till daylight.”

And so, our way lit by the officer’s lantern, we went on past the dump of bushes where my friend declared that some person was in hiding. Both of us glanced across eagerly, but all was quiet – not a leaf stirred.

Who was concealed there, I wondered? I knew Eric Domville too well to doubt that his practised eye had been deceived.

I longed to go forward and search, but that was entirely out of the question. Some unknown person had witnessed our visit to the body. Our actions had been watched.

Presently, when we reached the spot, and the light shone upon the prostrate man, I was enabled to obtain my first clear sight of him.

The face, white and waxen in death, bore a hard, terrible look in the eyes, an expression that caused me to shudder. It was the look of one who shrank in awe and horror from the great Unknown. His clothes, a suit of rough, cheap dark tweed, the vest of which bore a large dark stain, showed evidence of hard wear, frayed at the elbows and cuffs, his linen was not over clean, and his boots bore traces of long tramping.

His cloth golf-cap had fallen off, and lay near, disclosing that his close-cropped dark hair was somewhat curly, while his face was clean-shaven, and around his collar was a dark blue cravat tied in a bow.

“I wonder who he is?” remarked Booth, as he bent down, and, opening his vest, disclosed the small shot-wound.

“I wonder,” I echoed, at the same time feeling in my pocket the papers and other objects which no doubt would establish his identity. I longed to return to the house and examine them.

“Shot clean through the heart!” exclaimed Richards, kneeling upon the carpet of dead leaves and making as thorough an examination as the fickle light afforded. “He must have fallen and died almost instantly.”

“Could it have been suicide?” inquired Booth.

“I think not. Of course, he might have shot himself, but from the position of the wound I think not. Besides, where is the revolver?”

We looked about, but could not discover it, and at the same time Booth constantly urged upon us not to move about lest we might destroy any footmarks that would lead to a clue.

While Booth was searching the dead man’s pockets of course finding nothing, Eric noticed a light approaching up the road, and pointed it out.

“That’s the gov’nor on ’is bike,” declared the constable. “I left word with my missis to send ’im up ’ere. I’m glad ’e’s come.”

We awaited the arrival of the superintendent, a short, elderly, thick-set man in a dark suit, who spoke sharply to his officer, listened to the doctor’s opinion, and then proceeded to make a methodical examination for himself.

He held the lantern to the dead man’s face, and looked for some moments into his features.

“No. He’s a perfect stranger to me,” the officer declared. “Was there nothing in his pockets?”

“Only some money, sir – a shillin’ or two,” answered the village policeman.

“On tramp, no doubt,” and he examined the palms of both hands, feeling them with his fingers. “Not used to hard work – clean-shaven, too – done it to disguise himself probably. No razor?”