William Le Queux - The Sign of the Stranger

At last the bell clanged, and I stole along the corridor in order to watch the neat maid’s disappearance with the others. She seemed longer than usual, but presently she came, and after she had passed along to the servants’ hall I quickly ascended the main staircase, and sped along the two long corridors to my love’s room – a large, well-furnished apartment with long mirrors and a dressing-table heaped with silver-mounted toilet requisites.

Without a moment’s hesitation I opened the huge wardrobe, and after a brief search discovered a dark tweed tailor-made coat and skirt which I recognised as one she often wore for walking, and these I hurriedly rolled up and together with a pair of buttoned boots carried them off. I noticed that the bed, with its pale blue silken hangings, was fortunately tumbled as though it had been slept in, therefore Weston evidently did not suspect that her young mistress had been absent all night.

Not without risk of detection, I managed to convey the dress and boots down to my own room, where I packed them in a neat parcel and carried them with all speed back to Sibberton.

Mrs Dawson, who was a somewhat decrepit person, had not returned, therefore I carried the parcel up to the attic, and ten minutes later her ladyship came down looking as fresh and neat in her tweed gown as though she had only that moment emerged from her room.

Leaving her cloak and muddy dinner-dress in my charge, she escaped by the back and away down the garden, expressing her intention of returning to the Hall as though she had only been out an hour for a morning walk, as was so frequently her habit. She had thanked me fervently for my assistance, and in doing so uttered a sentence that struck me as remarkably strange, knowing what I did.

“You have saved me, Willoughby. You can save my life, if you will.”

“I will,” was my earnest reply. “You know my secret,” I added, raising her fingers to my hot passionate lips before we parted.

She made no mention of the tragedy, and what, indeed, could I remark?

My journey to London I was compelled to postpone in view of what had occurred. She had not referred to it, and to tell the truth I felt that my presence beside her just then was of greater need. Thus, after awaiting my housekeeper’s return in order to preserve appearances, I ate my breakfast with the air of a man entirely undisturbed.

Just before nine the doctor came in, ruddy and well-shaven, and throwing himself into an armchair exclaimed —

“You didn’t keep your promise! I called and found nobody at home. You were out.”

“I’d gone down the village,” I explained.

“Well, I’ve been up into the park with the police. They’ve sent that blundering fool Redway – worse than useless! We’ve been over the ground, but there’s so many footprints that it’s impossible to distinguish any – save one.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, strangely enough, my dear fellow, it’s a woman’s.”

“A woman’s!” I gasped, for I saw that all my work had been in vain and in my hurry I must have unfortunately overlooked one.

“Yes, it’s the print of a woman’s slipper with a French heel – not the kind of shoe usually worn in Sibberton,” remarked the doctor. “Funny, isn’t it?”

“Very,” I agreed with a sickly feeling. “What do the police think?”

“Redway means to take a plaster cast of it – says it’s an important clue. Got a cigarette?”

I pushed the box before him, with sinking heart, and at the same time invited him to the table to have breakfast, for I had not yet finished.

“Breakfast!” he cried. “Why, I had mine at six, and am almost ready for lunch. I’m an early bird, you know.”

It was true. He had cultivated the habit of early rising by going cub-hunting with the Stanchester hounds, and it was his boast that he never breakfasted later than six either summer or winter.

“Did they find anything else?” I inquired, fearing at the same time to betray any undue curiosity.

“Found a lot of marks of men’s boots, but they might have been ours,” he answered in his bluff way as he lit his cigarette. “My theory is that the mark of the woman’s shoe is a very strong clue. Some woman knows all about it – that’s very certain, and she’s a person who wears thin French shoes, size three.”

“Does Redway say that?”

“No, I say it. Redway’s a fool, you know. Look how he blundered in that robbery in Northampton a year ago. I only wish we could get a man from Scotland Yard. He’d nab the murderer before the day is out.”

At heart I did not endorse this wish. On the contrary the discovery of this footmark that had escaped me was certainly a very serious contretemps . My endeavours must, I saw, now all be directed towards arranging matters so that, if necessary, Lolita could prove a complete alibi .

“Do you know,” went on the doctor, “there’s one feature in the affair that’s strangest of all, and that is that there seems to have been an attempt to efface certain marks, as though the assassin boldly returned to the spot after the removal of the body and scraped the ground in order to wipe out his footprints. Redway won’t admit that, but I’m certain of it – absolutely certain. I suppose the ass won’t accept the theory because it isn’t his own.”

I tried to speak, but what could I say? The words I uttered resolved themselves into a mere expression of blank surprise, and perhaps it was as well, for the man before me was as keen and shrewd as any member of the Criminal Investigation Department. He was essentially a man of action, who whether busy or idle could not remain in one place five minutes together. He rushed all over the country-side from early morning, or dashed up to London by the express, spent the afternoon in Bond Street or the Burlington, and was back at home, a hundred miles distant, in time for dinner. He was perfectly tireless, possessing a demeanour which no amount of offence could ruffle, and an even temper and chaffing good-humour that was a most remarkable characteristic. The very name of Pink in Northamptonshire was synonymous of patient surgical skill combined with a spontaneous gaiety and bluff good-humour.

“I’ve given over that bit of white fur to Red way,” he went on. “And I expect we shall find that the owner of it is also owner of the small shoes. I know most of the girls of Sibberton – in fact, I’ve attended all of them, I expect – but I can’t suggest one who would, or even could, wear such a shoe as that upon the woman who was present at the tragedy, if not the actual assassin.”

“Redway will make inquiries, I suppose?” I remarked in a faint hollow voice.

“At my suggestion he has wired for assistance, and I only hope they’ll get a man down from London. If they don’t – by Gad! I’ll pay for one myself. We must find this woman, Woodhouse,” he added, rising and tossing his cigarette-end into the grate. “We’ll find her – at all costs!”

The doctor’s keen desire to solve the mystery caused me most serious apprehension. His bluff good-humour, at other times amusing, now irritated me, and I was glad when he rose restlessly and went out, saying that he had wired to Doctor Newman at Northampton, and that they intended to make the post-mortem at two o’clock.

Presently, after a rest, which I so sorely needed, I walked along to the Stanchester Arms and had a private consultation with Warr in the little back parlour of the old-fashioned inn. Standing back from the road with its high swinging sign, it was a quaint, picturesque place, long and rambling, with the attic windows peeping forth from beneath the thatch. Half-hidden by climbing roses, clematis and jessamine it was often the admiration of artists, and many times had it been painted or sketched, for it was certainly one of the most picturesque of any of the inns in rural Northamptonshire, and well in keeping with the old-world peace of the Sibberton village itself.