The Last Stroke: A Detective Story
"How strange!" she whispered. "She turns from me as if – and yet I had to tell her! Ugh! I cannot stay here alone. I shall break down, too, and I must not. I must not. Here, and alone!"
A moment she stood irresolute, then walking slowly she went out of the school-room, down the stone steps, and through the gate, townward, slowly at first, and then her pace increasing, and a look of apprehension growing in her eyes.
"Oh," she murmured as she hurried on, "what a horrible morning!" And then she started hysterically as the shriek of the incoming fast mail train struck her ears. "Oh, how nervous this has made me," she murmured, and drew a sigh of relief as she paused unsteadily at the door of her hotel.
For fully fifteen minutes after Hilda Grant had reached the empty solitude of her own school-room she stood crouched against the near wall, her hands clenched and hanging straight at her side, her eyes fixed on space. Then, with eyes still tearless, but with dry sobs breaking from her throat, she tottered to her seat before the desk, and let her face fall forward upon her arms, moaning from time to time like some hurt animal, and so heedless of all about her that she did not hear a light step in the hall without, nor the approach of the man who paused in the doorway to gaze at her in troubled surprise.
He was a tall and slender young fellow, with a handsome face, an eye clear, frank, and keen, and a mouth which, but for the moustache which shadowed it, might have been pronounced too strong for beauty.
A moment he stood looking with growing pity upon the grieving woman, and then he turned and silently tip-toed across the room and to the outer door. Standing there he seemed to ponder, and then, softly stepping back to the vacant platform, he seated himself in the teacher's chair and idly opened the first of the volumes scattered over the desk, smiling as he read the name, Charles Brierly, written across the fly-leaf.
"Poor old Charley," he said to himself, as he closed the book. "I wonder how he enjoys his pedagogic venture, the absurd fellow," and then by some strange instinct he lifted his eyes to the clock on the opposite wall, and the strangeness of the situation seemed to strike him with sudden force and brought him to his feet.
What did it mean! This silent school-room! These empty desks and scattered books! Where were the pupils? the teacher? And why was that brown-tressed head with its hidden face bowed down in that other room, in an agony of sorrow?
Half a dozen quick strides brought him again to the door of communication, and this time his strong, firm footsteps were heard, and the bowed head lifted itself wearily, and the eyes of the two met, each questioning the other.
"I beg your pardon," spoke a rich, strong voice. "May I ask where I shall find Mr. Brierly?"
Slowly, as if fascinated, the girl came toward him, a look almost of terror in her face.
"Who are you?" she faltered.
"I am Robert Brierly. I had hoped to find my brother here at his post. Will you tell me – "
But the sudden cry from her lips checked him, and the pent-up tears burst forth as Hilda Grant, her heart wrung with pity, flung herself down upon the low platform, and sitting there with her face bent upon her sleeves, sobbed out her own sorrow in her heartbreak of sympathy for the grief that must soon overwhelm him and strike the happy light from his face.
Sobs choked her utterance, and the young man stood near her, uncertain, anxious, and troubled, until from the direction of the town the sound of flying wheels smote their ears, and Hilda sprang to her feet with a sharp cry.
"I must tell you; you must bear it as well as I. Hark! they are going to him; you must go too!" She turned toward the window, swayed heavily, and was caught in his arms.
It was a brief swoon, but when she opened her eyes and looked about her, the sound of the flying wheels was dying away in the distance, southward.
He had found the pail of pure spring water, and applied some of it to her hands and temples with the quickness and ease of a woman, and he now held a glass to her lips.
She drank feverishly, put a hand before her eyes, raised herself with an effort, and seemed to struggle mutely for self-control. Then she turned toward him.
"I am Hilda Grant," she said, brokenly.
"My brother's friend! My sister that is to be!"
"No, no; not now. Something has happened. You should have gone with those men – with the doctor. They are going to bring him back."
"Miss Grant, sister!" His hands had closed firmly upon her wrists, and his voice was firm. "You must tell me the worst, quick. Don't seek to spare me; think of him! What is it?"
"He – he went from home early, with his pistol, they say, to shoot at a target. He is dead!"
"Dead! Charley dead! Quick! Where is he? I must see, I must. Oh! there must be some horrible mistake."
He sprang toward the door, but she was before him.
"Go this way. Here is his wheel. Take it. Go south – the lake shore – the Indian Mound."
A moment later a young man with pallid face, set mouth and tragic eyes was flying toward the Indian Mound upon a swift wheel, and in the school-room, prone upon the floor, a girl lay in a death-like swoon.
CHAPTER III
NEMESIS
"Mr. Brierly, are you strong enough to bear a second shock? I must confer with you before – before we remove the body."
It was Doctor Barnes who thus addressed Robert Brierly, who, after the first sight of the outstretched figure upon the lake shore, and the first shock of horror and anguish, had turned away from the group hovering about the doctor, as he knelt beside the dead, to face his grief alone.
Doctor Barnes, besides being a skilled physician, possessed three other qualities necessary to a successful career in medicine – he was prompt to act, practical and humane.
Robert Brierly was leaning against a tall tree, his back toward that group by the water's edge, and his face pressed against the tree's rugged trunk. He lifted his head as the doctor spoke, and turned a white, set face toward him. The look in his dark eyes was assurance sufficient that he was ready to listen and still able to manfully endure another blow.
The two men moved a few steps away, and then the doctor said:
"I must be brief. You know, do you not, the theory, that of these men, as to the cause of this calamity?"
"It was an accident, of course."
"They make it that, or suicide."
"Never! Impossible! My brother was a God-fearing man, a happy man."
"Still, there is a bullet-hole just where self-inflicted wounds are oftenest made."
Brierly groaned aloud. "Still," he persisted, "I will never believe it."
"You need not." Doctor Barnes sank his voice to a yet lower pitch. "Mr. Brierly, there is a second bullet-wound in the back!"
"The back! And that means – "
"It means murder, without a doubt. No huntsman could so mistake his mark in this open woodland, along the lake. Besides, hunting is not allowed so near the village. Wait," as the young man was about to speak, "we have no time to discuss motives now, or the possible assassin. What I wish to know is, do you want this fact known now – at once?"
"I – I fear I don't understand. Would you have my brother's name – "
"Stop, man! Knowing that these men have already jumped at a theory, the thought occurred to me that the work of the officers might be made easier if we let the theory of accident stand."
He broke off, looking keenly at the other. He was a good judge of faces, and in that of Robert Brierly he had not been deceived.
The young man's form grew suddenly erect and tense, his eye keen and resolute.
"You are right!" he said, with sudden energy, as he caught at the other's hand. "They must not be enlightened yet."
"Then, the sooner we are back where we can guard this secret, the safer it will be. Come. This is hard for you, Mr. Brierly, I know, and I could say much. But words, no matter how sincerely sympathetic, cannot lighten such a blow as this. I admire your strength, your fortitude, under such a shock. Will you let me add that any service I can render as physician, as man, or as friend, is yours for the asking?"
The doctor hesitated a moment, then held out his hand, and the four watchers beside the body exchanged quick glances of surprise upon seeing the two men grasp hands, silently and with solemn faces, and then turn, still silently, back to the place where the body lay.
"Don't touch that pistol, Doran," the doctor spoke, in his capacity of coroner.
"Certainly not, Doc. I wanted to feel, if I could, whether those side chambers had been discharged or not. You see," he added, rising to his feet, "when we saw this, we knew what we had to do, and it has been 'hands off.' We've only used our eyes so far forth."
"And that I wish to do now with more calmness," said Robert Brierly, coming close to the body and kneeling beside it.
It lay less than six feet from the very water's edge, the body of a tall, slender young man, with a delicate, high-bred face that had been fair when living, and was now marble-white, save for the blood-stains upon the right temple, where the bullet had entered. The hair, of that soft blonde colour, seen oftenest upon the heads of children, and rarely upon adults, was thick and fine, and long enough to frame the handsome face in close half rings that no barber's skill could ever subdue or make straight. The hands were long, slender, and soft as a woman's; the feet small and arched, and the form beneath the loose outlines of the blue flannel fatigue suit in which it was clad, while slender and full of grace, was well built and not lacking in muscle.
It lay as it had fallen, upon its side, and with one arm thrown out and one limb, the left, drawn up. Not far from the outstretched right arm and hand lay the pistol, a six-shooter, which the brother at once recognised, with two of the six chambers empty, a fact which Mr. Doran had just discovered, and was now holding in reserve.
The doctor, upon his discovery of the second bullet-wound, had at once flung his own handkerchief over the prostrate head, and called for the carriage robe from his own phaeton, which, fortunately for the wind and legs of the black pony, had stood ready at his office door, and was now in waiting, the horse tethered to a tree at the edge of the wood not far away.
This lap robe Robert Brierly reverently drew away as he knelt beside the still form, and thus, for some moments remained, turning his gaze from right to left, from the great tree which grew close at the motionless feet, and between the group and the water's edge, its branches spreading out above them and forming a canopy over the body to a dead stump some distance away, where a small target leaned, its rings of white and black and red showing how often a steady hand had sent the ball, close and closer, until the bull's eye was pierced at last.
No word was uttered as he knelt there, and before he arose he placed a hand upon the dead man's shoulder with an impulsive caressing motion, and bending down, kissed the cold temple just above the crimson death-mark. Then, slowly, reverently, he drew the covering once more over the body and arose.
"That was a vow," he said to the doctor, who stood close beside him. "Where is – ah!" He turned toward the group of men who, when he knelt, had withdrawn to a respectful distance.
"Which of you suggested that he had fallen – tripped?"
Doran came forward and silently pointed to the foot of the tree, where, trailing across the grass, and past the dead man's feet, was a tendril of wild ivy entangled and broken.
"Oh!" exclaimed Brierly. "You saw that too?"
"It was the first thing I did see," said the other, coming to his side, "when I looked about me. It's a very clear case, Mr. Brierly. Target-shooting has been quite a pastime here lately. And see! There couldn't be a better place to stand and shoot at that target, than right against that tree, braced against it. It's the right distance and all. He must have stood there, and when he hit the bull's eye, he made a quick forward step, caught his foot in that vine and tripped. A man will naturally throw out his arm in falling so, especially the right one, and in doing that, somehow as he lunged forward it happened."
"Yes," murmured Brierly, "it is a very simple theory. It – it might have happened so."
"There wasn't any other way it could happen," muttered one of Doran's companions. And at that moment the wheels of an approaching vehicle were heard, and all turned to look toward the long black hearse, divested of its plumes, and with two or three thick blankets upon its velvet floor.
It was the doctor who superintended the lifting of the body, keeping the head covered, and when the hearse drove slowly away with its pathetic burden, he turned to Doran.
"I'll drive Mr. Brierly back to town, Doran," he said, "if you don't mind taking his wheel in charge;" and scarcely waiting for Doran's willing assent, he took Richard Brierly's arm and led him toward his phaeton.
The young man had picked up his brother's hat, as they lifted the body from the ground, and he now carried it in his hand, laying it gently upon his knees as he took his seat.
When the doctor had taken his place and picked up the reins he leaned out and looked about him. Two or three horsemen were riding into the wood toward them, and a carriage had halted at the side of the road, while a group of schoolboys, headed by Johnny, the bell ringer, were hurrying down the slope toward the water's edge.
"They're beginning to gather," the physician said, grimly. "Well, it's human nature, and your brother had a host of friends, Mr. Brierly."
Robert Brierly set his lips and averted his face for a moment.
"Doran," called the doctor. "Come here, will you."
Doran, who had begun to push the shining wheel up the slope, placed it carefully against a tree and came toward them, the doctor meanwhile turning to Brierly.
"Mr. Brierly, you are a stranger here. Will you let me arrange for you?"
The other nodded, and then said huskily: "But it hurts to take him to an undertaker's!"
"He shall not be taken there," and the doctor turned to Doran, now standing at the wheel.
"Mr. Doran, will you take my keys and ride ahead as fast as possible? Tell the undertaker, as you pass, to drive to my house. Then go on and open it. We will put the body in the private office. Do not remonstrate, Mr. Brierly. It is only what I would wish another to do for me and mine in a like affliction." And this was the rule by which this man lived his life, and because of which death had no terrors.
"I am a bachelor, you must know," the doctor said, as they drove slowly in the wake of the hearse. "And I have made my home and established my office in a cosy cottage near the village proper. It will save you the ordeal of strange eyes, and many questions, perhaps, if you will be my guest for a day or two, at least."
Robert Brierly turned and looked this friend in need full in the face for a moment; then he lifted his hand to brush a sudden moisture from his eye.
"I accept all your kindness," he said, huskily, "for I see that you are as sincere as you are kind."
When the body of Charles Brierly had been carried in and placed as it must remain until the inquest was at an end, and when the crowd of sorrowing, anxious and curious people had dispersed, the doctor, who was masterful at need, making Doran his lieutenant, arranged for the securing of a jury; and, after giving some quiet instructions, sent him away, saying:
"Tell the people it is not yet determined how or when we shall hold the inquiry. Miss Grant, who must be a witness, will hardly be able to appear at once, I fear," for, after looking to his guest's bodily comfort, the doctor had left him to be alone with his grief for a little while, and had paid a flying visit to Hilda Grant, who lived nearly three blocks away.
When at length the little house was quiet, and when the doctor and his heavy-hearted companion had made a pretence of partaking of luncheon, the former, having shut and locked the door upon the elderly African who served him, drew his chair close to that of his guest, and said:
"Are you willing to take counsel with me, Mr. Brierly? And are you quite fit and ready to talk about what is most important?"
"I am most anxious for your advice, and for information."
"Then, let us lose no time; there is much to be done."
"Doctor," Robert Brierly bent toward the other and placed a hand upon his knee. "There are emergencies which bring men together and reveal them, each to each, in a flash, as it were. I cannot feel that you know me really; but I know you, and would trust you with my dearest possession, or my most dangerous secret. You will be frank with me, I know, if you speak at all; and I want you to tell me something."
"What is it?"
"You have told me how, in your opinion, my poor brother really met his death. Will you put yourself in my place, and tell me how you would act in this horrible emergency? What is the first thing you would do?"
The doctor's answer came after a moment's grave thought.
"I am, I think, a Christian," he said, gravely, "but I think – bah! I know that I would make my life's work to find out the truth about that murder, for that it was a murder, I solemnly believe."
CHAPTER IV
FERRARS
Robert Brierly caught his breath.
"And your reason?" he gasped, "for you have a reason other than the mere fact of the bullet-wound in the neck."
"I have seen just such deeds in the wild west and I know how they are done. But this is also professional knowledge. Besides, man, call reason to your aid! Oh, I expect too much. The hurt is too fresh, you can only feel now, but the man shot by accident, be it by his own hand or that of another, is not shot twice."
"Good heavens, no!"
"But when one who creeps upon his victim unawares, shoots him from behind, and, as he falls, fearing the work is not completed, shoots again, the victim, as you must see, receives the wound further to the front as the body falls forward and partially turns in falling. Do you see? Do you comprehend?"
"Yes." Brierly shuddered.
"Brierly, this talk is hurting you cruelly. Let us drop details, or postpone them."
"Not the essential ones. I must bear what I must. Go on, doctor. I quite agree with you. It looks like a murder, and we must – I must know the truth – must find the one who did the deed. Doctor, advise me."
"About – "
"How to begin, no time should be lost."
"That means a good detective, as soon as possible. Do you chance to know any of these gentry?"
"I – No, indeed! I suppose a telegram to the chief of police – "
"Allow me," broke in Doctor Barnes. "May I make a suggestion?"
"Anything. I seem unable to think."
"And no wonder! I know the right man for you if he is in Chicago. You see, I was in hospital practice for several years, and have also had my share of prison experience. While thus employed I met a man named Ferrars, an Englishman, who for some years has spent the greater part of his time in this country, in Chicago, in fact. There's a mystery and a romance attached to the man, or his history. He's not connected with any of the city offices, but he is one of three retired detectives – retired, that is, from regular work – who work together at need when they feel a case to be worth their efforts. I think a case like this will be certain to attract Ferrars."
"And he is your choice of the three?"
The doctor smiled. "The others are married," he said, "and not so ready to go far afield as is Ferrars."
"You think him skilful?"
"None better."
"Then, do you know his address?"
Brierly got up and began to walk about, his eyes beginning to glow with the excitement so long suppressed. "Because we can't get him here too soon."
"I agree with you. And now one thing more. To give him every advantage he should not be known, and the inquest should not begin until he is here."
"Can that be managed?"
"I think so."
Brierly was now nervously eager. He seemed to have shaken off the stupor which at first had seemed to seize upon and hold him, and his questions and suggestions came thick and fast. It ended, of course, in his putting himself into the doctor's hands, and accepting his plans and suggestions entirely. And very soon, Dr. Barnes, having given his factotum distinct instructions as regarded visitors, and inquiries, had set off, his medicine case carried ostentatiously in his hand, not for the telegraph office, but for the cottage, close by, where Hilda Grant found a home.
It was a small, neatly-kept cottage, and Mrs. Marcy, a gentle, kindly widow, and the young teacher were its only occupants.
The widow met him at the door, her face anxious, her voice the merest whisper.
"Doctor, tell me; do you think she will really be ill?"
"Why no, Mrs. Marcy; at least not for long. It has been a shock, of course; a great shock. But she – "
"Ah, doctor, she is heart-broken. I – I think I surely may tell you. It will help you to understand. They were engaged, and for a little while, such a pitiful little while it seems now, they have been so happy."
The doctor was silent a moment, his eyes turned away.
"And now," went on the good woman, "she will be lonelier than ever. You know she was very lonely here at first. She has no relatives nearer than a cousin anywhere in the world, to her knowledge. And he has never been to see her. He lives in Chicago, too, not so far away."
"Yes, surely he ought to visit her now, really. Just ask her if I may come up, Mrs. Marcy. I – I'm glad you told me of this. Thank you. It will help me."
Ten minutes later Doctor Barnes was hastening toward the telegraph office, where he sent away this singular and wordy message:
"Frank Ferrars, No. … Street, Chicago —
"Your cousin, Miss Hilda Grant, is ill, and in trouble. It is a case in which you are needed as much as I. Come, if possible, by first evening train.
"Walter Barnes.""That will fetch him," he mused, as he hastened homeward. "Ferrars never breaks a promise, though I little expected to have to remind him of it within the year."
"Well," began Brierly, when he entered his own door. "Have you seen her? Was she willing?"
"Willing and anxious. She is a brave and sensible little woman. She will do her part, and she has never for one moment believed in the theory of an accident."
"And she will receive me?"
"This evening. She insists that we hold our council there, in her presence. At first I objected, on account of her weakness, but she is right in her belief that we should be most secure there, and Ferrars should not be seen abroad to-night. We will have to take Mrs. Marcy into our confidence, in part at least, but she can be trusted. We will all be observed, more or less, for a few days. But, of course, I shall put Ferrars up for the night. That will be the thing to do after he has spent a short evening with his cousin."
Brierly once more began his restless pacing to and fro, turning presently to compare his watch with the doctor's Dutch clock.
"It will be the longest three hours I ever passed," he said, and a great sigh broke from his lips.
But, before the first hour had passed, a boy from the telegraph office handed in a blue envelope, and the doctor hastily broke the seal and read —
"Be with you at 6.20.
"Ferrars."When the first suburban train for the evening halted, puffing, at the village station, Doctor Barnes waiting upon the platform, saw a man of medium height and square English build step down from the smoking car and look indifferently about him.
There was the usual throng of gaping and curious villagers, and some of them heard the stranger say, as he advanced toward the doctor, who waited with his small medicine case in his hand —
"Pardon me; is this doctor – doctor Barnes?" And when the doctor nodded he asked quickly, "How is she?"
"Still unnerved and weak. We have had a terrible shock, for all of us."
When the two men had left the crowd of curious loungers behind them the doctor said —
"It is awfully good of you, Ferrars, to come so promptly at my call. Of course, I could not explain over the wires. But, you understand."
"I understand that you needed me, and as I'm good for very little, save in one capacity, I, of course, supposed there was a case for me. The evening paper, however, gave me – or so I fancy – a hint of the business. Is it the young schoolmaster?"