Chapter IX: The Tragedy at Bukit-Serang

As they rode up the slope towards Moberly’s bungalow a short dark man came down the steps to meet them.

“Hello, Armourer! Glad you’ve rolled up. Rotten business, isn’t it?”

Armourer had caught sight of the huddled form in the chair.

“I’m frightfully sorry. Poor old Dick! Has the doctor been?”

Trevor shook his head.

“I sent for him right away, but the messenger came back with the information that he had run over to Kudat and was not expected back before Tuesday. The estate apothecary has had a look at him. He says it’s poison right enough. I’ve collared his cook-boy--he’s down in the watchman’s quarters now. He’s been with Moberly a long time, and I don’t suppose he had anything to do with it; but Vance thought it better to be on the safe side.”

“Good! You haven’t moved anything?”

“No. Everything’s just as I found it.”

They mounted the steps.

It was some moments before Armourer approached the dead planter. He stood with his hands in his pockets and an unpleasant, choking sensation in his throat. Three fit, live men gazing at a fourth who had passed out so quickly that it shocked them! Moberly had been so active, so intensely masculine, that this sudden snapping of the thread had knocked them completely off their balance.

Vance was the first to break the silence.

“There’s that mark I told you about,” he said huskily.

The magistrate went forward.

Controlling his nerves with an effort, he took the dead man’s shoulders and pushed him gently from his huddled position until he lay outstretched. Right across his left cheek, from the fringe of his hair to the base of the jawbone, extended a vivid crimson rash where the skin had come up in lumps, as if stung by a nettle.

There was a letter between the fingers of the right hand, and from the diminutive parcel on the table dangled the Butterfly pendant, suspended from its chain of gold filigree.

Armourer started.

It was an unusual type of chain, peculiarly wrought, and it dawned upon him that he had seen one exactly like it quite recently. Mrs. Battiscombe! It came upon him in a flash. He remembered now that when she had ignited her cigarette from the end of his cigar he had noticed that she wore a chain--and that he had seen it again when they were dancing. The letter poor Moberly held was from her. She had been wearing the pendant when he left Battiscombe’s house--and here it was on the planter’s table. There must have been an unholy row at Rembakut during the past dozen hours or so. Battiscombe must have suspected Moberly or---- He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. The only man who had any cause to quarrel with Moberly was James Battiscombe. It was all very perplexing.

He turned to Vance.

“Anybody called here this morning?”

“No.”

“You’re quite certain about this? How, for example, did this packet get here?”

“A black soldier brought it to the kitchen-quarters just before lunch. I particularly asked the _boy_ about that.”

“Moberly was out all the morning,” added Trevor. “I met him over on the far side at about eleven. He seemed unusually fit then.”

Armourer glanced at the packet again and a sudden thought struck him. He withdrew the remaining few links of the chain and dangled the pendant in front of Moberly’s left cheek.

He looked back at the others.

“Anything strike you?” he asked.

Vance started.

“Yes, by Gad! It’s practically the same thing in miniature.”

Trevor bent forward excitedly.

“A most extraordinary coincidence. It was the first thing I noticed--the mark on the chief’s face and that weird ornament hanging there. I had intended mentioning it to Vance, but in the excitement of the moment I forgot. You don’t attach any importance to it, do you?”

The magistrate found an old envelope and tucked the ornament into it.

“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted, “but I’m going to take charge of this until I’m satisfied it has no bearing on the cause of Dick’s sudden death. It’s a confounded nuisance the doctor’s away.”

“How about that black fellow?” suggested Vance.

Armourer rubbed his chin.

“Abu-Samar? Is he any good?”

Trevor smiled.

“He says he is. After all, it’s hardly a doctor we want--except as a matter of form. We know the chief’s dead and any fool can see he’s been poisoned. I’m open to bet anybody that old Macnally when he comes won’t be able to tell us if the poison was vegetable, animal, or mineral.”

The magistrate snapped his fingers.

“Lord! I must be daft! Here, Trevor, send somebody over to my place at once and ask Professor Standen to come across. You can get your black fellow too, if you like.”

Trevor shot down the steps and called to a tall Sikh who was coming up the slope.

“Gholam-Singh! Come here. I want you.”

Armourer gripped Vance’s arm.

The sound of the watchman’s name brought him back to the professor’s story of a chase after a red butterfly.

“Vance, did you ever notice a large crimson butterfly anywhere around here?”

The other shook his head.

“Never,” he answered firmly.

“Nor did I, and yet Professor Standen--who happens to be my guest at the moment--saw one here to-day and tried to catch it. He followed it almost to this house. If he hadn’t been afraid of butting in on Dick’s lunch-hour, he’d have called. What an extraordinary thing life is! A less scrupulous man would have altered the entire aspect of the case. Standen could have told us perhaps just how Moberly died; he might even have prevented a catastrophe.”

“But,” protested Vance, sitting down heavily, “nobody’s ever heard of a poisonous butterfly. Supposing there were such a thing in existence, it’s difficult to imagine it would leave a mark like that.”

Armourer nodded gravely.

“I know that,” he said; “but we can’t get away from facts. Moberly was poisoned. He has a rash on his face shaped like a butterfly--and Standen saw a strange insect fluttering in this neighbourhood just about the time the ghastly tragedy occurred.”

“And then there’s the brooch,” Vance reminded him. “Have you read Mrs. Battiscombe’s note?”

The magistrate shook his head.

He possessed himself of the paper and scanned it hastily.

“Jim has come to his senses at last… we must put an end to everything.… Keep everything you find here.… Some day I hope to… explain. An awful scene last night; it made me dream.… Rotten, isn’t it?”

Their eyes met.

“It beats me,” said Vance. “Er--Armourer!”

“Well?”

“I don’t know exactly how you’re inclined to regard this business, but I think we can safely leave Jimmie Battiscombe out of it. It’s unfortunate there should have been a row between Mrs. Battiscombe and himself over the chief, but, knowing Jimmie as we do, we can hardly look upon him as a man likely to indulge in homicide--however justifiable. Trevor hit the right nail on the head when he referred to the presence of the butterfly ornament as a remarkable coincidence. It couldn’t be anything else. Everybody liked Moberly. He had his weaknesses, I admit, but he was a damn’ good fellow all the same. Can’t we keep our mouths shut about that letter?”

Armourer was sucking at the stem of an empty pipe.

“Yes,” he said at length; “why not? If Standen is satisfied that Dick died from the sting of an insect of some sort, I should be the last to publish anything which would add to a scandal that’s already had too much circulation.”

Their hands gripped.

“I’m glad you think that,” said Vance brokenly.

His face dropped into his hands.

“Where’s young Trevor gone?” asked Armourer presently.

The planter withdrew his fingers and stared round him.

“Don’t know. Gone to find Abu-Samar, I should imagine.” A sound broke upon his ears and he sat perfectly still, listening. “What’s that?”

The magistrate had gone to the rail.

“Somebody coming through the trees on horseback--riding like the devil.” He caught Vance’s arm and pulled him up. “Here, quickly!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” He threw open the first door he found and drew the other through it. “Don’t utter a sound.”

They stood in the shadow with the door ajar.

Almost before Vance could collect himself, the rider had dismounted. He heard a voice--a woman’s voice--calling.

“Dick!--Dick!--Are you up there?”

It was Vera Battiscombe.

Armourer gripped the other’s arm warningly.

She came slowly up the steps into view.

They saw her stand for a moment, irresolute, between the still form in the chair and the entrance.

Suddenly she laughed.

“Why, he’s asleep!” she murmured, and went forward as if to shake him.

An almost irresistible desire swept over Vance to shout out something, to do something to break the shock of the inevitable discovery. He shuddered and gripped hard at the corner of a dressing-table to steady himself.

A piercing shriek sent his ears singing.

A second--and she was backing towards the rail in horror, her beautiful face a deathly white, her eyes wide open in terror.

“It was true then! They have killed him! He told me----! _The Crimson Butterfly!_”

Her hands clasped to her ears, she ran, panic-stricken, to the stair-head.

Vance was half-way through the door when Armourer caught him roughly and threw him back.

She turned suddenly, controlling her nerves with a stupendous effort, and walked deliberately to the packet on the table. Her trembling fingers tore at the paper, scattering the contents broadcast.

“Gone!” she muttered hoarsely. “They have found it!”

She reeled, one arm bent over her forehead, and fell heavily to the floor.