Chapter EIGHT: The Death Shot

The days went on. Andy extended his stay for another week. He consulted Dr. Granitt, and that physician had called upon Nelson, and though he had not discovered the alarming aneurism, he left his patient impressed with the number and character of maladies from which he was suffering.

Andy did not see the girl again, save at a distance. His holiday was approaching its end, and he really must put in a week at fishing. His room at the guest house was a comfortable one, the golf course was excellent, and there was really no reason why he should fish at all.

On Sunday he went to church. He went somewhat hurriedly, for he was in his pyjamas reading when he saw Stella Nelson pass with a prayer-book in her hand. He was in church ten minutes after she entered, and secured a pew which gave him view of her profile. She recognised him outside, and they walked back to Beverley Green together.

“It was rather an interesting sermon, don’t you think, Dr. Macleod?”

“Very,” he agreed, and tactfully changed the subject. He knew there had been a sermon, because he had seen an old man curled up in one corner of the pew fast asleep. But what it was about he had not the slightest idea.

“I hear you are going away to-morrow,” she said.

“I had intended going to-morrow,” he said, “but probably I shall stay a few more days, unless they turn me out of the guest house.”

She shook her head.

“Nobody is turned out of the guest house,” she said. “Except by the police,” she added a little maliciously, and he chuckled.

As they strolled up the road a man was coming to meet them. Unexpectedly he turned off and disappeared down a side-street.

“Sweeny looks as if he didn’t want to meet me,” said the girl with a smile.

“I was thinking the same myself. Who is Sweeny?”

“He used to be Mr. Merrivan’s butler, but I rather think he left under a cloud. He hates Mr. Merrivan.”

She was puzzled. She did not credit Sweeny with such a sense of delicacy that he avoided her in order to save her an embarrassing reminder of their last meeting. The explanation of his visit came from Mr. Merrivan himself. That genial gentleman came up to them as they were standing by the gate of the house.

“Good morning, Miss Nelson,” he said cheerfully. “You didn’t meet that rascally Sweeny, did you?”

“I thought it was he,” she said.

“The scoundrel!” Mr. Merrivan shook his large fist. “He has the audacity to show his nose in Beverley Green again. I caught the fellow spying round my house—or, at least, my gardener did. If I had been at church, as is my usual practice, I should probably never have heard of his appearance. All these servants hang together.”

What was there especially heinous in overlooking Mr. Merrivan’s private grounds, Andy wondered, when he explained to him that Sweeny had done no more than wormed his way through a hedge, at which point he was discovered by the vigilant gardener. Probably the vigilant gardener would have said nothing, only Mr. Merrivan happened to be pottering about—he was the sort of man who pottered—and had heard the sound of voices.

Nothing remarkable happened that day, and the machinery of fate, which in its working was to make Beverley Green world-notorious, did not begin grinding until the moon came up over the hills.

Stella was reading in the hall. She had just been up to see her father and make him comfortable for the night, since Mr. Nelson had taken the medical advice very seriously and had not left his room since Andy’s warning.

She was turning over the page when she heard a stealthy “Tap, tap” at the window. She waited a moment, thinking she must have been mistaken or that it was a dripping faucet in the kitchen she had heard. It came again “Tap, tap, tap,” and she put down the book and got up. She was not nervous. Arthur Wilmot, in the old days, used to attract her attention that way when he wanted her to come out and walk round the green.

She pulled aside the curtain and looked into the garden, but saw nothing. Heavy clouds had been rolling up all the afternoon from the south-west, and the moon was obscured. She walked to the front door, and her hand was on the knob to open it when she saw a letter at her feet. It had been pushed under the door. It was unaddressed, and after a moment’s hesitation she tore it open. It was a long letter; four pages were covered with close writing. At first she thought it was from Arthur. She had had several letters from him, and they had all gone the way of the first.

She turned to the signature, puzzled over it a little while, then began to read. The further she read, the colder grew her heart, and tighter seemed that restricted band about it, until she could hardly breathe. She went out into the kitchen and drew herself a glass of water, and, clutching the letter in her hand, she read it again, and every line was a knife-thrust. Presently she found what she was seeking—a small colt revolver which belonged to her father, and which she had locked away in the old days, when his drunken threats meant more to her than they did to-day. She found also a little green box, packed tight with cartridges. With a duster she cleaned the pistol, opened it calmly, put in three cartridges, and reclosed the breech. Then she went up to her room, found a dark overcoat, put it on, and slipped the pistol into her pocket.

Back in the hall she wished she had not burnt the letter; she wanted to make absolutely sure. She could find out, she told herself. She was cool and unshaken. The hand that turned the switch, plunging the room into darkness, did not shake. She slipped on her scarf and made sure that she had the key in her pocket before she closed the door gently.

At the garden gate she stopped to look over to the guest house. What a strength was there! For one wild moment she was tempted to lay her burden of agony upon his broad shoulders—for one moment. Then the absurdity of it struck her. Call a police officer! So she went on, a figure of doom, and her heart was as black as the room she had left, for the light of hope had gone out.

Andy Macleod had changed his mind for the third time that day. He would go to-morrow, he told himself; he was just being a stupid, sentimental fool, and that is a confession which does not sound nice to a man of thirty-five.

He walked over to the house, and, seeing the rooms black, he came back to his own apartment and tried to read. He put the book down after an unsuccessful attempt, undressed, and went to bed. He had a good conscience and a good digestion, and, though he told himself he was going to have a restless night, he was asleep within five minutes.

A rattling at the bedroom door awoke him instantly.

“Who is that?”

“Johnston the manager, sir. Can I see you? It is very urgent.”

Andy Macleod put on the light. The watch at his bedside marked the hour of a quarter to two. What had happened? He guessed that a telephone message had come through from headquarters requiring his presence in connection with Scottie’s arrest, and he cursed that man unjustly.

His first glance at the manager’s face told him that the trouble was nearer at hand. Johnston’s face was grey and his lips were trembling.

“Oh, sir,” he gasped, “such a terrible thing has happened. Mr. Pearson told me to go and fetch you at once before I went to the police.”

“What is the matter?” asked Andy quickly.

“Mr. Merrivan, sir, Mr. Merrivan,” whimpered the man.

“What has happened?”

“Dead, sir, murdered, sir. Oh, it is dreadful!”

“Merrivan—murdered! Just wait a moment. I’ll be down in few minutes. Make me a cup of tea if you can.”

He dressed rapidly, swallowed the tea that the manager handed him (how the cup shivered and rattled in his hands!). Somebody else had notified the local authorities. A sergeant of police opened the door of Mr. Merrivan’s house to his knock.

“I’m glad you’ve come, sir,” he said. “This is a pretty bad business. I’ve had every man of the police force roused and I’ve notified all stations on the road.”

“Is he dead?”

“Oh yes, sir, he’s quite dead. He must have been dead an hour. I’ve sent for Dr. Granitt.”

Andy nodded.

“Where is he?”

“There,” said the sergeant, “in his ‘den,’ as he used to call it.”

Andy opened the door and walked into the long room. All the lights had been switched on, and he turned automatically to the right where Merrivan’s desk was to be found, but he was not there. He lay at the other end of the room, his feet towards the window, his hands upraised, as though to ward off an attacker, and a fearful grin upon his face. He had been shot at close quarters, for there was a blackening of powder upon his white waistcoat.

There was no necessity to carry out a medical examination; one glance at the still figure told its story.