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<h3>Chapter Nine.</h3> <h4>Another Discovery.</h4> It was precisely as the butler had said. There was the window open—a window looking out on to some leads. And beyond them the low houses of a mews which ran at the back. There, at a short distance from the bed, was the Colonel’s faithful servant, in a pool of blood, with a kukri—one of those ugly curved Indian knives—clasped tightly in his hand. “Dead!” said Mr Girtle; and then, rising quickly, he ran to the further portal, drew back the curtain, and found the iron door closed. “There has been a terrible struggle here,” said Capel. “Look.” He pointed to where, plainly seen on the white counterpane that half covered the heavy valance, there was the mark of a bloody hand that had caught the quilt and dragged it a little down. “Yes,” said Mr Girtle, looking about at overturned chairs, a small table driven out of its place, and a carriage clock swept off and lying on the floor. “Yes, there has been a terrible struggle.” He looked at the dead man, and then in the direction of the strong chamber. Artis saw, and said maliciously: “Murder must mean robbery.” “Impossible!” said the lawyer. “The door is shut. Stop. Let me see,” and stooping, he thrust his hand inside the silken robe the old Indian wore. There was a dead silence as he searched hastily, and then drew out the keys and chain. “All safe,” he cried; “see, here are the keys. They slip off and on this spring swivel; the old man always wore them there. The key of that door; the key of the iron chamber; the key of the steel chest. Gentlemen, I shall remove the keys. Mr Capel, they are yours, now. Take them.” “No,” said Capel quietly. “Keep them, sir. Now, what do you make of this? It seems to me that the murderer must have come in by this door, and encountered Ramo, and, after the terrible struggle, have escaped by the window.” “Exactly,” said Mr Girtle. “Unless,” said Artis, “some one killed this black fellow when trying to rob his master.” “Absurd!” cried Capel angrily, as he bent down over the dead man. “Look here,” he cried, “whoever it was must have been wounded. This knife is covered with blood.” “His own, perhaps,” said Artis. “May be so, but I think not. Now, Mr Girtle, what next?” “The police,” said the old lawyer huskily. “Preenham, fetch me a little brandy; this terrible scene has made me faint.” “Go, sir? Leave you here?” “Yes, go at once,” said Mr Girtle, and there seemed to be an unwillingness to leave, as the butler went out and closed the door. “You did not want that brandy,” said Artis quickly. “You wanted to get rid of him for a few minutes. I know what you are thinking—that it was that scoundrelly-faced footman.” “Yes, you have guessed my thoughts.” “And you suspect the butler?” “I do not say that, sir,” said the lawyer coldly. “We do not know that there has been any robbery until the plate is examined, but we ought to have sent for a doctor at once.” “I’ll go,” said Capel, and hurrying out of the room, he ran down the stairs, caught his hat from the stand, and hurried from street to street till he saw the familiar red-eyed lamp. Five minutes after he was on his way back in a cab, with a keen-looking, youngish man, to whom he gave an account of the morning’s discovery. “Have you given notice to the police?” “No.” “If I were you, I should send a messenger straight to Scotland Yard. It will save you from the blundering of some young constable. Humph—too late.” For, as they reached the room, there was the familiar helmet of one of the force, the man having found the door left open by Capel and rung. He was a heavy, dull-looking man, who seemed, as he stood in the darkened room, to consider it his duty to thrust his hand in his belt, and stare at the ghastly figure on the floor. Meanwhile the doctor was busily examining the body of the Indian servant. “Quite dead!” said Mr Girtle. “Yes. Rigor mortis has set in.” “Suicide?” “Suicide, sir? Oh, bless my soul, no.” “But that weapon?” “Yes, some one had an awful cut with that, I should say,” continued the doctor, and the constable mentally drew a line from the kukri to the open window, out on to the leads, and down into the mews. “What has caused his death?” “I cannot tell you yet,” said the doctor. “Hold the light here, closer, please. Hah, that is the mark of a blow on the arm. There is this wound on the chin, and on the neck. Hah! Yes, this seems more likely. There has been a tremendous blow dealt here on the head—but no fracture, I think—sort of blow a life-preserver would give; but, really, I cannot account so far for his death. Unless—What is this peculiar odour?” “I told you,” said Capel, pointing to the bed. “No, I don’t mean that,” said the doctor quickly. “I mean this about here. Can you see any bottle?” He ran his hand down the side of the silk robe, and then looked round where he knelt. “What do you mean, doctor?” said Mr Girtle. “There is the same odour that I should expect to notice in a case of suicide with poison.” “Doesn’t look much like that,” said Artis. “Why, doctor, look at the traces of the struggle.” “I have looked at them, sir,” replied the doctor; “but, so far, I detect no cause for death. A proper examination may give different results, but I must have the assistance of a colleague.” “Done, sir? Finished?” said the constable, who had remained for the time unnoticed. “Yes, my man. You will give notice of this at once, and lock up the room.” “All in good time, sir. I should like a look round. Door open, you say?” “Yes,” said Mr Girtle. “Window open?” “Yes.” “Well, then, the fellow who did it seems to have come in here and escaped there, after getting a cut with that crooked knife.” He turned on his bull’s-eye lantern, and made the light play from where the body lay, over the Turkey carpet, to the window, where he turned off the light, for there was sufficient for him to see and examine the seat and sill. No stains—no marks of hands on the window, no footmarks outside on the leads—not a spot. He shook his head, and came back. “Well, my man?” said Mr Girtle. “Don’t be in a hurry, sir. Law moves slow and sure. I was in the country before I got out of the rural into the metropolitan.” “What has that to do with this?” cried Artis. “Everything, sir,” said the constable, turning sharply on the young man, and watching him narrowly. “I’ve known cases where windows have been set open to make it seem that some one’s gone through.” “But the murderer is not in the house,” said Mr Girtle, uneasily; “and we suspect—” “Who’s that?” said the constable, sharply. “Oh, you, Mr Butler.” “Yes; I’ve brought the brandy for Mr Girtle, sir.” “Never mind, now,” said the policeman. “Set it down. Gentlemen, I’ve got a theory about this here.” He turned on his bull’s-eye again, as he spoke. “A theory?” cried Capel, impatiently. “Yes, sir. You see that crooked knife thing?” “Yes.” “And the mark of the bloody hand on the counterpane, where it is dragged?” “Yes, we saw that.” “Well, has any one looked under the bed?” “No.” “Then we shall find him there.” He stepped forward and raised the heavy valance, directing the light beneath. “There!” he exclaimed. “What did I say?” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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