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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter IX</h3> <h2>The Ko-Katana</h2> Return to Table of Contents Thinking aloud, rather than addressing his companions, Brett began again:— “The man must have had some place in which to change his clothes, for he would not court attention by walking about in evening dress by broad daylight He met and spoke with Alan Hume-Frazer that afternoon. The result was unsatisfactory. The stranger resolved to visit him again at night—the night of the ball. In a country village on such an occasion, a swallow-tailed coat was a passe-partout, as many gentry had come in from the surrounding district.” “Yes, that is so,” broke in Hume. Brett momentarily looked through him, and the detective shook his head to deprecate any further interruption. “He could not enter Mrs. Eastham’s house, for there everybody knew everybody else. He could not enter the library of the Hall, because the footman was on duty for several hours. Is not that so?” He seemed to bite both men with the question. “Yes,” they answered. “Then he was compelled to hang about the avenue, watching his opportunity—his opportunity for what? Not to commit a murder! He was unarmed, or, at any rate, his implement was a haphazard choice, selected on the spur of the moment. He saw David Hume leave the dance, and watched his brief talk with the butler. He correctly interpreted Hume’s preparations to await his cousin’s arrival. Did Hume’s sleepiness suggest the crime, and its probable explanation? Perhaps. I cannot determine that point now. Assuredly it gave the opportunity to commit a theft. Something was stolen from the secretaire. A bold rascal, to force a drawer whilst another man was in the room! Did he fear the consequences if he were caught? I think not. He succeeded in his object, and went off, but before he reached the gates he saw Miss Layton, whom he did not know, talking to the baronet. He secreted himself until the baronet entered the park alone. For some reason, he made his presence known, and walked with Sir Alan to the lawn outside the window, still retaining in his hand the small knife used to prise open the lock. There was a short and vehement dispute. Possibly the baronet guessed the object of this unexpected appearance. There may have been a struggle. Then the knife was sent home, with such singular skill that the victim fell without a word, a groan, to arouse attention. The murderer made off down the avenue, but he was far too cold-blooded to run away and encounter unforeseen dangers. No; he waited among the trees to ascertain what would happen when his victim was discovered, and frame his plans accordingly. It was then that he saw Helen Layton and David Hume. As soon as the news of the murder spread abroad the dance broke up. Amidst the wondering crowd, slowly dispersing in their carriages, he could easily slip away unseen, for the police, of course, were sure that David Hume killed his cousin. Don’t you see, Winter?” The inspector did not see. “You are making up a fine tale, Mr. Brett,” he said doggedly, “but I’m blessed if I can follow your reasoning.” “No, of course not. Eighteen months of settled conviction are not to be dispelled in an instant. But accept my theory. This man, the guilty man, must have resided in Stowmarket for some hours, if not days. Many people saw him. He could not live in Sleagill, where even the village dogs would suspect him. But the addle-headed police, ready to handcuff David Hume, never thought of inquiring about strangers who came and went at Stowmarket in those days. Stowmarket is a metropolis, a wilderness of changeful beings, to a country policeman. It has a market-day, an occasional drunken man—life is a whirl in Stowmarket. Fortunately, people have memories. At that time you did not wear a beard, Hume.” “No,” was the reply, “though I never told you that.” “Of course you told me, many times. Did not your acquaintances fail to recognise you? Had not Mrs. Capella to look twice at you before she knew you? Now, Winter, start out. Ascertain, in each hotel in the town, if they had any strange guests about the period of the murder. There is a remote chance that you may learn something. Describe Mr. Hume without a beard, and hint at a reward if information is forthcoming. Money quickens the agricultural intellect.” The detective, doubting much, obeyed. Hume, asking if there was any reason why he should not drive back to Sleagill for an hour before dinner, was sarcastically advised to go a good deal farther. Indeed, the sight of that tiny type-written slip had stirred Brett to volcanic activity. He tramped backwards and forwards, enveloped in smoke. Once he halted and tore at the bell. A waiter came. “Go to my room, No. 11, and bring me a leather dressing-case, marked ‘R.B.’ Run! I give you twenty seconds. After that you lose sixpence a second out of your tip.” He pulled out his watch. The man dashed along the corridor, much to the amazement of a passing chamber-maid. He returned, bearing the bag in triumph. “Seventeen seconds! By the law of equity you are entitled to eighteenpence.” Brett produced the money and led the gaping waiter out of the room, promptly shutting the door on him. “He’s a rum gentleman that,” said the waiter to the girl. “He must be, to make you hurry in such fashion. Why, you wouldn’t have gone faster for a free pint.” “I consider that an impertinent observation.” With tilted nose the man turned and cannoned against Hume. “Here!” cried the latter. “Run to the stables and get me a horse and trap. If they are ready in two minutes I’ll give you two shillings.” “Talk about makin’ money!” gasped the waiter, as he flew downstairs, “this is coinin’. But, by gum, they are in a hurry.” Brett unlocked his bag and took from it the book of newspaper cuttings. “Ah!” he said, after a rapid glance at his concluding notes. “I thought so. Here is what I wrote when the affair was fresh in my mind:— “‘Why were no inquiries made at Stowmarket to learn what, if any, strangers were in the town on New Year’s Eve? “‘Most minute investigations should be pursued with reference to Margaret Hume-Frazer’s friends and associates. “‘Has Fergusson ever been asked if his master received any visitors on the day of the murder or during the preceding week? If so, who were they? “What is the precise purpose of the knife attached to the Japanese sword? It appears to be too small to be used as a dagger. In any case, the sword scabbard would be an unsuitable place to carry an auxiliary weapon, to European ideas.’ “Now, I wonder if Fergusson is still at the Hall? The other matters must wait.” Winter returned about the same time as Hume. Brett and the latter dressed for dinner, and the adroit detective, not to be beaten, borrowed a dress-suit from the landlord, after telegraphing to London for his own clothes. During the progress of the meal the little party scrupulously refrained from discussing business, an excellent habit always insisted on by Brett. They had reached the stage of coffee and cigars when a waiter entered and whispered something to the police officer. “‘Rabbit Jack’ is here,” exclaimed Winter. “Capital! Tell him to wait.” When the servant had left, Brett detailed his proposed test. He and Hume would go into the hotel garden, after donning overcoats and deer-stalker hats, for Hume told him that both his cousin and he himself had worn that style of headgear. They would stand, with their faces hidden, beneath the trees, and Winter was to bring the poacher towards them, after asking him to pick out the man who most resembled the person he had seen standing in the avenue at Beechcroft. The test was most successful. “Rabbit Jack” instantly selected Hume. “It’s either the chap hisself or his dead spit,” was the poacher’s dictum. Then he was cautioned to keep his own counsel as to the incident, and he went away to get gloriously drunk on half-a-sovereign. In the seclusion of the sitting-room, Winter related the outcome of his inquiries. They were negative. Landlords and barmaids remembered a few commercial travellers by referring to old lodgers, but they one and all united in the opinion that New Year’s Eve was a most unlikely time for the hotels to contain casual visitors. “I was afraid it would be a wild-goose chase from the start,” opined Winter. “Obviously,” replied Brett; “yet ten minutes ago you produced a man who actually watched the murderer for a considerable time that night.” Whilst Winter was searching his wits for a suitable argument, the barrister continued: “Where is Fergusson now?” “I can answer that,” exclaimed Hume. “He is my father’s butler. When Capella came to Beechcroft, the old man wrote and said he could not take orders from an Italian. It was like receiving instructions from a French cook. So my father brought him to Glen Tochan.” “Then your father must send him to London. He may be very useful. I understand he was very many years at Beechcroft?” “Forty-six, man and boy, as he puts it.” “Write to-morrow and bring him to town. He can stay at your hotel. I will not keep him long; just one conversation—no more. Can you or your father tell me anything else about that sword?” “I fear not. Admiral Cunningham—” “I guess I’m the authority there,” broke in Winter. “I got to know all about it from Mr. Okasaki.” “And who, pray, is Mr. Okasaki?” “A Japanese gentleman, who came to Ipswich to hear the first trial. He was interested in the case, owing to the curious fact that a murder in a little English village should be committed with such a weapon, so he came down to listen to the evidence. And, by the way, he took a barmaid back with him. There was rather a sensation.” “The Japs are very enterprising. What did he tell you about the sword?” The detective produced a note-book. “It is all here,” he said, turning over the leaves. “A Japanese Samurai, or gentleman, in former days carried two swords, one long blade for use against his enemies, and a shorter one for committing suicide if he was beaten or disgraced. The sword Mr. Hume gave his cousin was a short one, and the knife which accompanied it is called the Ko-Katana, or little sword. As well as I could understand Mr. Okasaki, a Jap uses this as a pen-knife, and also as a queer sort of visiting-card. If he slays an enemy he sticks the Ko-Katana between the other fellow’s ribs, or into his ear, and leaves it there.” “A P.P.C. card, in fact!” “You always have some joke against the P.C.’s,” growled the detective. “I never—” “You have just made a most excellent one yourself. Please continue, Winter. Your researches are valuable.” “That is all. Would you like to see the Ko-Katana that killed Sir Alan?” “Yes. Where is it?” “In the Black Museum at Scotland Yard. I will take you there.” “Thank you. By the way, concerning this man, Okasaki. Supposing we should want any further information from him on this curious topic, can you find him? You say he indulged in some liaison with an Ipswich girl, so I assume he has not gone back to Japan.” “The last I heard of him was at that time. Some one told me that he was an independent gentleman, noted for his art tastes. The disappearance of the girl created a rare old row in Ipswich.” “Make a note of him. We may need his skilled assistance. Was there any special design on the Ko-Katana?” “It was ornamented in some way, but I forget the pattern.” “I can help you in that matter,” said Hume. “I remember perfectly that the handle, of polished gun-metal, bore a beautiful embossed design in gold and silver of a setting sun surmounted by clouds and two birds.” “Correct, Mr. Hume, I recall it now,” said the detective. “The same thing appears on the handle of the sword.” Brett ruminated silently on this fresh information. Like the other pieces in the puzzle, it seemed to have no sort of connection with the cause of the crime. “Why do you say ‘setting sun’? How does one distinguish it from the rising sun in embossed or inlaid work?” he asked Hume. “I do not know. I only repeat Alan’s remark. I gave the beastly thing to him because he became interested in Japanese arms during his Eastern tour, you will recollect.” “Ah, well. That is a nice point for Mr. Okasaki to settle if we chance to come across him. Don’t forget, Winter, I want to see that Ko-Katana. Whom did you meet at Sleagill, Hume?” The young man laughed. “Helen, of course.” “Any other person?” “No. I told her I might chance to drive out in that direction about five o’clock, so—” “Dear me! You were not at all certain.” “By no means. I am at your orders.” “Excellent! Then my orders are that you shall meet the young lady on every possible occasion. You took her for a drive?” “Well—er—yes, I did. You do not leave me much to tell.” “Did she say anything of importance—bearing upon our inquiry, I mean?” “Nothing. She had not quitted the rectory since we came away. I asked her to pick up any village gossip about the people at the Hall, and let us know at the earliest moment if she regarded it as valuable in any way.” “That was thoughtful of you. A great deal may happen there at any moment.” A waiter knocked and entered. He handed a letter to Hume. “From Nellie,” said David hastily. He opened the envelope and perused a short note, which he gave to Brett. It ran:— <blockquote> “DEAREST,—I have just heard from Jane, our under-housemaid, that Mr. Capella is leaving the Hall for London by an early train to-morrow. Jane ‘walks out’ with Mr. Capella’s valet, and is in tears. Tell Mr. Brett. I am going to help Mrs. Eastham to select prize books for the school treat to-morrow at eleven. “—With love, yours, “NELLIE.” </blockquote> “Who brought this note?” inquired Hume from the waiter as he picked up pen and paper. “A man from Sleagill, sir. Any reply?” “Certainly. Tell him to wait in the tap-room at my expense.” He commenced to write. “Any message?” he asked Brett. “Yes. Give Miss Layton my compliments, and say I regret to hear that Jane is in tears. Ask her—Miss Layton—to get Jane to find out from the valet what train his master will travel by.” “Why?” “Because I will go by an earlier one, if possible.” “But what about me! Confound it, I promised—” “To meet Miss Layton at eleven. Do so, my dear fellow. But come to town to-morrow evening. Winter and I may want you.” So the detective sent another telegram to detain that dress suit, and Hume seemed to have quickly conquered his disinclination to visit Stowmarket. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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