"Still waiting for something to turn up in the Beverley affair?" he asked.
"Were I answering a layman, or even a rival detective, I should look very wise and talk indefinitely of clues; to you I will admit a blank ten days, not a forward step in any direction whatever."
"So you send for me."
"Upon a different matter altogether," I returned.
I had come to Fairtown ten days ago on the lookout for a man named Beverley. His friends were anxious about him, and said they believed he was suffering from a loss of memory; the police had reason to suspect that he was implicated in some company-promoting frauds, and thought the family only wanted to find him to get him out of the country. His people were certainly not aware that I was looking for him in Fairtown, and I need not go into the reasons which made me expect to run my quarry to earth in this particular spot; they were sound ones, or I should not have spent ten days on the job.
To describe Fairtown would be superfluous. Every one knows this popular seaside resort. This year, I believe for the first time, a large tent had been erected behind the sea-baths building, which was occupied each week by a different company of entertainers. In my second week a troupe of pierrots was there, the "Cla.s.sical P"s," they were called, and hearing from some one in the hotel that they were quite out of the ordinary, I went on the Thursday evening. At the opening of the performance the leader of the troupe announced that Brother Pythagoras, after the performance on the previous evening, had been obliged to go to town, and unfortunately had not yet returned, so they would be without his services that night. There was some disappointment; he had a charming tenor voice, my neighbor told me. The full troupe numbered six, described on the program as Brothers Pluto, Pompey, and Pythagoras, and Sisters Psyche, Pomona, and Penelope; that night, of course, they were only five, but the entertainment was excellent.
Sister Pomona was altogether an exceptional pianist, her interpretation of items by Schumann and Mendelssohn being little short of a revelation.
She was pretty, too, and her scarlet dress with its white pompons, and her pierrot"s hat to match, suited her to perfection.
I was amongst the last left in the tent after the performance, partly owing to the position of my seat, partly, at least so Zena would have it later, and I did not contradict her, because I was lingering in the hope of getting another glimpse of Pomona. As I moved toward the exit there came a short scream, a terrified scream it seemed to me, from behind the stage. I turned back and waited, and in a minute or two Brother Pluto came from behind the curtains.
"Are you a doctor?" he asked.
"No, but--"
"I am a doctor," said a voice behind me.
I was not invited, but I followed the doctor. The s.p.a.ce available for the artistes was very small. There was little more than pa.s.sageway between the tent wall and the stage built up some three feet from the ground, and we had to step over the various paraphernalia which was necessary for the performance. What had happened was this. A projecting piece of woodwork had caught Pomona"s dress as she pa.s.sed, tearing off one of the white pompons, which had rolled underneath the platform. She saw it, as she supposed, lying in a dark corner, and stooped to reach it. What she had caught sight of, and what she caught hold of, was a man"s hand, a cold hand. Brothers Pluto and Pompey were beside her a moment afterwards, and had dragged a body from under the stage. It was Brother Pythagoras, the performer who was supposed to have gone to London on the previous night. He was dressed in his pierrot costume, but had been dead some hours, the doctor said, death being due to a blow on the head, from a stick, probably.
I told the story to Quarles as we walked to the hotel.
"Does the doctor suggest an accident?" he asked.
"No."
"How long, in his opinion, had the man been dead?"
"Some hours."
"Twenty-four?"
"I particularly asked that question," I answered. "He thought death had taken place that day."
"It may be an interesting case," said Quarles doubtfully. "I suppose I can see the body."
"I have arranged that."
"Who are these brothers and sisters?"
"Pluto and Psyche are husband and wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Watson. She is a Colonial, and he has been in the Colonies for a year or two. It is their second season of entertaining in this country. Pompey, whose name is Smith, and Penelope, otherwise Miss Travers, have been with them from the first. Pomona, otherwise Miss Day, only joined them this season, and is evidently a lady. The dead man, Henley by name, joined them after the season had commenced, taking the place of a man who fell ill. He has been very reticent about himself."
"According to Watson, I suppose?" said Quarles.
"They were all agreed upon that point," I answered.
"On what points were they not agreed?" Quarles asked quickly.
"Well, although they all spoke in the warmest terms of their comrade, it struck me they were not all so fond of him as they made out."
"What makes you think that?"
"The way they looked at the dead man. Naturally, I was watching them rather keenly as the doctor made his examination."
"That is rather an interesting idea, Wigan, and has possibilities in it; still, a murdered man is not a pleasant sight, and the artistic temperament must be taken into consideration."
We went to the mortuary that afternoon. The dead man was still in the pierrot"s dress--I had arranged this should be so, wishing to afford the professor every facility in his investigation. He was more interested in the dress than in the man, examining it very carefully with his lens. The stockings and shoes came in for close inspection, also the comical pierrot"s hat, which he fitted to the dead man"s head for a moment.
"Had he his hat on when he was pulled from under the platform?" he asked.
"No. It was found after the doctor"s examination, close to where the body had been."
"Who found it?"
"Watson--Brother Pluto."
"Who first thought of looking for it?" Quarles asked.
"I think Watson just stooped down and saw it. He would naturally think of it, since it was part of the dress."
The professor nodded, as if the explanation satisfied him. Then he looked at the head, neck, and hands.
"He was a singer, you say?"
"Yes--a tenor."
"What instrument did he play?"
"I don"t know."
"Ah, a sad end. Henley, you say his name was--I see there is "H" marked in pencil in his hat."
"He called himself Henley," I answered; "it may not have been his real name. As I said, his companions know very little about him."
"So his friends, if he has any, cannot be advised of the tragedy. This company of mummers is alone in its mourning for him. I should like to examine this hat more closely, Wigan. Can I take it away with me?"
I arranged for him to do so, and we went back to the hotel.
"Do you find it an interesting case, Professor?" I asked.
"It certainly presents some difficulties which are interesting. The clue may lie in Henley"s unknown past, and that might be a difficulty not to be overcome; or we may find the clue in jealousy."
"You surely are not thinking that--"
"Oh, I have not got so far as suspecting Watson or any of his companions," said Quarles, "but certain facts force us to keep an open mind, Wigan. To begin with, there was apparently no struggle before death. The blow was not so severe that a comparatively weak arm might not have delivered it, a woman"s, for the sake of argument. We may, therefore, deduct two theories at once. He probably had no suspicion or fear of the person in whose company he was, and I think the doctor will endorse our statement if we affirm that he was not in a healthy condition. Personally, I should credit Henley with a fairly rapid past, which may account for his companions not looking upon the body with any particular kindness, as you noticed."