He had gone to bathe and had stripped, as the naked footstepsshowed. Then he had suddenly huddled on his clothes again—theywere all dishevelled and unfastened—and he had returned withoutbathing, or at any rate without drying himself. And the reasonfor his change of purpose had been that he had been scourgedin some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lipthrough in his agony, and was left with only strength enough tocrawl away and to die. Who had done this barbarous deed? Therewere, it is true, small grottos and caves in the base of the cliffs, butthe low sun shone directly into them, and there was no place forconcealment. Then, again, there were those distant figures on thebeach. They seemed too far away to have been connected with thecrime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson had intendedto bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the rocks. Onthe sea two or three fishingboats were at no great distance. Theiroccupants might be examined at our leisure. There were severalroads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.
When I at last returned to the body I found that a littlegroup of wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was,of course, still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived withAnderson, the village constable, a big, ginger-moustached manof the slow, solid Sussex breed—a breed which covers much goodsense under a heavy, silent exterior. He listened to everything,took note of all we said, and finally drew me aside.
“I’d be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing forme to handle, and I’ll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong.”
I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and fora doctor; also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few freshfootmarks as possible to be made, until they came. In themeantime I searched the dead man’s pockets. There were hishandkerchief, a large knife, and a small folding card-case. Fromthis projected a slip of paper, which I unfolded and handed to theconstable. There was written on it in a scrawling, feminine hand: I will be there, you may be sure.
MAUDIE.
It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and wherewere a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case andreturned it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry.
Then, as nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to myhouse for breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffsshould be thoroughly searched.
Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the bodyhad been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would beheld. He brought with him some serious and definite news. As Iexpected, nothing had been found in the small caves below thecliff, but he had examined the papers in McPherson’s desk andthere were several which showed an intimate correspondencewith a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth. We had thenestablished the identity of the writer of the note.
“The police have the letters,” he explained. “I could not bringthem. But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I seeno reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happeningsave, indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him.”
“But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habitof using,” I remarked.
“It is mere chance,” said he, “that several of the students werenot with McPherson.”
“Was it mere chance?”
Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.
“Ian Murdoch held them back,” said he. “He would insist uponsome algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he isdreadfully cut up about it all.”
“And yet I gather that they were not friends.”
“At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch hasbeen as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He isnot of a very sympathetic disposition by nature.”
“So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me onceabout a quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog.”
“That blew over all right.”
“But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps.”
“No, no, I am sure they were real friends.”
“Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do youknow her?”
“Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood—areal beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. Iknew that McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notionthat it had gone so far as these letters would seem to indicate.”
“But who is she?”
“She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy who owns all the boatsand bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with,but is now a man of some substance. He and his son William runthe business.”
“Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?”
“On what pretext?”
“Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man didnot ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand wason the handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge whichinflicted the injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonelyplace was surely limited. Let us follow it up in every direction andwe can hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn shouldlead us to the criminal.”
It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scenteddowns had our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we hadwitnessed. The village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in asemicircle round the bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet severalmodern houses have been built upon the rising ground. It was toone of these that Stackhurst guided me.
“That’s The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with thecorner tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started withnothing but—By Jove, look at that!”
The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man hademerged. There was no mistaking that tall, angular, stragglingfigure. It was Ian Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment laterwe confronted him upon the road.
“Hullo!” said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sidewaysglance from his curious dark eyes, and would have-passed us, buthis principal pulled him up.
“What were you doing there?” he asked.
