The Christmas Conundrum (20 Thrillers in One Edition). Артур Конан Дойл

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      "I may come with you, I suppose?" I suggested meekly.

      "Oh, yes!" she rejoined carelessly.

      Somehow I had an inkling that the carelessness of her mood was only on the surface. It was not likely that she--my sweet, womanly, ultra-feminine, beautiful lady--should feel callously on this absorbing subject.

      We motored down to Bishopthorpe. It was bitterly cold, raw, damp, and foggy. The chauffeur had some difficulty in finding the cottage, the "home" of the imbecile gardener and his wife.

      There was certainly not much look of home about the place. When, after much knocking at the door, Mrs. Haggett finally opened it, we saw before us one of the most miserable, slatternly places I think I ever saw.

      In reply to Lady Molly's somewhat curt inquiry, the woman said that Haggett was in bed, suffering from one of his "fits."

      "That is a great pity," said my dear lady, rather unsympathetically, I thought, "for I must speak with him at once."

      "What is it about?" asked the woman, sullenly. "I can take a message."

      "I am afraid not," rejoined my lady. "I was asked to see Haggett personally."

      "By whom, I'd like to know," she retorted, now almost insolently.

      "I dare say you would. But you are wasting precious time. Hadn't you better help your husband on with his clothes? This lady and I will wait in the parlour."

      After some hesitation the woman finally complied, looking very sulky the while.

      We went into the miserable little room wherein not only grinding poverty but also untidiness and dirt were visible all round. We sat down on two of the cleanest-looking chairs, and waited whilst a colloquy in subdued voices went on in the room over our heads.

      The colloquy, I may say, seemed to consist of agitated whispers on one part, and wailing complaints on the other. This was followed presently by some thuds and much shuffling, and presently Haggett, looking uncared-for, dirty, and unkempt, entered the parlour, followed by his wife.

      He came forward, dragging his ill-shod feet and pulling nervously at his forelock.

      "Ah!" said my lady, kindly; "I am glad to see you down, Haggett, though I am afraid I haven't very good news for you."

      "Yes, miss!" murmured the man, obviously not quite comprehending what was said to him.

      "I represent the workhouse authorities," continued Lady Molly, "and I thought we could arrange for you and your wife to come into the Union to-night, perhaps."

      "The Union?" here interposed the woman, roughly. "What do you mean? We ain't going to the Union?"

      "Well! but since you are not staying here," rejoined my lady, blandly, "you will find it impossible to get another situation for your husband in his present mental condition."

      "Miss Ceely won't give us the go-by," she retorted defiantly.

      "She might wish to carry out her late father's intentions," said Lady Molly with seeming carelessness.

      "The Major was a cruel, cantankerous brute," shouted the woman with unpremeditated violence. "Haggett had served him faithfully for twelve years, and--"

      She checked herself abruptly, and cast one of her quick, furtive glances at Lady Molly.

      Her silence now had become as significant as her outburst of rage, and it was Lady Molly who concluded the phrase for her.

      "And yet he dismissed him without warning," she said calmly.

      "Who told you that?" retorted the woman.

      "The same people, no doubt, who declare that you and Haggett had a grudge against the Major for this dismissal."

      "That's a lie," asserted Mrs. Haggett, doggedly; "we gave information about Mr. Smethick having killed the Major because--"

      "Ah," interrupted Lady Molly, quickly, "but then Mr. Smethick did not murder Major Ceely, and your information therefore was useless!"

      "Then who killed the Major, I should like to know?"

      Her manner was arrogant, coarse, and extremely unpleasant. I marvelled why my dear lady put up with it, and what was going on in that busy brain of hers. She looked quite urbane and smiling, whilst I wondered what in the world she meant by this story of the workhouse and the dismissal of Haggett.

      "Ah, that's what none of us know!" she now said lightly; "some folks say it was your husband."

      "They lie!" she retorted quickly, whilst the imbecile, evidently not understanding the drift of the conversation, was mechanically stroking his red mop of hair and looking helplessly all round him.

      "He was home before the cries of 'Murder' were heard in the house," continued Mrs. Haggett.

      "How do you know?" asked Lady Molly, quickly.

      "How do I know?"

      "Yes; you couldn't have heard the cries all the way to this cottage--why, it's over half a mile from the Hall!"

      "He was home, I say," she repeated with dogged obstinacy.

      "You sent him?"

      "He didn't do it--"

      "No one will believe you, especially when the knife is found."

      "What knife?"

      "His clasp knife, with which he killed Major Ceely," said Lady Molly, quietly; "see, he has it in his hand now."

      And with a sudden, wholly unexpected gesture she pointed to the imbecile, who in an aimless way had prowled round the room whilst this rapid colloquy was going on.

      The purport of it all must in some sort of way have found an echo in his enfeebled brain. He wandered up to the dresser whereon lay the remnants of that morning's breakfast, together with some crockery and utensils.

      In that same half-witted and irresponsible way he had picked up one of the knives and now was holding it out towards his wife, whilst a look of fear spread over his countenance.

      "I can't do it, Annie, I can't--you'd better do it," he said.

      There was dead silence in the little room. The woman Haggett stood as if turned to stone. Ignorant and superstitious as she was, I suppose that the situation had laid hold of her nerves, and that she felt that the finger of a relentless Fate was even now being pointed at her.

      The imbecile was shuffling forward, closer and closer to his wife, still holding out the knife towards her and murmuring brokenly:

      "I can't do it. You'd better, Annie--you'd better--"

      He was close to her now, and all at once her rigidity and nerve-strain gave way; she gave a hoarse cry, and snatching the knife from the poor wretch, she rushed at him ready to strike.

      Lady Molly and I were both young, active and strong; and there was nothing of the squeamish grande dame about СКАЧАТЬ