The Layton Court Mystery

William, the gardener at Layton Court, was a man of melancholy deliberation.

It did not pay, William held, to rush things; especially the important things of life, such as the removal of greenfly from roses. Before action was taken, the matter should be studied, carefully and unhappily, from every possible point of view, particularly the worst.

On this summer’s morning William had been gazing despondently at the roses for just over three quarters of an hour. Pretty soon now he would feel himself sufficiently fortified to begin operations on them.

“Do you always count the greenfly before you slaughter them, friend William?” asked a sudden voice behind him.

William, who had been bending forward to peer gloomily into the greenfly-blown intricacies of a Caroline Testout, slewed hastily about. He hated being accosted at the best of times, but there was a spontaneous heartiness about this voice which grated intolerably on all his finer feelings. The added fact that the act of slewing hastily about had brought a portion of his person into sharp and painful contact with another rose bush did not tend to make life any more cheerful for William at that moment.

“Weren’t a-countin’ em,” he observed curtly; and added naughtily under his breath, “Drat that there Mr. Sheringham!”

“Oh! I thought you must be totting up the bag in advance,” remarked the newcomer gravely from behind an enormous pipe. “What’s your record bag of greenfly, William? Runs into thousands of brace, I suppose. Well, no doubt it’s an interesting enough sport for people of quiet tastes. Like stamp-collecting. You ever collect stamps, William?”

“Noa,” said William, gazing sombrely at a worm. William was not one of your chatty conversationalists.

“Good heavens!” Roger exclaimed, in tones of the liveliest consternation. “Alec! And an hour and a half before it need be! What’s wrong with you this morning, Alec?”

“I might ask the same of you,” grinned the young man. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you down before ten o’clock since we came here.”

“That only gives us three mornings. Still, a palpable point. By the way, where’s our worthy host? I thought it was a distressing habit of his to spend an hour in the garden every morning before breakfast; at least, so he was telling me at great length yesterday afternoon.”

“I don’t know,” said Alec indifferently. “But what brings you here anyway, Roger?”

“Me? Oh, I’ve been working. Studying the local flora and fauna, the latter ably represented by William. You know, you ought to cultivate William, Alec. You’d have a lot in common, I feel sure.”

They fell into step and strolled among the scattered beds.

“You working at this hour?” Alec remarked. “I thought you wrote all your tripe between midnight and dawn.”

“You’re a young man of singular literary acuteness,” sighed Roger. “Hardly anybody would dare to call my work tripe. Yet you and I know that it is, don’t we? But for goodness’ sake don’t tell anyone else your opinion. My income depends on my circulation, you know; and if it once got noised about that Alexander Grierson considered⁠—”

Major Jefferson glanced at him sharply. “Yes; you come in, too, Graves. It makes another witness.”

The four men filed in silence into the room. The curtains were still drawn, and the light was dim. With an abrupt movement Jefferson strode across and pulled back the curtains from the French windows. Then he turned and nodded silently towards the big writing table.

In the chair behind this, which was turned a little away from the table, sat, or rather reclined, the body of Mr. Stanworth. His right hand, which was dangling by his side almost to the floor, was tightly clenched about a small revolver, the finger still convulsively clasping the trigger. In the centre of his forehead, just at the base of his hair, was a little circular hole, the edges of which looked strangely blackened. His head lolled indolently over the top of the chair-back, and his wide-open eyes were staring glassily at the ceiling.

It was, as Jefferson had said, not a pretty sight.

Roger was the first to break the silence. “Well, I’m damned!” he said softly. “What on earth did he want to go and do that for?”

“Why does anyone do it?” asked Jefferson, staring at the still figure as if trying to read its secret. “Because he has some damned good reason of his own, I suppose.”

Roger shrugged his shoulders a little impatiently. “No doubt. But old Stanworth of all people! I shouldn’t have thought that he’d got a care in the world.

“Well,” he said slowly, picking his words with care; “there’s a thing that nobody else seems to have noticed, but it’s been striking me more and more forcibly every minute. I tell you candidly it’s something rather horrible⁠—a question that I’m honestly rather frightened of finding the answer to.”

“What are you driving at?” asked Alec in perplexity.

Roger hesitated again.

“Look here,” he said suddenly, “if you were going to shoot yourself, how would you go about it? Wouldn’t you do it like this?”

He raised his hand and pointed an imaginary revolver at a spot just above the right-hand end of his right eyebrow.

Alec copied his action. “Well, yes, I might. It seems the natural way to do it.”

“Exactly,” said Roger slowly. “Then why the devil is that wound in the centre of Stanworth’s forehead?”

The ancient did not move. “Sir?” he remarked stolidly.

“Prince!” bawled Roger. “Where?”

“Oh, Prince! ’E’s in the next field alongside. Up ’tother end I seed ’im last, not above five minutes back.”

The horny palm ceased to function as an ear-trumpet and became a receptacle for a spare shilling of Roger’s, and the two moved on. In the side of the next field was set a sturdy gate. Roger swung himself easily over it, the light of battle in his eyes. Alec followed suit, and they advanced together up the centre of the field.

“I can’t see anyone here, can you?” Roger remarked, when they had gone some little distance. “Perhaps he’s gone somewhere else.”

“Nothing but a cow in that corner. Is there any other way out of the field? He didn’t get over that gate into the road within the last five minutes. We should have seen him.”

Roger halted and gazed round carefully. “Yes, there’s a⁠⸺ Hullo! What’s the matter with that cow? She seems very interested in us.”

The cow, a large, powerful-looking animal, had indeed quitted its corner and was advancing purposefully in their direction. Its head was swaying curiously from side to side and it was emitting a noise not unlike the hoot of a steamer.

“My God!” Alec shouted suddenly. “That isn’t a cow; it’s a bull! Run like hell!”