end seemed possible.
Slowly they walked on, examining with anxious eyes the swirling flood. And then at last they saw what they were in search of. Near the end of the rapids, where the river had quieted down to a more even flow, the bow of a boat was sticking up out of the water against a rock. Hastening forward they caught their breath as they saw a little farther down-stream a dark shapeless object, lying almost submerged in a backwater. It was the body of a man.
It was obvious that nothing in the nature of help could be given, as the man must have been dead long since. The body was on the Luce Manor side of the river, and Parkes and Smith hurrying round, the four stepped into the pool, and with reverent care lifted it out and laid it on the grass. One glance at the face was enough. It was that of Sir William Ponson.
FOR some moments the men stood, reverent, and bare-headed, looking down at the motionless form. The face was disfigured, the left cheek from the ear to the mouth being cut and bruised, evidently from contact with a boulder. The left arm also was broken, and lay twisted at an unnatural angle with the body.
At last Austin made a move. Taking out his handkerchief, he stooped and reverently covered the dead face.
‘We must send for the police, I’m afraid.’ He spoke in a low tone, and seemed deeply affected. ‘You go, Innes, will you? Take the large car and run them back to the bridge. You had better bring Dr Ames too, I suppose, and a stretcher. Also send this wire to Mr Cosgrove. We’ll wait here till you come.’
He scribbled a telegram on a leaf of his pocket book:
‘To Cosgrove Ponson, 174B Knightsbridge, London.—Terrible accident. My father drowned in river. Tell my mother at Lancaster Gate, then come.—AUSTIN.’
Cosgrove Ponson was the only son of Sir William’s younger brother, and was consequently cousin to Austin and Enid. These three with Lady Ponson were now the only living members of the family. Cosgrove was a man of about five-and-thirty who had inherited some money from his father, and lived the careless life of a man about town. Though he had never got on well with Austin, he had been a favourite of Sir William’s, and had spent a good deal of time, on and off, at Luce Manor.
When the valet had gone Austin sat down on a rock and, leaning his head in his hands, seemed to give himself up to profound meditation. The others, uncertain what to do, withdrew to a short distance, not liking either to intrude, or, after what Austin had said, to leave altogether. So they waited until after about an hour Innes reappeared, and with him Dr Ames, a sergeant of police, and two constables carrying a stretcher.
‘Innes has told us, Mr Ponson. A truly terrible affair!’ said the doctor, with real sympathy in his voice. He shook hands with Austin, while the sergeant saluted respectfully.
‘I’m afraid, doctor, you can do nothing. He was dead when we found him.’
‘Ah, I imagined so from what your man said.’ Dr Ames knelt down and lifted the handkerchief from the battered features. ‘Yes, you are right. He has been dead for some hours.’ He replaced the handkerchief, and rose to his feet. ‘I suppose, Mr Ponson, you will have him taken to Luce Manor? There is no reason why that should not be done at once.’
‘I was only waiting for the stretcher.’
The doctor nodded and took charge.
‘Your stretcher, sergeant,’ he said.
The remains were lifted on, and slowly the melancholy little procession started. Before they left, the sergeant asked who had made the tragic discovery, and was shown exactly where the body had been found. One constable was left with instructions to see that no one touched the boat, and the sergeant and the other policeman walked with the party, taking their turns in carrying the sad burden. After Austin had instructed the butler to hurry on and prepare for them at the house, no one spoke.
When the body had been laid on the bed in Sir William’s room, and the little excitement caused by the arrival had subsided, the sergeant approached Austin Ponson.
‘Beg pardon, Mr Ponson,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry, but I’ll have to make a report about this, and I’m bound to ask a few questions. I hope, sir, you won’t mind?’
‘Of course not, sergeant. I understand you must do your duty.’
‘Thank you, sir. May I ask then if you can explain how this accident occurred?’
‘No more than you can, sergeant. I only know that Innes, Sir William’s valet, came to my house when I was dressing this morning, to know if Sir William was with me. He said he had gone out after dinner last night without leaving any message, and they didn’t know where he was. I came back with Innes, and they had just then learnt that the boat was missing. We thought perhaps my father had rowed across the river to see Dr Graham, and I sent round to inquire, but when we learnt he hadn’t been there we began to fear the worst. We therefore went down the river to see if we could find anything.’
‘And when, sir, did you see him last?’
‘On Sunday evening—three days ago. I dined here, and left about ten or later.’
‘And was he in his usual health and spirits then?’
‘Yes, I noticed nothing out of the common.’
‘And he said nothing then, or indeed at any time, that would explain the matter?’
‘Not a thing. He seemed perfectly normal in every way.’
‘Very strange affair, sir, where he could have been going to. Was he skilful with a boat?’
‘No, I should say not. He could row a little, but not well. He did not specially care for it. I rarely knew him to go out for pleasure.’
‘Thank you, sir. With your permission I will see now what Mr Parkes and the other men can tell me.’
He heard the butler’s story, then Innes’s and lastly Smith’s. He was a young and intelligent officer, and was anxious to send in a complete explanation of the tragedy in his report, but he was almost equally desirous not to inconvenience or offend Austin Ponson, whom he supposed would succeed Sir William and become a magistrate and a leading man in the district. Though he had admired Sir William and was genuinely shocked and sorry about the accident, yet he was human, and he could not but recognise the affair gave him a chance of coming under the special notice of his superiors.
Up to a certain point he was clear in his own mind what had occurred. Sir William had left his house sometime between 8.45 and 11.30 the previous evening, and had gone down to the boathouse with his key, entered, opened the water gate and taken out the Alice. In the darkness, and probably underestimating the amount of fresh in the river, he had allowed himself to be carried into the narrow channel. Once there he had practically no chance. The place was notoriously dangerous.
So much was plain enough, but the sergeant was bothered by the question, what had Sir William gone out for? No one had as yet thrown any light on this.
Calling Dr Ames, who, not having had any breakfast, was just finishing a somewhat substantial snack in the dining-room, the sergeant explained that he wished to go through Sir William’s pockets, if the doctor would come and assist him. They accordingly made their way upstairs and began their search.
The pockets contained just those articles which a man in Sir William’s position would naturally be expected to carry, with one exception. Besides the bunch of keys, handkerchief, watch, cigar-case, money and such like, there was a very singular object—nothing more nor less than a small-sized six-chambered Colt’s revolver, unloaded. There were no shells, either full or empty, and the barrel was clean, showing it had not been fired.
‘By Jove! Sergeant,’ Dr Ames