The Hangman's Knot

Chapter I.—“Sowing the Wind.”-2

The professor made a gesture of impatience. “That'll do,” he exclaimed sharply. He took out his latch-key again and thrust it in the door. “Come in and we'll have that talk you want.” He paused a moment and then added menacingly. “But you be careful to play no tricks, for I warn you I am armed.”

“Yes,” remarked the stranger quietly, “you have a knuckle-duster in your pocket. I felt it when I was sitting next to you at Ah Chung's.”

* * *

The father of Miss Cynthia Cramm kept the Gibbet Inn, situated midway between the pretty little Sussex villages of Hartfield and Maresfield, upon the beautiful stretch of road running on the uplands through Ashdown Forest.

Miss Cramm had turned sixteen years of age, but she did not look fourteen. She was small and skinny, with an alert, quick, little face, and eyes as bright as a bird's, and what she did not know of life was of no interest or she would have learnt it.

Essentially a product of these modern times, she knew more than her grandmother did, and could have told that old lady things that would have caused her to uplift her hands in horror, and dim her horn-rimmed spectacles with tears.

She read every line of the two daily newspapers that were taken at the inn, including the advertisements, and was particularly interested in the divorce news. She held strong views upon certain burning social questions, and did not hesitate to express her disapproval that she had been followed into the world by five more little Cramms.

“We could not afford it,” she snapped decisively, “and in consequence father is not now able to give us the education that he should.”

She smoked when she could do so without her father seeing her, used powder and a lip-stick when she went out with her boy friends, and also she already boasted of preferences in the matter of cocktails. Her great ambition was to go on the films.

Romantically situated with beautiful views on all sides, the Gibbet Inn did a good trade, and Mrs. Cramm's Sunday luncheons were known far and wide. The house had become a favourite place of call for the motoring world, and quite apart from the food being always well-cooked and daintily served, the nomenclature itself of the inn was attractive, for people liked to tell their friends that they had 'lunched at the Gibbet.' The inn had prospered, and a commodious dining room had been built on. This room contained a long table running down the centre of the room and a much smaller one, placed just under the widow at the far end. On Sundays three smartly-attired maids attended to the wants of the visitors.

* * *

One certain Sunday morning then, in the last week of June, towards half-past twelve, when all was bustle and preparation for the midday meal, and Thomas Cramm was busy in the bar, Miss Cramm was ordered by her mother to iron the aprons for two of her little sisters, and she flatly refused to do anything of the kind. Not that the young lady had any objection to the ironing on Sabbatarian grounds. She had no scruples there, but she had been up late the night before at a party, and was feeling tired, and it happened, too, that at that moment when her services were required by her mother, she was busy watching from an upper window a handsome young couple who had just driven a very smart little two-seater into the yard and were now going lovingly over the bodywork with a duster. From the luggage strapped on the back Miss Cramm was of opinion that they were a honeymoon couple, and always romantically inclined, she was considering as to whether they had been married the previous day, and did not want to be disturbed in attempting to deduce from the glances they kept on giving to one another, whether she were right or not, in her conjecture.

So, when the order from her mother arrived by one of the maids she sent back a curt message that she should not comply with the request. Her mother was furious, for already twice that morning Cynthia had been impertinent, or in the vernacular, had given her parent 'lip,' so now the latter, very red in the face, left the pressing duties in the kitchen and came running upstairs to administer suitable chastisement.

But Cynthia heard her coming, and reluctantly tearing herself away from the window, escaped through another door, banging it to behind her in her mother's face.

“All right, you dreadful child,” shouted Mrs. Cramm stertorously. “I'll fetch your father at once.”

Now her father was the only person whom Cynthia really feared, for he was of quick temper and had a heavy hand. It was fresh in her memory, too, that not a week before, when following upon a very one-sided encounter with him, she had later sat down at the piano to play her favourite piece, 'The Lost Chord,' she had had to put an extra cushion upon the piano-stool to escape actual physical discomfort.

So when a couple of minutes or so later, Mr. Cramm came tearing upstairs to 'have a few words,' it is not surprising that Miss Cramm was nowhere to be found. Not only was she not visible in any of the upper rooms, but a hasty search of the ground floor revealed no sign of her presence there either, and so the landlord of the Gibbet Inn, with an ugly look upon his face, that undoubtedly presaged more physical discomfort for his daughter when he could lay hands upon her, returned fuming, into the bar.

There were twenty-seven luncheons served that day—the police were afterwards able to verify that. One party of six, two of four, five of two, and three parties who came alone. At least that was how the bills were paid, according to the very accurate bookkeeping of Mrs. Cramm, but the head-waitress who collected the money at the tables, later told a rather peculiar tale. She said that where one bill was seemingly paid for a party of four people lunching there together, it was actually discharged for the meals of four separate individuals, who came in singly, sat apart from one another at the long table, and had no conversation together until all the other lunchers had left the room. Then suddenly, in her momentary absence, they had all moved to the small table under the window, and a call being made for liqueurs and a bottle of the best port, they had at once started to talk amiably together, as if they were old friends.

She remembered the incident distinctly, because the one who had ordered the port asked that they should be left undisturbed for a little while, and the time extending for longer than an hour, it had hindered the clearing away and the setting of the table for the expected afternoon teas. It had been most inconvenient.

And the story of the waitress was quite correct, except in one particular, for after the four lunchers had moved over to the small table they had not started at once to talk amiably together as old friends. On the contrary, three of them had appeared to be very distrustful of one another, and if the waitress had been of a more observant nature she would have noted that it was only the fourth man who was smiling, and that the others looked very angry.

What really happened was this. The four men partook of their meal, quietly and unobtrusively and as if they had no interest except in the fare provided. The meal consisted of boiled cod and oyster sauce, roast chicken and roast duck, cherry tart, and a beautiful ripe Stilton cheese.

They had kept pace with the other lunchers until the sweet had been served, and then, all at once, they had begun to dawdle and eat very slowly, at the same time assuming thoughtful and lethargic airs. It seemed as if none of them were in any hurry and almost, as if of set purpose, they each one wanted to outstay everybody else.

But a stout couple were most unduly interested in the Stilton cheese, and returning many times to the attack, it was nearly half past two before these latter rose from their seats and the four men were the only occupants of the room.

Then the appearance of casual indifference upon the face of one of them passed instantly away, and his knife falling with a sharp click on to his plate, he made a motion with his arm embracing the other three, and remarked quietly, but very distinctly, “Gentlemen, the password is 'the rat-pit of Ah Chung,' and you are all three my guests.” His face expanded into a broad smile. “We are old friends.”

But there was certainly no appearance of friendliness upon the faces of the others, indeed annoyance almost to the point of positive anger seemed to possess them. They looked most suspiciously at one another, and then turned back to glare balefully at the man who had spoken.

The latter raised a big fat hand in protest. “No, no, don't be upset,” he said, reassuringly, and in a pleasant, cultured voice, “for at any rate no harm is done, and if you do not wish it, you can continue to remain unknown to one another, and part as perfect strangers in a few minutes.” He glanced in the direction of the door, and spoke very quickly. “I thought it best to bring you all together in this way, for I have made exactly the same proposition to each one of you, and if any of you so decide, you can withdraw in perfect safety from any association with me, and it can be then as if we had never met.”

He rose up from his chair. “But now, let us move over to that small table and we'll just talk things over for a little while. You can at least hear what I have to say.” He smiled. “For the moment you can call me 'Mr. X,' and you gentlemen”—he pointed at them, each in turn, “can be Messrs. A, B, and C.”

After a moment's hesitation, but without speaking a single word, the three men rose up, too, and followed him over to the table by the window. They were just seated when one of the maids returned into the room, and, as we have heard the order was then given for a bottle of port and liqueurs.

Once more by themselves, and the door closed again, the man who had taken charge of the proceedings leant forward over the table and regarded his companions with an amused smile. He was not by any means an unpleasant man to look upon, and the first impression he would have given anyone was of amiable and carefree good nature, of medium height and decidedly upon the stout side, he was of a dark and well-tanned complexion. His eyebrows were big and busy, and he sported a neatly trimmed black beard. His eyes were large and fearless, and it was only his lips that would have been displeasing to a reader of character, for they were full and sensual. However, in repose, he had the habit of keeping them pressed lightly together and in that way their defects were not so apparent to the casual observer. He was very short-necked, and he had fat hands, upon the finger of one of which he sported a diamond ring, with a stone of exquisite quality.

He started to renew the conversation at once. “I regret, gentlemen,” he said melodiously, and with the glib tongue of the practised speaker, “if any of you should regard it as a breach of confidence my having thus gathered you here together, when each one of you expected you would be the only one to be meeting me, but when you have heard my explanation and all I have to tell you, I am sure you will acquit me of any charge of trickery, and will as readily admit that I am exposing none of you to any risk by this meeting.”