The Case of the Pool of Blood in the Pastors Study | Page 4

magistrate in a low
voice.
"And the most mysterious of all of them," added the clerk.

"Yes, it is," said the doctor. "And there is not a trace of the body, you
say?--or a clue as to where they might have taken the dead--or dying
man?"
With these words he looked carefully around the room, but there was
no more blood to be seen anywhere. Any spot would have been clearly
visible on the light-coloured floor. There was nothing else to tell of the
horrible crime that had been committed here, nothing but the great,
hideous, brown-red spot in the middle of the room.
"Have you made a thorough search for the body?" asked the doctor.
The magistrate shook his head. "No, I have done nothing to speak of
yet. We have been waiting for you. There is a gendarme at the gate; no
one can go in or out without being seen."
"Very well, then, let us begin our search now."
The magistrate and his companion turned towards the door of the room
but the doctor motioned them to come back. "I see you do not know the
house as well as I do," he said, and led the way towards a niche in the
side of the wall, which was partially filled by a high bookcase.
"Ah--that is the entrance of the passage to the church?" asked the
magistrate in surprise.
"Yes, this is it. The door is not locked."
"You mean you believe--"
"That the murderers came in from the church? Why not? It is quite
possible."
"To think of such a thing!" exclaimed the notary with a shake of his
head.
The doctor laughed bitterly. "To those who are planning a murder, a
church is no more than any other place. There is a bolt here as you see.
I will close this bolt now. Then we can leave the room knowing that no

one can enter it without being seen."
The simple furniture of the study, a desk, a sofa, a couple of chairs and
several bookcases, gave no chance of any hiding place either for the
body of the victim or for the murderers. When the men left the room
the magistrate locked the door and put the key in his own pocket. The
gendarme in the neighbouring apartment was sent down to stand in the
courtyard at the entrance to the house. The sexton, a little hunchback,
was ordered to remain in the vestry at the other end of the passage from
the church to the house.
Then the thorough search of the house began. Every room in both
stories, every corner of the attic and the cellar, was looked over
thoroughly. The stable, the barns, the garden and even the well
underwent a close examination. There was no trace of a body anywhere,
not even a trail of blood, nothing which would give the slightest clue as
to how the murderers had entered, how they had fled, or what they had
done with their victim.
The great gate of the courtyard was closed. The men, reinforced by the
farm hands, entered the church, while Liska and the dairy-maids
huddled in the servants' dining-room in a trembling group around the
old housekeeper. The search in the church as well as in the vestry was
equally in vain. There was no trace to be found there any more than in
the house.
Meanwhile, during these hours of anxious seeking, the rumour of
another terrible crime had spread through the village, and a crowd that
grew from minute to minute gathered in front of the closed gates to the
rectory, in front of the church, the closed doors of which did not open
although it was a high feast day. The utter silence from the steeple,
where the bells hung mute, added to the spreading terror. Finally the
doctor came out from the rectory, accompanied by the magistrate, and
announced to the waiting villagers that their venerable pastor had
disappeared under circumstances which left no doubt that he had met
his death at the hand of a murderer. The peasants listened in shuddering
silence, the men pale-faced, the women sobbing aloud with frightened
children hanging to their skirts. Then at the magistrate's order, the

crowd dispersed slowly, going to their homes, while a messenger set
off to the near-by county seat.
It was a weird, sad Easter Monday. Even nature seemed to feel the
pressure of the brooding horror, for heavy clouds piled up towards
noon and a chill wind blew fitfully from the north, bending the young
corn and the creaking tree-tops, and moaning about the straw-covered
roofs. Then an icy cold rain descended on the village, sending the
children, the only humans still unconscious of the fear that had come
on them all, into the houses