The Crowned Skull | Page 9

of the victim. The news ran like wildfire through the countryside, and the local reporters gathered like vultures round the famous corpse. But the evidence they picked up was scanty, as the police, ignorant themselves of many things, were reticent. No one knew why Bowring had been murdered, but there was a grim determination about the crime which revealed very clearly that the assassin had made up his mind that the millionaire should not escape. Failing with the granite rock, he had made certain with the revolver, and therefore must have had some extremely strong motive to induce him to place, so to speak, his neck twice in the hangman's noose.
Then came out the fact of the sealed letter. Anne Stretton might have chattered, or some of the quarrymen to whom she read the single prophetic line might have told the story, or Miss Sophia Warry, proud of her powers, might have boasted of her achievement. No one knew exactly how the rumour got about, but certainly within four-and-twenty hours there were few people who had not heard of the strangely-fulfilled prophecy, and this introduction of a psychic element gave the case a weird interest, which removed it from the category of commonplace crime.
The body was taken by the quarrymen to Trevick Grange, which stood a couple of miles from the scene of death, amongst the wild Cornish moors. It was a rambling, two-storey house of rough grey stone, roofed with bluish slates, and covered with ivy and lichen, as though it were indeed natural to the soil. The mansion amidst its circle of wind-clipt trees, and fronting the changeful waters of the Atlantic, looked picturesque, but uncommonly grim; as autochthonic as the early British dwellings further up the moorlands. For centuries the Trevicks had dwelt there, and not always in the most reputable way; but pecuniary necessities had forced the present baronet to let the family seat to John Bowring, and retire to the more cheerful Dower House at St. Ewalds. So the body of the millionaire, who in life had lorded it under the ancient roof, was placed in the guest chamber, and the house was given over to a mourning atmosphere, which suited its sinister looks.
Of course, Sir Hannibal was greatly shocked. He and the dead man had not been very good friends, although they had passed through many adventures in the waste lands of South Africa. All the same, it was terrible to think that a man full of life and health and ambitious schemes should so suddenly be removed from the physical sphere, and in so horrible a manner. Also, Sir Hannibal recognised that he had lost a good tenant. No one would pay him so excellent a rent; and, moreover, the solitary situation of Trevick Grange rendered it somewhat difficult to let, even at a moderate price. Sir Hannibal, being intensely selfish, was sorry for John Bowring, but he was more sorry for himself, and grumbled greatly as he drove out to the inquest with Dericka and Miss Warry. The last-named lady had come by particular request, as the coroner wished to know how she has so accurately foretold the death of the millionaire; and Dericka accompanied her old governess to support her in the ordeal. Not that Miss Warry anticipated trouble when being examined, for she was rather glad to display her cleverness; but she felt that Dericka would be a comfort to her at so proud a moment.
And along the road beside them streamed carts and carriages and motor-cars and bicycles of all kinds. Everybody seemed to be going to the old Grange, being drawn there mostly by morbid curiosity. The place where the death had happened was like a fair, as sightseers were exploring every inch of the ground, and some enterprising individuals had erected tents for the sale of refreshments. The granite rock itself had been blasted to atoms as it impeded the traffic, but the place whence it had fallen could be seen in the jagged rent overhead and the raw earth, which gaped through the heather. Some wiseacres insisted that the mass had fallen of its own accord, as wind and rain and sunshine had undermined its foundations; but others pointed out that the stone must have been purposely pushed over the cliff, whereon it had been balanced, since the herbage around was trampled and broken. And from the position of the rock, as it was remembered, a powerful man with an iron lever could easily have overturned the same to crash down on the highway below.
'Who the dickens can have done it?' mused Sir Hannibal, as with his party he drove through the chattering crowd.
'We cannot tell until the inquest is over,' said Dericka.
'And perhaps not even then,' piped Miss Warry, casting a side glance at the