Edwin Bridle limped along a road somewhere in Surrey, mentally bemoaning his fate. After walking for most of the day, his feet in his ill-shod shoes were aching like the devil. An automobile had passed half an hour before. However, the inconsiderate person hadn't slowed down, even when the young man had waved his arms at the figure in the vehicle.
Edwin ran a hand through his tousled dark hair and felt in his pocket for a spare penny. A sigh escaped his lips. Money had never been easy to hand, but this time it was worse than usual. He had spent the last few coppers of his small savings on a loaf of bread. He was keeping that for later, at that moment, he felt rather ill.
It had been foolish of him to think that the money would have lasted him long enough to get another job. He had been fired from his last one, for letting a man with a possible story evade him. It was a serious calamity in the reporting business to allow a key witness to escape; they could end up in the hands of another newspaper. Of course, that was what had happened. But it was no matter, he had told himself, the boss was not a likable man. He was not without experience now; unemployment would only last for a short while. He had continued to tell himself that he would finish his book soon. He wouldn't have to get a position in another newspaper. But, inevitably, his money had run out. There he was, on an unknown road, without a clue of where in the blasted county he was. He knew he must follow this road but there were so many turns that there was no way to be certain if he had stayed on the right path. Discouragement was beginning to infiltrate his positive mind.
It was imperative that he get to Guildford to find his uncle Samuel. He said he would be there for his nephew if he ever needed assistance. Edwin didn't care much if his old uncle had always liked his brother Silas more, he still needed aid. However, he had no idea where he was, and did not believe he was going to be coming by the town any time soon. If only there was a signpost or village nearby where he could get his bearings. But no, not in jolly old England. He wondered how a foreigner could get anywhere without guidance if he couldn't even find his way through the countryside of Surrey. He himself was from Richmond and had rarely ever been to that particular part of the country.
To add to his misery, some beggar had stolen his coat, hat, and tie, of all things, at an inn in Hampshire. He had left them lying on a table whilst he washed at a pump, the day being deathly hot. They were gone when he returned. Now, he felt like a tramp.
"I must look a sorry figure!" He said to himself, then chuckled.
The irony and humor of his situation came over him, and he began to laugh in a light-hearted way. He was not a sullen or morose man by nature and did not like to brood uselessly upon troubles. The countryside about him was the brilliant green of spring. Here and there the yellow flowers of the gorse bushes shone like tiny drops of the golden sun. The long, wavy grass, was a deep, emerald shade and lay soft upon the rolling hills, dotted with copses of trees. It was a beautiful day.
Well, he was a tramp; what of it? He was young, his life was ahead of him, and he had always wanted an adventure. That was what a writer was for, wasn't it? To find action and describe it with words that pulled people in. There was a new spring to his step as he sauntered along the road. Maybe he would find a signpost soon.
As his heart filled, he began to sing in his clear tenor voice, an absurd tune. "Mammy, mammy, the sun shines east, the sun shines west! I know where the sun shines west... er, best! Mammy, my little mammy, my heart strings are tangled around Alabammy!" He stopped, smothering a laugh. "Alabammy? Huh, Americans!"
As he topped a rise, his eyes lit up. There it was; the thing he had been looking for! It wasn't a signpost he saw past the grove of trees to his left, but a town; a large, glorious town!
"It must be Guildford!" He cried aloud, "Praise the Lord!"
He started down towards the town, tripping briskly down the road between the large bushes bordering it. Guildford, at last! His feet had wings, his heart was soaring! What a joy it would be to rest his blistered feet and hear the sound of his uncle's kind voice reassuring him. He felt as if he could not endure the last few minutes on the road. He wanted the town so badly it hurt.
There was a small wood on his left as he neared his destination. When he was level with it, he happened to glance to his right and froze. Something was there which made his blood run cold.
Sticking out from beside a gorse bush there was a foot with a brown boot on it. Attached to that foot there was a leg and to the leg...
Edwin drew in his breath. There was a body lying prostrate upon the ground, and it did not seem to be breathing.
After a moment of transfixed dismay, the young man pulled himself together. Shaking, he knelt beside the body on the ground, turning it over onto its back with trembling hands. It was still warm. The face was that of an old man. It had once been handsome, but now— to add to the ravages of time— there was a swollen, bloated, purplish look about it. Wide-open blue eyes stared in a grotesque and terrible manner at Edwin. Soft gray hair, which used to be meticulously parted, lay damp and tangled upon a wrinkled forehead. The red ring about the man's neck revealed that he had been strangled to death.
A cry of horror forced itself out of Edwin's mouth. "Uncle Sam!"
After staggering to his feet, he backed away from the body, sickened. It was his uncle. The uncle whom he had needed to find, the one who had always been so kind, the one who had been so alive when he had seen him last. Uncle Sam was always so full of vitality. Never would a harsh word escape his lips. How could those energetic limbs lay sprawled so? How could those same lips be purple with the tinge of death? Edwin felt as if he would collapse for a moment, then he forced himself to be steady. He looked about him for an instant, then began to run towards the town for the police.
He was flagging a bit from exhaustion and his aching feet when he felt a heavy hand descend upon his shoulder. It spun him around. He fell to the ground and a gruff Surry dialect said in his ear, "'hold it right there sonny! Where would ye be a-goin'?"
The next moment, he was jerked to his feet like a rag doll. The owner of the voice was standing in front of him, gripping his collar. It belonged to an older man, grey and tough. He released Edwin, and the young man could see another man of about his own age, leveling a shotgun at his chest.
Edwin started and instinctively backed away a step. He had not heard them approach him in his panic, but they were all too clear now.
The grip was tightened on the gun and the finger readied on the trigger.
"I said hold it!" The older man said, "or Johnny here'll shoot ye... filthy murderer!"
Edwin's eyes widened. "I-I'm no murderer!"
"Sure ye are!" The younger blurted out savagely, "we see'd ye a-runnin' away from that body!"
"No! No! I just found it like that! I was running to get help!"
"Tell that t' the police! Here, Johnny! Fetch the bobbies will ye?"
"Sure Pa!"
Johnny gave his father the gun and was off to the town for the police.
Edwin stood with his arms at his side. He tried to speak, but the man indicated the gun in his hand. "Not another word outa ye, or I'll shoot ye dead!"
"Well," Edwin thought to himself, in a matter-of-fact way, "I might as well wait to explain myself to the police; they, at least, must have more sense."
So he stayed still until the police arrived on the scene.
The chief inspector's name was John Blunt. He was a tall, commanding man with light-brown hair and a matching mustache. Edwin perceived an air of cool sense about the inspector which calmed him. This man, surely, would listen to reason. He told his story truthfully and with composure, whilst a doctor and Blunt's younger assistant, Striker, examined the body.
"What was the man's name?"
"S-Samuel Whitford."
"How did you come to be here?"
Edwin was quick to explain himself. The Inspector said nothing to his tale of finding the body but stood looking at the ground in thought.
At that moment, Striker held up a black tie. "Sir, I found this in the bushes," he indicated the suspect, "it has his name on the inside."
Edwin started as if he had been caught. "What? That can't be my tie! It was stolen at an inn, along with my hat and coat! And it can't have my name in it because mine never did!"
Blunt took him by the arm. "I think you'd better come with us. I must tell you now that anything you say will be taken down and may be used against you in a court of law."
Absurdly, Edwin asked, "c-can it be used for me in a court of law?"
He hadn't meant it to be funny, but the inspector smiled in spite of himself. Directly after, Blunt reminded himself that the boy standing before him was most likely a murderer. Even if he did not seem like one, looks can be deceiving.
"I suppose so," he said, becoming sterner as he answered, "if anything you say can be used in your defense."
But Edwin wasn't listening. The muscles in his body had gone rigid with realization. His mind traveled back to twelve years before when he had still been with his family.
"Silas?" His own voice as a child resounded in his brain. It's as if a moving picture started.
"W-where's mummy?"
"She isn't home Edwin. She went to visit Uncle Sam."
A pair of cold blue eyes stare into his own. An almost insane smile plays upon lips that usually drip with honeyed words. A partially-maimed hand grips his arm.
"S-Silas! W-what are you doing? You don't dare tie me up again, Sarah will notice!"
"Sarah's on an errand for the rest of the day."
Edwin tries to wrench himself free of his elder brother's grasp, but his hand is like a steel vice.
"Silas, stop! W-why do you do things to me?"
Silas shrugs. "I dunno. I guess I like watching you in pain."
Edwin finds a small bit of courage in the indignation brought on by this remark. "I-I'll tell Mummy if you try any more of your tricks on me! I will!"
Silas' eyes are points of fire within the black pools of the dilated pupil. "You wouldn't dare. You know you wouldn't. Father would get angry and you wouldn't want that to happen. You know I'm his favorite!"
Terrified now, Edwin remembers one of the times they were unsupervised. Silas forced him to eat their cat raw. When their father found cat was gone and Edwin ill, he punished him severely, refusing to believe that the charismatic Silas had done anything wrong.
Edwin sobs and his brother releases him in order to laugh. The moment the hand relaxes on his arm, Edwin makes a bolt for the door. He doesn't get far before his eleven-year-old brother catches him and throws him to the floor. He struggles but to no avail. Three minutes later, he is stuffed into a crate in the cellar.
He lays curled up in the dark, cramped box, with no light. All day he stays there, feeling as if he is slowly suffocating. When he, at last, hears his mother calling for him, he screams and attempts to pound on the top of the case. The lid is pried open. He attempts to get out but is unable to move. His mother reaches in with her frail hands. She is beginning to be ill. Edwin has noticed for some time.
She is pushed aside as Mr. Bridle jerks his son out of the crate and dumps him on the floor. Edwin's whole body is in pain. He cannot get up. His limbs are so cramped that the slightest movement is agony.
"What happened?" His father asks.
He cannot speak. Even if he wants to, he cannot bring himself to speak. He will not be able to for a week after.
"Tell me! Did you get stuck in there on your own? What were you doing, hiding from us?"
Seizing this explanation, Edwin nods his head.
What followed was too unpleasant to think about. Edwin shuddered at the remembrance and forced his mind back to the present.
"What is the matter?" Striker asked callously, noting his reaction, "worried you'll be found out?"
He shook his head mutely for an answer, and Blunt shot his subordinate a stern look. Edwin didn't notice, his whole mind was enveloped in his troubles. His uncle— who had been his friend— was murdered, and they thought he had done it.
Blunt thanked the man and his son, who had been hunting when they found the suspect. Then, he brought his charge to a police car and drove to the station.
When they arrived, the inspector led Edwin into an interrogation room and sat him down on a chair at a table. Blunt and Striker planted themselves next to the prisoner and began their questioning.
——————————————————————————————————————————————
Hours later, they were still in that same position.
"Now, I'm going to ask you again; were you on good terms with your uncle?"
Edwin began to get irritable. It had calmed him at first to tell his story, but now, he was tired and upset. "I told you already! Why do you keep asking me these questions?"
Blunt's firm demeanor seemed to soften a bit, and he put a hand on the young man's shoulder. "We have our system. Now, please answer the question."
Edwin sighed. "He was my friend; even though he liked my brother Silas better... everyone liked Silas better. But he was kind to me, and helped me find a job after my parents died."
His eyes were moist as he finished speaking; his head dropped disconsolately into his hands.
Blunt paused before speaking. "Were you poor?"
This caused Edwin to raise his head and give the inspector a small smile. "Yes, though not as poor as I am now."
Blunt smiled in his turn, then once again reprimanded himself. As charming as the boy may be, all the facts pointed to his guilt. He hadn't come all this way in the police force by ignoring facts. He was taking a long time with the questioning in order to break the boy down. There was also more information he needed.
The telephone rang and broke into his mental soliloquy. He left the room and returned a second later with a feeling of triumph in his chest. He had learned of the contents of Samuel Whitford's will. This was what he had been waiting for. The motive.
"Were you aware," Blunt asked, "that your uncle left you a quarter of his fortune, which amounts to more than three thousand pounds?"
Edwin started before his face turned grief-stricken once more. "I-I knew he had left me money, but I never knew how much."
Blunt looked closely at his prisoner. He was a good actor, and a clever man not to conceal the fact that he knew of the will, but not the contents. If he had denied knowing at all about the will, it would have seemed more suspicious.
As Edwin covered his face again, the Inspector nodded to his assistant. Striker held up the tie which had been found near the body. "Is this your tie?"
"I told you before!" The suspect said into his hands, after glancing at the object, "My tie was stolen miles from here! That can't be it!"
"It has your name on it."
"I-I don't know..." He groaned; then, suddenly raising his head, his face brightened. "What a dope I am! Of course! It may be my tie. The person who stole it must have been the murderer! You must find him!"
Blunt stood up. "You'll have to discuss that with your lawyer, but I don't think that story will do you much good; there's no proof. That's all for today; you'll have to go to your cell. One has been prepared."
Edwin suddenly paled and began to tremble. "I-I can't! Please! You c-can't take me there! I can't stand locked spaces! I'll suffocate! Please! Don't make me go there!"
He clutched the arm of his chair. Blunt told himself it was an act. He allowed himself a moment's admiration for the boy's talent, before speaking to his subordinate.
"Striker," he said in a firm voice, "take him to his cell."
The latter nodded. He tried to take the suspect away, but Edwin kept ahold of the chair leg, his knuckles turning white. "Can't you see I'm innocent, Inspector? You can't do this to me! Please!"
He whispered the last word, looking intently into blunt and Striker's faces for any sign of leniency. Striker merely gave a grim smile and left the room.
Edwin gave up speaking. Blunt saw the terror in his eyes and a pang of doubt shot through him, but he pushed it aside. Striker soon returned with two other officers. Edwin released his hold on his chair and went with them meekly.
Blunt watched as they went out of the room and noted his prisoner's trembling. He ignored the uncertainty in his chest and tried to build an iron wall in his mind. If the boy was claustrophobic, then he should have thought of that before he decided to commit murder. Sighing and slumping back down, he began writing up his report.——————————————————————————————————————————————Meanwhile, in his cell, Edwin was rocking himself back and forth, hugging his knees as if they were his only comfort. The stone walls of the cell were closing in around him, dark shadows reached out, suffocating him. He banged on the wooden lid of the tight crate. But it wasn't a crate, it was a coffin. But wait... it couldn't be. No... no, it was an oak-paneled door. He prayed fervently that someone would open the coffin; unlock the lid and let him breathe. His head was pressed against the locked door. His cries for mercy turned to sobs, then slowly faded away into silence.