Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstandingyoung fellow whose life had been crippled by heart troublefollowing rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, andexcelled in every game which did not throw too great a strainupon him. Summer and winter he went for his swim, and, as I ama swimmer myself, I have often joined him.
At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showedabove the edge of the cliff where the path ends. Then his wholefigure appeared at the top, staggering like a drunken man. Thenext instant he threw up his hands and, with a terrible cry, fellupon his face. Stackhurst and I rushed forward—it may have beenfifty yards—and turned him on his back. He was obviously dying.
Those glazed sunken eyes and dreadful livid cheeks could meannothing else. One glimmer of life came into his face for an instant,and he uttered two or three words with an eager air of warning.
They were slurred and indistinct, but to my ear the last of them,which burst in a shriek from his lips, were “the Lion’s Mane.” Itwas utterly irrelevant and unintelligible, and yet I could twist thesound into no other sense. Then he half raised himself from theground, threw his arms into the air, and fell forward on his side.
He was dead.
My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I,as may well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I hadneed, for it was speedily evident that we were in the presence ofan extraordinary case. The man was dressed only in his Burberryovercoat, his trousers, and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. Ashe fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply thrown roundhis shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it inamazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as though hehad been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrumentwith which this punishment had been inflicted was clearlyflexible, for the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders andribs. There was blood dripping down his chin, for he had bittenthrough his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn anddistorted face told how terrible that agony had been.
I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when ashadow fell across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by ourside. Murdoch was the mathematical coach at the establishment,a tall, dark, thin man, so taciturn and aloof that none can be saidto have been his friend. He seemed to live in some high, abstractregion of surds and conic sections, with little to connect him withordinary life. He was looked upon as an oddity by the students,and would have been their butt, but there was some strangeoutlandish blood in the man, which showed itself not only in hiscoal-black eyes and swarthy face but also in occasional outbreaksof temper, which could only be described as ferocious. On oneoccasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging to McPherson,he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the plateglasswindow, an action for which Stackhurst would certainly havegiven him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable teacher.
Such was the strange complex man who now appeared besideus. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him,though the incident of the dog may show that there was no greatsympathy between the dead man and himself.
“Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?”
“Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?”
“No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. Ihave come straight from The Gables. What can I do?”
“You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report thematter at once.”
Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded totake the matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy,remained by the body. My first task naturally was to note whowas on the beach. From the top of the path I could see the wholesweep of it, and it was absolutely deserted save that two or threedark figures could be seen far away moving towards the village ofFulworth. Having satisfied myself upon this point, I walked slowlydown the path. There was clay or soft marl mixed with the chalk,and every here and there I saw the same footstep, both ascendingand descending. No one else had gone down to the beach by thistrack that morning. At one place I observed the print of an openhand with the fingers towards the incline. This could only meanthat poor McPherson had fallen as he ascended. There wererounded depressions, too, which suggested that he had comedown upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the pathwas the considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At the sideof it McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock.
It was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, after all, he hadnever entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amidthe hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the printof his canvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. Thelatter fact proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though thetowel indicated that he had not actually done so.
And here was the problem clearly defined—as strange a one ashad ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach morethan a quarter of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followedhim from The Gables, so there could be no doubt about that.
