Death Came Softly

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “Well, I can’t afford to be lazy, so I’d better get a move on,” said Macdonald, and she nodded.

  “That’s as you like. If it’s a matter of his owing you money, I wouldn’t be too hopeful. All these bits and pieces is Miss Grale’s.”

  Macdonald laughed to himself as he walked away from the studio. He had met many charwomen in the course of his career, but seldom one so forthright as Mrs. Briggs.

  * * *

  From Camden Town Macdonald made his way to Jermyn Street, where Bruce Rhodian had his chambers. Rhodian was out, but Macdonald was admitted by a dark, lithe fellow, whose accent and tailoring were both noticeably transatlantic. Macdonald gave an official card, and stated quite simply that he wanted to make some inquiries. “Okay,” returned the other. “My name’s Belton—John K. Belton. Come right in. Take a seat. Now what is it you want to know?”

  The answers to Macdonald’s carefully phrased questions were promptly given. Rhodian had arrived at his chambers on the Wednesday of the professor’s death at two-thirty in the afternoon. An appointment had been made for him to meet Walter Schofield, of Daumont Films, at three o’clock, the latter having undertaken to come to Rhodian’s rooms to discuss various points with him. Schofield, however, had not turned up, and Rhodian had spent an hour telephoning, trying to run him to earth, eventually finding him at the Elstree Studios. Schofield, in excuse, said that he had mistaken the day on which he had made the appointment.

  “Make me see red, these big film guys,” said Belton. “They reckon they own the earth, and no one else has any business to exist. One thing about Rhodian, he never loses his wool. He’d keep his temper in hell. He just said, well, no matter. Not my fault, and tomorrow’s as good as today. We wasted the afternoon at a durned silly show at the Regent Street Plaza, by way of improving our education in film technique. Ever had any dealings with the flick racket?”

  “Never,” replied Macdonald, and Belton said:

  “Lucky for you. They’re a lousy crowd. If it weren’t that there’s money in it, I’d never go near a studio. Still, this Rhodian picture’s going to be good stuff. Schofield talked about it for hours, and he reckons it’ll be booked by the libraries for months as soon as it’s released.”

  “It seems a pity that Mr. Rhodian won’t be there when it’s first shown.”

  “Think so? He doesn’t. He’d rather swim a river full of crocodiles than get up in front of a screen and make a speech. Talking about swimming, a durned funny thing happened that Wednesday evening you’re talking about. It was a blistering hot day in town—guess you remember, for it was the hottest day we’d had this year—and Rhodian and I thought we’d enjoy a swim. We took a taxi and went out Hampton Court way in the evening, and bathed in the river. We’re both useful swimmers—reckon Bruce Rhodian could swim the Channel if he tried—but he nearly finished his promising career that evening. He got cramp, the devil knows why, and if I hadn’t been there to paddle him in, he’d have drowned in mid-stream in your funny li’l bit of a river. I tell you I laughed till I nearly drowned myself—Bruce Rhodian drowning in a trickle of water like your historic Thames. He’s swum some rivers which could submerge the whole of this city. However, dame fortune didn’t mean it quite like that, and I fished him out.”

  “I’ve heard of strong swimmers being seized by cramp often enough,” said Macdonald. “I believe it’s true to say that a strong swimmer is more liable to death by drowning than a man who can’t swim at all, because the former takes risks and the latter avoids them.”

  “Sure. That makes sense to me. Folks with weak hearts outlive great athletes, because the poor crocks spend their lives nursing themselves. Personally I’d as soon pop off and done with it as crawl round half dead.”

  “I suppose it depends on a man’s character; some enjoy taking risks, others enjoy caution,” replied Macdonald. “The physiologists would probably say that the character is the product of the glands, and daring depends on the quantities of thyroid and adrenalin available.”

  Belton chuckled, studying Macdonald through his enormous horn-rimmed glasses.

  “I’ve heard some of that dope handed out by lecturers,” he replied. “There’s no stock taken in original sin these days, and crime boils down to inadequate endocrine. Seems to me the cops and G-men ought to go round armed with hypodermics and a few bottles and glandular secretions and put society right that way.”

  “It’s not quite so easy as all that, I imagine,” replied Macdonald, and the other boomed back in his deep nasal twang.

  “No, sir. You’ve said it. A chemist may regard a man as a complex of chemical compounds, but there’s something he can’t quite fix in his little test tubes. Hitler’s an example. It’d take a darned lot of glandular secretions to turn that guy into a pure hundred per cent altruist.”

  And Macdonald agreed with him.

  * * *

  Crossing Piccadilly Circus after he had left Jermyn Street, Macdonald met a colleague from his own department—Inspector Jenkins. The latter was a stout, cheerful soul, and during their long association Macdonald and Jenkins had become fast friends.

  “Well, chief, how’s business?” inquired Jenkins, with a twinkle in his benevolent blue eyes.

  “Not too bad. I’m having a pleasant day,” replied Macdonald. “The world seems full of amiable people, all willing to oblige. I’ve met some conversationalists who would have given you real pleasure, including one charlady with latitudinarian views about living in sin, and a liking for a rolling pin as a corrective to laziness in poets, painters and others.”

  “When it comes to conversation, I’ll back you to talk most people out when you get going,” said Jenkins. “I always regret I wasn’t sent to school in Scotland when I hear your vocabulary. I hear you’ve got some of our photographic staff on the streets.”

  “Yes. A good likeness always comes in handy. Any luck in the fingerprint section? I may not have time to drop in again, so walk along with me for a bit.”

  Jenkins fell into step beside the chief inspector.

  “No. Your fingerprints were a washout. Not known in our records. However, I’m persevering. Out for good works this time. Missions to seamen. It’s a grand cause, if you feel like sparing a copper.”

  Macdonald laughed, following the cryptic allusion.

  “Excellent cause; excellent idea. I’ll subscribe if anything materializes. What about Hatton Garden?”

  “All correct. Burmese diamond—I’ve got the weight and technical description. Identical with that sold to Professor Crewdon in December, 1939. Value has appreciated about ten per cent in the interim.”

  “Good. For a leisurely looking fellow you get a lot of work done. I’m going on to the University and Archeologists’ Club in Bloomsbury, just as a change from charladies and Jermyn Street.”

  “Bracketed?” inquired Jenkins with a twinkle. “I never did like Jermyn Street myself, but it’s not all the novelists make out. I’d give a lot to hear you doing your stuff at this club you’re going to. The conversation ought to be very high hat. Not that I want to join in. I expect I shall fetch up in Wapping or Rotherhithe this evening.”

  “Good luck to you. I shall catch the five-thirty from Paddington to Enster if I can. I’ll put through a call to C.O. some time during the night.”

  “Good oh, as the diggers say. I’ll remember to ask you for that subscription later.”

  Macdonald made his way to the club he had mentioned to Jenkins; it was close to the British Museum extension, a dark, lofty building whose windows had all been blown out months ago, so that the facade had a blind appearance. He inquired for Professor Watlington and after a few minutes was led up to a dreary little room at the back of the building, where a pane of “window-lite” allowed a melancholy light to enter the melancholy room. Dr. Watlington—whose erudition and acquirements Macdonald had learned from a reference book—was a tall, bald-headed man of sixty, sparely built, vigorous looking, and altogether younger looking than Macdonald had expected.


  “Chief Inspector Macdonald? I’m very interested to meet you. I heard of you from Dr. Surray, and I think Matheson met you when he gave expert evidence in that Ealing case. I was sorry to hear about Crewdon’s death. He was a charming fellow, a great friend of mine, and one of the most widely informed men in this club—and that is saying a good deal, you know. We run to information here, as other clubs run to famous names or a celebrated cellar.”

  “So I supposed, sir,” replied Macdonald. “I expect that you know the actual facts about Professor Crewdon’s death. Would you give me your opinion on this point—is there any likelihood that he could have been unacquainted with the fact that burning charcoal gives off carbon monoxide?”

  “None whatever. Crewdon knew all about charcoal and carbon monoxide. His subject, as you know, was anthropology, but he knew considerably more than the rudiments of natural science. He could hold his own in a discussion with the bio-chemists—the subject interested him. You can dismiss any idea that his death was caused either by ignorance of the by-products of burning charcoal, or by carelessness in dealing with it. Either explanation is equally erroneous.”

  “Do you think that suicide could be considered as a reasonable explanation?” asked Macdonald, but the other shook his bald head vigorously.

  “I do not. Crewdon was a very happy and contented man. He had a young mind, in the sense that his intelligence was still as vigorous as ever, his curiosity unabated. No man who is as interested as Crewdon was in the problems of life and living would ever commit suicide. Why should he? Crewdon sometimes reminded me of Browning’s Grammarian in his avidity for learning. ‘Before living, he’d learn how to live, no end to learning.’ If he had a regret in the world, it was that he could not hope to live long enough to see the results of certain research which is being carried on now.”

  “Then, having dismissed accident and suicide as possible causes of death, there remains one explanation only—murder.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector. I am afraid that you are right, though it is incredible to me that any man should have wished to murder him. I would more easily believe that he was killed by mistake, the murderer mistaking his victim.”

  “I can’t state that that is an impossibility, sir, but I do consider it mighty improbable. The only person ever known to have slept in the cave was the professor, and the method used presupposed the presence of the victim in the cave for some time, also the fact that the victim should sleep there. To the best of my belief, had the professor not slept, he would have discovered what was being planned. However, I should not be justified in taking up your time with my own suppositions. I am here to ask your help.”

  Dr. Watlington smiled. “Very correct, Chief Inspector, but very disappointing for me. Every man jack of us is interested in detection, and an exposition of your views would be of great interest to me. However, in what way can I help you?”

  “First, do you know anything about Mr. Roland Keston?”

  “Keston? I know him, of course; have known him for years. He is an able and conscientious worker, but lacking in originality. He worked well under direction, but has not the initiative to plan out original work. I have always been rather sorry for Keston, as was Crewdon himself. Keston is one of the world’s lonely fellows.”

  “I wish you would tell me as much as you can about him.”

  “I had my information from Crewdon, of course. He has known Keston since he was a boy. He was the only son of a small London tradesman. He won scholarships by his sheer ability, and went from the City Scrivener’s School to Oxford, maintaining himself on scholarships and exhibitions—a typical poor scholar, industrious and conscientious. He took a second class Arts degree, and then from 1914 to 1918 was in the infantry. He was gassed, and suffered from shell shock and was in hospital for a very long period. I think there was also some melancholy story of a fiancée who jilted him to marry another man. Keston had a librarian’s job in a provincial city for some years, until about 1928 or 1930, I think, when Crewdon came across him, and remembered him from Oxford days. Thereafter Crewdon employed him, and found him a valuable and conscientious collaborator. The only other thing that I know about Keston is that he has no relations in the world, or none that he knows of. He is devoted to Crewdon, and devoted also, I believe, to Mrs. Merrion.”

  Dr. Watlington ceased speaking and studied Macdonald’s face with alert, interested eyes.

  “It is not my province to ask questions, Chief Inspector, but it is natural to assume that there is a reason behind your inquiry concerning Keston. Inevitably you must suspect all those in contact with your case. I can only give you my opinion that I am convinced that Keston had no hand in this infamous crime. Natural affection, gratitude and self-interest would all have led him to hope that Crewdon would continue to live, and continue to employ him for many years. Now, on Crewdon’s death, Keston becomes unemployed, and his talents are not easily marketable. He loses a comfortable home, a considerate employer, a kindly friend and congenial work at one stroke.”

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. I had realized all those points, sir. The fact that I make detailed inquiries concerning everybody who was at Valehead at the time of the professor’s death does not of necessity mean that I suspect them all. Such facts have to be tabulated in all these cases. It is also customary to find out as accurately as possible where all contacts were at a given time. In Mr. Keston’s case this is not possible. He was out for several hours on the night of the professor’s death, searching for someone who was benighted in a mist on the moors.”

  “For whom was he searching?”

  “A man named Lockersley, a guest of Mrs. Merrion’s.”

  “Ah. David Lockersley. One of our modern poets.”

  Macdonald smiled and then went on, “Another point on which you could help me, sir. The professor came to London to deliver a lecture. He was also, I understand, anxious to see an old friend, Professor Evans.”

  “Certainly. They both stayed here in his club. Evans and Crewdon were lifelong friends.”

  “Did you see anything of them while they were here?”

  “I passed the time of day with both, though I did not have any long conversation with them.”

  “I am interested in this point, sir. The professor had said that he was returning to Valehead on the Thursday, and he had made all arrangements to that effect, such as reserving his room here; apparently he altered his arrangements quite suddenly, and decided to go back to Valehead on the Wednesday, though from what I can gather about him it was unlike him hurriedly to alter previously made arrangements. I can get hold of no reason which caused him to change his plans. I wondered if any of his friends here, or Professor Evans, could throw any light on the matter.”

  “I cannot help you myself, Chief Inspector, but I can add an iota of information. Crewdon was to have dined with Barnes on the Wednesday evening. Barnes is a Cambridge man, an archeologist who has done some excavations in Peru. I know Barnes was very anxious to see Crewdon and considerably put out when the latter telephoned to say that urgent business was taking him back to Devon. The nature of that business Crewdon did not divulge in his call to Barnes.”

  “Perhaps we have hit on the crux of the matter, sir,” said Macdonald. “I wonder if you can help me to get the facts more exact. Professor Crewdon came up to town on the Wednesday preceding his death—”

  “Yes, and he saw Barnes on the Thursday evening. That I know, for I was in the entrance hall when they met. Barnes was just going back to Cambridge, but he was returning to London on the following Wednesday morning, and he asked Crewdon to dine with him on the Wednesday evening. On the evening before their appointment, on the Tuesday, Crewdon ran up to say that he was very sorry that he must defer their meeting, as he had to return to Valehead immediately.”

  “That is a very interesting point, sir. Everyone who knew Professor Crewdon has stressed that he was the most courteous and considerate of men—”

  “So he was. So he was. Crewdon was punct
ilious to a degree, the last man to break an appointment without due reason,” exclaimed Watlington.

  Macdonald continued, “Had the professor known earlier that he would not be in town on the Wednesday, he would have let Mr. Barnes know at once. Surely it seems as though something must have happened on the Tuesday evening which caused him to alter his plans.”

  “Very sound, Chief Inspector. I think your argument a good one. On the Tuesday evening Crewdon dined here with Evans. A pity, a pity . . . Evans has left for the States. He might have enlightened you on this matter.”

  “Can you help me to get into touch with Professor Evans, sir? I could cable him and arrange for a conversation on the transatlantic telephone.”

  “Cable to his club in New York. I can give you that address. The club will know Evans’ whereabouts. It is a possibility, Chief Inspector. A distinct possibility.”

  * * *

  When Macdonald had left the club, Professor Watlington went back to the vast, rather gloomy looking reading room. Only one member was in that room at the moment, and he was apparently fast asleep, sitting bolt upright in one of the black leather armchairs which had been designed for larger men than the present occupant. He was a thin, stringy little man, with a bald head like a dome and a prominent Adam’s apple. Watlington walked vigorously across the room.

  “Hi, James! Wake up!”

  “I am not asleep,” replied the other in tones of reproof. “I was meditating. I might remind you that members are requested to be silent in this room.”