“I don’t think we are, but I thought I ought to tell you.”
“Yes.” Scoresby agreed unenthusiastically and began to think. His knowledge of London was not very great, and he was not quite sure how far apart the Gaiety Theatre and Chancery Lane were. He had a hazy notion that the distance was rather long for there to be no bus stop, and he made a mental note that it was a point which ought to be cleared up, even though it was probably of little importance. Nor did he feel that the presence in London of the woman he wanted to see was anything very interesting. It showed that she was still in England on the previous day, but beyond that it told him nothing. She might be anywhere by now; she might even have left England. He might, of course, enlist the help of the passport authorities, but even if she were conjecturally identified, it would be difficult to detain her until the identification was sure; and if it proved to be wrong, the consequences might be most unpleasant.
Suddenly, however, his reverie was broken into by Lansley: “You know, sergeant, I am beginning to wonder whether I shan’t start an agitation to remove the conduct of this inquiry out of your hands into those of Scotland Yard. It’s most unpleasant for us all here until it is settled, since obviously we are all included in the suspects. In fact, if my engagement is finally broken off, I shall consider your dilatoriness to have been entirely responsible.”
“And what would you suggest that I should do?” The situation appealed to Scoresby’s sense of humour, while at the same time he was quite prepared to listen and hope that some sensible suggestion might emerge.
But Lansley’s criticism was unfortunately mainly destructive. “It’s not for me to teach you your business, but it does seem to me that you haven’t got enough organisation behind you, and that several possible lines of investigation are being entirely neglected.”
“For instance?”
“I must say that I think you are not prosecuting the inquiries suggested by this list of car owners sufficiently vigorously, or rather that the other police forces of the country are not doing so. If Scotland Yard were in charge, they would have booted them into activity long ago, but you haven’t got enough weight behind you to do so. That’s one thing. Then there are the bloodstains on Salter’s shirt.”
“Bloodstains?”
“Yes. Considering the amount that Yeldham bled, it’s very remarkable that there weren’t more somewhere. Whoever did do the killing must have been especially careful, and even so a bit lucky. However, the only blood on anybody was on Salter.”
“He gave an explanation of it.”
“Which was entirely satisfactory to you?”
“Which I could not disprove, and which was to some extent confirmed by my own eyesight and by a third party.” Even to himself it sounded tame, but Scoresby was not going to tell Lansley that Salter had simply said that he had been shaving. It sounded too obvious, even if Yeldham’s housemaid had substantiated it as far as could be expected. As for the traces of the cut he had seen, it might have occurred at any time.
“Was it?” said Lansley, slightly sarcastically. “I suppose you had the shirt analysed and know whether the blood was or was not of the same group as that of Yeldham?”
“That sort of thing occurs more often in books than in practice.”
“Then I gather that you didn’t, and I do suggest that that was a serious omission on your part. Then you come here, not really to produce this list of cars to me, because obviously if I did know anything, I should be wanting to suppress it—”
“I don’t agree with that. You might know one of those names and be entirely innocent.”
Lansley thought a moment and then conceded the point. “But, anyhow,” he went on, “your real object was to find out more about me, and when I taxed you with it, you wisely admitted it, but you accepted what I said without any cross-questioning. It happens to be true, but it seems to me to be a good example of how you accept things without investigation.”
“So far as you are concerned, that is an omission easily corrected, and, for all you know, I may have been intending to do so. Actually, there are several questions that I am going to ask you, but I prefer to think things over before I act. I shall want to know the name of that firm in the East End of London, for one thing.”
“Good—you shall have it, and I’m glad to hear you do think. But my whole complaint is that you go so slowly. Quite a long while has elapsed, and so far as I know, you haven’t come to any decision, really; you have not found the weapon; you haven’t even decided exactly when Yeldham died; you go on employing Reeves, whom you might reasonably suspect, and who certainly is the village idiot, and apparently you haven’t eliminated anyone.”
“No, sir? Aren’t you making rather a lot of assumptions, and isn’t it just possible that it may be wiser to think before you act, even before you speak?”
“Meaning that I am not thinking before I speak?”
“Put on any cap that fits you, by all means, sir. But I said no such thing. If you come to think of it,”—Scoresby suddenly broke out laughing—“there is something comic in you telling me off like this. It’s original, at any rate.”
“Well, it mayn’t be funny for long, and my relations with Miss Hands are no laughing matter. I’ve had a nasty knock there.”
As Scoresby went away, he heartily agreed that the situation might soon cease to have any vestige of humour. Somebody, if not necessarily Lansley, would be complaining shortly, and not much more time could be allowed to pass. Still, he was beginning to see some rather interesting lines of action opening up.
15
Wanted—A Solicitor
Maud Westbury looked round New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, and decided that it was very beautiful and most unexpected. To her mind, it was entirely wrong that dull, stupid people such as lawyers should live in fine Georgian houses with a large garden with trees and flowers in it. It was true that they spoilt it as much as possible by parking their cars all round it, so that the flowers were hardly visible, and that at the north-west corner they had built an absolutely revolting building which not even a herbaceous border in front could quite relieve, but the fact remained that this square was charming, and she thought that they ought to live in a slum.
In fact, she had believed that they lived in the less pleasant atmosphere of Chancery Lane, and it was only accident and a lack of decision which had led her to where she was. Not that her expectations of the habits of the legal profession were based on any real experience. She had been left an orphan before she became of age, and Yeldham and his solicitors had done what was necessary for her. Who the solicitors were, she had no notion, nor, if she had, would she have gone to them, being particularly anxious not to have too many questions asked of her by persons who, for all she knew, might be hand in glove with the police. She had been under twenty-one when she had gone to live abroad with a family which Yeldham had thought to be entirely trustworthy. What Yeldham had never known was that she had quarrelled with them almost at once, and that she had then firmly moulded her own life according to her own tastes.
So far as looking after herself in France was concerned, she was perfectly capable, even to the extent of seeing that letters were forwarded and that the unsuspecting Yeldham never heard of her move. Consequently she saw no reason why she should not be able to get along in England. After all, she was doing nothing wrong in finding out what was the law of the land. Presumably, she thought, one was allowed to know it, and although no doubt the lawyers kept up a great mystery about it, that was only so that they might charge you for telling you.
But for the immediate moment the only question was to find a solicitor. There seemed to be a great number of names written up in every doorway. On a chance she plunged into the nearest doorway and knocked on a door and continued to knock until eventually it was opened to her. The man inside looked at her without the slightest pleasure; if anything, he looked a trifle alarmed. “Yes?” he said tentatively, making it quite impossible for her to slip past him.
&nbs
p; The attitude and expression were not lost on her. “Don’t look like that,” she said. “I’m not going to blackmail you.”
As it had been exactly what the man was thinking, he unfortunately coloured a bit. “You won’t get a chance,” he replied firmly. “But what do you want?”
“I want to consult a solicitor.”
“Then why come to me?”
“I thought—”
“I am a barrister, madam.”
“Oh, yes. That’s different, isn’t it? Well, could you tell me the address of a really reliable solicitor?”
“Certainly I could not. Clients are introduced to the bar through solicitors. It would be most improper for it to be done the other way round. At least, I should imagine so. It’s a proposal that I have never heard put forward before. Good day, madam.” With that the representative of the outraged dignity of the senior branch of the legal profession closed the door firmly, adding under his breath: “Nor will I take you out to lunch. If that happens again I shall complain to the authorities of the Inn. We don’t exercise our rights of exclusion from its precincts anywhere near enough.”
Outside, Maud Westbury, perfectly aware of the impression she had made upon him, was half-way between laughter and anger. “I’m sorry,” she thought, “that I look like that. Still, I suppose it’s a compliment in a way, even if it is one in very bad taste.” “Here, you!” She hailed a figure clad, as she rightly thought, as a porter of the Inn, whom she saw a little way off. The man took no notice, but proceeded quickly towards a small building whose architecture was in the worst possible style of alternate slabs of red and blue brick, but which did look like the porter’s lodge.
But he was not allowed to escape. Proceeding by means of a swift, if highly undignified, trot, Maud Westbury caught him up, intercepted him, and firmly asked to be told the name and address of the nearest respectable solicitor.
“Respectable?” the man queried. Obviously it was the last qualification which he expected she would require.
“Yes. Get a jerk on.”
“All the solicitors in the Inn is respectable.”
“You’re telling me. Well, which is the nearest?”
The man stared at her with rather goggle eyes. Was there, he wondered, any chance of getting half a crown out of her, or of getting something in the way of an introductory commission? He sighed. She didn’t look good for half a crown, and he didn’t fancy his chances with anyone who lived in the square. Most of them wouldn’t thank him for introducing such a client, he thought.
“Which is the nearest? Hurry up, my good man.”
“Twistleton’s the most respectable. And he ain’t gone out to lunch. Not yet he ain’t on holiday, as most of them is. You’ll find his name up there.” He pointed to a door some distance off and vanished as quickly as possible. He didn’t altogether like being seen talking to a piece like that, he didn’t, and though the square was pretty empty now, some of the gentlemen would be coming out to lunch soon.
The offices of Mr Twistleton proved to be more easy of ingress than those of the barrister into whom she had blundered, perhaps because a firm of solicitors is used to being sought out by the lay world, whereas the bar expects those who wish to see one of their number to know enough to approach them through their clerk. Anyhow, they placed their visitor in a peculiarly dreary waiting-room, offered the choice of the Law Times and the Financial News and left her alone.
Mr Twistleton, when informed that an entirely strange woman wished to see him, did not pretend to be pleased. At the age of just over seventy, he did not want to be worried with new clients, even if they were properly introduced to him. And this one was not. “Don’t like stray cats,” he said. “Had one before, and she let us in for fifteen shillings expenses for getting copies of documents, and then decamped when we asked for a deposit before thinking of starting an action which wouldn’t have had any merits in it at all, in my belief. Tell her I’ve gone out to lunch.”
Unfortunately, Maud Westbury was no lady. “I don’t believe it,” she said firmly. “In fact, I know it’s a lie, and I’m tired of tramping round looking for someone who can answer a simple question. Tell him I shall stand in his doorway and scream when I see him if he doesn’t give me five minutes.” To the horror of Mr Twistleton’s very elderly clerk, she sat down, crossed her legs and produced a powder-puff.
The message was duly delivered. “Nasty-looking customer,” the clerk commented. “Might make a bit of trouble. If you’ll take my advice, sir, you’ll see her and get rid of her quickly.”
“H’m. What’s she look like?”
“Flighty bit. Made up. Fair and fluffy. Trying to look younger than she is. Been through it a bit, I should say. Not quite English.”
“Not English? Might account for the way she does things. Don’t want to let a foreigner down. I’ll give her five minutes. But tell her no more than five.” The clerk went away to fetch her, convinced in his own mind that “the old man” wanted to see what the “flighty bit” looked like.
“Sit down, Miss—Miss—?”
“Smith.”
“Hadn’t we better have the real name?”
“No. My name is of no importance. I want to be told what is the law.”
“H’m. No harm in that, but otherwise the proceeding is irregular—highly irregular. We prefer to have our clients properly introduced to us. However—tell me what it is you want. But understand, I reserve to myself the right of deciding whether to act for you or not. My clerk says he thinks you come from abroad, which perhaps explains—”
“My appearance?”
“No. Your lack of a solicitor of your own.”
“It does. For once your clerk has made a good guess. I am English by birth and parentage, but for some years I have been living in the south of France.
“While there I—I made a friend who—” She plunged into a short account of what was troubling her. It was not a particularly interesting story to Twistleton, but it did make him feel a little more sympathetic to her—for, of course, he instantly decided that the existence of the “friend” was entirely fictional. It did also happen to contain a point of law which he had to look up in the relevant statute, and the answer to which surprised him mildly. The problem would have interested Sergeant Scoresby very much more, for it dealt with the same subject as one of the pages which bore the imprint of Yeldham’s fingerprints, and which Scoresby had noted down as marriage of young people, bankruptcy, sale of realty, income tax and foreign domicile, and ancient lights.
However, it was not a difficult point, and it was one to which Twistleton was able to give a definite answer, which the so-called “Miss Smith” had to admit was something. It was not apparently exactly the answer which she wanted, nor did she like having to pay Twistleton’s fee. Still, she did so without making too obvious her dislike of either, and started to go. But at the door she stopped and turned back. “By the by,” she said, “will you answer me one more question and this time not charge me?”
“Perhaps,” Twistleton grinned. He had rather enjoyed her conversation, and the five minutes which he had allotted her had lengthened themselves to ten or fifteen. “What is it?”
“Tell me the name of a respectable dentist, would you?”
“I’ll tell you my own—dentist, not name, Miss—do we still say Smith?” Apparently they did, but still a few minutes later the old boy was making his way down to Fleet Street chuckling quite openly. It would be quite an amusing story to tell at the club. It was only when he got there that he remembered that that institution was closed during that period of August, and he was thus deprived of the certainty of an audience. Still, it would keep.
16
Salter’s Assistance
“We’re in luck, Angela!” The tall uncouth figure of Salter stepped out of a car half-way up Trevenant Hill and pointed to Reeves.
“Good morning, sir.” Reeves’s tone showed a complete lack of enthusiasm. His opinion of Salter, based on past experiences, was that
he was not a helpful man.
“And why are we in luck?” The middle-aged lady who apparently answered to the name of Angela joined Salter in the road and gazed in a puzzled way first at him, then at the constable, and then at the hedge at which he was apparently looking. It did not seem to her to be a very interesting hedge, nor, though she thought that Reeves looked a nice boy, did she consider that his appearance warranted the presumption that he was either intelligent or interesting.
“Why? Because chance has led to the centre of the spider’s web, to the great man’s first assistant satellite himself.”
“You will have your little joke, sir,” Reeves put in. “But if it’s all the same to you—”
“It’s not all the same, by no means. You see, my friend’s extremely vulgar curiosity has forced me to come over here with her to see the spot where I committed a murder—”
“Did you?” Reeves asked quietly.
“Don’t interrupt. I might have been making a confession, for all you know. Where I committed a murder in the temporary and rapidly disillusioned opinion of the police, and directly I come back here to go over my tracks again—my late colleague would have had a neat Latin quotation for it featuring footsteps being retraced, or the impossibility of doing so—I find you. Consequently, it will no doubt be perfectly simple for me to go round Y Bryn.”
“It’s no good asking me, sir. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Not? This, Angela, I must tell you, is definitely Exhibit Number One—the constable what found the body; but then, forgetting his clichés, failed to have the police rushed to the spot. Thereby he became the cause of allowing the material witness to escape. Once more a correct quotation about the bird of time having but a little while to flutter would be apposite, if it were definitely memorable in any accurate form.”
And Death Came Too Page 13