Death in the Stocks: Merely Murder

by Georgette Heyer

  Violet got up, smoothing her skirt. ‘Of course you can’t talk with Mr Mesurier and me here,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s time I went home. I’ve got a long day to-morrow. Kenneth, promise me you’ll stop being silly, and tell Mr Carrington everything. You know perfectly well you didn’t do it, and anyone would think you had, from the way you go on.’

  ‘Yes, you all three ought to talk it over,’ agreed Mesurier. ‘Can I see you home, Miss Williams?’

  Violet accepted this offer with one of her demure smiles, and in spite of Kenneth’s loud and indignant protests the pair insisted on taking their leave. Murgatroyd came in to clear away the glasses when they had gone, and interrupted Kenneth, who was cursing his cousin for breaking up the party, by saying: ‘That’s enough from you, Master Kenneth. You listen to what Mr Giles has to say, and keep a still tongue in your head. And if you want anything I’ll be in the kitchen.’

  She went out, and they heard her go into the kitchen and shut the door. Kenneth sat down again on the divan, and leaned his elbows on his knees. ‘I’m sick of this murder already,’ he said. ‘They’ll never find out who did it, so why worry?’

  Giles took out his pipe, and began to fill it. ‘Get this into your head,’ he said. ‘If the police don’t discover any clue to the identity of the murderer your position’s going to be serious.’

  Kenneth looked up. ‘Why? I thought Tony was the chief suspect.’

  ‘What do you suppose is the first thing the police will look for?’ Giles said. ‘Motive. Tony’s motive is merely one of revenge, of spite, or whatever you like to call it. Your motive is a good deal stronger. You’re hard up, you tried to get money out of Arnold, and by his death you inherit a large fortune.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t think of that for quite some time after Tony had told me Arnold was dead. Did I, Tony?’

  ‘I doubt whether that would impress a jury,’ said Giles. ‘What were you doing last night?’

  ‘I went to look Violet up.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Not sure. Half-past eightish. Murgatroyd was out, and Tony seemed to have waltzed off for the night, so I wandered out on my own.’

  ‘Did you go to Miss Williams’ house?’

  ‘Flat. Yes, but she was out. No one answered the bell, so I drifted along to some cinema or other. No, I don’t know which one it was and I don’t know what the film was called, because I went in after it had started, and it was so dull I slept through most of it.’

  ‘Well, what did you do when you left the cinema?’

  ‘Went for a walk,’ replied Kenneth.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Richmond.’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’ said Giles, patient but despairing.

  ‘Why not?’ retorted Kenneth. ‘It was a fine night, and very warm, and I’d had a nice nap in the cinema. It seemed an obvious thing to do.’

  ‘Did it!’ said Giles.

  ‘But he does go for walks at night, Giles!’ Antonia put in anxiously. ‘We both do, when it’s too hot to go to bed.’

  Giles sighed. ‘When did you get home?’

  ‘Oh, somewhere about three or four, I suppose. I didn’t notice the time.’

  ‘And you can’t think of anyone who saw you come in or out of the cinema, or on your way to Richmond, and who would be able to recognise you? Didn’t you meet a policeman?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. One or two cars passed, but I don’t remember meeting anyone.’

  ‘In fact, not one word of this story can you prove,’ said Giles.

  ‘No,’ replied Kenneth blandly, ‘and not one word of it can the police disprove.’

  Six

  Giles’s car drew up outside Arnold Vereker’s house in Eaton Place just as Superintendent Hannasyde ascended the stone steps. The Superintendent turned, and when he saw Giles get out of the car, smiled, and said: ‘Good-morning, Mr Carrington. You’re very punctual.’

  ‘It saves trouble, don’t you think?’ said Giles. ‘Have you rung?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Hannasyde, pressing the electric button.

  The door was opened almost immediately by a thin butler who had a sour expression and looked as though he suffered from dyspepsia. His gaze swept the Superintendent by, and came to rest on Giles. He gave a slight bow, and opened the door wider.

  ‘’Morning, Taylor,’ Giles said. ‘Superintendent Hannasyde and I want to go through Mr Vereker’s papers.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ The butler eyed Hannasyde for one disapproving minute. ‘The library is locked, as the Superintendent left it yesterday, I understand.’

  It was plain that the butler had no opinion of policemen who walked into well-ordered houses, and locked up rooms as they pleased.

  ‘A bad business about Mr Vereker,’ Giles said, handing him his hat and gloves.

  ‘Extremely distasteful, sir.’

  ‘I should like to have a word with you, please,’ said Hannasyde, taking a key out of his pocket, and fitting it into the lock of a door on the right of the front door.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ said Taylor, frigidly. ‘I regret having been out when you called yesterday, but Sunday is my Day.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Come in here, will you? Mr Carrington, will you take these?’ He held out a collection of keys on a ring, which Giles took, while the butler walked over to the window and drew back the curtains.

  The library had the same air of conscious opulence that pervaded every room in Arnold Vereker’s house. It had expensive leather chairs, and expensive sets of calf-bound volumes in oak bookshelves. There was a very thick pile carpet, and a very richly carved desk. Everything spoke aloud the unguided taste of a high-class firm of decorators; nothing gave any indication of the owner’s personality.

  Hannasyde waited until Taylor had arranged the curtains to his satisfaction, and then asked: ‘How long have you been in Mr Vereker’s employment?’

  ‘I have been here for three years, sir,’ replied Taylor, in a voice that informed the Superintendent that that was a record.

  ‘Then you are probably acquainted with Mr Vereker’s habits. Was it his custom to spend the week-ends at his country cottage?’

  ‘He occasionally did so, sir.’

  ‘And when he did was it usual for him to drive himself down, or did he take his chauffeur?’

  ‘Sometimes the one and sometimes the other, sir.’

  ‘Upon Saturday, when he left town, was the chauffeur with him?’

  ‘I believe not, sir. There had been a little unpleasantness.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Between Mr Vereker and Jackson, the chauffeur, sir. Mr Vereker gave Jackson his notice on Saturday morning, Jackson having brought the car round five minutes late again. There was a highly unpleasant scene upon the front-steps. I regret to say that Jackson so far forgot himself as to answer Mr Vereker back. It was quite a brawl, not what one would expect in a gentleman’s house at all. Jackson talked extremely wildly, Mr Vereker hardly less so. Both being hot-tempered, if I may say so.’

  ‘And when Mr Vereker left the house on Saturday evening, Jackson was not driving the car?’

  ‘No, sir. It was merely brought round to the door – Mr Vereker having stated that he did not wish to see Jackson’s face again.’

  ‘I see. At what hour did Mr Vereker leave this house?’

  ‘He left at ten minutes to eight, sir.’

  ‘You seem sure of that. What fixed the time in your memory?’

  ‘Mr Vereker himself, sir. He remarked on it. I understood him to have a dinner engagement. He was not – ahem – pleased at being detained.’

  ‘What detained him?’

  The butler drew in his breath, for this was the moment for which he had been waiting. ‘A visitor, sir.’

  ‘Who was this visitor?’

  ‘I could not say, sir. He was not a person I had ever seen before. In fact, I should not describe him as the type of gentleman I have been in the habit of admitting to the house. V
ery down-at-heel, he was, and most determined to see Mr Vereker. Upon my informing him that Mr Vereker was not at home, he set his foot in the door, and replied that he should not leave until he had seen him.’

  ‘Do you mean that his attitude was threatening?’

  The butler considered. ‘Hardly that, sir. Oh no, not threatening! Very affable, he was, in a silly kind of way. Stood there smiling. I formed the impression that he was under the influence of drink. I was about to summon Matthew – the footman, sir – to assist in putting him outside when Mr Vereker came down the stairs ready to go out.’

  ‘In evening-dress?’

  ‘Precisely, sir. Mr Vereker called out to know what was the matter. The stranger kept on smiling, in what I could only think a very peculiar way, under the circumstances, and after a moment he said, amiable as you please: “You’d better be at home to me, old fellow.” Those were his exact words, and the effect of them upon Mr Vereker was remarkable. Mr Vereker was a gentleman with a high complexion, but he turned quite pale, and stood there with his hand on the banister, staring.’

  ‘Did he seem to be afraid?’

  ‘I should not like to say that, sir. He looked to me to be very angry and amazed.’

  ‘Do you remember what he said?’

  ‘He did not speak at all, sir, until the stranger said that it would save a lot of unpleasantness if he had a few words with him alone. Then he gave a kind of choke, and told me to let the man in. I did so, of course, and Mr Vereker led the way into this room, and shut the door.’

  ‘How long were they both here?’

  ‘Until Mr Vereker left the house, sir, which he did in company with his visitor. It might have been twenty minutes, or half an hour.’

  ‘Have you any idea what took place between them? Was there any quarrel?’

  ‘I should not call it a quarrel, sir. I never heard the stranger’s voice raised once, though I could not help but hear Mr Vereker shouting occasionally. It is my belief that it was money the man wanted, for Mr Vereker said, “Not one penny do you get out of me!” several times.’

  ‘Did you hear him say anything else?’

  ‘Not a great deal, sir. The term scoundrel was frequently made use of, and Mr Vereker said once, very loudly: “So you think you can frighten me, do you?” But what the other man replied I don’t know, him speaking all the time in a soft voice. After a little while Mr Vereker seemed to calm down, and I was unable to catch what was said. But at ten minutes to eight they both came out of the library, and by the way Mr Vereker damned me for being in the hall to open the door for him I judged that something had happened to put him in a bad temper. The other man was as amiable as ever, and seemed to be laughing up his sleeve, to my way of thinking. He said Mr Vereker could give him a lift, and Mr Vereker threw him a look which quite startled me, accustomed as I was to his moods. I could see he hated the man, and it is my belief that he had a deal of trouble forcing himself to agree to take him in the car with him. But whatever the reason he did actually do so, the stranger making himself very much at home, and Mr Vereker with his mouth shut like a trap. That, sir, is the last I ever saw of Mr Vereker.’

  The Superintendent had listened to this story with an unmoved countenance. ‘Would you know the man if you were to see him again?’

  ‘I think so, sir. I should, I believe, recognise both his smile, and his voice. His person was not, however, in any way remarkable.’

  ‘Very well. You do not know of anyone else who may have visited Mr Vereker on Saturday?’

  ‘Mr Vereker was at his office until lunch-time, sir, and no one called at this house during the afternoon. He went out at four o’clock, and did not return until shortly before seven. Miss Vereker rang up at about six, but my orders being to inform anyone who wanted him that he had gone out of town, I did so.’

  ‘Do you know why Mr Vereker gave that order?’

  ‘It was not unusual, sir. He had been out of temper all day, and when that occurred he never wanted to see or speak to anyone, least of all a – a member of his family.’

  ‘I see. One other question: do you know what Mr Vereker’s plans were for Saturday evening?’

  ‘Oh no, sir! Mr Vereker was never communicative. I inferred from his attire that he was dining in town before motoring into the country, but where or in what company I fear I have no idea.’

  ‘Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer, then.’

  The butler bowed, and looked towards Giles. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but in the face of this unexpected occurrence there is a feeling amongst the staff that everything is very unsettled. I do not know whether the staff is to be kept on – ?’

  ‘That will be for the heir to decide,’ answered Giles pleasantly. ‘Meanwhile, just carry on as you are.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ said Taylor, and withdrew.

  Hannasyde waited until he had gone before saying: ‘What did you make of that, Mr Carrington?’

  ‘Not very much,’ shrugged Giles. ‘I daresay it might be a good thing if you could run the seedy stranger to earth, but it sounds to me as though it were a somewhat inexpert blackmailer at work. Would you like the safe opened first?’

  ‘Yes, please. And a certain amount of animus displayed against the chauffeur. Or merely protective measures?’

  ‘Probably a bit of both,’ said Giles, opening a very obvious door in the panelling beside the fireplace, and disclosing a steel safe. ‘Servants are always anxious to protect themselves against any possible accusation – even,’ he added bitterly, ‘when it’s only one of watering the whisky. Here you are.’

  The Superintendent moved across the room to his side, and together they went through the contents of the safe. There was nothing in it relevant to the case, only share-certificates, a bank-book, and some private papers. Giles put them back, when the Superintendent had finished with them, and shut the door again.

  ‘We’ll try the desk,’ he said, going over to it, and sitting down in the swivel-chair.

  ‘Did you bring the Will?’ asked Hannasyde.

  Giles drew it from his inner pocket, and handed it over. The Superintendent sat down on the other side of the desk, and spread open the crackling sheets, while Giles sought amongst the keys on the ring for one which fitted the drawers of the desk.

  The Superintendent read the Will, and at the end laid it carefully down, and said in his measured voice: ‘I see that the residuary legatees are Kenneth and Antonia Vereker, who share equally all that is left of Arnold Vereker’s fortune when the minor legacies have been paid.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Giles, glancing through a paper he had taken from one of the drawers. ‘That is so.’

  ‘Both of them, then, benefit very considerably by Arnold Vereker’s death?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, off-hand, how much Arnold’s private fortune amounted to. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of sixty thousand pounds.’

  The Superintendent looked at him. ‘What about his holding in the mine?’

  ‘That,’ said Giles, laying a sheaf of papers on one of the heaps he had made on the desk, ‘in default of male issue by Arnold, goes to Kenneth, under the terms of his father’s Will. I thought you’d want to see that, so I brought a copy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hannasyde, stretching out his hand for it. ‘I really am grateful. You’re saving me a lot of time, Mr Carrington.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Giles.

  The Superintendent read Geoffrey Vereker’s Will, knitting his brows over it.

  ‘This is a most extraordinary document,’ he remarked. ‘All that seems to be left to his other children is his private fortune – and even that is divided between the four of them. What’s the meaning of it, Mr Carrington?’

  ‘It isn’t as extraordinary as it appears,’ replied Giles. ‘The Shan Hills Mine was an obsession with my uncle. In his day it wasn’t the huge concern it is now. My uncle believed in it, and made a private company to work it. It was to be developed, and it was on no account to pass out of the fami
ly. So he left his holding to Arnold, with a reversion to Arnold’s eldest son, if any; and failing a son, to Roger and his heirs; or, in the event of Roger’s death without legitimate male issue, to Kenneth. The private fortune amounted to thirty-three thousand pounds, and was at that time the more substantial bequest. It was divided equally between the four children. But a few years after my uncle’s death, his belief in the potentialities of Shan Hills was justified by the discovery, on one of the leases, of a very rich deposit – a limestone replacement deposit, if you’re interested in technicalities. Arnold floated the mine as a public company – and you know pretty well how it stands today. Arnold’s holding probably represents about a quarter of a million.’

  ‘A very nice little packet to inherit,’ commented Hannasyde dryly.

  ‘Very nice,’ agreed Giles.

  There was a short pause. ‘Well, we’d better go through the desk,’ said Hannasyde. ‘Have you found anything that might have a bearing on the case?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Giles. He handed a diary across. ‘I hoped this might reveal his Saturday night engagement, but he’s merely crossed off Saturday and Sunday. I haven’t come across his cheque-book yet, by the way. Was it on him?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it,’ Hannasyde said, producing it. ‘I see he drew a cheque for a hundred pounds to self on Friday. At first glance rather a large sum to carry about with him, but he seems to have been in the habit of doing it.’

  ‘He was. He got rather a kick out of a fat wad in his pocket, I think.’

  ‘Lots do. What surprised me a little, though, was to find that he only had thirty pounds and some loose change on him when his body was discovered. Seventy pounds seems to be a lot to have spent in a couple of days, unless he paid some bills, of course.’

  Giles glanced through a pile of receipts. ‘Nothing here for that date. Might have bought a trinket for his latest fancy.’

  ‘Or the butler’s mysterious stranger might have relieved him of it,’ said Hannasyde thoughtfully. ‘I should like to meet this smiling stranger.’ He picked up a small letter-file, and began methodically to go through its contents. Most of the letters he merely glanced at, and put aside, but one held his attention for some moments. ‘H’m! I suppose you’ve seen this?’