Henry said, “You must forgive me for raking up these sad memories, Sir Robert. It seems to me that it was very unkind of…whoever is playing this practical joke to mention Jean’s death. The other cases referred to are quite different.”
“Other cases?”
“Two other cases that seem to bear a resemblance to each other, but have nothing in common with this one.” Henry paused. “You’ve hinted at suicide, and the verdict was accident. There’s no possible suggestion of foul play?”
“Certainly not!” Sir Robert was shocked. “The only other person there was a child of six who couldn’t swim.”
“One more question, and I’m through,” said Henry. “Did anybody stand to gain financially by Jeannie’s death?”
“What an extraordinary—”
Apologetically, Henry said, “It’s because of the other cases. I just wondered—”
“Well, the answer is no. Oh, I believe her father, old Warfield, left her a bit of money that was to come to her when she was twenty-one. I suppose it went to Pamela, such as it was. We were all far too upset to worry about that sort of thing.”
“Of course,” said Henry.
There was a slightly awkward pause, which Emmy broke tactfully by saying, with a complete switch of subject, “You must be very happy about Barbara’s engagement.”
Sir Robert instantly became genial. “Indeed we are.” He beamed. “Peter is a most charming young man. You’ll meet him this evening. He shares Barbara’s love of horses. In fact, they’re out riding now.”
“I think I saw them from our bedroom,” Henry said.
“Very likely. But Peter’s not just your hunting-and-fishing type. Dear me, no. He did extremely well at Oxford, and is now completing his law studies. A remarkable blend of sportsman and intellectual. An ideal son-in-law.” Sir Robert glanced at his watch. “Four-fifteen. My wife has given up serving tea, I fear. It always used to be one of my favorite moments of the day. However, she finds that it bores the young people, and the older ones all seem to be watching their waistlines. So generally we assemble here for drinks at half past six. Perhaps you and Mrs. Tibbett would care for a stroll in the gardens before you change for dinner?”
It was a clear dismissal. Henry and Emmy agreed politely, and Sir Robert escorted them to the French windows, pointing out the yew walk and the way to the rose garden.
Out of earshot of the house, Emmy looked at Henry and said, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“D’you think you’ve got a murderer in the house?”
“No. I think I’ve got a rather cruel practical joker, whom I intend to deflate tomorrow, if I can. Meanwhile, I didn’t much like the sound of that ‘changing for dinner’ bit. If he thinks I’ve brought a dinner jacket, he’s mistaken.”
“Oh, surely he just meant—”
“My dark gray suit is the most he’s going to get,” said Henry.
Emmy said rather wistfully, “I could wear my long black skirt.”
“Wear what you like, darling.”
“I mean…changing for dinner is…well…”
“Is something that most women enjoy and most men detest,” said Henry, with a grin. “Anyhow, if there ever was a change-for-dinner house, this is it. So why don’t you wear your long skirt and that pink chiffon blouse thing?”
“Yes,” said Emmy. “I will.”
As it turned out, the Tibbetts found themselves quite correctly dressed when the company assembled at half past six. There were no dinner jackets or black ties, but Sir Robert had changed his tweeds for a dark suit, as had the other men in the party. The exception was a man who wore, with a certain air of defiance, black dress trousers, a maroon velvet smoking jacket, an elaborately pleated shirt, and a green bow tie. Henry realized that this must be Harold Vandike. As for the women, their attire varied from long skirts and shirts, like Emmy, to shorter but distinctly dressy creations that tended to float or shimmer. Lady Oppenshaw herself was in coffee-colored chiffon, with a huge sapphire brooch and a sapphire-and-diamond ring like a knuckleduster. As drinks were discreetly served by the chauffeur—now transformed into a white-coated bartender—the Tibbetts were invited to meet their fellow guests.
Henry studied each of them with interest. Myrtle was middle-aged, long-skirted, eminently respectable, with blue-rinsed hair. Barbara had blonde, fashionably frizzy hair, and wore a costume that seemed to have been influenced by both India and the Cossacks, and certainly came from a way-out London boutique—the sort of outfit that only the young and skeletal can get away with. Peter Turnberry, her fiancé, was as proper and as unmemorable as a handsome young man can be. Harry—the man Henry thought must be Vandike—was clearly aiming at the outrageous and only missing the bull’s-eye by an inch. He was dark, with a small goatee and satanic eyebrows. Fred, a large man in his forties, had a straggly brown beard and looked disheveled in spite of an obvious effort to smarten up. Henry guessed he missed his wife’s civilizing influence. Bill, dapper and correct, was a neat little man with small, deft, very white hands. Among this group were the creators of Miss Twinkley, Tex Lawrie, Superintendent Burrows, and the wide-eyed heroines of Elaine Summerfield’s works. Here also was the practical joker with the barbed wit. Henry was thoughtful as the company trooped into the candlelit dining room.
The conversation at the dinner table was lively but hardly remarkable. Sir Robert had made it clear that, owing to the anonymous circumstances of the club, the subject of literature in any form was taboo. So Barbara and Peter talked of horses, Fred and Harry described their day’s sailing—Harry with enthusiasm and Fred with a shuddering loathing. It had, he said, been his first experience of small sailing boats, and he fervently hoped that it would be his last.
Myrtle and Pamela talked of committees and charity events. Bill, who was sitting next to Emmy, was inclined to be silent and almost morose, until Emmy, trying desperately for a conversational opening, first of all complimented her hostess on the excellence of the dinner, and then revealed that she herself was an enthusiastic if not expert cook. Bill came to life at once, and soon he and Emmy were deep in the best way to make a hollandaise sauce and the superiority of fresh herbs over the dried variety.
Henry noticed that he and Sir Robert Oppenshaw were playing the same game: joining this or that conversation, inserting a remark or two, but basically listening. Judging. Summing up. He wondered how much Sir Robert knew about the practical joker.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ENTIRE PARTY, including Sir Robert and Lady Oppenshaw, who seated themselves unobtrusively at the back of the room, assembled next morning in the drawing room to listen to Henry’s talk on police procedure.
A semicircle of chairs had been arranged around a small Georgian table with a glass of water on it, which identified it as the speaker’s podium. Emmy sat at the farthest end of the semicircle, where she found herself joined by Peter Turnberry and Barbara Oppenshaw. Myrtle and Harry sat together, separated by an empty chair from Fred and Bill. Emmy could not help noticing the atmosphere of expectancy—of mischief almost—that ran like a string of Chinese firecrackers through the group. She sensed at once that it had not been a single joker but a concerted effort that had produced the crossword puzzle. She wished that she had time to convey this to Henry, but he was already standing at the table, sorting out what looked like notes, although Emmy knew he had brought none.
Henry started with deadpan solemnity. He first congratulated the assembled writers on their accuracy in describing police procedure.
“I am familiar with the work of all of you,” he said, “with the exception of Miss Summerfield. I gather that her books are romantic rather than investigational, and you must know that there is no such thing as a romantic policeman. However, each time Miss Twinkley or Tex Lawrie comes up against the law, as they are bound to do in the course of their adventures, the police side of things seems to me to be well and discreetly handled. As for Superintendent Burrows, Miss Drake has obviously researched the ways of S
cotland Yard, for I can relate to him as a colleague. Just one small point, Miss Drake. Murder investigations nowadays are never entrusted to an officer below the rank of chief superintendent. So I think our friend Burrows is due for promotion.” He regarded the company with a smile, which was carefully not directed at any particular member of it.
“Now, when a murder is first reported…” So the talk went on—accurate, amusing, and informative. The audience began to get a little restive. This was not what they had come for. Was it possible that Henry Tibbett had just ignored the crossword puzzle and the clues? Glances, which Emmy did not miss, passed among the writers. She smiled, a small inward smile, reflecting that these people did not know Henry.
“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Henry was saying, “most of the murder cases we have to deal with are boring beyond description and are pure routine. The killer almost always turns out to be a family member or else a rejected lover. Most murders are committed in hot blood, as the culmination of a quarrel, probably inflamed by alcohol or drugs. Others, colder and more calculating, are committed for financial gain. In either case, the problem of identifying the murderer is not often difficult. What is much more difficult is supplying enough evidence, in proper legal form, to convince a judge and jury, and get a conviction.
“There is another type of case which is almost equally uninteresting from your point of view, ladies and gentlemen, because it is virtually unsolvable. Anybody who takes it into his or her head to kill a complete stranger, just for the fun of it, will nearly always get away with it. You only have to look at the Moors Murder cases. If Brady hadn’t decided to bring David Smith in on the murder of Edward Evans, he and Myra Hindley might well have gone on for years, killing a young stranger every six months and burying the bodies on the moors, while outwardly remaining a bright, friendly young couple. It is almost as though the sheer boredom of too-easy success made Brady deliberately court danger by involving an outsider.
“Now, since no writer wishes to bore a reader, there seems little to be made of this kind of murder in fiction. If it bores the killer himself, what will it do to the reader?
“So we are left with the murder which is found almost exclusively in fiction—the puzzle. Who did it? How? Why? Clues are scattered and suspects paraded. For this purpose, the setting must be confined and the group of people reduced to manageable numbers. Then there should be a bizarre element, either in the manner of the murders or the presentation of the clues. This type of mystery reached its height in the 1930s, in the hands of such masters—or should I say mistresses?—as Christie, Sayers, Allingham, and Marsh. The form is still widely used, and has remained popular with readers.”
Henry looked at his audience. Each was leaning forward, charged with expectation. He went on, “There have been many devices for the presentation of clues—one remembers The ABC Murders, Ten Little Indians—the more recent Chelsea Murders, and so on. But I don’t think I have ever read a book in which clues were forwarded to the detective in the form of a crossword puzzle.”
In the dead silence, Henry picked up a page of his ostensible notes. It was a copy of the crossword, with all its spaces filled in. He displayed it to the audience.
“You may recognize this. The crossword and the first two clues were sent to me a month ago. Further clues arrived at intervals.” He grinned. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have been very ingenious. Do you send these puzzles to all your guest speakers, or am I specially honored? In any case, I am delighted to be able to tell you that I have solved the puzzle, the clues, your identities, and…well, something more. We’ll leave that for the moment.”
Again, dead silence. With a smile, Henry said, “Shall I go on now? Is there anybody here who doesn’t know what I’m talking about?”
Emmy wished she had eyes in the back of her head, to watch the reactions of her host and hostess, but remembered that Henry was facing them and presumably registering their reactions. For the rest, the semicircle gazed fixedly at Henry in silence.
Henry said, “Good. I have done a little checking up, and I find that the crossword and its first clues arrived only a few days after the Guess Who members had met for dinner at their usual London club. So it took no great power of deduction to work out that it was at this dinner that the scheme evolved. The crossword and the clues were composed, of course, by Harry—Mr. Harold Vandike—among whose many gifts is the composition of erudite crossword puzzles for The London Sunday Star.”
Here there was a little ripple of surprised reaction. With a smile, Henry said, “I have already told you, ladies and gentlemen, that we at Scotland Yard rely a great deal on expert witnesses. In this case I referred your mysterious crossword to Edwin Manciple, retired Bishop of Bugolaland, who is among the most astute solvers in the country. He had no difficulty, not only in solving the clues, but in identifying the compiler. He explained that he could recognize the style instantly, just as I am told that Morse radio operators can detect the sender of a message by his special touch on the seemingly impersonal key. As soon as I was told that one of your number would be known as Harry, I identified him as Professor Vandike, known to his many readers as Elaine Summerfield.”
Harold Vandike stood up and made a little bow. “Full marks, Mr. Tibbett. But why should you accuse me of being Elaine Summerfield?”
“Accuse? You think it an accusation? I should have thought it would be a compliment. After all, your books must sell very well, judging by the number I see in paperback. As for my reasoning, it goes like this. I eliminated Myrtle at once, because she would have no reason to deny her work as Elaine Summerfield. I eliminated Fred and Bill for reasons I’ll explain later on. I knew that you fulfilled your love of mental gymnastics in your crossword puzzles, and in any case, if you were Lydia Drake or Freda Wright, I don’t think you would go to such lengths to disguise the fact. You are a man who enjoys public acclaim, Mr. Vandike, and Oxford has produced a number of excellent detective writers who are not at all ashamed of the fact. On the other hand, if your students and colleagues discovered that you were Elaine Summerfield, you could be exposed to ridicule, for which not even hefty royalty payments could compensate. Ergo, you are Elaine Summerfield.”
Harry Vandike had sat down again. He said, “This is pure conjecture.”
“I don’t agree,” said Henry amiably. “In any case, since you have given me this puzzle, you must in fairness allow me to solve it.”
Heads nodded. Expectancy mounted. Henry went on, “The puzzle itself, apart from a few odd and apparently unrelated snippets of words, referred to three incidents—in none of which Mr. Vandike himself was concerned. The clues came in sets, linking certain names with certain other names. In the first case, a W. Cartwright was somehow associated with a Lady Fanshaw.” He grinned at Bill. “Dr. Cartwright, I presume?”
“Guilty,” said Bill, with a prim little smile.
“You are an otologist, and a very good one,” Henry went on. “The Dowager Lady Fanshaw, now deceased, consulted you about her hearing. She was very grateful for the help that you gave her, and in gratitude left you a substantial sum in her will. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“The puzzle appeared to hint that you might have speeded her death in order to inherit. It took very little research to find that she had not consulted you within six months of her death. She died in a hospital, of cancer. The doctor who attended her during her last illness, and who benefited a lot more than you did, might possibly have been suspected of hastening her death. But you were clearly innocent. So the first case was just a test of my ingenuity, and easily disposed of.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” said Dr. Cartwright. “May one ask if you have also established my pen name?”
“One may,” said Henry. “You and Professor Coe were not very subtle in your choice of pseudonym. Once I knew from the crossword that your name was Cartwright, and I was introduced to him as Fred, it became obvious that the two of you collaborate under the name of Freda Wright. Miss Twinkley,
if I may say so, does you credit. She gives an enormous amount of pleasure to many people.
“I should say that you and the professor form an ideal team. I have taken the trouble to reread some of your books, and Miss Twinkley always seems to have a local doctor at hand to supply medical details. I suspect that you, Doctor, think up the plots and look after the medical end, while Professor Coe amuses himself by doing the actual writing. In any case, the second series of clues concerned Fred Coe and two ladies—Felicity Orwell and Alice.
“It was not difficult to establish that Alice is Professor Coe’s wife, and that Miss Orwell was her aunt. You, sir”—he gave a little bow in Fred’s direction—“and your wife were good enough to take Miss Orwell into your home and nurse her through her last illness. A task, I understand, which no other member of the family was prepared to undertake, owing to her somewhat abrasive disposition. She died a few months later, having changed her will to leave everything to you and your wife. Mr. Vandike, in his capacity as a lover of justice, appeared to imply that her death, too, might have been accelerated. I think this very unlikely, although if events warrant it, I shall of course investigate further.”
It was Pamela Oppenshaw, surprisingly, who said in her clear voice from the back of the room, “Mr. Tibbett, if you are right, and Fred and Bill are collaborators, where is your fourth author?”
“Where indeed?” said Henry. He looked straight at Barbara. “Your father told me you dabbled in writing, Miss Oppenshaw. It is perfectly obvious that you do much more than dabble. You also have the best of reasons for adopting a false name, for fear of being accused of nepotism. The question remains—who is Jack Harvey and who is Lydia Drake? I don’t think it’s hard to decide. Myrtle—I don’t know your surname—Myrtle would, I’m sure, be perfectly happy to be known as the creator of Superintendent Burrows, soon to be promoted. The writing of classic detective fiction by eminently respectable English ladies is a venerable tradition. So—Myrtle must be Jack Harvey, and Tex Lawrie the surprising emanation of her subconscious mind.”
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