Enter her own brother, with demands for money, and a threat of exposure if she did not pay. She paid, and kept on paying. One refusal, and Manchester was informed of her secret.
Knollis closed his eyes, so that only the murmuration of the human starlings reached his mind. Turn to Manchester. What was he? A journeyman who wanted to be a gentleman. And then an amateur gentleman with an acute feeling of inferiority. He discovered Mildred on the cruise, and her talk of society and high-life refired his ambitions. He married her, only to discover that he had married the daughter of an ex-hangman. Mortification and a dread of the truth being known.
Knollis opened his eyes and made a second note: Find out from bank if Man. was paying to Brail.
He returned to his reverie. There was Dana Vaughan, an actress almost at the height of her fame. She had written a play which had run for three and a half years, and bade fair to run another year. Conscience-smitten by her ruthless, or thoughtless, use of the facts of Mildred’s life, she had effected her escape from the stage—for what purpose? She averred that it was to watch over Mildred. Such an action was quixotic, and particularly so in the case of a West End actress who had fought her way to the top. Her absence from the stage would damage her career, and her bank balance. What did she hope to get from it? It was incredible, in this materialistic age, that she should throw away her career in the name of friendship, no matter how sacred that name might appear to her.
Knollis wrote again: Vaughan’s sacrifice suspect. What is she after?
He closed his eyes. Manchester meant to make his wife pay for her deceit and for the humiliation which she had brought upon him, not realising that he was only paying the price for his own hasty greed for social recognition. It was poetic justice. Nevertheless, he meant to make her pay. He broke the neck of the budgie, and tied a cord round it—the whole a fiendish reminder of her father’s profession. Then he broke the neck of the cat, and again tied a cord round it. The third cord was found in his pocket after his death. For whom was that intended? For Mildred? Did Manchester mean to clear her completely out of his life? It hardly seemed possible. The killing of the cat and the bird revealed a certain subtlety in Manchester’s thinking apparatus. Was there some third object of Mildred’s affection which he could kill? Vaughan seemed to be the only possibility, for it was certain that she had no love for her brother. It might be Vaughan, for she had insinuated that Manchester had made advances and had been repulsed, and so it was quite on the cards that he had developed a two-fold hate for her, based on her refusal to fall in with his suggestions, and on Mildred’s avowed affection for her. So Manchester might have planned the death of Vaughan, and was keeping the third cord in his pocket in readiness.
Knollis roused himself and made yet another note: Ask Freeman if Man. emptied, his pockets each night.
And then Knollis found himself faced with another possibility that sprang full-grown, Athena-like, into his mind. Had the murderer pushed the cord into his pocket? And a further note resulted from the thought: Ask Mil. if she knew how much cord in workbox, and whether all had disappeared after death of budgie.
His attempt at a continuation of the reverie was cancelled by the entrance of a sergeant from the C.I.D. of the Trentingham Borough Police. “I’ve some reports for you, sir.”
Knollis looked round, and saw a fearsome sheaf of official-looking papers.
“Are you particularly busy, Sergeant?”
“Nothing on at the moment, sir, and not off duty for another two hours,” he replied.
“Then make yourself comfortable in a chair and read the things out to me. I’ll listen with my eyes closed.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And you can smoke,” said Knollis. “Here, have one with me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The sergeant watched Knollis light up, sit back, put his feet up on the radiator, and close his eyes. He then made for the swivel chair, and put his own regulation boots up on the table.
“Miss Dana Vaughan’s doctor reports that at no time did he prescribe or authorise the taking of chloral hydrate. He regards it as a risky drug to administer and would as soon prescribe laudanum to a crying child. He is not aware, and has never been aware, that Miss Vaughan had any chloral hydrate in her possession, and had he been aware of her possession of such drug he would have demanded the handing-over of the said drug, or would have refused to continue treatment and would not have accepted any responsibility for her.”
“That’s fair enough,” Knollis commented. “Let’s have the next instalment.”
“Dr. Clitheroe wishes to report that the crystals submitted to him by you have been declared by the Home Office analysts to be chloral hydrate. They have suffered somewhat owing to exposure to the atmosphere.”
“Also fair comment,” said Knollis.
“Statement made by Miss Peggy brackets Fifi brackets Coulson of Berkeley Mews and Streatham Hill, late maid to Miss Dana Vaughan and now maid to Miss Greta Fairchild, actress. Miss Vaughan used to suffer from first-night nerves and often took ‘something’ to quieten herself before going on the stage. She was in touch with somebody who on various occasions supplied her with veronal, barbitone, and what are commonly known as knock-out drops. These last were in a small glass bottle labelled C.H., and were last seen by Coulson when Miss Vaughan was packing to leave London. She saw Miss Vaughan put them in her case. As Miss Vaughan was handing over her flat furnished to Miss Fairchild, Coulson thinks that she didn’t want Miss Fairchild to discover her little weakness. Coulson says that as Miss Fairchild takes four fingers of neat Scotch before going on she can’t see the difference.”
Knollis chuckled.
“Anything else, Sergeant?”
“Well, sir, the sergeant who interviewed her seemed to have had ideas of his own—”
“What name?” asked Knollis.
“Sergeant Trotter, sir.”
Knollis smiled. “Inspector Ronnie Drew’s man! He does have ideas of his own, and very original ones. What did he discover?”
“Trotter asked Coulson about Miss Vaughan’s correspondence, and learned that she had letters from two people at Baxmanhurst, a man and a woman both called Manchester.”
“Yes?” Knollis asked anxiously as the sergeant paused.
“Coulson says that Vaughan—Miss Vaughan—destroyed the letters from Mrs. Manchester before she left the flat, but carefully tied up the others and put them in her case.”
“Phew!” Knollis whistled. “Go on!”
“Sergeant Trotter persuaded the maid to admit that she had happened to see one or two when they were lying around, loose like,’ and said they were ‘hot stuff.’”
“So that’s how the land lies,” said Knollis slowly. “When I get back to town, Sergeant Trotter shall have as much beer as he can hold, and two ounces of that nasty shag tobacco that he smokes. This information is distinctly a break. Anything else?”
“Only that the letters were numbered as they were received, and there were thirty-two of them, tied into a bundle with blue ribbon. That’s the lot, sir.”
Knollis rose and took the reports from the sergeant. “You can depart now. Tell Sergeant Ellis where I am when he comes in, please.”
He strolled back to the window and looked out over the crowded square. There might be a thousand people down there, ambling along between the lines of stalls, or gossiping to neighbours and friends they encountered. From this height they all looked pretty much alike. They were members of the human race—and yet, if the lives of each of them could be explored! That youngish woman with the green hat—was she married? Was she happily married? Was she married and having an affaire at the same time? Was she planning to murder her husband, or to do a Thompson-Bywater on him? It seemed silly to think such things about an innocent shopper, and yet, less than a week ago, any one of the protagonists of the Baxmanhurst tragedy might have been a member of this crowd and have looked just as innocent, just as casual, just as contented with life, and just as aim
less as the rest of the human race, and yet a thought of murder had been lurking in that one mind. Perhaps at that time it had been unformed, a mere flash of energy in the convolutions in the brain, a spark that developed, grew into a lightning flash that burned away and destroyed all resistance, an irresistible force that had no memories of yesterday nor warnings of the morrow. The human mind was a delicate piece of apparatus, capable of withstanding a gigantic shock, and yet thrown off-balance and out of all normality of action by the thought of a split-second, or the impulse of a moment’s duration.
Knollis shook himself. This was no time for philosophising on the frailty of the human being. His profession allowed no time for such mental meanderings. It was an objective profession, dealing with hard facts, times, places, and actions. Somewhere at Baxmanhurst was a murderer, a romantic-enough figure in the cold print of the daily newspaper, but in actuality a dangerous menace to the community. And he was paid to apprehend him. He was expected to track him, discover his motives, prove that he had the opportunity, satisfy a jury that he was capable of the crime, demonstrate that no other person could have committed the crime for which he would be tried—and then step aside and let a nation which professed the Christian faith turn a blind eye to it and put into execution a Mosaic law which demanded an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth in a spirit of elemental vengeance.
“The Englishman,” he said aloud, “is a damned inconsistent fool!”
“Agreed!” said a voice from the doorway.
Knollis turned to see Ellis grinning at him.
“I often think that,” said Ellis, “and to-day I’ve been convinced that Sir James Fell is the biggest fool of the whole bunch!”
“You do, eh?” Knollis asked interestedly.
“Next to coroners and local J.P.s.”
“What hasn’t he done this time, my Ellis?”
“It isn’t this time. It was when Marlin fell down the cellar steps that he either ratted on his job or was purblind to Johnson’s theories.”
Knollis nodded. “Of course! You’ve been to Barston! What news on the Rialto, Antonio?”
Ellis brushed his moustache from his mouth. “I think I can call it news, sir. If I was a reporter I’d be rushing the yarn through to the Street and pinning a feather in my cap at the same time.”
“That’s one hand for the telephone and one for the feather,” said Knollis. “Yes, it would be possible. But suppose, my friend, that you stop blathering and tell me the best or the worst.”
“Well,” said Ellis, grinning, “I saw your report of the visit to Frampton and Inspector Johnson, and I was pretty interested.”
“Interested you may be,” said Knollis, “but your best friend couldn’t call you pretty. But proceed!”
“I was very interested,” continued Ellis, “and as you weren’t available for consultation I shot over to Frampton and had a chat with the Inspector. After telling me the yarn again he took me to Barston, and showed me the haunted cottage where Marlin lived and died. It hasn’t been occupied since he snuffed it; nobody seems to fancy living with the ghost of a hangman. I can think of a gag there.”
“If it has anything to do with the ghost being a noose-sance, I’ve heard it—thirty, years ago,” said Knollis.
“Well, Inspector Johnson is well known in the village, so I asked him to oblige by waiting at the cottage, and I took a stroll down to the local. The rustics soon started quizzing me, and I let them. They gained the impression—somehow—that I was a writer gentleman looking for material on hangmen in general, and Marlin in particular. They were only too anxious to oblige me, although they were the thirstiest set of witnesses it has been my misfortune to encounter. Cost me fifteen bob, at a bob a pint! Anyway, the results were worth it.”
“Then let’s have them without further preamble,” said Knollis, cocking a severe eye at his sergeant, while his lips belied the look.
“The main point is that Mildred and Daniel were along at Barston to see him the day that he died,” Ellis said quite casually.
“They were!” Knollis exclaimed. “You have proof of that?”
“One of the villagers was on the same train from which Mildred and Daniel disembarked at Frampton. The bus service was not too good, and so they walked to Barston, with this johnny bringing up the rear. Their arrival in the village was witnessed by two old granfers who apparently spend their time cud-chewing on the bench outside the local.
“According to all the best rumours—and it is one of those places where everybody knows everybody’s business but his own—a reconciliation scene took place in Marlin’s shop, with everybody falling on everybody else’s neck and promising to kill the fatted calf. Mildred then went to the cottage, sent the daft girl home for the day, and took over. She cooked a meal for the three. She also tucked into the washing. In the midst of this the clothes-line broke, and she sent Daniel, who had now arrived, to the ice-cream-paraffin-and-skipping-rope shop to buy a new one. The old boy went back to work after the meal, and Daniel repaired to the pub while his father repaired boots and his sister repaired the old boy’s socks. On his return, he looked after the house while she shopped at the above-mentioned shop and provided a ton of provisions for the larder. They left Barston at three o’clock, and—according to village guesses—retrained at Frampton. Inspector Johnson did not know all this, and when I told him he said some very rude things about Sir James Fell.”
“I can well imagine it,” said Knollis, chewing the end of his pencil thoughtfully. “Well, we haven’t a chance with that case now. We would have to prove that Daniel didn’t retrain, or that he broke his journey in order to return surreptitiously to the village, and it happened seven years ago! We would also have to prove that he was away from his own home during the vital hours—and who the devil can remember what happened all that time ago? No, Ellis, I think we are beaten on the Marlin case unless we can force a confession, and I can’t see Daniel doing any other than giving us a dirty smile. Still, if we get him for Manchester’s death we can consider that Marlin is avenged. . . .”
“It’s a pity we can’t hang him twice,” Ellis remarked, “because I’m in full agreement with Johnson that Marlin was murdered, and I’m satisfied that Daniel did it. If Johnson had been given the chance to investigate at the time I think he could have brought off a good catch.”
“Well, we may only have to hang him once,” said Knollis. “Now there is a job to be done at Baxmanhurst, and I think you’d better come with me.”
“It’s late,” said Ellis.
“It’s not too late,” Knollis replied softly. “Get the car round, please.”
Knollis came straight to the point as he faced Dana Vaughan in her room, and her attempt to play a part was wrecked from the outset.
“I am enquiring into the source of the drugs that you have in your possession, Miss Vaughan,” said Knollis. “I refer, of course, to barbitone, veronal, and chloral hydrate. Would you care to explain why you have them, and where they were obtained?”
“I haven’t—”she began, and then stopped as she saw the expression on Knollis’s face.
“The box-room, Ellis,” he said, and waited silently until Ellis returned with the bottles and placed them on the table.
. “Those are yours!” said Knollis.
Dana Vaughan nodded. “Yes, they were prescribed by my doctor when I began to fake my illness.”
“They were not,” corrected Knollis. “We have been in touch with your doctor, and have obtained a statement from him. At no time did he prescribe chloral hydrate, and it is with chloral hydrate that I am interested.”
“I . . . I . . .” said Dana Vaughan.
“Yes?” Knollis prompted her.
“Oh, what’s the use!” she exclaimed. “You’ll find out if I do try to mislead you! I got the lot for Mildred. She wrote to me months ago, and said she was in a nervy state, and could not sleep. She had read of odd cases in the papers where actresses had been in possession of such drugs, and wanted me to get th
em for her because Denstone refused to give her a sedative. He said she needed a tonic. Well, I brought them down with me—and I shan’t say where I got them! I told her to try and manage without, but that if her health did not improve I would let her have them. I parked them in the box-room, thinking she was not likely to find them there.”
“And did she find them?” asked Knollis.
“I—I don’t think so!”
“Did anyone else know of their presence?”
“I don’t think so. I never told anyone else—but why do you want to know?”
“That,” Knollis said solemnly, “is neither here nor there. I ask questions and do not answer them. Now tell me; were the bottles sealed while they were in your possession?”
She lowered her head. “They were all sealed with white wax, paraffin wax I believe it is.”
She cast a glance towards the table. “The chloral one has been unsealed!”
“Exactly,”’ replied Knollis. “That is why I am making enquiries about it. You insist that you never opened the bottle?”
“I’m prepared to go into the witness-box and swear to it, Inspector.”
“Thank you,” said Knollis. He collected the bottles, slipped them into his pocket, and beckoned Ellis to follow him downstairs.
He found Mrs. Redson in the staff sitting-room, and again went straight to his point.
“I am looking for the caps from the beer bottles, Mrs. Redson. Can you help me?”
She pulled her reading-glasses down her nose and looked over the top of them. “They mostly go in the dustbin, Inspector. They are thrown in the waste-bin under the sink, and Smithy empties it for me every night.”
“Thanks,” said Knollis.
He took Ellis out to the rear of the house and shone a torch while he tipped over the dustbin and fished among the refuse.
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