In the Teeth of the Evidence

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘Oh, yes. She’s a nice woman. Of course, she was Uncle William’s mistress for donkey’s years, but her husband was practically potty with drink, and you could scarcely blame her. I wired her this morning and here’s her reply, just come.’

  He handed Parker a telegram, despatched from Paris, which read: ‘Terribly shocked and grieved. Returning immediately. Love and sympathy. Lucy.’

  ‘You are on friendly terms with her, then?’

  ‘Good Lord, yes. Why not? We were always damned sorry for her. Uncle William would have taken her away with him somewhere, only she wouldn’t leave Winter. In fact, I think they had practically settled that they were to get married now that Winter has had the grace to peg out. She’s only about thirty-eight, and it’s time she had some sort of show in life, poor thing.’

  ‘So, in spite of the money, she hadn’t really very much to gain by your uncle’s death?’

  ‘Not a thing. Unless, of course, she wanted to marry somebody younger, and was afraid of losing the cash. But I believe she was honestly fond of the old boy. Anyhow, she couldn’t have done the murder, because she’s in Paris.’

  ‘H’m!’ said Parker. ‘I suppose she is. We’d better make sure, though. I’ll ring through to the Yard and have her looked out for at the ports. Is this phone through to the Exchange?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Inspector. ‘It doesn’t have to go through the hall phone; they’re connected in parallel.’

  ‘All right. Well, I don’t think we need trouble you further, at the moment, Mr Grimbold. I’ll put my call through, and after that we’ll send for the next witness . . . Give me Whitehall 1212, please . . . I suppose the time of Mr Harcourt’s call from town has been checked, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Parker. It was put in at 7.57 and renewed at 8 o’clock and 8.3. Quite an expensive little item. And we’ve also checked up on the constable who spoke to him about his lights and the garage that put them right for him. He got into Welwyn at 9.5 and left again about 9.15. The number of the car is right, too.’

  ‘Well, he’s out of it in any case, but it’s just as well to check all we can . . . Hullo, is that Scotland Yard? Put me through to Chief-Inspector Hardy. Chief-Inspector Parker speaking.’

  As soon as he had finished with his call, Parker sent for Neville Grimbold. He was rather like his brother, only a little slimmer and a little more suave in speech, as befitted a Civil Servant. He had nothing to add, except to confirm his brother’s story and to explain that he had gone to a cinema from 8.20 to about 10 o’clock, and then on to his club, so that he had heard nothing about the tragedy till later in the evening.

  The cook was the next witness. She had a great deal to say, but nothing very convincing to tell. She had not happened to see Hamworthy go to the pantry for the claret, otherwise she confirmed his story. She scouted the idea that somebody had been concealed in one of the upper rooms, because the daily woman, Mrs Crabbe, had been in the house till nearly dinner-time, putting camphor-bags in all the wardrobes; and, anyhow, she had no doubt but what ‘that Payne’ had stabbed Mr Grimbold – ‘a nasty, murdering beast’. After which, it only remained to interview the murderous Mr Payne.

  Mr Payne was almost aggressively frank. He had been treated very harshly by Mr Grimbold. What with exorbitant usury and accumulated interest added to the principal, he had already paid back about five times the original loan, and now Mr Grimbold had refused him any more time to pay, and had announced his intention of foreclosing on the security, namely, Mr Payne’s house and land. It was all the more brutal because Mr Payne had every prospect of being able to pay off the entire debt in six months’ time, owing to some sort of interest or share in something or other which was confidently expected to turn up trumps. In his opinion, old Grimbold had refused to renew on purpose, so as to prevent him from paying – what he wanted was the property. Grimbold’s death was the saving of the situation, because it would postpone settlement till after the confidently-expected trumps had turned up. Mr Payne would have murdered old Grimbold with pleasure, but he hadn’t done so, and in any case he wasn’t the sort of man to stab anybody in the back, though, if the money-lender had been a younger man, he, Payne, would have been happy to break all his bones for him. There it was, and they could take it or leave it. If that old fool, Hamworthy, hadn’t got in his way, he’d have laid hands on the murderer all right – if Hamworthy was a fool, which he doubted. Blood? Yes, there was blood on his coat. He had got that in struggling with Hamworthy at the window. Hamworthy’s hands had been all over blood when he made his appearance in the library. No doubt he had got it from the corpse. He, Payne, had taken care not to change his clothes, because, if he had done so, somebody would have tried to make out that he was hiding something. Actually, he had not been home, or asked to go home, since the murder. Mr Payne added that he objected strongly to the attitude taken up by the local police, who had treated him with undisguised hostility. To which Inspector Henley replied that Mr Payne was quite mistaken.

  ‘Mr Payne,’ said Lord Peter, ‘will you tell me one thing? When you heard the commotion in the dining-room, and the cook screaming, and so on, why didn’t you go in at once to find out what was the matter?’

  ‘Why?’ retorted Mr Payne. ‘Because I never heard anything of the sort, that’s why. The first thing I knew about it was seeing the butler-fellow standing there in the doorway, waving his bloody hands about and gibbering.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Wimsey. ‘I thought it was a good, solid door. Shall we ask the lady to go in and scream for us now, with the dining-room window open?’

  The Inspector departed on this errand, while the rest of the company waited anxiously to count the screams. Nothing happened, however, till Henley put his head in and asked, what about it?

  ‘Nothing,’ said Parker.

  ‘It’s a well-built house,’ said Wimsey. ‘I suppose any sound coming through the window would be muffled by the conservatory. Well, Mr Payne, if you didn’t hear the screams it’s not surprising that you didn’t hear the murderer. Are those all your witnesses, Charles? Because I’ve got to get back to London to see a man about a dog. But I’ll leave you with two suggestions with my blessing. One is, that you should look for a car, which was parked within a quarter of a mile of this house last night, between 7.30 and 8.15; the second is, that you should all come and sit in the dining-room tonight, with the doors and windows shut, and watch the french windows. I’ll give Mr Parker a ring about eight. Oh, and you might lend me the key of the conservatory door. I’ve got a theory about it.’

  The Chief Inspector handed over the key, and his lordship departed.

  The party assembled in the dining-room was in no very companionable mood. In fact, all the conversation was supplied by the police, who kept up a chatty exchange of fishing reminiscences, while Mr Payne glowered, the two Grimbolds smoked cigarette after cigarette, and the cook and the butler balanced themselves nervously on the extreme edges of their chairs. It was a relief when the telephone-bell rang.

  Parker glanced at his watch as he got up to answer it. ‘Seven-fifty-seven,’ he observed, and saw the butler pass his handkerchief over his twitching lips. ‘Keep your eye on the windows.’ He went out into the hall.

  ‘Hullo!’ he said.

  ‘Is that Chief-Inspector Parker?’ asked a voice he knew well. ‘This is Lord Peter Wimsey’s man speaking from his lordship’s rooms in London. Would you hold the line a moment? His lordship wishes to speak to you.’

  Parker heard the receiver set down and lifted again. Then Wimsey’s voice came through: ‘Hullo, old man? Have you found that car yet?’

  ‘We’ve heard of a car,’ replied the Chief Inspector cautiously, ‘at a Road-House on the Great North Road, about five minutes’ walk from the house.’

  ‘Was the number ABJ 28?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘I thought it might be. It was hired from a London garage at five o’clock yesterday afternoon and brought back just before ten. Have you traced Mrs Wi
nter?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. She landed from the Calais boat this evening. So apparently she’s O.K.’

  ‘I thought she might be. Now listen. Do you know that Harcourt Grimbold’s affairs are in a bit of a mess? He nearly had a crisis last July, but somebody came to his rescue – possibly his Uncle, don’t you think? All rather fishy, my informant saith. And I’m told, very confidentially, that he’s got badly caught over the Biggars-Whitlow crash. But of course he’ll have no difficulty in raising money now, on the strength of Uncle’s will. But I imagine the July business gave Uncle William a jolt. I expect—’

  He was interrupted by a little burst of tinkling music, followed by the eight silvery strokes of a bell.

  ‘Hear that? Recognise it? That’s the big French clock in my sitting-room . . . What? All right, Exchange, give me another three minutes. Bunter wants to speak to you again.’

  The receiver rattled, and the servant’s suave voice took up the tale.

  ‘His lordship asks me to ask you, sir, to ring off at once and go straight into the dining-room.’

  Parker obeyed. As he entered the room, he got an instantaneous impression of six people, sitting as he had left them, in an expectant semi-circle, their eyes strained towards the french windows. Then the library door opened noiselessly and Lord Peter Wimsey walked in.

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Parker, involuntarily. ‘How did you get here?’ The six heads jerked round suddenly.

  ‘On the back of the light waves,’ said Wimsey, smoothing back his hair. ‘I have travelled eighty miles to be with you, at 186,000 miles a second.’

  ‘It was rather obvious, really,’ said Wimsey, when they had secured Harcourt Grimbold (who fought desperately) and his brother Neville (who collapsed and had to be revived with brandy). It had to be those two; they were so very much elsewhere – almost absolutely elsewhere. The murder could only have been committed between 7.57 and 8.6, and there had to be a reason for that prolonged phone-call about something that Harcourt could very well have explained when he came. And the murderer had to be in the library before 7.57, or he would have been seen in the hall – unless Grimbold had let him in by the french window, which didn’t appear likely.

  ‘Here’s how it was worked. Harcourt set off from town in a hired car about six o’clock, driving himself. He parked the car at the Road-House, giving some explanation. I suppose he wasn’t known there?’

  ‘No; it’s quite a new place; only opened last month.’

  ‘Ah! Then he walked the last quarter-mile on foot, arriving here at 7.45. It was dark, and he probably wore galoshes, so as not to make a noise coming up the path. He let himself into the conservatory with a duplicate key.’

  ‘How did he get that?’

  ‘Pinched Uncle William’s key off his ring last July, when the old boy was ill. It was probably the shock of hearing that his dear nephew was in trouble that caused the illness. Harcourt was here at the time – you remember it was only Neville that had to be “sent for” – and I suppose Uncle paid up then, on conditions. But I doubt if he’d have done as much again – especially as he was thinking of getting married. And I expect, too, Harcourt thought that Uncle might easily alter his will after marriage. He might even have founded a family, and what would poor Harcourt do then, poor thing? From every point of view, it was better that Uncle should depart this life. So the duplicate key was cut and the plot thought out, and Brother Neville who would “do anything for Mr Harcourt,” was roped in to help. I’m inclined to think that Harcourt must have done something rather worse than merely lose money, and Neville may have troubles of his own. But where was I?’

  ‘Coming in at the conservatory door.’

  ‘Oh, yes – that’s the way I came tonight. He’d take cover in the garden and would know when Uncle William went into the dining-room, because he’d see the library light go out. Remember, he knew the household. He came in, in the dark, locking the outer door after him, and waited by the telephone until Neville’s call came through from London. When the bell stopped ringing, he lifted the receiver in the library. As soon as Neville had spoken his little piece, Harcourt chipped in. Nobody could hear him through these sound-proof doors, and Hamworthy couldn’t possibly tell that his voice wasn’t coming from London. In fact, it was coming from London, because, as the phones are connected in parallel, it could only come by way of the Exchange. At eight o’clock, the grandfather clock in Jermyn Street struck – further proof that the London line was open. The minute Harcourt heard that, he called on Neville to speak again, and hung up under cover of the rattle of Neville’s receiver. Then Neville detained Hamworthy with a lot of rot about a suit, while Harcourt walked into the dining-room, stabbed his uncle, and departed by the window. He had five good minutes in which to hurry back to his car and drive off – and Hamworthy and Payne actually gave him a few minutes more by suspecting and hampering one another.’

  ‘Why didn’t he go back through the library and conservatory?’

  ‘He hoped everybody would think that the murderer had come in by the window. In the meantime, Neville left London at 8.20 in Harcourt’s car, carefully drawing the attention of a policeman and a garage man to the licence number as he passed through Welwyn. At an appointed place outside Welwyn he met Harcourt, primed him with his little story about tail-lights, and changed cars with him. Neville returned to town with the hired bus; Harcourt came back here with his own car. But I’m afraid you’ll have a little difficulty in finding the weapon and the duplicate key and Harcourt’s blood-stained gloves and coat. Neville probably took them back, and they may be anywhere. There’s a good, big river in London.’

  A SHOT AT GOAL

  A Montague Egg Story

  A workman put in his head at the door of the Saloon Bar.

  ‘Is Mr Robbins here?’

  The stout gentleman who was discussing football with Mr Montague Egg turned at the sound of his name.

  ‘Yes? Oh, it’s Warren. What is it, Warren?’

  ‘A note, sir. Handed in at the Mills just after you left. As it was marked “Urgent” I thought I’d best bring it down. I’d have took it up to the house, sir, only they told me in the town as you’d stepped in to the Eagle.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mr Robbins. ‘Urgent only to the sender, I expect, as usual.’ He tore open the envelope and glanced at the message, and his face changed. ‘Who brought this?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir. It was pushed in through the letter-flap in the gate.’

  ‘Ah, very good. Thank you, Warren.’

  The workman withdrew, and Mr Robbins said, after a moment’s thought:

  ‘If Mr Edgar should look in, Bowles, will you tell him I’ve changed my mind and gone back to the Mill, and I’ll be glad if he’d come and see me there, before he goes up to the house.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  ‘I’ll take a few sandwiches with me. There’s a bit of work I want to put in, and it may keep me.’

  Mr Bowles obligingly put up the sandwiches into a parcel, and Mr Robbins departed, with a brief ‘Goodnight, all.’

  ‘That’s the general manager up at the Mills,’ observed Mr Bowles. ‘Been here five years now. Takes a great interest in the town. He’s a member of the Football Committee.’

  ‘So I gathered,’ said Mr Egg.

  ‘I see you’re keen on the game,’ went on the landlord.

  ‘In a business capacity,’ replied Mr Egg, ‘I’m keen on whatever the gentleman I’m talking to is keen on. As it says in The Salesman’s Handbook, “The haberdasher gets the golfer’s trade by talking, not of buttons, but of Braid.” Isn’t that right, sir?’

  He appealed to a quiet, dark man in plus-fours.

  ‘Very smart,’ said the latter, smiling. ‘And apt,’ he added, with a glance at his own golf clubs leaning against the counter. Mr Egg permitted himself a modest smirk.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Bowles, ‘from a business point of view, you’re dead right. In a place like this you’ve got to keep on the rig
ht side of them you live by. And so I told Hughie Searle only yesterday.’

  Mr Egg nodded. The Twiddleton Mills were a very small factory, reproducing only a limited output of the superior homespun known as Twiddleton Tweeds; but Twiddleton was a very small town, and the Mills formed the axis about which its life revolved.

  ‘Who’s Hughie Searle?’ demanded Mr Egg.

  ‘Best goal the Twiddleton Trojans ever had,’ replied Mr Bowles. ‘Born and bred in the town, too. But he got across Mr Robbins over that business about young Fletcher, and he’s been dropped out of the team. I don’t say it’s fair, but you can’t blame the committee. They’re all business men and they’ve got to eat out of Robbins’s hand, as you might say. And I told Hughie, Bill Fletcher might be a friend of his, but there’s two sides to every question, and when it comes to language and threats to a gentleman in Mr Robbins’s position, you can’t hardly expect him to pass it over.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Charteris, the quiet man, suddenly, ‘unless you take the view that footballers should be picked on their form as players, and not for personal considerations.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Mr Bowles, ‘but that’s what Vicar would call a counsel of perfection. People talk a lot about the team spirit and let the best side win, but if you was to sit in this bar and listen to what goes on, it’s all spite and jealousy, or else it’s how to scrape up enough money to entice away some other team’s centre-forward, or it’s complaints about favouritism or wrong decisions, or something that leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. The game’s not what it was when I was a lad. Too much commercialism, and enough back-biting to stock an old maids’ tea-party.’

  ‘What happened to Bill Fletcher, by the way?’ asked the quiet man.

  ‘Chucked up his job and left the town,’ said the landlord. ‘I think he’s gone to live with his father at Wickersby. They’re still using that invention of his, whatever it was, up at the Mills, and they do say it saves them a lot of money, and he wasn’t rightly done by. But Mr Entwistle told me Fletcher hadn’t a leg to stand on, according to the terms of the contract, and being a solicitor, he should know.’