The Twenty-One Clues

by J. J. Connington

  Before answering, Mrs. Barratt hesitated for a few seconds, and a curious expression flitted across her face which gave Rufford an uncomfortable feeling that she was amused by what he had said.

  “Suspicious?” she replied at last. “I suppose you really mean jealous, Mr. Rufford? No, I saw nothing to make me feel jealous. It’s true that Mrs. Callis and my husband saw a good deal of each other and seemed to like each other’s company. Why not? I had no objection. Mrs. Callis was a friend of mine. I liked her. Most people did. Some people were jealous, I suspect. I had a nasty letter . . . but of course I put it in the fire at once. A minister, you know, is a target for all sorts of ill-wishers. Someone thinks she’s been slighted in the distribution of church work, somebody else dislikes to see another woman getting a bigger share of the minister’s attention than she’s been able to secure for herself, and another is just spiteful, and vents her spite on the handiest mark. One comes to disregard that kind of thing, in time.”

  “I see,” said Rufford. “You believe that the association was entirely innocent. But that fails to throw any light on what’s happened. A double tragedy of this sort doesn’t arise out of nothing, you know.”

  “You asked your question, Mr. Rufford, and I’ve answered it. I’ll go further, if you like. I knew Mrs. Callis well. I simply don’t believe, not for a moment, that she was the kind of woman who’d indulge in . . . what shall I say . . . an underhand intrigue.”

  Rufford thought of the love-letter which he had pieced together, but it was no part of his game to refer to that. Then it occurred to him that Mrs. Barratt, while doing her best to exculpate Mrs. Callis, had said nothing about her own husband. And that brought back to his mind what she had told him incidentally about the domestic arrangements of the Barratts. They had occupied separate rooms. That might mean something. Or it might have no importance. He resolved to risk a plain question.

  “I’m afraid I must ask an awkward question,” he said. “What were relations between yourself and Mr. Barratt?”

  Mrs. Barratt was obviously amazed by the bluntness of this question. She raised her finely-arched eyebrows in unfeigned surprise.

  “We were quite friendly,” she began, coldly.

  Then, evidently, she decided to leave no grounds for misunderstanding.

  “We’ve been married for about fourteen years now. You don’t expect the enthusiasm of a honeymoon to last through fourteen years, do you? It doesn’t. Nor do one’s illusions, either.”

  There was a touch of bitterness in her voice which did not escape the inspector. And he thought he detected a spice of contempt as well. Neither of them, he guessed, was directed at himself. He glanced at the mantelpiece on which stood a silver-framed photograph of Barratt: full-blooded, self-satisfied, handsome in a coarse way, and with a faint suggestion of commonness in the expression. How would a man of that type run in double harness with the woman before him? She obviously came from a higher social grade, with tenets and training wholly different from his. There must have been a good deal of disillusionment on her side, at least, after “the enthusiasm” had worn off. But evidently she had no intention of giving much away. Except for its tone, her statement had been the merest platitude.

  “Quite friendly,” Rufford echoed. “I see what you mean.”

  Her answering glance suggested that she was grateful to him for not pursuing the matter further. Quite plainly she had no wish to pose as a femme incomprise or to seek sympathy from the first comer. Rufford switched to another subject.

  “You don’t keep a maid, do you?”

  Mrs. Barratt shook her head.

  “I don’t think I need trouble you with any further questions at the moment,” Rufford said, after a few moments’ reflection. “But I’ll have to look about now, if you have no objections, and see if I can spot anything which might throw more light on the matter. There may be some papers, or diaries, in that desk which I ought to see.”

  “I’ve no objections,” Mrs. Barratt assured him. “Do whatever you think necessary.”

  She remained in her chair, showing no great interest in his doings. Rufford went to the dead man’s desk; and the first thing which caught his eye was a small pile of quarto paper with some writing on the top sheet. Rufford glanced at the heading: “Exodus, XXIII, I.” Evidently the few further lines of manuscript were the beginning of a sermon which Barratt had been composing. There was a Bible alongside the sermon paper, and Rufford had the curiosity to pick it up and refer to the text: Thou shalt not raise a false report: put not thine hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness. The choice of that particular passage might have some significance, the inspector reflected. Possibly Barratt had some inkling of the gossip about him and Mrs. Callis, and had decided to hit back in this indirect manner. Rufford was in search of a specimen of Barratt’s handwriting, so, after showing the sheet of paper to Mrs. Barratt, he placed it in his folder.

  Two deep drawers in the desk contained papers which Rufford found to be sermons, each dated to mark the day on which they had been preached. The other drawers contained odd papers, envelopes, and unused stationery. The letter-paper was inexpensive and had no printed heading. Rufford, from a Cursory examination, thought it identical with the torn-up white paper which he had found beside the bodies. He secured two sheets for comparison later; and then, as his eye caught an embossing press on the desk, he slipped one of the sheets into it and stamped the house address upon the paper. Apart from this, all that the desk furnished was evidence that Barratt had been a tidy person with a place for everything, and everything in its place.

  Behind the desk was a series of bookshelves. Rufford glanced incuriously at the titles of some of the volumes. Dull stuff, he decided. Theology was not one of his hobbies. But all at once, as his glance ran along the rows, it rested on several books standing together at the end of a shelf, and his interest brightened. He took down one or two of the books, leafed over a few pages, and then turned back to the front where, in each case, he found Barratt’s name inscribed. He replaced the volumes on the shelf and turned to Mrs. Barratt with a fresh question:

  “Your husband seems to have taken some interest in hypnotism? Did he go in for it practically, or did he just read about it?”

  Mrs. Barratt had apparently not been watching, him, for she seemed surprised by his inquiry. The inspector put out his hand and tapped the volumes, whereat her face cleared.

  “Oh, that was how you found out, was it?” she said, with a faint smile. “I couldn’t imagine how you’d hit on it. Well, he did make some attempts to hypnotise a few people amongst our friends, but I don’t know that he made much of a success with his experiments. He tried me, of course; but that was a complete failure. He seemed to get some results with my uncle, Mr. Alvington; but my uncle has a queer sense of humour, and it’s just possible that he was pulling my husband’s leg by merely pretending to be influenced. I shouldn’t be surprised at that. He tried the Callises, too, Mr. Callis seemed to be influenced to some extent. With Mrs. Callis he was fairly successful. But the best results he got with a Miss Spencer, one of the congregation. She really did seem to be quite under his control and did the most astonishing things without seeming to remember anything about them afterwards. But, taking it over all, I don’t think you could say that he made much of a success of it.”

  “You didn’t quite care about these experiments?” asked Rufford, judging by the tone she had used in speaking about them.

  “I didn’t,” Mrs. Barratt declared, quite frankly. “I don’t take any interest in hypnotism, so I know very little about it. But it seems to me that either you get no results, or else it’s a dangerous business and best left alone. I didn’t encourage my husband to go on with it. Nor did the members of his congregation as a whole, when they got to hear about it.”

  As her ideas were almost identical with Rufford’s own ones upon the subject, the inspector gave her a good mark for common sense. He dropped this line of examination and went back to his search of the s
tudy, without finding anything likely to be of the slightest value, until his eye fell upon an ash-tray containing the stub of a cigarette.

  “Mr. Barratt was a non-smoker, wasn’t he?” he asked.

  “Yes, he was. But I smoke myself a little, just now and again.”

  “Mrs. Callis smoked, I think?” Rufford pursued.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Barratt confirmed. “She was almost a chain-smoker.”

  “Now there’s another thing,” the inspector went on. “You must know what suits your husband had. I want to find out if any of them are missing.”

  “I can look and see,” said Mrs. Barratt, rising. “Perhaps you’d like to come upstairs and go over his wardrobe with me. I can’t guarantee to tell you much about underclothing, handkerchiefs, collars, and those kinds of things. I never keep count of these. But I know what suits he had.”

  An inspection of Barratt’s wardrobe proved that a plus-four suit was missing, and Rufford jotted down a note about the cloth. Mindful of what the Callis’ maid had noticed, the inspector glanced at Barratt’s dressing-table and saw on it a pair of well-worn military hair-brushes. This suggested something which he had overlooked in his search.

  “I suppose you can’t tell me anything about pyjamas?”

  Mrs. Barratt seemed rather doubtful; but after opening a drawer and examining several pairs, she told Rufford that one set seemed to be missing, rayon, with slate-tinted stripes. Again the inspector recalled something further, and she was able to tell him that Barratt owned a Saxe bath gown, which had apparently disappeared.

  “Now I’d like to have a look at your bath-room,” Rufford suggested.

  The inspector found there the usual mirror-fronted wall-cabinet; and inside this a tooth-brush rack from which hung two brushes. Two tubes of tooth-paste, Vinolia and Euthymol, were also in the cabinet along with some other toilet requisites.

  “He didn’t take away either tooth-brush or tooth-paste,” Rufford pointed out. “Which brand of tooth-paste did he use?”

  “Euthymol,” Mrs. Barratt explained. “I use Vinolia.”

  She glanced round the room and her eyes lighted on the bath-tray.

  “He’s taken his bath-sponge with him,” she pointed out to Rufford. “It’s always kept in the tray, there.”

  While she was speaking, Rufford noticed a safety-razor case in the cabinet. He took it out, opened it, found the razor and blade-case inside, and put the case back into the cabinet again.

  “Now just one last point,” he said, turning to Mrs. Barratt. “What sort of slippers did your husband wear?”

  “A pair of rather shabby ones, glacé kid,” Mrs. Barratt told him. “I’ll let you see them, if you’ll come downstairs.”

  They proved to be a pair of well-worn Grecian slippers.

  “He wore these always when he was in the house,” she explained. “I remember that before he went out last night to his meeting, he took these off and put on his shoes.”

  “How many pairs of shoes had he?” inquired the inspector.

  “Three, altogether. One pair he was wearing; another pair which is being re-soled, just now; and this third pair.”

  Rufford picked up a shoe and a slipper and glanced at the soles to satisfy himself that they were eight’s, like those on Barratt’s feet.

  “Now I needn’t trouble you any longer, Mrs. Barratt,” he said, moving towards the front door as he spoke. “I hope I shan’t have to bother you again. Oh, that reminds me, though. We shall need to get someone to identify him. It’s a mere formality. I don’t wish to ask you to do it. Can you suggest someone else?”

  “My uncle could do that for you,” Mrs. Barratt suggested, after a momentary consideration. “Mr. Arthur J. Alvington, Crest Hill, Windsor Drive. I’ll ring him up, if you like.”

  “Don’t trouble, please,” said Rufford, jotting down the address. “We can easily ring him up ourselves. And now, I must be off. Thanks for giving me all this information.”

  Chapter Six

  The Yellow Dwarf

  PETER DIAMOND was a reporter on the staff of a local paper. Young enough to be cynical and old enough to be disillusioned, he had a whole-hearted contempt for the caution of his editor, whom he regarded as lacking in pep, especially in the matter of headlines. Donnington hated yellow journalism and, having run the paper with financial success for twenty years, preferred the old tried methods which Peter despised. He listened to all Peter’s suggestions with kindly interest, and then did something entirely different and much less sensational. He was a tolerant man. He could afford to be, knowing that he had the last word in matters of policy. He contented himself with nicknaming Peter “The Yellow Dwarf.” Peter was five feet four in height, rather tubby in figure, with a pleasantly ugly face and a compellingly friendly smile. He accepted the sobriquet in good part, and used it as a pen-name for signing any special articles he wrote, thus robbing it of its sting.

  Peter was a good mixer; and when he was put in charge of the crime-news section of the Gazette, he made it his business to become hail-fellow-well-met with any of the local constabulary who were likely to be useful to him journalistically. Between him and Inspector Rufford in particular a close relationship had sprung up. Each of them believed that he could use the other without betraying the fact and so incurring an obligation. Rufford could give Peter early information. Peter could sometimes fish essential facts from sources which would have dried up immediately at the sight of an official. Rufford was often inclined to discuss current cases with Peter. The inspector liked to think aloud, at times; and he found an auditor stimulating to his mental processes. It was a safe enough practice with Peter, who never divulged Rufford’s opinions without first obtaining permission to do so.

  As the inspector swung round a corner and sighted the police station, he saw Peter sitting on the doorstep, smoking, and apparently at peace with the world. Peter was naturally unconventional in his habits, and the inspector was not in the least surprised. He paused at the foot of the steps and looked at the reporter.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Waiting for the Coming of the Cocklicranes,” said Peter, placidly. He loved to puzzle the inspector by semi-recondite references. “But they seem a bit behind time. You’ll do instead. Sit down, Rufford. It’s a nice sunny afternoon and this step’s warm.”

  “Glad you find it comfortable. It’s the best we have. But we’ve got some very nice cells inside, suitable for reporters, loiterers, and suspected persons. You’ve got a holiday this afternoon, have you?”

  “No-o-o,” drawled Peter. “I’ve come out for a breath of fresh air, after going through your staff with a case-opener in search of the latest news. You seem to have struck it lucky up the line, I gather.”

  He rose reluctantly to his feet.

  “I see you’re burning to spill the beans—or vouchsafe some information, as my esteemed chief would put it. Since you won’t sit here, let’s go inside. Not that your chairs are any softer than your doorstep. Still, it’s always a change of attitude.”

  Rufford considered for a moment before making up his mind. Peter had a store of information about even obscure people in the town; and it was possible that he might be able to throw fresh light upon the persons mixed up in the Barratt case. This decided the inspector, who made a curt gesture of invitation. Peter gave him a shrewd glance.

  “I recognise the symptoms,” he said, blandly. “You want to pick my brains? Right! Then we pick turn about, as in the game of spillikins. That gives you a considerable handicap, my brains being better than yours and therefore more likely to be worth picking. . . . Now, don’t let’s have any vulgar altercation on that subject. We know what we know.”

  “Well, what do you know?” demanded Rufford.

  “About as much as your staff know, I think. I turned ’em inside out while I was waiting for you. Blood on the Bracken; Minister Murders Mistress; Intelligent Inspector Investigates. That seems to cover it, up to the present moment,” said Peter, who o
ccasionally spoke in headlines. “I’ve collected most of the horrible details, I think. More than my chief will let me get into print, I’m sure, curse him!”

  “Do you know anything about a Rev. John Barratt?”

  “Barratt? Let’s see. Oh, yes, I’ve come across him. My chief once made me do a series of articles on local churches and preachers. He thought it would calm me, so he said. Much to his annoyance, I found it quite interesting. Now, Barratt. . . . Oh, yes. A red-faced fellow, not quite It, but rather pleased with himself nevertheless. Just the kind that does go down with some types of women. He’s a rather good-looking wife. What you’d call ‘a real lady’.”

  Rufford winced imperceptibly at this thrust, since it exactly voiced the impression Mrs. Barratt had made upon him.

  “Who was she, before she married Barratt?” he asked.

  “She’s a grand-daughter of an old Mrs. Alvington. The grandma lives in a big house, Oaklands, out the Templedown road a bit. An old-fashioned dame, very straight-laced, with a fair amount of the ready. Mrs. Barrett’s an orphan.”

  “Nothing extraordinary in that,” said Rufford. “I was an orphan myself at her age.”

  “No doubt. But she began younger than you did. About ten years of age. Brought up by grandma. Very strictly. Married Barratt quite young. Owns two uncles: Arthur John for one and Edward for another. Surname Alvington in both cases.”

  “How the devil do you know all this?” demanded Rufford, suspiciously. “Are you bluffing, or are you one of the family?”

  Peter made a gesture of commiseration.

  “Terrible, the spread of de-education among the criminal classes and their associates. Don’t you bobbies ever read the newspapers, except to see your own names in print? You don’t mean to say you never heard of the Alvington divorce case, a few weeks ago? That was Uncle Ted, that was. Deacon Debauches Domestic. Pursues Pretty Parlourmaid. And now we come to Parson Plugs Paramour. A lively home circle, that. The old matriarch at Oaklands will be vexed. Rumour goes that she was more than a little peevish over Uncle Ted’s divorce case.”