by Lynn Brock
‘There …’ he would have said, if he had spoken his thought just then aloud, ‘all you have to do is to reason out logically what must have happened and stick to it. It seemed impossible that that confounded sheath could have got there into that corner. But … I stuck to what I reasoned must have happened—and there … it’s as clear as daylight. Arndale took the knife from Barrington and kept it. It is now either in the river, or buried somewhere. The sheath probably remained in Barrington’s other hand. Well, then, when Arndale was driving the car and Barrington to the garage in the lane, just as he got here, outside those gates, he saw the sheath … either still in Barrington’s hand or fallen on the floor or the cushions of the car. On the spur of the moment—he was just then driving the car round a sharp, narrow corner—he snatched it from Barrington’s hand or wherever it lay and threw it away and believed he had thrown it inside the railing of the Green. But as a matter of fact it fell short … by the gate-pillar there, where I found it. If you ask me why he kept the knife and threw the sheath away, I reason thus. He meant to get rid of them both, and to get rid of them separately, and to get rid of them as soon as possible. So he began by getting rid of the sheath at once. It might lie for years amongst those bushes inside the railing before anyone saw it. And even if they did see it, by itself it wouldn’t matter in the least.
There you are— It’s perfectly simple—provided you reason logically, and stick to what you’ve reasoned, and don’t get guessing about things blindly because at first they don’t seem to square up all right. Perfectly simple—and quite infallible—provided you stick to it.
It was therefore with curiously mingled feelings that he beheld, as soon as he entered the hall of 33, Aberdeen Place, the second Masai knife replaced beside its fellow at the bottom of the trophy, sheathless indeed—its point being protected merely by a piece of cork—but unmistakably the fellow of its neighbour.
Clegg had opened the door to him, after some delay, with a countenance in which a dejected gravity struggled with a profuse perspiration. The large trunk which he had apparently just carried down the stairs and deposited in the hall was accountable, it seemed, for both.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting in the rain, sir. I’m just bringing down Mrs Melhuish’s luggage. Mrs Melhuish is leaving us today for a week, I’m sorry to say, sir. This house is a different place altogether, sir, when the mistress is away. She’s in the morning-room, sir, if you’ll go up.’
‘Thanks, yes,’ said Gore, still unable to remove his eyes from the trophy. ‘I see you’ve stuck a cork on one of those little knives I sent home to Mrs Melhuish. What’s become of the sheath?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the man replied with wrinkled forehead. ‘It’s got lost somehow. Somebody must have knocked against the wall in passing and loosened that knife from the little hooks. I missed it from the wall yesterday, and it wasn’t until this morning one of the maids found it under the coat-and-umbrella stand. I’ve searched high and low for the little case as was on it, but there isn’t a sign of it anywhere about. Only thing I can think of is, one of the girls must have taken it on account of the beads on it. Girls is funny about things like that, sir. Anything with a bit of ornament or beads or anything of that sort, sir, some of them can’t resist it. They must have it.’
‘So you’ve stuck a cork on the point.’
‘Yes, sir. I thought it safer, after what you were saying to the doctor the night you dined here, sir, when you were going out.’
‘Quite right. In the morning-room, you say? …’
Mrs Melhuish rose hurriedly from the writing of a telegram to greet his entry.
‘Well, Wick? No luck?’
‘No, I’m sorry to say.’ He took the envelope containing the newspaper-cutting from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Except this.’
She tore the envelope into tiny fragments, dropped them into the heart of the fire, and watched them burn.
‘You saw Mrs Barrington last evening?’
‘Yes … for a moment.’
‘Do you think there is any chance of your getting those letters out of her, Wick? I mean—it seemed to me, if you offered to help her to go through her husband’s papers— I’m sure she’d probably let you do it. Women hate papers and business and all that … and she has no men-folk. I’m sure you could persuade her to let you do it. You couldn’t mistake the envelope. It’s a very large, thick buff envelope—folded over—I mean—I don’t suppose for a moment she’d let you have it, if she had the faintest idea what was in it. But you could manage to prevent her knowing …’
He had watched her face closely; but the candour of its anxiety was unmistakable. She had, then, not the slightest doubt that Barrington had gone home when he left her—not the slightest suspicion that she herself could have been responsible for his death. Well, that was an immense relief, anyhow.
‘That’s quite a good idea,’ he said slowly. ‘But the trouble is, Pickles, that those letters of yours are not at Hatfield Place.’
‘Then, where are they? How do you know they are not there?’
‘Because Barrington didn’t go back there when he left you. I don’t know where he did go. But he didn’t go back to his house. That’s a certainty. We’ve got to find out where he did go, before we can hope to get hold of that large envelope, I’m afraid. And that’s not going to be easy, perhaps.’
‘Oh.’ She seated herself, and after a moment said again uneasily, ‘Oh.’
‘However, you mustn’t worry too much about the letters, you know. It seems to me quite possible—supposing that he has left them locked up or shut up somewhere—Heaven knows how many establishments he has been running … it seems to me quite possible that you may never hear another word about them.’
‘No, no … I shall never have a moment’s peace—’
‘Oh, yes, you will. Good Lord, Pickles … well, I suppose one oughtn’t to say such a thing, but, hang it all, if I were you, I’d go down on my knees and thank Heaven for having done what it has done for me … without expecting anything more from it. He’s gone. I’ll risk it and say, “Thank God.” Don’t worry about the letters. I’m not a miracle worker, but I’ll do my best. Now, look here … I want to know about this confounded knife. It was found by a maid under the coat-and-umbrella stand in your hall this morning, Clegg told me just now. How did it get under the coat-and-umbrella stand? That’s what I want to know. Any idea?’
She had flushed up angrily.
‘Really, Wick— I do wish you wouldn’t question the servants. What on earth will Clegg think?’
‘Clegg? Clegg will think that I’m a silly old bloke fussing because a bit of his wedding-present to the mistress of the house has been lost. That’s all. I’ll try to bear it, if you’ll tell me how that knife got under that coat-and-umbrella stand.’
She made a little gesture.
‘You aren’t an absolute ass, Wick …’
‘Thanks. That is to say … you think I am right in supposing that your husband put it there … to be found by the maid? …’
‘He must have found it in one of Mr Barrington’s pockets,’ she said anxiously. ‘I suppose he doesn’t want me to know that he found it there. And so he put it under the coat-and-umbrella stand for the maids to find … At all events, that’s the only thing I can think …’
It was, Gore admitted to himself, as he stared at her troubled face, quite possible that Melhuish had found the knife in one of Barrington’s pockets before he himself had had the chance to search them—probably while he was examining him in the car. Of course, if that were so, that … well, that altered the story altogether, so far as Melhuish’s part in it was concerned, at any rate. If that were so …
‘Look here, Pickles … I want you to tell me again—exactly—what happened on Monday night when you saw Barrington. I want you just to answer my questions, and not bother to think why I ask them. If I’m to get hold of those letters for you, I must have the facts exactly. That’s what it comes to. Now, will
you just be as accurate as you can for about three minutes? It had been arranged that Barrington was to come to you at one o’clock. At what time did he come … exactly?’
‘Just a minute or two before one.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes. I looked at my watch before I left my room to go downstairs. It was one o’clock exactly then. When I got downstairs, I found that he had come a minute or two before.’
‘How did he get in? Had you given him a latchkey?’
‘Yes. He insisted on my giving him a latchkey. But I told him not to use it. I hadn’t expected that he would come before one.’
‘Where was he when you went down?’
‘In the hall, waiting.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes … of course.’
‘Then … you talked to him … in the hall?’
‘First in the dining-room. I gave him the hundred and fifty pounds there … and then he refused to give up the letters unless I gave him another four hundred.’
‘Then you had a row about that … in the dining-room?’
‘First in the dining-room, then in the hall.’
‘How long altogether? I want you to be as accurate as you can about this. How long was he here—altogether?’
‘About— Oh, I can’t say exactly.’
‘A quarter of an hour?’
‘Longer than that, I think.’
‘You think? Half an hour?’
‘Not as long as that. No … not as long as that.’
‘Twenty minutes?’
‘Yes. I suppose about twenty minutes.’
‘So, then, he went away about twenty minutes past one?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Have you any reason—any reason whatever—to suppose that anyone was waiting for him—outside?’
That question startled her.
‘Waiting … outside?’ she repeated sharply. ‘No.’
‘There was no one waiting outside for him—so far as you know?’
She hesitated.
‘I don’t think so. Though I remember now that he did look towards the hall door when we were in the hall. He said he thought it had moved, or something like that. But then he said it must have been the wind.’
Wind? Had there been any wind on Monday night? Gore thought not. There might, of course, have been some through-draught.
‘Do I understand that the hall door was open while you were talking to him in the hall?’
‘No. Not open exactly. But not quite shut to.’
‘Was it like that during all the time he was here?’
‘Yes. I asked him not to shut it quite to, when he came in, because it makes a fearful row when you shut it. A sort of squeal. The hinges are very old or rusty or something.’
She turned her face again to him suddenly, as a thought occurred to her.
‘Oh, yes … and I remember now … when we went out to the hall at first, he said that it was very risky leaving the door like that, ajar, because a policeman might see it open and come in. It had blown open a little then, so there must have been a wind—’
‘It had blown open a little when you came out into the hall from the dining-room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hum. And then he said he thought the wind had opened it?’
‘No … not that time. That was after he had closed it to. He closed it to the first time, when we came out into the hall first. And then, while we were in the hall, he said he thought the wind had moved it again …’
‘So that …’
Gore fell to silence abruptly, then, after a moment, repeated a question which he had already asked—this time very deliberately.
‘But, as far as you yourself know, Pickles, there was no one waiting outside for Barrington?’
The intentness of his air plainly mystified her. If Arndale had been outside—perhaps right up against the hall door and listening—it had not been at her invitation at any rate.
‘No. Why do you ask me that again that way?’
‘Don’t bother about that now. Did Barrington look out, when he thought the door had moved … either time?’
‘No, I think not. I’m not sure. He just pushed the door to the first time, I think. The second time he did nothing.’
‘When he went away, did he shut the hall-door behind him?’
‘He pulled it just to, and I shut it a few moments later.’
‘You heard no voices outside?’
‘No. Why? Do you think there was someone else with him, Wick?’
‘Never mind what I think. I’m asking the questions, Pickles. You’re sure—once more—that Barrington had your letters with him when he left you?’
‘Of course, yes.’
‘Don’t be impatient. I’ve nearly finished. And the knife?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the sheath of the knife?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the hundred and fifty pounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘In notes?’
‘Yes.’
‘When he took the knife from you, was it in its sheath … or out of it?’
‘In it. It stuck, and I couldn’t get it out behind my back.’
‘You’re absolutely certain of that?’
‘Absolutely. He took it out of the little case then, and looked at it, and then put it back in the case and into his pocket.’
Gore drew a long breath of great content.
‘Good. Barrington went away at twenty minutes past one. You shut the hall door. What did you do then … exactly?’
‘I went into the dining-room for a moment, switched off the light there, and then went up to my room and undressed—very quietly, I needn’t tell you. I was just getting into bed when I heard Sidney go downstairs and go out.’
‘What time, please? How long after Barrington had left you … exactly?’
She knitted her brows in the effort to remember.
‘I really can’t say, Wick. I was perfectly wretched and worked up—’
‘Five minutes?’
‘Longer than that. About ten minutes.’
‘Not a quarter of an hour?’
‘No. About ten minutes.’
‘So that, if Barrington went away at twenty past one, your husband went out at half-past one?’
‘Yes. I think so. I can’t be sure. I was too frightened and miserable to think about the time. You must understand that, Wick.’
‘Yes. Good. You sleep at the front of the house?’
‘No. My bedroom is at the back—behind Sidney’s.’
‘So you don’t hear noises in Aberdeen Place?’
‘Not unless they’re very loud noises.’
‘Good. What’s the row between you and Mrs Barrington?’
Again she hesitated, puzzled.
‘How you jump about … The row? About Bertie.’
‘Bertie Challoner?’
‘Yes. Bertie has been making a fool of himself with her, rather … taking her about … and making us all uncomfortable. Well … Sylvia and I found her actually having tea with him in his flat one afternoon about six months ago … and Sylvia went for them … You know what Sylvia is when she gets going. Of course Bertie got up on his back legs, and there was a jolly old row for about ten minutes. Sylvia hasn’t spoken to her since—or to Bertie. I—well, of course, Bertie is my first cousin, and I’m very fond of him. And, of course, I took Sylvia’s side—probably said a good deal more than I should have said. Rather amusing that must be for you … now that you know all about my glass-houses. However … that’s the row.’
‘But she was to have dined here on Monday evening—’
‘Oh, yes … we’re quite polite to one another. I had to be—you can guess why. Besides, I didn’t want to drop her altogether … because nearly every one she ever knew has dropped her during the last year or so on account of her husband. I’ve been sorry for her. We’ve had her to dine here with us occasionally, and that sort of thing. But I know she has ha
ted me like poison ever since that flare-up in Bertie’s flat. Not that I think for a moment that there was anything serious in the affair … so far. Bertie isn’t a bit that sort. He thinks she’s a martyred saint … and all that sort of thing. He’s rather a nice boy, Bertie.’
‘Well, I think that’s all I want to ask you about. Oh … this thing?’ He put his hand into his pocket and took out the little beaded sheath. ‘What are we to do with this?’
‘Burn it,’ she said promptly.
‘Once more—you’re absolutely certain that Barrington took the knife and the sheath away with him when he left you?’
‘Absolutely. As certain as I am that Sidney must have found the knife in his pocket.’
He considered that.
If Melhuish had found the knife in Barrington’s pocket, he must have said to himself—supposing that he knew nothing of Barrington’s visit to his house at one o’clock nor of the supposed encounter with some supposed third person who had waited outside—he must have said to himself, ‘Now, how the deuce did this thing get into Barrington’s pocket? Either he must have pinched it from my hall, or someone else must have taken it from my hall and given it to him. When could he have pinched it himself? Why should he have pinched it himself? He didn’t pinch it himself; someone else gave it to him. Who?’ If Melhuish had not been able to guess who, would he not certainly have taken steps to find out? Questioned his servants and his wife? Of course he would. But he hadn’t done that. No—he had been able to guess. If he had not been able to guess, would he have hidden the knife for a maid to find? Would he not have simply replaced it in its place in the trophy? But he hadn’t done that. He had invented this way of explaining the knife’s absence from the trophy during the preceding day. Why? To destroy, as far as possible, any possible association of the knife with Barrington. Why, again? To destroy, as far as possible, any possible association of Barrington and the knife with … the one person for whom he would have been likely to have taken such cunning pains—his wife.
He turned to Mrs Melhuish.
‘There is one more question, I find, Pickles. On Monday night, while Barrington was with you, did you notice anything—anything whatever—that might lead you to believe that your husband or anyone else in this house knew that he was with you? Anything whatever?’