The Attic Murder

by S. Fowler Wright

“Only that it was posted without blotting, and before the ink had had time to dry.” He showed the blurred address as he spoke. “But you can read that in more ways than one. It might be done in a hurry, to be unobserved, or merely to catch a post that was due out.”

  “You’ve no idea where he was going?”

  “Not the least, except that it was almost certainly somewhere in London, as he expected to be able to report to me first thing this morning, and this letter supports that probability.”

  Mr. Banks interrupted to ask: “May I see the letter, Inspector?”

  He took it, and handed it back after what seemed no more than a casual glance. He asked: “No idea whose writing it is?”

  “No, I wish I had.”

  Mr. Banks said nothing more, appearing to lose interest in the subject, but it was a conclusion that anyone who knew him would be slow to draw.

  Sir Reginald asked: “You won’t lose any time in starting a search?”

  “There’ll be every available man on it at the present moment. I telephoned the Yard as soon as I got this letter, and learnt that he hadn’t got back to his room last night.”

  Sir Reginald turned to the lawyer to ask: “I suppose he didn’t tell you anything, Jellipot?”

  “No, I can’t say that he did.” But in spite of this negative reply, Mr. Jellipot looked mildly satisfied. He added: “I’m sorry about Hammerton, but I daresay he’ll come through all right. I don’t think it ought to be long before we see everything cleared up now.”

  Mr. Banks permitted himself to look slightly surprised. “I wonder,” he asked, “what makes you feel sure of that?”

  “Well,” Mr. Jellipot said, “there are two things. Two thousand pounds is a large sum. If Sir Reginald offers that, it ought to make somebody talk. And then it looks as though someone’s afraid of the enquiries that Hammerton was trying to make. That’s a good sign, and it’s better still if they haven’t the nerve to lie low and do nothing. If they try any violence against Hammerton, it’s a likely chance that they put themselves into our hands.”

  Mr. Banks said that it sounded simple when Mr. Jellipot put it like that. There was sarcasm in his voice.

  Mr. Jellipot replied mildly that he didn’t mean that it was a problem which he would he equal to solving. It was not in his line. He relied for that upon the expert gentlemen to whom he was speaking now.

  Sir Reginald, seeing some lack of geniality in these exchanges between gentlemen on whose help he relied, interposed to ask the inspector if he were satisfied with the strength of the alibi that Entwistle had set up.

  He replied that he had already given instructions for it to be examined with the thoroughness that the case required. The characters and antecedents, even the identity of the witnesses, would not be accepted without verification. Mrs. Musgrave had been followed from the moment she left the court.

  But he was more disposed, for the moment, to consider whether more could not be obtained from Miss Weston than she had yet told. He would ask both Sir Reginald, as having recommended her to the opportunity she had sought, and Mr. Banks, as her employer, to use all their influence for a fuller disclosure of the night’s events than she had yet made.

  Sir Reginald said that he would be pleased to have a talk with her, but he was strongly disposed to think that she had told the truth already.

  Mr. Banks did not decline, but showed no interest in the proposal. He reverted to the question of Peter Entwistle’s innocence, concerning which he showed a sustained scepticism. Sir Reginald remembered that he had influenced the inspector previously toward Peter’s arrest. Inspector Combridge may have remembered it also, and without gratitude.

  Mr. Banks suggested that a reward, however large, could not discover a non-existent criminal. He implied that when they turned their eyes away from Peter Entwistle, they were losing time, and offering a reward which no one could be in a position to claim.

  He brought out the point that while a man cannot, by English law, be tried twice for the same offence, Peter Entwistle had not gained this immunity, as the magistrate had declined to commit him, and, technically, he had not been tried at all.

  Inspector Combridge admitted this, but without interest. He returned to the subject of Mary Weston.

  Sir Reginald saw that Mr. Banks appeared to be irritating the Inspector, as he had done Mr. Jellipot previously. He reflected that, when things are not going well, good humour is not easy to maintain, even among those who are normally friends.

  Mr. Banks said he had another appointment, and went.

  Inspector Combridge, who was anxious to take personal direction of the search for Francis Hammerton, promptly followed.

  Sir Reginald asked Mr. Jellipot to remain for a few minutes, as he had other business requiring the lawyer’s attention.

  Having dealt with this, he returned to the subject of William Rabone’s murder.

  “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that Miss Weston really knows more than she has told us already, and I’ve got a board meeting on this afternoon, and more other business than I know how to get through. But I’ll arrange, if I can get hold of her, that she shall call at your office this afternoon; and if there’s more to be learned, there’s no one who’ll get it out of her better than you.

  “I think she has a rather friendly feeling for young Hammerton, and if you tell her he’s in jeopardy, as I’m afraid he is, it mayn’t do any harm.”

  Mr. Jellipot, without showing much confidence in this line of enquiry, said that he would do what he could.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was slightly before four o’clock that afternoon when Miss Weston called at Mr. Jellipot’s office. She was shown in at once, and the lawyer greeted her cordially.

  “It was good of you,” he said, “to come so promptly. Sir Reginald thought that something might be gained if we went over all that happened on the night of the murder together.” He added doubtfully: “I don’t know that we shall. You seemed to me to give your account very clearly, and to have acted with unusual courage and self-control.... Besides, I expect Mr. Banks has been over the same ground with you since lunch, and you’re about sick of the whole subject.”

  “Yes, I am rather,” Miss Weston answered. She had, in fact, lost interest in the uncongenial occupation of crime-detection with the death of the man in whose evil-doing she was directly concerned. She would have left the employment of the Texall Agency at once, had not Mr. Banks insisted that he was entitled to a month’s notice, which she could not deny, and kept her sitting in his offices with little to occupy her time, and for no reason that she could see, except that he must wish to keep her in sight until the cause and responsibility of the Rabone murder had been resolved.

  But Mr. Jellipot had the voice of a friend, and she answered frankly: “I can’t say that Mr. Banks has been bothering me. I came over because Sir Reginald Crowe telephoned, and asked me to do so. He said he’d take the responsibility of my leaving the office. So I waited for some time, but Mr. Banks hasn’t been in since lunch, and I thought I’d better come.... I don’t really think I can help you at all.... I know Mr. Banks thinks it was Peter Entwistle, and it does seem likely in a good many ways. He’s done all he could to get me to say that the man I saw was like him, but I can’t honestly. Really, I didn’t see him at all, apart from one leg.”

  “And there was nothing that you could recognize in that?”

  “No, there wasn’t. I looked at Peter Entwistle’s legs particularly. They seemed different to me, but of course he would have changed what he wore.”

  “So he would. It is more than probable that there would have been blood on either the trousers or boots, especially as the murderer moved about the room in the dark after committing the crime. It is not certain—the fact that the assault was from behind makes it possible that he may have avoided bloodstains entirely if he acted with sufficient care—but it is a very probable thing. Did you notice nothing whatever by which identification would be possible?”

 
“No. I don’t think I could. You must remember it was only a moment’s glimpse, as I switched on the light, and the leg was drawn over the window-sill.”

  She paused, as though on the verge of something she hesitated or feared to say, and Mr. Jellipot waited in a discreet silence that tempted her to go on.

  “It just shows,” she said at last, “how unreliable such identifications can be, and I only mention it for that reason. but the only time I’ve seen a leg that brought it back to my mind was when Mr. Banks himself was putting his out of a taxi, when he got out of it after me, the day he took me to Sir Reginald’s office.”

  Mr. Jellipot smiled with her at the absurdity of the idea. He said: “No, I don’t think that would be sufficient to convict Mr. Banks. Identifications are often most unsatisfactory; and, unfortunately, everyone isn’t as sensible, or as scrupulous as yourself.... I expect you’ll be glad to see his office for the last time, and to forget that you’ve ever been in the enquiry business.”

  “Yes, I shall. But I should like to see it cleared up in such a way that my father’s honour will be vindicated. I should like it proved what Mr. Rabone was.”

  “I think you may look on that as a very probable conclusion.... It seems that someone’s been silly enough to kidnap young Hammerton, if they haven’t done anything worse. I think that’s where they’ve made a mistake.”

  Miss Weston waked to a more lively interest when she heard this. She asked for details, and Mr. Jellipot told what he knew, which was not much. “I wonder,” he concluded, “whether I could ask you to do something more in this matter. Something that won’t be dangerous if Peter Entwistle’s innocent, as I am inclined to believe, but may be very dangerous if he isn’t.”

  “Yes,” she said, “if you say it’s worth while, I’ll do the best that I can.”

  “I ought to tell you first that the two matters may be quite separate. That the gang among whom Francis Hammerton got mixed up may have no connection with the Rabone murder. I think differently. I think they are more or less one. But I may be wrong.”

  “Very well. I understand that. I’ll do anything you advise.”

  “I want you to find Peter Entwistle. I want you to tell him everything that led up to his arrest, from the angle of the Texall Enquiry Agency. If you think anything doesn’t matter, or hesitate to mention it on other grounds, that’s all the more reason why you should.

  “When you’ve done that, say I want to see him, and bring him to me at once. It doesn’t matter at what hour it may be. You’ll have my private address on this card. You can memorize it, and tear it up.”

  “You won’t tell me particularly what I’m to mention?”

  “No. You’d better tell him naturally, in your own way. I may be quite wrong. And if I’m right, you’ll be more likely to convince him if you haven’t got the same idea in your mind.”

  “Am I to go now?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “You’ll let Mr. Banks know that I shan’t be back?”

  “Did you leave a message that you were coming here?”

  “No, I didn’t. There was no one in that I cared to tell. The rule in that office is that we say the least that we can.”

  “It is an excellent one, which might with advantage be more widely applied. You can leave that to me.”

  Miss Weston went at that, without further words. She had a hurried meal in a nearby teashop, during which she considered how best she should approach Peter Entwistle, and what Mr. Jellipot could be particular that she should say. Then she got up briskly, paid her bill, and went out to call the first taxi she saw.

  “Thirteen Vincent Street,” she said, “and I want you to put me down without stopping to talk there, drive away for a few minutes, and then come back and stop a few doors farther down toward Windsor Terrace, on the other side, and wait for me there.”

  The man heard these instructions without enthusiasm, but his expression altered as she handed him a pound note.

  “You can give me the change,” she said, “if it comes to less, but it’s quite likely there’ll be something to add.”

  He listened with an intelligent interest as she went over the instructions again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mary Weston alighted at No. 13 Vincent Street, and walked up to a door that stood slightly open. Knowing something of its rather promiscuous hospitalities, she pushed it farther without the formality of using the bell, and ascended the stairs.

  She must have used a more active and less obviously feminine tread than when she had crept down in the night, for as she reached the top landing, she heard Peter Entwistle’s voice through a half-opened door: “If that’s the taxi-man, call him in, and ask if he’ll mind giving a hand. I could do with some help with this trunk.”

  The next moment Mrs. Musgrave appeared at the door. She had a hat on and a fur-collared coat, of a less sombre appearance than the clothes in which she had entered the witness-box little more than twenty-four hours earlier, and her expression was in even greater contrast, being one of excited animation, which changed to a puzzled doubt as she saw who her husband’s visitor was.

  “I can’t say I’m a taxi-man,” Miss Weston announced cheerfully, “but I don’t mind lending a hand with a trunk, if you’re needing a little help of that kind.

  “I wanted a few words with Mr. Musgrave” (she remembered, just in time, that Peter’s wife knew him by that name), “hut it doesn’t look as though I’ve chosen a good time to call.”

  She was through the door by this time, Mrs. Musgrave giving way somewhat doubtfully before her resolute, smiling advance.

  The room showed sufficient evidence that Peter was on the point of vacating it, and he made no secret of this when he looked up from his occupation of cording a heavy trunk, and saw who was there.

  He had known nothing of Mary Weston two days before, but a man does not sit in the dock and hear a woman give evidence for two hours on which his liberty and perhaps his life may depend, without remembering face and voice.

  “Glad to see you, Miss Weston,” he said, “whatever has brought you here. You’re only just in time, if you want to see me. There’s a taxi ordered in half an hour, and I reckon we shall all be a bit older before anything will bring me to these rooms again.”

  “I did want to talk to you rather particularly, but I can see it’s an awkward time.”

  “Ten minutes do? I can spare that, and a few more if necessary. I don’t forget that I shouldn’t be here, if you’d told your tale the least bit different from how you did.”

  “I only told the truth. You needn’t thank me for that.”

  “Well, that’s more than everyone tries to do, and some who do make it a muddled job.... Jean, there’s some tea left in the pot, isn’t there? You might give Miss Weston a cup.”

  Mary accepted this offer of hospitality, recognizing the inexpediency of saying that she had had a meal half an hour before. It settled her there for conversation for a few minutes, at least, which she must use to the best advantage she could.

  “I should think,” she said, “that you’re wise to be getting away. I expect you’ve heard that Francis Hammerton’s disappeared.”

  Peter Entwistle looked at her in a questioning manner, as though puzzled as to what the implication of this statement might be. She was aware that it was clumsily said, but she was feeling for an opening which was not easy to find.

  “I don’t see,” he replied, “why he should clear out. He oughtn’t to have had much to fear. Except, of course, that he’d got a sentence to serve. I’d forgotten that.... I shouldn’t think he’s gone far.”

  “I don’t think he’s gone willingly. Mr. Jellipot thinks he’s been kidnapped, if nothing worse.”

  She thought that Peter Entwistle’s manner became more reserved, if not hostile, as she said that. It was embarrassed, as it might have been had her conversation overstepped the limits of decency, in a way which his own politeness withheld him from observing openly.


  He said: “Mr. Jellipot? Oh, yes, I know. He spoke up for Hammerton yesterday. Well, I hope he’s wrong.... But Banks didn’t send you here to tell me that Hammerton’s disappeared.”

  He looked at her with a new suspicion in his mind, which she did not guess, but which was fortunately dissolved by her reply.

  “No. It’s nothing to do with Mr. Banks. It was Mr. Jellipot who asked me to see you.”

  (Was it right, she wondered, to mention that? But how could she tell what was right or wrong, being in the dark as she was. She could only go on talking, watching for a chance to say what she had been told.)

  “Well, what does he want to know?”

  “I’m not clear about that. In fact, he didn’t say. I think he’d like to see you himself.... I suppose you’ve no idea who really did kill Mr. Rabone?”

  Peter Entwistle looked at her without answering, but with an expression in which anger was not disguised, though bewilderment was more clearly indicated.

  She thought: “He must have done it himself, and he supposes that I know.” She remembered that Mr. Jellipot had said that if he were innocent she would be in no danger at all, but if he were guilty— Well, it was too late to draw back. She went on blunderingly.

  “I think Mr. Jellipot’s always been sure that it wasn’t you, and Inspector Combridge never felt sure it was. It was Mr. Banks who would have it that it could be no one else, and of course, when you went away, it seemed to show he was right.”

  Peter Entwistle’s face had become expressionless, as he asked: “I suppose he sees that he made a mistake now?”

  She was conscious that the position had become menacing in some intangible way, and what might be wise or foolish to say was beyond her wits to decide. She must speak the truth as far as she could, and let the results be what they might. Being in the dark as she was, it was the simplest, and might be the wisest way.

  “I don’t know that he does,” she answered. “I don’t think Mr. Banks changes his opinion very easily. But Mr. Jellipot has never thought it was you, or, at least, that was the impression I got. Of course, if you could suggest who it was, it would make it clearer for you and Mr. Hammerton. It may be that Mr. Jellipot wanted to talk it over with you. But that’s only a guess. I don’t know.”