But the questions he put were only general ones. Not even by an inflection of the voice did he hint at his knowledge that there might have been more between Miss Waterhouse and Wargrave than between her and any other member of the staff. This was not the real interview with Wargrave. That would come later, when Moresby could divulge that knowledge, gleaned presumably from Mr. Wargrave’s colleagues. The object of the present interview had already been achieved, to see how Wargrave took the news that the identity of the dead girl, which her murderer had taken such precautions to keep hidden, was a mystery no longer.
And Moresby could not but admit to himself, as he put his routine questions and listened to Wargrave’s ready but quite non-committal answers, that the shock of surprise had gained him precisely nothing at all.
On the other hand it was only natural to suppose that ever since the discovery of the body the murderer must have been keyed up to withstand just that shock, and certainly he had had plenty of time to rehearse his attitude.
CHAPTER X
With Wargrave dismissed there was no longer any real need to keep the affair secret. When Moresby was invited, therefore, by a rather doubtful Miss Harrison who did not seem at all sure that he should not be relegated to the kitchen, to stay to lunch instead of looking for an inn in Allingford, he absolved from their oaths on this point those whom he had already interviewed.
These were Mr. Parker, Mr. Duff, and Mr. Rice. From none of them had he learnt anything at all, nor indeed had he expected to do so. All had been suitably shocked, all had appeared genuinely surprised that Miss Waterhouse of all people should have left the path of rectitude, all of them seemed to have been taken in by her just as much as the Harrisons had been, and not one of them breathed a word about any friendship between her and Wargrave. This was all no more nor less than Moresby had anticipated. It was from the women of the establishment that he hoped to learn something, if anything was to be learned at all; and by lifting the ban of silence and so loosening their tongues among themselves, he thought that something might be thrown up to the surface in their simmering chatter.
After lunch Leila Jevons was sent for.
Moresby took pains to put her at her ease. From the estimate he had formed of her from Roger Sheringham’s manuscript, he considered her the most hopeful of all. She had known the dead girl as intimately as anyone had, she was a bit of a gossip, and she was of that eager type which is so very anxious to assist authority.
Moresby noticed with amused interest, as Miss Harrison introduced her, that there was no super-mole on the side of Miss Jevons’s nose, nor yet any sign of one having existed. Evidently the great decision had been taken at last, with most satisfactory results.
Miss Jevons was at first inclined to flutter and bridle a little, but soon settled down under Moresby’s practised handling. She leaned forward in her chair, her silken knees in plain evidence below her extremely short skirt, and looked almost painfully anxious to help. The turned-up tip of her mole-less nose shone and quivered.
“Yes?” she said. “Yes?”
“You knew Miss Waterhouse well, Miss Jevons?”
“Well, I—I thought I did. As well as anyone, you know. But she was always—well, what you might call close.”
“She didn’t talk as much as some girls?”
“Oh, no.”
“Was she in the habit of confiding in you at all?”
“I don’t think she was. I don’t think she confided in anyone. She used to sit there, in my room, listening; and smiling, you know, but . . . Of course, she spoke about the Australian she was engaged to, but I expect you know all about him.”
“Tell me as if I knew nothing at all, Miss Jevons, will you?”
Miss Jevons would, willingly; but it did not amount to very much. Mary had always spoken of him as “Ronald.” Miss Jevons could not remember ever having heard his surname. Miss Jevons did not think she had ever heard an address mentioned; she had gathered that he had something to do with sheep-farming, but Miss Waterhouse had gone into no details. She had displayed a photograph of him, a small and exceedingly bad snapshot taken against a noncommittal background, but really, it might have been anyone. No, Miss Jevons did not know what had become of the snapshot; presumably Miss Waterhouse had taken it with her at the end of term. Yes, she had said good-bye quite affectionately, but had still given no address; she had said she would write, from Australia; Miss Jevons had been quite hurt not to have heard.
“I see,” nodded Moresby. He had never believed very much in the existence of this Australian, but that had not meant that he would not follow up every possible avenue of enquiry concerning him. He believed still less now.
“Now what,” he asked next, “was the last you saw of Miss Waterhouse at the end of last summer term, Miss Jevons? Did you by any chance spend the first few days of the holidays together?”
No, Miss Jevons had not done that. The last she had seen of Miss Waterhouse was at Euston, whither the two had travelled up together, Miss Jevons to go to her home in Hampshire, and Miss Waterhouse, as she said, to meet her impatient Australian for lunch. Had Miss Waterhouse seemed quite normal at parting? Yes, quite. Not excited? Oh, no; Mary was never excited. Even though she was going to meet this rampant Australian? No, not even so.
Moresby pressed the point, and Miss Jevons readily agreed that she had been struck at the time by the singular calmness of Mary’s demeanour; it had not been at all the expectant attitude of a girl about to greet an Australian lover. As Miss Jevons however gave Moresby the impression of being only too ready to agree with anything he suggested, he did not attach too much importance to her assent. Nevertheless it was a point.
“And now, Miss Jevons,” he said, “I’m afraid I must venture on rather delicate ground. You know, I expect, that Miss Waterhouse was about to become a mother. Can you give me any suggestion as to who could possibly have been the father of her child?”
Miss Jevons was quite modern enough not to shrink from trying to help on this vital point, as Moresby had half-feared she might. “No, I’m afraid I can’t,” she said frankly. “I’ve been wondering that ever since I heard the girl at Lewisham was Mary. I can’t imagine who the father could have been.”
“Nobody here, for instance?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so, surely.”
“Please try to think, Miss Jevons. You can understand the importance of it, I’m sure. Please see if you can’t remember anything which would point to there having been something between Miss Waterhouse and somebody in Allingford—in this school. Have you never heard her mentioned in connection with any man?”
“Well, we used to rag her at one time about Mr. Wargrave,” responded Miss Jevons promptly and obligingly, “but of course there was never anything like that between them. Besides, he’s engaged to Miss Harrison now. They’re going to be married next holidays.”
“Yes. You don’t know of any other man in connection with Miss Waterhouse then? She was never teased about anyone else?”
“No. The Australian was the only serious affair she had, I’m sure. He must be the father.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“Oo!” Miss Jevons’s eyes grew round. “Does that mean it was he who . . . ?”
“Come, come,” said Moresby genially, “it’s early to ask questions like that, you know; and earlier still for me to answer ’em.” And having extracted all the information from Miss Jevons that she contained, he got benevolently rid of her.
Miss Crimp followed her into the morning-room, agog with anticipation.
Moresby, taking her measure with a practised eye, offered her a cigarette and adopted a firm air as of one who would stand no nonsense from any woman.
Miss Crimp however was not such a fool as Moresby had thought. Her judgement of Miss Waterhouse was shrewd.
“No, I never liked her much. And certainly I would never have trusted her. Oh,
I don’t mind a girl who doesn’t smoke and doesn’t drink and doesn’t gossip. In fact they’re rather refreshing nowadays, when they’re genuine. But Mary Waterhouse wasn’t genuine. I’ve seen her looking at my cigarette as if she could eat it. And all that clap-trap about duty and playing the game and the rest; she overdid it; it was nauseating. I tell you what. She gave me the impression always that she was playing a part of some kind—and having a bit of trouble in keeping it up. Of course, I may be prejudiced, because I did find all that smug talk of hers pretty sick-making; but I rather think I’m right for all that.”
Moresby, reflecting that Miss Crimp knew nothing of Miss Mary Waterhouse’s unexpected past, considered that this judgement did her powers of intuition no little credit. In her own way Miss Crimp might be just as much of a poseuse as Miss Waterhouse had been, but there was just as much real character underneath the pose.
“I didn’t gather from the last young lady, Miss Jevons, that she thought that way about Miss Waterhouse,” he remarked, with purposeful mildness.
“Oh, well,” said Miss Crimp; and smiled. One was left to gather that Miss Jevons’s powers of seeing beneath a surface were not high.
Moresby led her on, and by and by out plopped the name of Mr. Wargrave again. And Miss Crimp had a good deal more to say on this subject than Miss Jevons had had.
“Ah, yes,” Moresby said carelessly. “But Miss Jevons assures me that there was nothing serious there.”
“Oh, does she?” returned Miss Crimp darkly.
“You don’t agree then? You think that Miss Waterhouse . . . ?”
“I told you just now I wouldn’t have trusted her an inch farther than I could see her.”
“Yes. Now, Miss Crimp.” Moresby’s tone was portentous. “Now, Miss Crimp, an intelligent young lady like yourself will have realised that this is a very serious point. You’re practically hinting that this Mr. Wargrave might have been the father of Miss Waterhouse’s child, aren’t you? Now I want to ask you a very important question, and I must point out first that it is your duty to answer it as fully and as truthfully as you can; at the same time I’ll add, a bit unofficially perhaps, that any answer you do give me will be treated as quite confidential between us and won’t land you in any unpleasantness outside this room. Have you any kind of evidence at all, however small you yourself think it may be, in support of this hint of yours about Mr. Wargrave and Miss Waterhouse?”
“In other words, have I any evidence that Mr. Wargrave had a motive for murdering Mary?” said Miss Crimp acutely. “No, I haven’t. If I had I’d tell you; because though I don’t draw the line at much, I do draw it at murder. But evidence, no.”
“You’re certain of that?” Moresby said disappointedly.
“Quite. I only mentioned it because I think there’s a distinct possibility of it, and I thought you ought to know. But I can only state the psychological case; not a practical one.”
“Well, what evidence was there that there was anything at all between those two, even if it was only a mild flirtation?”
There was, it seemed, nothing more than the usual evidence in such cases. Mr. Wargrave and Miss Waterhouse had evidently been mildly attracted, had shown signs of liking each other’s company, had made one or two expeditions to theatres in London, had been seen looking at each other like two people do who share a rather pleasant little secret; and of course Miss Waterhouse had been at one time in the habit of bridling slightly when teased about Mr. Wargrave. Nothing more.
Moresby nodded. He had already decided that this was the crux of his case. If he could prove Mr. Wargrave’s paternity of the dead girl’s child, he had such a strong motive against him that his guilt might be considered certain; and in that case the other details, connected with the actual killing, might with any luck be proved against him too. Without such proof, there was no basis to a case against Mr. Wargrave. That is, not at present. Of course, one never knows, in detective work. It would not be in the least out of the common for someone to crop up any day with the information that he had seen the couple actually going into the house in Burnt Oak Road together, and readily able to identify Wargrave as the man. It is that kind of thing, officially known as “information received,” which brings to the gallows most of the murderers who are hanged.
One thing, however, Miss Crimp was able to establish. The interest shown by Miss Waterhouse and Mr. Wargrave in each other was not confined to the early part of the summer term, as Moresby had rather gathered, but had been in full swing during the previous Easter one. This was important.
Miss Crimp was dismissed with hearty words of praise and gratitude, and Mrs. Harrison followed her into the chamber of inquisition.
Phyllis Harrison, in a simple little black frock with a white collar, looked very innocent and disarming. Moresby was glad to have had Roger’s side-lights on her.
Armed with these, Moresby went straight to the point.
“Madam,” he said, without a trace of his usual geniality, “I have evidence that the father of Miss Waterhouse’s unborn child was someone in this establishment. It is essential for me to find out who this man was, and I think you can help me.”
The rather mocking smile which had been decorating Mrs. Harrison’s pretty face disappeared abruptly. “You mean . . . that’s why she was killed?”
“I couldn’t go as far as to say that. On the other hand, the possibility must be examined.”
“But—but it isn’t a possibility, chief inspector. I mean, surely . . . well, no one here could have done such a thing. It’s impossible.”
“On the contrary, madam,” Moresby returned grimly, “it’s extremely probable. You must face that, please. Now, you have certain resident masters here. Let me run through their names. Mr. Parker, Mr. Duff, Mr. Wargrave, Mr. Patterson, and Mr. Rice. As my information goes, one of those is the man I mean.”
Mrs. Harrison was about to throw in an impetuous word, but Moresby raised an enormous hand to stop her.
“One moment, madam. I want to make this quite clear. I’m not accusing this man at the moment of being concerned in Miss Waterhouse’s death. Nothing like that. On the other hand it’s impossible to deny that her condition may have provided a motive. But that will come later. When you’ve confirmed my ideas on the point, we shall put the suspicion against him quite fairly and frankly to this man, and ask him for his explanation. It’s quite possible that he will be able to satisfy us entirely; in which case we shall of course look elsewhere. But in the meantime (and I must emphasise this) it is your duty to help me by giving me all the information on this particular point that you have.”
“But I haven’t any,” Phyllis retorted, a little sulkily.
“Mr. Parker, Mr. Duff, Mr. Wargrave, Mr. Patterson, and Mr. Rice,” Moresby went on smoothly. “Now of those five I think we can eliminate straight away Mr. Rice.” He looked at her fixedly.
“Y-yes?” Phyllis quavered, flinching under the meaning look.
Roger would not have recognised his benevolent walrus of a friend in the hard-eyed, hard-mouthed man who was staring at unfortunate little Mrs. Harrison. If Moresby got most of his results by exploiting his natural kindness of disposition, he knew exactly when to turn it into severity. Every weapon at his disposal must be used by a police officer in search of the truth.
“At the period in question,” he said slowly, his eyes relentlessly boring into his victim’s mind, “Mr. Rice’s interests were, of course—how shall I put it, madam?— otherwise engaged. And I take it he is not the sort of man to have been carrying on two affairs at the same time. You agree with me?”
“Yes,” whispered Mrs. Harrison.
There was a little silence, full of unspoken things.
“What is it you—want to know?” Mrs. Harrison asked, not very steadily.
“I told you. Any evidence you have that one of those three gentlemen had been carrying on an intrigue with Mis
s Waterhouse. You do know, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Harrison, in a husky voice.
“What do you know? The whole truth, please, madam.”
“Last Easter term my step-daughter told me that she fancied there might be something—irregular going on, on the floor above us—at night,” said Mrs. Harrison jerkily. “I heard someone moving along the upstairs passage one night, when I was going up to bed rather late. I—I went upstairs to see, and—and saw Miss Waterhouse, in her dressing-gown, just going into someone’s room.” Mrs. Harrison touched her lips with her handkerchief and looked at Moresby with frightened eyes.
“A man’s?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
“Mr. Wargrave’s.”
CHAPTER XI
Moresby returned to Scotland Yard from Allingford very pleased with himself. He had not expected to be able to obtain such definite evidence of the connection between Wargrave and the dead girl. Rumours he had anticipated, gossip, and scandal; but no real evidence. It was his feeling, as he made for the room of Superintendent Green to report, that Mrs. Harrison had put the rope round Wargrave’s neck.
As was his habit, however, the superintendent was not so hopeful.
“Um!” he grunted, when Moresby had jubilantly told his news. “You’ve got motive all right, considering his engagement to the Harrison girl; but that’s not much. We can’t get a conviction on motive. By the way, I suppose the woman will be prepared to make that statement on oath?”
“Oh, yes,” Moresby said, with a touch of grimness. In accordance with the tacit bargain he had made with Phyllis Harrison he had not mentioned even to the superintendent the lever by which he had been enabled to pry this information out of her. “Oh, yes, I don’t think we’ll have any difficulty there.”
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