2
It was Colonel Farrington who had knocked. He stood at the door with a little anxious, deprecating smile.
“Can I come in. my dear? Oh—I beg your pardon, I didn’t realise you weren’t alone.”
“Come in, Eddie. It's Ronnie. You met her before, didn’t you? Come along in and shut the door. I’ve been telling her all our woes, and she’s been such a dear and done me so much good.”
“Then I’m very grateful to her,’’ said Colonel Farrington, Having shut the door carefully and pulled the curtain across it. he came and shook hands with Veronica.
“The sight of you would do anyone good, my dear,” he said. “You look so wholesome and healthy and happy. I’m afraid we have got into a sadly morbid state here. It’s all been very wearing, and I’m afraid we haven’t shown up so well as we should in the face of tribulation, though Anne has been very good, very straight and sensible. I never realised before how important it was to be absolutely straight in an inquiry of this kind. Let thy Yea be yea, and thy Nay, nay.”
“You make me ashamed of myself, Eddie.” said Anne. “You’re the only one of us who has had the courage to live up to your own convictions.”
“Madge has come out of it best.” said the Colonel quietly. “She has just told the truth, and it was hardest for her. I’ve realised that all along.” He turned to Veronica. “You see, Madge, as a nurse, was bound to bear the brunt at first. It was so easy to say she could have done it. She had the requisite skill and knowledge. But I think the worst of it’s over.” He turned back to Anne. “I dare not say too much, my dear, but I think we can see daylight. I’ve had a long talk with the Chief Inspector. He’s a very fine man, and I respect him wholeheartedly. He hasn’t let a detail escape him. It seems they have found some strange fingerprints in Muriel’s room— prints which could not have been made by anybody in this house.”
“You mean somebody from outside, not in this house at all?” burst out Anne.
''“Yes. my dear.” said Colonel Farrington. “They went into it in meticulous detail. You know that Muriel’s room is always cleaned on Monday mornings. The younger detective. Reeves, noticed what a thorough cleaner Mrs. Pinks is. He was pretty sure that when she cleaned the room she wiped the window ledges and finger plates and mantelpiece, and so on. If this were the case, it means that those strange fingerprints must have been made on the Monday after Mrs. Pinks cleaned the room. Well, as Muriel went into the room immediately after Mrs. Pinks had finished cleaning, and either she or I were there for almost the rest of the day, it can only be assumed that someone got into the room in the evening probably when I went out for a bit of supper and Muriel was asleep.”
“You mean someone Mrs. Farrington knew?” cried Ronnie.
“No, my dear. I mean a thief. You see, some of Muriel’s most valuable diamonds are missing. This will show you how conscientious these C.I.D. men are. Reeves told Mrs. Pinks to clean Muriel’s room exactly as she had cleaned it that Monday. He himself had already swept away the fingerprint powder and so on, so there was no particular indication of anything which needed cleaning. The good old soul did exactly as she was bid. When she came out she said to me: ‘Well, I done it as I always done it, no more, no less. Mrs. Farrington was particular and she’d soon have noticed if I scamped it.’ They found she had wiped all the paint, and polished it as well. So that’s a clear pointer. Someone else had been in the room after Mrs. Pinks had cleaned it. In addition to this, a man was seen loitering, ‘with intent,’ as they call it, outside this house between nine and ten on Monday evening.”
“When I was in the drawing room,” said Anne; “but I swear I didn’t hear anything. Eddie.”
“I know you didn’t, my dear,” said the Colonel; “but you remember there was a telephone call which distracted your attention for some time. They can’t find what number was connected with this one, because the automatic system does not record such details of local calls. They have tried all Muriel’s friends—all the numbers that were in her book—and no Mrs. Jones rang up on Monday evening, at least no Mrs. Jones known to us, neither was it anybody concerned with the Primrose League fete. I can’t tell you the trouble those detectives have taken. No one can have any conception of the detailed work which goes into an inquiry like this one.”
“And have they really told you they’re satisfied it was someone from outside?” asked Anne, and Veronica’s heart ached to hear the passionate desire for a positive reply that was in her voice.
“Of course not, my dear. It's not to be expected that they should, at this Stage. The Chief Inspector is the most punctilious of men,” replied the Colonel, but his voice was quiet and comforting. “Macdonald has told me about the fingerprint evidence, and he has also said that the prints they found are unknown to the police—not in their 'Rogues Gallery’ collection, as they call it. He told me further that poor Baring’s medical case has been recovered from the Regent’s Canal. It was obviously stolen when his car crashed. Unfortunately, most of its contents had either been removed or fallen out into the water, but it’s just another instance of the thoroughness of the police. There was insulin in that case. I’m very glad of that, because of Mrs. Pinks. She’s been such a loyal old soul, but because she was devoted to Madge and because her husband suffered from diabetes there was a real danger she would be involved. I realised that myself and I was deeply troubled over it. I couldn’t have borne that any loyal servant of ours should come under suspicion because of her very loyalty to her mistress.”
Veronica looked at him with puzzled eyes, and he replied to her unspoken question.
“In honesty, one is bound to admit that there have been difficulties and misunderstandings amongst us,” he said sadly. “Madge and Muriel, in particular, had been at cross-purposes. Unfortunately, Tony added to this confusion—I know Anne will forgive me for saying so. In giving evidence it is of the first importance not to exaggerate. Anyway, a wretched misunderstanding was magnified into a motive for murder. Because Mrs. Pinks loves Madge, it could have been suggested that she—Mrs. Pinks—brooded over the matter and took steps to end it. All quite untrue, of course. Just one of those hideous imaginings which tend to obsess our minds when we are frightened.” The old man sighed and then made an effort to smile at Veronica. “Grown-up people, even old chaps like me. become like children if we give way to fear. We conjure up bogies and frighten ourselves. If we could only face plain facts simply we should save ourselves so much distress.”
“I’m not a courageous person. Eddie.” said Anne. “I’m a plain coward. All the time I’ve been hoping that it could be proved that someone else did it. Not me. Anybody but me.”
Veronica slid an arm round her. “You silly old ass, Anne, everybody is bound to feel like that. It’s only human nature.”
“Human nature is nobler than you admit, my dear.” said Colonel Farrington. “We recognised that during the war. Mrs. Pinks told Macdonald that she would confess to the crime herself rather than have Madge blamed for it. In other words, Mrs. Pinks was prepared to be hanged for a crime she did not commit to save Madge from suspicion. It makes one very humble.”
Arne flushed and then went very white. ‘ Did she really say that. Eddie?”
The Colonel nodded, his face keen and stern. “She did, all honour to her, and all honour to the Chief Inspector that he refused to accept her statement. The poor old soul has got trouble enough. Her husband died yesterday. Anne. After they had taken his body to the mortuary she came back here, because she had guessed that Madge walked in her sleep and thought she might be of service to her—as indeed she was.”
3
It was Colonel Farrington who changed the angle of the conversation a little. “There’s always a lot of business to be done over estates,” he said. "My wife—very wisely, I think —named her bankers as her executors, but there are certain fairly simple matters I have been able to arrange. I know Anne will be glad to know that Peter's financial muddles are to be tidied up. I’m sorry for the
boy. He was foolish and culpable, of course, but this may be a lesson to him. He must learn that he cannot oblige bis friends in such a lighthearted and irresponsible way. The hospital reports that his condition is quite satisfactory, and he is going on later to a clinic, for a course of treatment, in part psychological.”
Anne put in: “Then it’s really plain sailing. Daddy? The police are satisfied that no one here was responsible?”
"I don't know about plain sailing, Anne, but I think quite a lot of confusion has been cleared away. I think I can say this. There is no need for you to be frightened any more. Now I must get busy writing some more letters. I have been trying to write to all Muriel’s friends. I hate those printed notices people send. So I will say good-bye for now, my dear,” he added to Ronnie. “I’m sorry you have found us in such an unhappy state, and thank you for your kindness to Anne. A friend in need is a friend indeed.”
Veronica got up and shook hands with him. When he had closed the door behind him she turned back to Anne. Anne was still sitting in the corner of the chesterfield, but her head had slipped forward and her body was limp. Veronica Coniston had a few seconds of terror before she assured herself that Anne had only fainted. Opening the window, searching for brandy and smelling salts, Veronica tried to silence the questions which would come crowding into her mind. There was something very terrible, as well as very pitiable, about Anne Strange’s waxen face and cold, limp hands.
SIXTEEN
IT WAS ON THE FRIDAY EVENING that Macdonald and Reeves visited The Cow with the Crumpled Horn, the pub where Colonel Farrington played darts and took pride in his status as a member of the Darts Club committee. It was the matter of the unidentified fingerprints in Mrs. Farrington's bedroom which took the C.I.D. men to the pub. To be faced with unknown fingerprints in a city like London does not look a very hopeful clue for the police, but Macdonald had found from long experience that many such clues could be elucidated by a consideration of probabilities. In the case of a very wealthy establishment, where jewels of great value were known to be housed, suspicion played over the known jewel thieves, the expert cracksman, whose methods were intensively studied by the Yard men, so that quite often the thief left some sign or indication in the course of the methods he used. A less wealthy establishment, of the type of Windermere House, was not likely to attract the star cracksman. If a thief had entered there, it was likely to be some smaller operator who worked on the “information received” basis and who watched the house for an opportunity to make an unseen entrance through an unfastened window or door. While Macdonald was far from convinced that a theft of this kind had occurred at Windermere House, he was faced with certain items of factual evidence which could not be disregarded: some jewellery was missing; unidentified fingerprints had been found; a man had been seen watching the house on the Monday evening. It was obvious that these facts had got to be accounted for before any further progress could be made.
The local Divisional Police had already reported to the C.I.D. that Colonel Farrington was a well-known character at The Cow with the Crumpled Horn and was not only respected but held in affection by the habitues there. His natural unaffected kindliness and generosity and his willingness to help those in trouble had endeared him to the working men he met there. In addition was his willingness to try to comprehend an outlook on life which had at one time been quite strange to him. “He’s as simple as a child,” had said one worthy bricklayer. “Born and bred a Tory. Never thought but what all Socialists was scoundrels and the Labour Party a set of paid agitators. ‘Now you just listen to me.’ I said, and told ’im a few things about what life had been like for my dad in them good old days ’e talked about. ‘D’you know, I never thought o’ that,’ he kept on saying. Listened, ’e did. very careful like. ’E’s no use for Communists, of course, still all King and Country and that, but ’e showed a very fair, open mind, and many’s the talk we’ve ’ad, ’im telling me about 'is dad and me talkin’ about mine.”
“There’s always the chance the Colonel talked a bit too freely without noticing who was listening,” said the D. Division sergeant to Macdonald. “Spoke of his own home and his wife, mentioning they had no resident servants, maybe, and everything was very quiet of an evening. A lot of these casual burglaries follow if a dishonest chap gets an idea it’s all going to be easy, and Bob’s their uncle.”
It was eight o’clock when Macdonald entered the pub, got a pint of beer at the bar, and settled down with a book in a quiet corner. Five minutes later Reeves came in. looking like a garage mechanic to the life, wearing a bulging waterproof well stained with oil and grease. Reeves stayed at the bar counter, joining in the conversation with a natural zest which made him immediately a unit in a crowd of working men It was some half hour later that he picked up a dart from the tray where they lay and threw it at the board with an easy practised skill whose accuracy caused heads to turn and a murmur of approbation to arise. Unconcernedly. Reeves began to throw the other darts to form a pattern round his original bull’s-eye, and Macdonald watched with some amusement. It was beautiful dart throwing, easy and accurate, but Reeves fumbled his final throw and swore lustily. “I don’t like ’em,” he said disgustedly, looking with disapproval at the darts on the tray; “not balanced to my liking. Now, take these—had ’em for years. Lovely darts, these are.”
Inevitably the darts experts gathered round him to examine the two darts Reeves had taken from his pocket, to weigh them and throw them. Some matches followed, and eventually the Darts Club team played an exhibition match, and Reeves admitted handsomely that he himself was no class in comparison with the experts. It was at this stage in the evening’s proceedings that Colonel Farrington’s name was mentioned. They all spoke of him with respect and sympathy, and the matter of subscribing for a wreath for Mrs. Farrington’s funeral was mooted. Macdonald listened with particular interest to this. He wanted to know how far and fast news had travelled.
“There's been a bit o’ trouble, I hear,” ventured one of the darts team. “The doctor who attended the old lady got killed in a motor smash, and the other doctor wouldn’t sign the certificate.”
“Silly lot o’ fuss it seems to me, making trouble for folks when they got enough already,” put in another. “She’s been ailing for years, his good lady had. Heart. You never knows with heart cases.”
“That’s right. Just pops off when you’re least expecting it,” said another voice. “That was a shocking smash the doctor had in his car. Rammed the lamp standard when he was travelling at speed. I saw the car before they moved it. Can't think how he came to do it, and nobody seems to know, either.”
“I reckon a pedestrian ran across the road the way some fools do and the old chap got in a flummox avoiding ’im,” said the original speaker. “No one really saw what happened, and they said his car was looted before the police arrived. Beats me how any chap can thieve over a corpse, turns me sick to think of it.”
“What about these blokes who go cracking old women over the head for the sake of a few quid?” asked another. “This ’ere robbery with violence is something shocking. I reckon it’s these ere army deserters do a lot of it, and what’s the answer to that one. Gawd alone knows.”
“The police ought to do something.” This inevitable comment came from an old man by the counter. “An’ talkin’ of police, somebody said the Colonel’s house was burgled the same night Mrs. Farrington died. Anybody seen the Colonel since Monday?”
“Of course not. He’s not been in, not likely,” said the member of the darts team. “And that reminds me. About that debate we was a-goin’ to have, I reckon we’d better wash that out. The Colonel won’t want to be bothered with them sorts of things just now.”
“Well, I don’t know. Might take his mind orf it all,” said another. “Very set on it, ’e was. ’E’s no use for pacifism, no use at all, and I’m not saying he’s not right.”
“Oh, come orf it, Charlie, we don’t want to start on that now,” said the darts expert; “
but I reckon we’d better let the Colonel know we’re not expecting ’im to attend. Where’s Bill? Wasn’t ’e fixing it up? They thought of ’aving it in the Working Men’s Club.”
“Bill ain’t been in tonight, but I saw ’im yesterday,” replied Charlie. “Bill ’adn’t seen the Colonel; that was along of Mrs. Farrington’s bein’ took bad, I reckon. And ’oo was it said there’d been a burglary there?”
“I did. The roadman saw some Yard men at the ’ouse, and they’d been an’ asking if anybody’d been seen ’angin’ around outside on the Monday evening. Must be something in it.”
“Blimy, I don’t like the sound of that.” rejoined the other. “Maybe it was the burglar frightened the old lady and she had a heart attack along of it. That’s a shocking thing, that is. Next door to murder. I reckon.”
“What time was it the C.I.D. blokes was askin’ about?” inquired Charlie.
“All through the evening and up to two o’clock, I was told,” was the reply. “Must be something fishy somewhere. They don’t turn the C.I.D. on to a job without good reason. Now I reckon someone ought to drop the Colonel a line with our respects and regrets. Mr. Laver ain’t in tonight. He’d be the one to do it; these lawyers write something beautiful when they want.”
“I reckon the Colonel would as soon have a line from one of us, writing or no writing,” suggested another. “Lawyers’ letters won’t he no treat to him. What about you doing it, Charlie? Just drop a line with our respects and sympathy for ’im in ’is trouble. Nothing flowery, mind, and we can all sign it tomorrow. ’Ow about it?”
There was a general murmur of agreement, and after a moment Macdonald got up, put his book in his pocket, and slipped out unnoticed. A few minutes later he was joined by Reeves.
I Could Murder Her Page 19