Verdict of Twelve
Page 2
The sight of her Aunt Ethel made things worse for her: Ethel had sold her Cherry Hinton shop and gone into munitions too (she had been just young enough), but she had kept her money. She had bought houses with it in the Bloomsbury district, and had had sense enough to choose the West side of Gray’s Inn Road. Values had gone up, and now Ethel was comfortably off. She rigidly refused to lend Victoria a penny, but promised to remember her in her will, together with her younger sister, May Ena, and a waif named Irene Olga Hutchins, sole reminder of the two younger male Atkinses…“two” because there was a regrettable doubt which of them was the father, and both were beyond reach of questioners in a Flanders cemetery. Their last letters to the mother had been brief and unfriendly, consisting only of a refusal to pay, couched in identical terms. Irene now did practically all the housework for Great-Auntie, sustained by promises that in due course she would be a rich woman. The figures varied: sometimes it would be three thousand, sometimes five, and once even ten, that Irene was told she could expect as her third share when Great-Auntie passed on. Great-Auntie never spoke so detailedly to Victoria, of course, but Irene naturally told her disagreeable aunt whatever she chose to ask, and there were few things about which she asked more frequently.
So, in 1927, there were only four members of the once numerous Atkins family left, as far as was known, anyway. There were Aunt Ethel, Victoria herself, her sister May, and the small niece, whose unfortunate lack of the surname Atkins was forgotten, as she was invariably called nothing but Young Irene. Of these four, the last three were in indigent circumstances, and the first had plenty of money. This circumstance formed the first and most essential of the facts in a dossier assembled by the police in the winter of that year.
***
The next significant fact was an event that the police never noted in their records at all. On a Thursday afternoon in late November, May, who spelt her name Mae even before Miss West wiped out any memory of Princess May, was taking tea with Victoria in Mrs. Mulholland’s boarding-house in Lewisham. It was Victoria’s custom to entertain her sister once a week, more to insist on her rights than from family affection, and also to provide for herself by fair exchange a place to go to on her own afternoon off.
Mae laid down her cup. “Tea’s not up to much,” she said, rather diffidently.
“And that’s a fact,” replied Victoria equably. “The old girl’s mean. I don’t know where she gets the tea; she brings it in herself. Mouse-dirt I found in it last time; inside the packet, mind you. I—Don’t you feel well, Mae?”
“I do seem to have come over queer,” said Mae faintly.
“Are you going to be sick?” said Victoria, with the anxious rising tone in which those words are always said.
“I’m afraid so…”
“Well, for goodness’ sake run quick; you know where the W is,” snapped her elder sister, shooing her out.
Mae was very sick indeed; her sister even relented and came to hold her head, so deplorable were the noises. Actually no harm resulted whatever; Mae’s health was, if anything, improved by the upset, and you might have thought she had merely taken unintentionally a dose of ipecacuanha. But at the moment she felt she was going to die and miserably said so. Her sister was sympathetic, most unusually.
“I don’t like it at all, Mae; I don’t. You look as white as anything. Suppose there is something really wrong. You go straight home this moment and lie down. I’ll come round and see you in the morning, first thing I can. It’s no good my asking the old cat for permission to go out to-night; but I’ll get up early and the moment I’ve laid breakfast I’ll pop across.”
She fussed over her sister and bundled her out, very surprised and a little unwilling. But Mae was a little scared, too: Victoria had never shown anything like this sisterly anxiety. Perhaps she was really ill? Personally, she’d have said it was nothing but Victoria’s nasty tea, and the mention of mouse-dirt in it had been enough to turn any one up. Anyway, she’d better go and if Victoria came round in the morning it couldn’t do any harm.
Victoria watched her sister from the basement window with a curiously pleased expression. She said nothing to Mrs. Mulholland about the incident.
***
About five o’clock next morning the figure of a middle-sized woman in black with a veil could have been, but was not, seen moving at a sedate pace down a poorish street in Camberwell. Her feet made no sound; she presumably was wearing rubber-soled shoes. She went straight up to the corner house, which was Aunt Ethel’s, and let herself in with a key, absolutely silently. There was a bolt on the inner side of the door, but the wood had warped years ago, and it could not be shot into its socket. The woman stood a full half-minute inside the door, listening. There was no sound at all except the ticking of a large hall-clock.
With a firm silent step, as of someone who knew her way, she moved across to Aunt Ethel’s bedroom, turned the handle softly and listened. Steady breathing. The door closed behind her.
In the room there is darkness, except for the faint glimmer of the pillow case and turned down sheet: on the pillow a dim round marks the place where the old lady’s head lies. A dark figure is standing beside the bed: you could not, if you were there, make out precisely what its hands are doing. They seem to be reaching underneath the old lady’s head to her second pillow. To steal something? No, it is the second pillow itself the hands want. And, sudden speed contrasting with previous caution, the pillow is swept away and down on to the old lady’s face; and there pressed down with fanatical energy. The sleeper breaks into violent and blind activity; her legs thrash madly about in the bed, her helpless, rather clawlike hands grab into the empty air but never find her attacker. The pillow drowns any sounds she may try to make.
These few minutes seem to last an hour. Down and down the hands press. The struggles grow weaker, but the hands cannot wait for them to end. The strong fingers separate the feathers in the pillow till they feel beneath them the skin of the throat. Then both thumbs with a sort of fierce delight thrust downwards and hold.
A little while later there is a slight sigh and the black figure straightens up. A spark of light appears, as from a small, nearly run out electric torch. By its light the pillow is removed and above the old lady’s mouth appears, held in the air, a little mirror such as is carried in a vanity bag. No clouding on it, no moisture. The mirror is held there until its owner is satisfied it would remain clear for ever, and then the light is snapped out. In the dark, hands put back the pillow and roughly rearrange the bed; the black figure slips silently out again.
Back into the street. Two turnings, past silent homes and unwinking electric lights. Round into the main road and straight to a telephone box. The woman in black put in her twopence and dialled, not 999, but the local police station. When the answer came she said in an oddly high-pitched but not loud voice: “Oh, come at once, come at once! Me great-auntie’s dead. Ow, it’s too frightful…She’s dead, I tell you, and I’m all alone. Are you going to leave me to be murdered?…It’s 68 Duke Street…Oh, get here and don’t ask silly questions.” The station sergeant, who tried to stem and answer this rush of frightened words, automatically noted the time of the call before he turned to take action. It was 5.52 a.m.
The woman rang off, and then after a moment’s hesitation rang Ethel’s number. Ethel was rich and did have a telephone. She heard the ringing tone for quite a time, and then Irene’s voice answered. “What do you want at this time of night?” it asked querulously. The woman in black made no reply: she pressed button B, took her twopence and went away. Irene would be up and awake now; she could let the police officers in and maybe do a little explaining to them. The woman in black walked away from the telephone box and in a minute or two took her place on an early workman’s tram which was already in sight. Every one, including the conductor, was sleepy, and she was inconspicuous. She might be any rather superior charlady going to work. Nobody was likely to notice and
remember her, and nobody did.
***
At exactly six o’clock, trained by years of experience, Mrs. Mulholland awoke temporarily, looked at her watch and listened to hear if the servant was getting up. Victoria had been late once or twice recently. She heard distantly the tinkle of the girl’s alarum which was stopped almost immediately. Soon after there came the unmistakable bump of a chair being knocked over. “How clumsy that girl is getting,” she thought, and turned over for another half-hour’s sleep. Her cup of tea would come at 6.30.
6.40. No cup of tea. Mrs. Mulholland rose, wrapped a dressing-gown round herself, and called downstairs. “Victoria!” There was no answer. Cross and cold, she pattered down to the kitchen. Breakfast was laid, trays put out, curtains drawn, and everything tidy. But no kettle was on and in the middle of the table was a folded note:
Madam,—Having heard my sister Mae was very ill yesterday I have just slipped out to see how she is. Am sorry if this causes any inconvenience but I am very anxious and think I should know. Will be back as quickly as possible.
V. M. Atkins.
Mrs. Mulholland was very angry, and when Victoria returned well after seven, threatened her with dismissal. Victoria was unmoved—said it was just as Mrs. Mulholland pleased, that she had no father nor mother and it was her duty to look after her younger sister, and that she was glad to say, though not asked, that her sister was much better. Mrs. Mulholland considered the matter, remembered the rarity of good maids, and agreed to overlook it. Victoria went upstairs, tidied her bedroom, brought down and threw in the fire two scraps of string and a candle end, and nothing further happened of note until the police arrived later in the morning.
***
The police had had some difficulty in getting into 68 Duke Street. Irene had gone back to bed, and when induced to answer the door told them the message was nonsense. At last, she consented to summon her great-aunt, and went into her room. A few seconds later she began to scream shrilly, and intermittently, rather like a steam engine. The two policemen—one in mufti—hurriedly shut the front door and ran into the bedroom. In a minute one of them came back again, went to the telephone and summoned the police doctor. There was no doubt the old lady was dead, and two very indistinct marks on the throat made it look like strangulation. The body was warm: it seemed only just dead. The time, the inspector noted, was 6.15.
For a short while it looked like an “open and shut” case. The young girl, Irene, was obviously prostrated by grief and shock. She was hardly strong enough to strangle the old lady, anyway, and if she was the murderer the mysterious telephone call was very difficult to explain. She insisted that she had never made it; that she had indeed been called up a quarter of an hour or so earlier to answer the telephone, but there was no one there by the time she got to it. Inspector Hodson acquitted her mentally: adding that apart from anything else no girl of her age could be so consummate an actress. Also, she had told him that her Aunt Victoria was co-heir to the old lady’s money and had a key to the door. He verified for himself that the bolt would not fit.
When the constable sent to break the news to Victoria came back with the report that she had left early that morning on an errand and returned late, he hastened across to Lewisham to conduct the inquiries himself. He was pretty certain the case was solved, especially as Irene had found time between tears to mention her aunt’s very disagreeable temper.
***
What followed is perhaps best given by quoting certain questions and answers.
Q.—I hope you understand, Mrs. Mulholland, that I have to ask a few questions, mainly as a matter of form.
A.—If you get on with your job quickly, young man, it will let me get back the sooner to mine. I have to work for my living.
Q.—You employ a Miss Victoria Atkins as a servant?
A.—The constable’s told you that already.
Q.—Well. Did she leave the house early this morning?
A.—Yes, she did. Left me to do all the hard work of the breakfasts, without permission or anything. I’ve agreed to overlook it, as she’s a good servant; but it’s not to occur again.
Q.—I don’t suppose it will, ma’am. Now do you happen to be able to say just when she went out?
A.—Not to the minute, but it was some time after six.
Q.—After six? Are you sure? Much after six?
A.—I am sure. I’m not in the habit of speaking inaccurately. She got up at six, because I heard her alarm go and heard her get up, and a noise she made about it, too. No consideration for others’ sleep. I expect Miss Meakin heard her, too: she has the other top room, which is cheap, Miss Meakin not having very much money but a very nice lady. Then Victoria went down and did the rooms and went out without saying a word to me, leaving this letter. I didn’t hear her shut the door: she was sly enough to do it quietly. So, I couldn’t say just when she left. About twenty-past six, it must have been.
Q.—Yes. Thank you. I’ll keep this letter if I may, for a bit. May I see your watch?
A.—See my watch? What for? Very well.
Q.—You haven’t wound it up, or altered the hands, since this morning? Or let it out of your possession?
A.—Certainly not. What would I do that for?
Q.—Are you quite sure that Miss Atkins got up at the time you mentioned?
A.—I’ve said so.
Q.—How long did her alarm clock ring?
A.—The usual: a few seconds only.
Q.—What did you hear her do afterwards? Clean the grates and pull the curtains or what?
A.—Really, I can’t say. I heard her get up and bang the furniture about, but I didn’t notice exactly what. As a matter of fact, I took a little nap again afterwards, as is my habit, waiting for my tea. Anyway, I found everything tidy and all the work done downstairs, I’ll say that. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have to make the tea myself and cook the breakfasts. And if you want any more information about what Victoria did you’d better ask her yourself.
(Note to above: Evidence from Miss Meakin confirms.)
***
More questions:
Q.—Your name, please.
A.—Mae Ena Atkins. What do you want?
Q.—Could you tell me what time your sister Victoria called on you this morning, and why?
A.—That’s a funny thing to ask. I suppose it’s all right. There’s nothing wrong in it anyway. I was awful sick yesterday, and Vick said she’d come round early this morning to see if I was all right. Well, I don’t blame her, seeing that she works for such an unpleasant old cat and has to take what times she can, but it was a little inconsiderate to come round as early as all that. You see, I’d told my lady, a very nice lady, that I’d been taken queer, and she’d said I could have a bit of a rest and so I was having a nice lay-in for once and then Vick has to come round in an awful fuss at twenty to seven and get everybody up, just to see if I was all right.
Q.—Twenty to seven! Surely, she didn’t do that.
A.—Oh, yes, she did. I said to her “I do appreciate it,” I said, “and I’d have you know that I do; but it really isn’t sensible to wake every one up at this time in the morning, Vicky,” and she said “It’s seven and more,” and I said “It’s nothing of the sort”; but she wouldn’t have it until I made her look at the clock on St. Michaels, and there it was as clear as you please. And then she was a bit huffy, and went back after no more than a few words.
Q.—Mm—mm. Is it far from here to where your sister works?
A.—About twenty minutes on a bus. I’ve often done it.
Q.—You spent the night here, I suppose, in the usual way?
A.—Why, of course, I did. I told you I was not at all well; why should I run about the streets at night anyway? Madam very kindly gave me a glass of hot milk and three aspirins; I went straight off to sleep and never moved till I was woken up by Vick.
“I told Mae she was to go to bed early as she had been sick, and make herself a glass of hot milk. I went upstairs and saw she was in bed by half-past nine and made her take three aspirins. I gave them her myself; and told her I would get my hubby’s breakfast for once myself. So far as I know she slept right through until we were all woken up by that disagreeable sister of hers.”)
***
Q.—Your name is Victoria Atkins?
A.—Yes.
Q.—I believe you’ve heard that your aunt has died suddenly. We are making a few inquiries, and I hope you won’t mind answering a few questions.
(No answer.)
Q.—When did you last see your aunt?