‘You mean—?’
‘That it’s one of us four. It must be. They don’t know which—and we don’t know which … We don’t know. And we sit there every day looking at each other surreptitiously and wondering. Oh! if only it could have been someone from outside—but I don’t see how it can …’
Sir Edward stared at her, his interest arising.
‘You mean that the members of the family are under suspicion?’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean. The police haven’t said so, of course. They’ve been quite polite and nice. But they’ve ransacked the house, they’ve questioned us all, and Martha again and again … And because they don’t know which, they’re holding their hand. I’m so frightened—so horribly frightened …’
‘My dear child. Come now, surely you are exaggerating.’
‘I’m not. It’s one of us four—it must be.’
‘Who are the four to whom you refer?’
Magdalen sat up straight and spoke more composedly.
‘There’s myself and Matthew. Aunt Lily was our great aunt. She was my grandmother’s sister. We’ve lived with her ever since we were fourteen (we’re twins, you know). Then there was William Crabtree. He was her nephew—her brother’s child. He lived there too, with his wife Emily.’
‘She supported them?’
‘More or less. He has a little money of his own, but he’s not strong and has to live at home. He’s a quiet, dreamy sort of man. I’m sure it would have been impossible for him to have—oh!—it’s awful of me to think of it even!’
‘I am still very far from understanding the position. Perhaps you would not mind running over the facts—if it does not distress you too much.’
‘Oh! no—I want to tell you. And it’s all quite clear in my mind still—horribly clear. We’d had tea, you understand, and we’d all gone off to do things of our own. I to do some dressmaking, Matthew to type an article—he does a little journalism; William to do his stamps. Emily hadn’t been down to tea. She’d taken a headache powder and was lying down. So there we were, all of us, busy and occupied. And when Martha went in to lay supper at half-past seven, there Aunt Lily was—dead. Her head—oh! it’s horrible—all crushed in.’
‘The weapon was found, I think?’
‘Yes. It was a heavy paperweight that always lay on the table by the door. The police tested it for fingerprints, but there were none. It had been wiped clean.’
‘And your first surmise?’
‘We thought of course it was a burglar. There were two or three drawers of the bureau pulled out, as though a thief had been looking for something. Of course we thought it was a burglar! And then the police came—and they said she had been dead at least an hour, and asked Martha who had been to the house, and Martha said nobody. And all the windows were fastened on the inside, and there seemed no signs of anything having been tampered with. And then they began to ask us questions …’
She stopped. Her breast heaved. Her eyes, frightened and imploring, sought Sir Edward’s in search of reassurance.
‘For instance, who benefited by your aunt’s death?’
‘That’s simple. We all benefit equally. She left her money to be divided in equal shares among the four of us.’
‘And what was the value of her estate?’
‘The lawyer told us it will come to about eighty thousand pounds after the death duties are paid.’
Sir Edward opened his eyes in some slight surprise.
‘That is quite a considerable sum. You knew, I suppose, the total of your aunt’s fortune?’
Magdalen shook her head.
‘No—it came quite as a surprise to us. Aunt Lily was always terribly careful about money. She kept just the one servant and always talked a lot about economy.’
Sir Edward nodded thoughtfully. Magdalen leaned forward a little in her chair.
‘You will help me—you will?’
Her words came to Sir Edward as an unpleasant shock just at the moment when he was becoming interested in her story for its own sake.
‘My dear young lady—what can I possibly do? If you want good legal advice, I can give you the name—’
She interrupted him.
‘Oh! I don’t want that sort of thing! I want you to help me personally—as a friend.’
‘That’s very charming of you, but—’
‘I want you to come to our house. I want you to ask questions. I want you to see and judge for yourself.’
‘But my dear young—’
‘Remember, you promised. Anywhere—any time—you said, if I wanted help …’
Her eyes, pleading yet confident, looked into his. He felt ashamed and strangely touched. That terrific sincerity of hers, that absolute belief in an idle promise, ten years old, as a sacred binding thing. How many men had not said those self-same words—a cliché almost!—and how few of them had ever been called upon to make good.
He said rather weakly: ‘I’m sure there are many people who could advise you better than I could.’
‘I’ve got lots of friends—naturally.’ (He was amused by the naïve self-assurance of that.) ‘But you see, none of them are clever. Not like you. You’re used to questioning people. And with all your experience you must know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Whether they’re innocent or guilty.’
He smiled rather grimly to himself. He flattered himself that on the whole he usually had known! Though, on many occasions, his private opinion had not been that of the jury.
Magdalen pushed back her hat from her forehead with a nervous gesture, looked round the room, and said:
‘How quiet it is here. Don’t you sometimes long for some noise?’
The cul-de-sac! All unwittingly her words, spoken at random, touched him on the raw. A cul-de-sac. Yes, but there was always a way out—the way you had come—the way back into the world … Something impetuous and youthful stirred in him. Her simple trust appealed to the best side of his nature—and the condition of her problem appealed to something else—the innate criminologist in him. He wanted to see these people of whom she spoke. He wanted to form his own judgement.
He said: ‘If you are really convinced I can be of any use … Mind, I guarantee nothing.’
He expected her to be overwhelmed with delight, but she took it very calmly.
‘I knew you would do it. I’ve always thought of you as a real friend. Will you come back with me now?’
‘No. I think if I pay you a visit tomorrow it will be more satisfactory. Will you give me the name and address of Miss Crabtree’s lawyer? I may want to ask him a few questions.’
She wrote it down and handed it to him. Then she got up and said rather shyly:
‘I—I’m really most awfully grateful. Goodbye.’
‘And your own address?’
‘How stupid of me. 18 Palatine Walk, Chelsea.’
It was three o’clock on the following afternoon when Sir Edward Palliser approached 18 Palatine Walk with a sober, measured tread. In the interval he had found out several things. He had paid a visit that morning to Scotland Yard, where the Assistant Commissioner was an old friend of his, and he had also had an interview with the late Miss Crabtree’s lawyer. As a result he had a clearer vision of the circumstances. Miss Crabtree’s arrangements in regard to money had been somewhat peculiar. She never made use of a cheque-book. Instead she was in the habit of writing to her lawyer and asking him to have a certain sum in five-pound notes waiting for her. It was nearly always the same sum. Three hundred pounds four times a year. She came to fetch it herself in a four-wheeler which she regarded as the only safe means of conveyance. At other times she never left the house.
At Scotland Yard Sir Edward learned that the question of finance had been gone into very carefully. Miss Crabtree had been almost due for her next instalment of money. Presumably the previous three hundred had been spent—or almost spent. But this was exactly the point that had not been easy to ascertain. By checking the household expendi
ture, it was soon evident that Miss Crabtree’s expenditure per quarter fell a good deal short of three hundred pounds. On the other hand she was in the habit of sending five-pound notes away to needy friends or relatives. Whether there had been much or little money in the house at the time of her death was a debatable point. None had been found.
It was this particular point which Sir Edward was revolving in his mind as he approached Palatine Walk.
The door of the house (which was a non-basement one) was opened to him by a small elderly woman with an alert gaze. He was shown into a big double room on the left of the small hallway and there Magdalen came to him. More clearly than before, he saw the traces of nervous strain in her face.
‘You told me to ask questions, and I have come to do so,’ said Sir Edward, smiling as he shook hands. ‘First of all I want to know who last saw your aunt and exactly what time that was?’
‘It was after tea—five o’clock. Martha was the last person with her. She had been paying the books that afternoon, and brought Aunt Lily the change and the accounts.’
‘You trust Martha?’
‘Oh, absolutely. She was with Aunt Lily for—oh! thirty years, I suppose. She’s honest as the day.’
Sir Edward nodded.
‘Another question. Why did your cousin, Mrs Crabtree, take a headache powder?’
‘Well, because she had a headache.’
‘Naturally, but was there any particular reason why she should have a headache?’
‘Well, yes, in a way. There was rather a scene at lunch. Emily is very excitable and highly strung. She and Aunt Lily used to have rows sometimes.’
‘And they had one at lunch?’
‘Yes. Aunt Lily was rather trying about little things. It all started out of nothing—and then they were at it hammer and tongs—with Emily saying all sorts of things she couldn’t possibly have meant—that she’d leave the house and never come back—that she was grudged every mouthful she ate—oh! all sorts of silly things. And Aunt Lily said the sooner she and her husband packed their boxes and went the better. But it all meant nothing, really.’
‘Because Mr and Mrs Crabtree couldn’t afford to pack up and go?’
‘Oh, not only that. William was fond of Aunt Emily. He really was.’
‘It wasn’t a day of quarrels by any chance?’
Magdalen’s colour heightened.
‘You mean me? The fuss about my wanting to be a mannequin?’
‘Your aunt wouldn’t agree?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you want to be a mannequin, Miss Magdalen? Does the life strike you as a very attractive one?’
‘No, but anything would be better than going on living here.’
‘Yes, then. But now you will have a comfortable income, won’t you?’
‘Oh! yes, it’s quite different now.’
She made the admission with the utmost simplicity.
He smiled but pursued the subject no further. Instead he said: ‘And your brother? Did he have a quarrel too?’
‘Matthew? Oh, no.’
‘Then no one can say he had a motive for wishing his aunt out of the way?’
He was quick to seize on the momentary dismay that showed in her face.
‘I forgot,’ he said casually. ‘He owed a good deal of money, didn’t he?’
‘Yes; poor old Matthew.’
‘Still, that will be all right now.’
‘Yes—’ She sighed. ‘It is a relief.’
And still she saw nothing! He changed the subject hastily.
‘Your cousins and your brother are at home?’
‘Yes; I told them you were coming. They are all so anxious to help. Oh, Sir Edward—I feel, somehow, that you are going to find out that everything is all right—that none of us had anything to do with it—that, after all, it was an outsider.’
‘I can’t do miracles. I may be able to find out the truth, but I can’t make the truth be what you want it to be.’
‘Can’t you? I feel that you could do anything—anything.’
She left the room. He thought, disturbed, ‘What did she mean by that? Does she want me to suggest a line of defence? For whom?’
His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a man about fifty years of age. He had a naturally powerful frame, but stooped slightly. His clothes were untidy and his hair carelessly brushed. He looked good-natured but vague.
‘Sir Edward Palliser? Oh, how do you do. Magdalen sent me along. It’s very good of you, I’m sure, to wish to help us. Though I don’t think anything will ever be really discovered. I mean, they won’t catch the fellow.’
‘You think it was a burglar then—someone from outside?’
‘Well, it must have been. It couldn’t be one of the family. These fellows are very clever nowadays, they climb like cats and they get in and out as they like.’
‘Where were you, Mr Crabtree, when the tragedy occurred?’
‘I was busy with my stamps—in my little sitting-room upstairs.’
‘You didn’t hear anything?’
‘No—but then I never do hear anything when I’m absorbed. Very foolish of me, but there it is.’
‘Is the sitting-room you refer to over this room?’
‘No, it’s at the back.’
Again the door opened. A small fair woman entered. Her hands were twitching nervously. She looked fretful and excited.
‘William, why didn’t you wait for me? I said “wait”.’
‘Sorry, my dear, I forgot. Sir Edward Palliser—my wife.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Crabtree? I hope you don’t mind my coming here to ask a few questions. I know how anxious you must all be to have things cleared up.’
‘Naturally. But I can’t tell you anything—can I, William? I was asleep—on my bed—I only woke up when Martha screamed.’
Her hands continued to twitch.
‘Where is your room, Mrs Crabtree?’
‘It’s over this. But I didn’t hear anything—how could I? I was asleep.’
He could get nothing out of her but that. She knew nothing—she had heard nothing—she had been asleep. She reiterated it with the obstinacy of a frightened woman. Yet Sir Edward knew very well that it might easily be—probably was—the bare truth.
He excused himself at last—said he would like to put a few questions to Martha. William Crabtree volunteered to take him to the kitchen. In the hall, Sir Edward nearly collided with a tall dark young man who was striding towards the front door.
‘Mr Matthew Vaughan?’
‘Yes—but look here, I can’t wait. I’ve got an appointment.’
‘Matthew!’ It was his sister’s voice from the stairs. ‘Oh! Matthew, you promised—’
‘I know, sis. But I can’t. Got to meet a fellow. And, anyway, what’s the good of talking about the damned thing over and over again. We have enough of that with the police. I’m fed up with the whole show.’
The front door banged. Mr Matthew Vaughan had made his exit.
Sir Edward was introduced into the kitchen. Martha was ironing. She paused, iron in hand. Sir Edward shut the door behind him.
‘Miss Vaughan has asked me to help her,’ he said. ‘I hope you won’t object to my asking you a few questions.’
She looked at him, then shook her head.
‘None of them did it, sir. I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t so. As nice a set of ladies and gentlemen as you could wish to see.’
‘I’ve no doubt of it. But their niceness isn’t what we call evidence, you know.’
‘Perhaps not, sir. The law’s a funny thing. But there is evidence—as you call it, sir. None of them could have done it without my knowing.’
‘But surely—’
‘I know what I’m talking about sir. There, listen to that—’
‘That’ was a creaking sound above their heads.
‘The stairs, sir. Every time anyone goes up or down, the stairs creak something awful. It doesn’t matter how quiet y
ou go. Mrs Crabtree, she was lying on her bed, and Mr Crabtree was fiddling about with them wretched stamps of his, and Miss Magdalen she was up above again working her machine, and if any one of those three had come down the stairs I should have known it. And they didn’t!’
She spoke with a positive assurance which impressed the barrister. He thought: ‘A good witness. She’d carry weight.’
‘You mightn’t have noticed.’
‘Yes, I would. I’d have noticed without noticing, so to speak. Like you notice when a door shuts and somebody goes out.’
Sir Edward shifted his ground.
‘That is three of them acounted for, but there is a fourth. Was Mr Matthew Vaughan upstairs also?’
‘No, but he was in the little room downstairs. Next door. And he was typewriting. You can hear it plain in here. His machine never stopped for a moment. Not for a moment, sir, I can swear to it. A nasty irritating tap-tapping noise it is, too.’
Sir Edward paused a minute.
‘It was you who found her, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir, it was. Lying there with blood on her poor hair. And no one hearing a sound on account of the tap-tapping of Mr Matthew’s typewriter.’
‘I understand you are positive that no one came into the house?’
‘How could they, sir, without my knowing? The bell rings in here. And there’s only the one door.’
He looked at her straight in the face.
‘You were attached to Miss Crabtree?’
A warm glow—genuine—unmistakable—came into her face.
‘Yes, indeed, I was, sir. But for Miss Crabtree—well, I’m getting on and I don’t mind speaking of it now. I got into trouble, sir, when I was a girl, and Miss Crabtree stood by me—took me back into her service, she did, when it was all over. I’d have died for her—I would indeed.’
Sir Edward knew sincerity when he heard it. Martha was sincere.
‘As far as you know, no one came to the door—?’
‘No one could have come.’
‘I said as far as you know. But if Miss Crabtree had been expecting someone—if she opened the door to that someone herself …’
‘Oh!’ Martha seemed taken aback.
‘That’s possible, I suppose?’ Sir Edward urged.
The Witness for the Prosecution Page 18