by Roger Keevil
“Please don’t charge Mr. Pelham unjustly, Mrs. Wadsworth,” broke in Constable. “This was nothing to do with him. On the contrary, the person who overheard Sir Richard’s end of the conversation was, in fact, Lady Olivia.”
The reaction was a frosty look from the lady. “Are you accusing me of deliberately spying on my husband, Mr. Constable?”
“Oh, perhaps not deliberately, your ladyship,” responded the inspector. “I’m afraid your love of gardening may have been responsible. Mr. Diggory thought he saw you pulling up some weeds in one of your favourite flowerbeds outside the library window. In all probability, that is what you set out to do. But by a stroke of coincidence, you happened to be doing it at the precise moment of the conversation between Sir Richard and Mrs. Wadsworth. And, the window being open, I suspect you heard the entire conversation. The situation between your husband and his mistress was laid bare.”
Lady Olivia drew herself up. “Is there any point in your apparent intention to embarrass me publicly, Mr. Constable? I fail to see what bearing the relationships my husband may have had with other … persons, which I have already discussed with you during an extremely humiliating conversation, can have to do with my actions on the day of his death.”
“Oh, a considerable bearing, I think,” rejoined Constable. “Because the point, I believe, is that this conversation was impossible to ignore. You may have been able to turn a blind eye before, but this was direct and damning evidence. The final straw in a lifetime of disloyalty by your husband. And so you decided to murder him. Who could blame you? A wife repeatedly betrayed by the man she had married. And here I take a complete leap in the dark, but no doubt you’ll tell me if my suggestion of what happened next is wide of the mark. You of course knew of the existence of the rat poison in Punter’s food store. You went there and decanted a quantity into a small bottle. This was what you took to the drawing room, concealed in a handkerchief, when you went there for drinks before dinner. When Mrs. Carruthers left the room, you had barely enough time to add the poison to the fresh jug of water which the housekeeper had just brought, knowing that only your husband took water with his whisky, and you then poured yourself a gin and tonic before Mr. Booker-Gresham entered the room at about ten minutes to eight.” Constable regarded Lady Olivia expectantly and raised his eyebrows in interrogation.
The previous hostility had vanished from Lady Olivia’s voice. “I think, Mr. Constable, that if you expect me to reply, you are going to be disappointed. I think I had best say nothing before I take some advice.” She cast a look towards Susan Robson-Bilkes alongside her, who despite the astounded look in her eyes, was managing to preserve an outward air of professional calm.
“I think you are wise to do so, your ladyship,” said Constable. “Because the story is far from over. And who knows, perhaps if Mr. Booker-Gresham had come into the room a few moments earlier, that chapter might not even have been written. We shall never know. But arrive he did, and poured a whisky with ice for himself. And when Sir Richard arrived a few minutes later, he poured himself a whisky and water, but had not begun to drink it before Mr. Pelham came in at five past eight to tell him that he had a visitor. This was Mrs. Wadsworth, a fact of which Lady Olivia was aware, even though there was an attempt at discretion on the part of the butler. So she was left in a state of nervous anticipation, wondering whether and how the poisoned drink would take effect.
“Let’s leave Lady Olivia in her state of uncertainty, and follow Sir Richard to the library, where Mrs. Wadsworth was waiting. We’ve heard from the lady what happened during that confrontation, and I have no reason to doubt what she told me. Except for one small fact which she forgot to mention. I think the scene was brief but turbulent. Most of what had to be said, Mrs. Wadsworth’s own decision to bring the relationship to an end, had already been said over the phone. We know, because she told us, that Sir Richard showed her his will which included a legacy to her of one hundred thousand pounds …”
Eyes widened in surprise around the table. Lady Olivia, after a sudden intake of breath, remained stock-still, staring ahead impassively with a face of granite.
“If Sir Richard had hoped to pacify Mrs. Wadsworth by this action, he had gravely misjudged his audience. She snatched the will from him, set fire to it with the gold lighter which her former lover himself had given her, and flung the burning document into the unlit fireplace, discarding the lighter in the log box at the same time, and stormed out. Oh, but there was one other thing she did, which was the one piece of information she omitted to give us. Again, a guess on my part, but the only plausible explanation of what was subsequently found. She turned on the gas tap to the library log fire. Didn’t you, Mrs. Wadsworth?”
“Yes, but I …”
Constable overrode her. “Who can say what the motive for that action was? Was the fire supposed to catch in order to make sure that the will was completely consumed? It failed. The will remained only half-burnt. Was there some sort of misguided impulse for revenge, in that the gas was supposed to poison the faithless lover, or even to lead to some sort of explosion, in order to destroy Sir Richard and all his works?” Constable gave a small dry chuckle. “Yes, I grant you, the stuff of high melodrama, but even the most unlikely scenario has to be considered.
“And so, Mrs. Wadsworth left the house. Sir Richard was at that time still alive.” Constable checked his notes once more. “We then come to around ten past eight and the next arrival at Effingham Hall, Mrs. Julia Baverstock, invited for dinner at what was likely to be, at best, a somewhat strained evening. But for the moment, the social niceties were preserved. Mr. Booker-Gresham offered her a drink, and poured her a sherry. He then contrived to spill some of the sherry on himself as an excuse to leave the room, just shortly after ten past eight, because he hoped then to have an excuse to replace the pilfered dagger.”
“Master James?” said Elspeth Carruthers. “You took it? Oh, I’d never have believed it of you. You were always such a good boy.” Pelham, alongside her, raised a doubting eyebrow.
“James!” Lady Olivia sounded outraged. “That was you? You stole from your uncle, after all we have done for you?” A horrified expression came over her face. “But if you had the dagger, what else did you do?”
James put his face into his hands. “Please, Aunt Olivia, don’t,” he pleaded. “I know I was a fool, but I was desperate, and I couldn’t see … I didn’t know how …” He tailed off into incoherence.
Constable took up the narration again. “Mr. Booker-Gresham has freely confessed what happened next, ladies. He says he retrieved the dagger from its hiding place in the hall, where he had temporarily concealed it on his return to the house after lunch, and went to the library. I dare say he listened at the door, but since Mrs. Wadsworth had now left, all was now quiet. Unfortunately for James, Sir Richard was still there, and James was caught red-handed. I have no doubt that a violent argument ensued, during which Sir Richard threatened to cut off all financial support and change his will, cancelling James’ proposed legacy. Given the young man’s precarious fiscal position, it was little short of a financial death sentence. And, as he says, he was desperate. So he acted.”
“And he had the dagger.”
“No, Lady Olivia,” contradicted Constable. “He’d returned that to Sir Richard. I suspect your husband was keeping a very firm grip on his restored property at that moment. But I think there was, also on the desk, the dog lead. The lead which Sir Richard had put there when entering the library on his return from his afternoon walk, and which had not yet been put back in its customary place. In a moment of unreasoned behaviour, I believe that Mr. Booker-Gresham snatched up that dog lead and put it around Sir Richard’s neck in an attempt to strangle him.”
Subdued murmurs of astonishment arose around the table. Shocked looks were exchanged.
“However,” continued the inspector, “it was an attempt only. Not a successful one. Our medical colleagues have confirmed for us that strangulation was not the cause of
Sir Richard’s death. In this, as apparently in so many other things, Mr. Booker-Gresham was not very competent. True, Sir Richard would have lost consciousness, which no doubt led Mr. Booker-Gresham to believe that he had been successful. And then, perhaps horrified by his own actions, he flung down the lead and fled. A car was heard. Was that James fleeing from the scene of his crime? No. He made his way upstairs, from where he later reappeared. What he did not realise was that Sir Richard had only blacked out for a few moments, and that he regained his senses shortly afterwards.”
“Mr. Constable,” broke in Susan Robson-Bilkes. “I have to say that I am puzzled as to where this is all leading. You seem to have brought to the house all those who were there ahead of the shooting of Sir Richard, and yet you seem to be busily exonerating people who might have been involved. With one exception, of course. And if James didn’t use the knife, who did?”
“You’re right, of course, Miss Robson-Bilkes,” agreed Constable. “And that is precisely where I turn my attention next. Mrs. Julia Baverstock.”
Chapter 16
All eyes immediately focussed on Julia.
“But Julia was with my aunt when I left the drawing room,” protested James. “And she was in there when my uncle was found.”
“So she was,” agreed Constable. “But your aunt did not stay in the drawing room for long. She admitted as much to me. Yes, I can quite understand the explanation she gave to me, that she found it impossible to keep up the facade of pleasant sociability, especially in view of the day’s earlier revelations. But there is a further explanation. She still had in her possession the bottle containing traces of the poison. She had to dispose of this. So, no doubt in a highly agitated state at the realisation of what she had done – at any moment, her husband might be drinking from his glass of whisky – she left the drawing room to go upstairs. This was at twenty past eight, according to the housekeeper, who observed Lady Olivia to be still holding the handkerchief which concealed the poison bottle. No doubt she rinsed the bottle thoroughly in her room. I suspect that in all probability we shall never find it, nor any incriminating traces in it. But her ladyship’s departure left Mrs. Baverstock alone in the drawing room.
“I believe Mrs. Baverstock took advantage of that situation. She had probably been told that Sir Richard was in the library when she arrived, although I doubt very much whether Lady Olivia would have mentioned the identity of his visitor. James was presumed to be elsewhere. And so, moments after Lady Olivia left the room, Mrs. Baverstock made her way to the library where Sir Richard sat, alone as expected, in the dimly-lit room. I dare say she resumed her tirade against him. But there was no reaction. Mrs. Baverstock, you yourself told us that Sir Richard simply sat there, not responding in any way. Of course, that might be entirely plausible if he were semi-conscious. But you believed him to be ignoring you, sitting with his back to you in a contemptuous fashion. I think this was the final straw – overwhelmed with rage, you snatched up the dagger from the desk where it lay, went around to where Sir Richard was sitting with apparently uncaring eyes, and at the peak of your fury, plunged the dagger into his chest.”
Gasps of horror and incredulity arose from the people seated at the table. “Julia, no!” “Oh, that’s horrible!” “Madam, how could you?”
Constable held up a hand to stem the outburst. “Ladies and gentlemen, please. Startling though that may have sounded – and I apologise for the perhaps over-dramatic nature of the narration – it is not the end of the story. There are other factors we have to consider. But for the moment, Mrs. Baverstock was undoubtedly certain in her own mind that she had murdered Sir Richard. That must have been a ghastly realisation. I doubt whether she had any such thought in her mind when she arrived at the house. So, horrified and stunned by what she had done, she returned to the drawing room.” The inspector allowed himself a small grim smile. “It would hardly be a surprise if, under those circumstances, she felt she needed a stiff drink.”
Susan Robson-Bilkes spoke up once again. “Inspector, it seems to me that the more you tell us, the less I understand. I don’t follow your repeated insistence on timings. We all know when the gun was fired. You account for all the people in the house, but you don’t account for the shot which we have all assumed was what killed Sir Richard. So unless you intend to lay the blame on one of the members of staff …”
“Nothing was further from my mind,” the inspector reassured the servants, who had reacted in startled bewilderment to the solicitor’s comment. “But the timings are crucial, believe me. And you say I appear to have accounted for all those in the house prior to Sir Richard’s death. Not so. Appearances can be deceptive. Assumptions can be mistaken. Consider the following possible scenario.
“Owen Elliott had spoken to Sir Richard earlier. He mentioned to us his intention to plead face-to-face with his father to take pity on him, and told us that this intention was what brought him to the front door of Effingham Hall at the moment when Sir Richard’s body was discovered. But consider the other possibility that, during the earlier telephone conversation, Owen’s father had discounted all hope of reconsidering his decision. I offered you two possible reasons for Elliott to come to the house. What if it were the second? Might he not have come with the intention to kill Sir Richard? Or, perhaps, merely to threaten him? He knows the layout of the house and its outbuildings well. He knows where Mr. Diggory keeps his shotgun. So let me offer you the following picture. Owen comes to the house, along the path from the village through the grounds, and reaches the deserted stable yard at twenty-five past eight. He abstracts the gun, loads it, and makes his way around the house to the library windows on the north terrace, possibly seeking a way to enter the house unobserved. And it seems that chance favours his plans. The library french windows are slightly ajar. The curtains are pulled together, but not completely, and through the gap, Sir Richard is visible, seated in his swivel chair with his back to the desk, and apparently looking straight at the window where Owen’s face appears. In a panic, all thoughts of threats, pleading, confrontation are forgotten. Owen fires the gun straight at Sir Richard, and immediately flees along the terrace round the west side of the house, unobserved from within because everyone’s attention was focussed towards the library, and arrives at the front door as Sir Richard’s body is discovered at twenty-eight minutes past eight. Again, we can time this precisely, because just one minute later, having emerged from the murder scene, Mr. Pelham is calling the police to report the incident, as verified by the telephone logs. Owen has paused in his flight to do just one thing - to fling into the lily pond the shotgun which he had used to carry out his attack. The shotgun which, when recovered, bears his fingerprints. And his alone.”
After a moment of shocked silence from all those in the room, Owen broke down. “I never meant to do it,” he sobbed. “It was just panic. I wasn’t thinking straight. And those eyes – there was something in them. I felt he could see down into my soul. How could I have done something like that to a man who’d always treated me like a son? The son he couldn’t admit to …” He tailed off into incoherence.
Dave Copper rose silently from his chair and came to stand behind Owen. He seemed about to place a hand on the young man’s shoulder but, at a signal from his superior officer, stepped back with a puzzled look.
“I think it will be quite safe to leave Mr. Elliott for a few moments, sergeant,” said Constable. “It will give him a chance to recover his composure. And it will also give me a chance to complete the picture. There are details – highly significant details – which I have not yet explained. And that brings me back to the telephone logs which I mentioned a moment ago.” He consulted his notes briefly once more.
“Everyone agrees that, immediately after Mr. Pelham’s call to the police, a call was received at Effingham Hall from Mr. Worcester at eight thirty. This is verified from two sources – the house log which records the incoming call, and Mr. Worcester’s phone log, which lists his outgoing call. Not, however, from the
land-line from the stables. This call came from his mobile. And the thing about mobile telephone logs is that they do not simply record the fact and the time of the call – they very helpfully give us the information as to the phone masts through which the call was routed. And by means of some very complex trigonometrical calculations which I do not pretend to follow, our technical people have been able to place the location of the call, again not at the training stables, but at the lay-by on the main road a few yards from the south lodge of Effingham Hall.”
There were frowns of incomprehension around the table.
“So, now we know that Mr. Worcester’s car was in the vicinity of Effingham Hall far earlier than was previously stated. That’s an odd inconsistency. Here’s another one. Mr. Diggory has told us that he heard a car go past his north lodge at almost exactly eight fifteen. And Mrs. Carruthers, busy in the kitchen, also heard a car some five minutes later. It doesn’t take five minutes to drive from the north lodge to the stable yard at the rear of the house. So was the first sound that of the car arriving, and the second one that of it leaving? We know Mr. Booker-Gresham’s car wasn’t moved. Mrs. Baverstock had already arrived at the front of the house. Mrs. Wadsworth had walked up from the village. Mr. Elliott likewise. That leaves only one vehicle unaccounted for – Mr. Worcester’s. Once again, the phone logs betrayed him. Because even when a phone is not in use for a call, its whereabouts can be detected, and at eight-fifteen, Mr. Worcester’s phone’s location is shown to have been at Effingham Hall. And not the road outside, but at the Hall itself. And you may not have noticed, in this long series of events, that one of the injuries which Sir Richard suffered has also not been mentioned. There was also additional evidence found at the scene, which has not yet been brought into the calculation. I believe that all these missing pieces of the jigsaw fit together as follows.