The White Cottage Mystery

by Margery Allingham

  ‘Throw up the case!’said the old man, an expression of horror growing on his face. ‘Throw up the case? My dear boy, you’re mad!’

  ‘I’m not – I feel it would be best, honestly – I feel we ought not to find out any more.’

  The old man shook his head.

  ‘Jerry,’ he said, ‘in our business one must never be afraid to know the truth. You want me to throw up this case – a thing I could never do for my own self-respect’s sake – because you’re afraid to face what you believe to be true. You believe Mrs Christensen fired that shot – don’t interrupt me – I repeat you believe she murdered Eric Crowther, and you’re afraid to prove it. That’s no good, my boy – a doubt is always dangerous. For her sake as well as for everyone else’s we’ve got to find out all we can. Crowther had some hold over her – some secret which old Estah shared. We’ve got to find out what that was. We’ve got to find out why he left a will in her favour: we’ve got to find out if she is innocent or not.’

  Jerry sighed.

  ‘Then you won’t give up.’

  ‘Certainly not – I have never heard such a suggestion.’ W.T. spoke vigorously and rose to his feet. ‘Do you think I’m going to put four or five innocent people under suspicion because in your opinion a suspected woman has a pretty sister? If you weren’t in love and therefore insane I should punch your head, my boy.’ And the old fellow stalked off to bed.

  As for Jerry, he sat there late thinking of Norah.

  The morning found W.T. fuming over the English breakfast that a whole army of scandalized French waiters could not have shamed him into forgoing, and when Jerry came down he scowled fiercely at the boy across the table.

  ‘Has it come?’ said Jerry, his mind on the will.

  ‘No,’ said W.T. ‘This’ll hold us up another day. They couldn’t get hold of it at once, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’ll get it tonight, no doubt. Anything else?’

  ‘No,’ said the detective explosively, ‘only a damn silly letter from Deadwood in reply to my report.’

  Jerry grinned. He began to see the occasion of his father’s irritation. Inspector Deadwood was a well-meaning man who was invariably full of bright suggestions about other people’s cases, and no one else on earth had a surer gift of rubbing W.T. up the wrong way.

  ‘Oh!’ said Jerry. ‘What does he think?’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said the detective acidly. ‘That’s his trouble.’

  W.T. shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said; ‘it wasn’t an accident. The gun didn’t suddenly decide to go off on its own. And I don’t think a passing monkey did it, nor a man who owed Crowther a grudge in India and happened to be in the Christensens’ dining-room at the moment unknown to anyone. I don’t think any of these things. This is as clear a case of long-meditated but actually impulsive murder as ever I’ve seen.’

  Jerry nodded.

  ‘You’re still determined to go through with it?’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said W.T. firmly. ‘I’ve never left a case unfinished in my life. The idea of doing such a thing horrifies me. It’s my job.’

  The boy frowned.

  ‘I can’t think why you don’t retire,’ he said. ‘You’ve got plenty of money – you’re not waiting for a pension and you don’t like the life. You told old Doc Cave so the other day.’ He paused, and then added, as the other did not speak, ‘What’s the idea of sticking to it like this?’

  ‘There are many parts of my business that are repellent to me, naturally,’ said old W.T. sedately, ‘but the main thing, the instinct of the chase, is still there. I shall go on grumbling and carrying on until I’m too old.’

  Jerry said no more.

  Late in the afternoon, the eagerly awaited copy of Eric Crowther’s will arrived.

  W.T. carried it off to his room immediately, and shut himself up with it. Jerry gave him time to read it, and then went in.

  ‘Any luck?’ he said as he closed the door behind him.

  W.T. looked up.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not really – there’s one curious thing, though. Listen to this: “All moneys in stock, War Loan, and other securities, besides the balance at my bank, I leave unreservedly to Mrs Roger Christensen of the White Cottage, Brandesdon, Kent, who ought to have it”’

  ‘“Who ought to have it”?’ repeated Jerry.

  W.T. nodded.

  ‘Now what does that mean – exactly?’ he said. ‘You see, my boy, we must go into this. If that woman is innocent of the actual murder she must know something about it.’

  ‘“Who ought to have it”,’ Jerry repeated, the phrase fascinating him. ‘Does that mean that she is some – some relative of his?’

  W.T. shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It may, of course, but I hardly think so. Anyway, we shall know before long. Before I left London I put the research department on to Crowther. We shall get a full report of his life, as far as it can be traced, within a day or so. That ought to tell us something. Meanwhile, we must concentrate on Mrs Christensen. You see, there’s one rather significant point about this will …’ Jerry glanced up quickly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  W.T. looked at him.

  ‘The date of it,’ he said. ‘It was made six years ago.’

  Jerry caught his breath.

  ‘What’s our next move, then?’

  W.T. glanced at his watch.

  ‘The night train for Marseilles and the Mediterranean coast starts at seven o’clock from the Gare de Lyon,’ he said. ‘We must catch it. They’re only twelve hours ahead of us.’

  Jerry sighed and began to pack his bag in silence. Life was beginning to present problems more difficult than he had ever dreamed possible.

  They caught the train without fuss.

  It was still early autumn, and the Mediterranean ‘season’ had not yet begun, so there were comparatively few travellers on the train, and father and son secured a compartment to themselves.

  Jerry was very silent, however; the situation did not appeal to him. For the last twenty-four hours at least Norah had filled up his horizon, and all else seemed comparatively small and insignificant.

  W.T. sat in his corner, his ‘pillow’ behind his head and his arms folded upon his breast.

  Gradually the long night wore away and the morning brought a new country of olive trees and red soil, and at last the great black rock jutting up against sea and sky as they came into Marseilles.

  The rest of the journey along the coast to Mentone interested Jerry in spite of himself. The fairy-story mountains with castles a-top on one side, and the everlasting succession of incredibly blue bays on the other, appealed to him irresistibly. It was hot, too, by the time they reached the railway station at Mentone.

  They chose a quiet hotel in the busier and unfashionable quarter of the town.

  It was Jerry’s first visit to the south coast, and the gaiety and colour of the scene enchanted him. The crazy carrier’s carts from the mountains, with their noisy, villainous-looking drivers, the girls with their marvellous coiffures, the brightness everywhere – it was all new and delightful.

  They were walking down one of the narrow streets, the jabbering throng pressing about them, when W.T. suddenly touched his son’s arm.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he murmured.

  Jerry followed the direction of his father’s glance and saw a man seated at one of the many little tables upon the pavement outside a café.

  His blue suit was very new, and fitted his meagre form abominably, his bright brown shoes swung a good two inches off the ground, and his pale-grey hat was set well on the back of his bony head. Jerry stared at him.

  The clothes were different, of course, but there was something familiar about those red-rimmed eyes and that revoltingly sticky-looking, yellow-grey moustache.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he murmured. ‘Clarry Gale!’

  W.T. nodded, and taking the boy’s arm, led him gently in the opposite direction.

  ‘Don�
�t look back,’ he said. ‘I don’t want him to see us. Now what in blazes is he doing here?’

  11 The Record

  ‘No, Jerry, my boy, I think our best plan is still to lie low until we get that record from home. We want all the information we can get before we interview anyone.’

  Old W.T. sat back in a chair on the balcony outside his bedroom window in the hotel, and puffed his cigarette thoughtfully as he spoke. They had been in Mentone two days now, without making much progress.

  It was a typical southern night, the air warm, and noisy with the far-off buzz of the town. The sky was fretted with stars, and not a breath of wind stirred the scalloped frills of the striped awnings over the café windows. The old man’s voice sounded soft and deep in the semi-darkness.

  Jerry stirred.

  ‘Well, we know where they are,’ he remarked.

  W.T. nodded.

  ‘That’s something done, anyway,’ he said. ‘But now we must wait for the record. That phrase “who ought to have it” worries me.’

  ‘Clarry Gale, too,’ said Jerry slowly. ‘He seems to have come into money. One curious thing about Crowther’s murder is the sudden wealth of the folk who were associated with him.’

  ‘I thought that.’ W.T. stirred, and his chair creaked in the darkness. ‘Gale wasn’t mentioned in the will, though,’ he went on after a pause. ‘No, you bet your life, Jerry, if he’s come into money it is through his own dishonest endeavour. The sight of him astounded me. It must have something to do with the two girls being here, of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well’ – W.T.’s tone was expressive – ‘a man like Clarry Gale doesn’t come to Mentone for fun. He might possibly go to Blackpool. I believe he’d go to Monte Carlo without a motive, but Mentone – never!’

  ‘But what could he have to do with Mrs Christensen and Norah? Do you suggest he’s employed by them?’ Jerry put the question aggressively.

  W.T. raised his eyebrows.

  ‘That hadn’t occurred to me,’ he said, ‘and it doesn’t seem likely, for I don’t see what he could be doing for them; but he might be employed by someone else to watch them. I don’t know enough yet to judge of that.’

  There was silence for some moments then Jerry spoke:

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we don’t know yet what hold Crowther had over Gale, do we?’

  ‘No, not exactly,’ the detective admitted, ‘but I think I’ve a a pretty shrewd idea. I sent for the report of the last case he was in.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jerry spoke with new interest. ‘What was that?’

  W.T. lit another cigarette before he replied.

  ‘A burglary, you know,’ he said. ‘A rather nasty affair – several people were implicated. A man called Grant had a house in Feering Park Crescent, W., where he lived alone with his two servants, a man called Briggs and a cook, a Mrs Phail. One night a gang broke in on them – Gale, Abrahams and Goody. Grant slept in the front of the house and heard nothing, but Briggs and Mrs Phail, who had rooms over the kitchens, were awakened. Briggs crept downstairs and surprised the three. Abrahams made a bolt for it with Briggs after him. The other two climbed out of a side window, Goody first, right into the arms of a waiting constable. When they went back to the house, it was found that Mrs Phail, hurrying down the kitchen stairs after Briggs, had slipped and, falling, cut her head open on a zinc bath standing at the foot of them. She was dead. There was a theory at the time that her fall was not entirely due to accident, and there was a lot of talk, but no one could prove anything and the three got off with stiff sentences.’ He paused.

  ‘Well?’ said Jerry.

  ‘Well, don’t you see,’ said the detective, ‘Gale was the last to leave the house, and supposing the theorists to have been correct, Gale was the man to have done the punching, because neither of the other two was the type to be silent for a pal’s sake if his own skin was in danger.’

  ‘Then you say Gale killed the woman?’ began Jerry.

  W.T. made a deprecating gesture.

  ‘My dear boy, I don’t say anything, I only think that he may possibly have done so. You see, the only plausible explanation to my mind of his ten years of uncongenial work with Crowther is that he was virtually in prison. Now, the only other thing besides bars that would keep Clarry Gale in prison is a fear of his precious neck … I mean to say,’ he went on, ‘supposing Crowther knew that Gale had killed the woman – suppose he could prove it – and being the curious mental type we know he was, preferred to keep Gale under his thumb rather than give him up to the police. That would explain that ten years, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would,’ said Jerry. ‘Of course it would. But how could Crowther get to know of the crime?’

  ‘That,’ admitted W.T., ‘is the chink in the armour.’

  ‘Chink?’ said Jerry, grinning. ‘It’s a darn big hole.’

  W.T. nodded.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you’re right,’ he said affably. ‘But I’ve got a sort of feeling that that is more or less what happened. I don’t know how – yet. But I think you’ll find that I’m right. I’ve got that impression.’

  ‘As you had about Cellini?’ put in Jerry.

  W.T. coughed.

  ‘That, Jerry, is unfilial,’ he said sedately.

  Their conversation was abruptly ended by a tapping on the door. Jerry went to open it and came back with a package.

  ‘It’s come,’ he said.

  ‘It’s from headquarters.’ The old detective opened the long envelope, and taking the typed manuscript from within, spread it out upon a table under the light. Jerry leant over his shoulder, and they read it together.

  ‘Good heavens!’

  W.T. laughed shortly with pure excitement. ‘Listen to this,’ he said, ‘… lived for some time in a house in Feering Park Crescent, W., under the name of Grant.’

  ‘My God!’ said Jerry. ‘That means – ’

  ‘That we weren’t so far off the tack as you thought,’ said the old man. ‘Now, let me see, how does this go on? Oh yes – frequent visits to Paris, believed to be on the business of research work connected with the brain. Then a great deal that we know. Settled down in Brandesdon, Kent, with Italian secretary. Yes, yes … yes. There’s nothing else much there.’

  W.T. ran his eye down the page. ‘Oh no; wait a moment. What’s this?’ he added, and read aloud:

  The main bulk of his property was derived from his ward, Jack Grey, killed in France, 1914, at the age of twenty. As far as can be ascertained, Grey was placed under Crowther’s guardianship two years before and lived with him for a short period in Brandesdon, Kent. At Grey’s death his estate passed automatically to Crowther.

  W.T. put down the manuscript and looked at his son.

  ‘At last,’ he said slowly.

  Jerry looked puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow quite,’ he said. ‘Who was this Jack Grey?’

  W.T. smiled.

  ‘That’s just what we’ve got to find out, my boy,’ he said, ‘but the fact that he existed at all tells us something. It was his money, you see.’

  ‘What money?’ said Jerry.

  ‘Why, the money that Mrs Christensen “ought to have”, of course.’

  Jerry sat down on the bed and rubbed his fingers through his sleek hair.

  ‘Who d’you think this fellow Grey was?’ he said. ‘Some relative?’

  The detective did not answer for a moment. He sat down in an armchair and leant back.

  ‘He may have been, of course,’ he said at last. ‘We must find that out. But there are many other alternatives. He may have left a will that Crowther suppressed, or expressed a wish that Crowther disregarded. We don’t know anything about him yet. Everything we say is bound to be conjecture until we get some more facts. There may be nothing of importance in it after all, but there is one rather significant point in that report.’

  Jerry crossed over to the table and looked down at it.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘what’s that?’ />
  W.T. closed his eyes and spoke slowly, trying to remember the actual wording of the phrase.

  ‘Doesn’t it say “Jack Grey lived with Crowther at Brandesdon”?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jerry. ‘ “Lived with him for a short period in Brandesdon, Kent”.’

  The detective nodded.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as curious, Jerry, that no one mentioned him to us when we were making inquiries about Crowther? Surely the women would remember him … a lad about twenty, killed in France?’

  Jerry grimaced.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said; ‘it’s some time ago … people do forget.’

  ‘Yes, but not when they’re asked point-blank,’ the detective persisted. ‘When I asked Mrs Christensen on the morning of the inquest if in her recollection Crowther had ever had any visitors, she insisted that he had not in all the six years and odd months he had lived at the “Dene”. Why didn’t she remember Grey?’

  The boy did not answer, but sat staring fixedly at the toes of his shoes.

  ‘As for Gale,’ W.T. continued suddenly, ‘the fact that Crowther actually was the Grant in the Feering Park Crescent case is most enlightening. I think I must have been nearly exactly right in my guess there. What an amazing mentality the dead man must have had!’

  As Jerry rose to his feet, an oblique-eyed boots boy appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Gentleman downstair’ weesh to speak wid monsieur,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said W.T. ‘What name?’

  ‘Meester Clarrigale.’

  ‘Clarry Gale!’ W.T. and Jerry exchanged glances, and the detective spoke.

  ‘Show him up here, will you?’ – and added as the door closed: ‘We’re in luck tonight, Jerry.’

  12 The Happy Thought of Mr Gale

  ‘Well, guv’nor, ’ow are yer?’ Mr Gale paused in the doorway, his hat in his hand and his peculiarly unpleasant little rat face clothed in a smile of apparently genuine pleasure.

  ‘’Ow are yer?’ he repeated with exaggerated cordiality, and as the father and son sat silent, looking at him unsmilingly, he closed the door behind him, and sneaking further into the room, perched himself on the edge of a chair, his knees wide apart and his heels touching some two inches off the ground.