‘Oh, again – again!’ The words broke from the girl in an agony of weariness. ‘I thought that was over for ever. Must I have it again – always, always that? Is there never any peace?’
W.T. leant forward, his face grave and his eyes troubled.
‘Can’t you explain all this, Mrs Christensen? Don’t you see if you don’t speak I must draw my own conclusions from the words you let fall, and I may so easily be wrong.’
‘Mr Challoner,’ she said, ‘you – you detectives can – can keep things secret if you want to, can’t you? I – I mean,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘if a thing that happened a long time ago wasn’t anything to do really with – with the crime you were investigating, it wouldn’t all have to come out, would it? – not if it wouldn’t help and would just spoil people’s lives – young lives?’
W.T. stared at her, his mind busy knitting together the loose threads she had given him, and suddenly the truth dawned upon him.
‘Mrs Christensen,’ he said, ‘your child – is not your husband’s. Jack Grey was …’
‘My lover.’ The two words broke from the woman in a whisper, and she bowed her head over her hands.
W.T. sat silent, the situation becoming more and more clear to him at every moment.
‘I see,’ he said.
‘Your husband does not know?’
She shook her head. ‘No – must he know now? Must it all come out at last?’ She was becoming hysterical again, and the old man spoke reassuringly.
‘I will do everything in my power to prevent it,’ he said. ‘If you tell me everything I feel sure that that can be arranged.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
The woman fixed her eyes on his face.
‘It was wrong but it was understandable,’ she began softly, ‘and if it hadn’t been for that fiend Crowther no one would ever have known. You – you see, Jack and I were sweethearts from childhood – we lived near each other, and when we grew up we fell in love …’ She paused, and in at the windows the heat-laden breeze brought the laughter and perfume of the fashionable throng without.
‘His father died just after he left school,’ she went on. ‘The old man was an eccentric, a great student of the brain, and he admired Crowther’s work – he was wonderfully clever, you know. Old Professor Grey had no one to appoint as guardian over Jack, and when he knew he was dying he wrote to Crowther and asked him as a fellow-scientist if he would undertake the charge. To everyone’s astonishment Crowther said he would.’
Again she was silent, and W.T. nodded encouragingly.
‘Crowther opposed our marriage from the start,’ she went on, her voice very small and ineffably sad in the sunlit room. ‘We were so much in love and so very young. We were very helpless too. Before the war parents and guardians had more power than they have today.’ She sighed, and the detective wondered that she could find this so real and so sad when there was a noose hanging over her head; the murder was an unimportant factor in her mind.
‘So he parted us,’ she said suddenly. ‘He was a curious man, Mr Challoner. He seemed – seemed to enjoy doing it, as if he knew how he was hurting us, and liked doing it.’
W.T. nodded comprehendingly and the woman went on:
‘I was heart-broken,’ she said simply. ‘I felt as if my world had come to an end, as if all the goodness had gone out of life. I was unhappy at home, nothing seemed to matter. Then Roger came along. He proposed to me and I married him. He was strong then, you know, and very handsome. He was very kind to me.’ Again her voice died away, and the detective began to see the pitiful little story in its entirety.
‘That was just over six years ago?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Nearer seven. We went to live in Brandesdon at the White Cottage. I had made up my mind to forget Jack entirely – I wanted to make Roger a good wife – he had been so kind to me – and then – he found me.’
‘Who? Jack?’
She shook her head.
‘No. I don’t believe Jack would have done it. I mean Crowther.’ An expression of utter loathing came into her eyes, and again the detective marvelled that she should give herself away so frankly. ‘Crowther took the “Dene” because we had the White Cottage,’ she said. ‘You may think me mad for saying so, but I’m sure of it … He was like that – amazingly clever in some things, amazingly small and cruel in others. He came to live there, and brought Jack with him. That was at the beginning of the war.’
There was silence in the room, and the detective, divining something of what she felt, did not speak.
‘We held out for a long time,’ she said at last. ‘We were very good. Crowther used to watch us – used to hint things to Roger, but he believed in me – that is what made me true to him, I think … until …’ She paused, and then began to speak again in a low emotional whisper – rocking herself backwards and forwards in her chair the while as though to soothe her nerves and keep herself from crying. ‘It was the last time I ever saw him,’ she began. ‘Roger had gone with his regiment to the front the day before, and I was alone in the house save for Estah, and suddenly I saw Jack coming down the path. He was going to France the next day and had come to say good-bye.’
She began to cry softly to herself.
‘I can’t tell you what happened,’ she said, looking up suddenly. ‘I just knew I loved him and didn’t care about anything save that he was going away. We just belonged to each other, no one else mattered.’ Again she was silent, and the detective let her remain so until she chose to speak again.
‘The next morning,’ she said at last, ‘he went back to the “Dene”, and before he left he made Crowther swear to look after me whatever happened to him … He didn’t realize what he was telling Crowther. Then he went away. I never saw him again. Three days after he landed he was shot.’
W.T.’s expression was kind.
‘And then?’ he said gently.
‘Then,’ she said, so quietly that he hardly heard her, ‘then Roger came back – crippled, as you see him. He felt it terribly. He had always been so strong, so keen on riding and games. I think he would have died if it hadn’t been for the baby – he was so proud of it – so glad because of it. I – I couldn’t tell him, could I?–could I?’
W.T. shook his head.
‘Are you fond of your husband?’
‘I adore him,’ she said simply. ‘You don’t know how wonderful he is – how patient – how kind to me. I didn’t realize it until he came back wounded. But, you see, since then my life has been a hell – Crowther knew.’
The old man rose to his feet and strode down the room. The story was clear to him now, and he could not help but be moved by it.
‘He knew,’ he repeated. ‘He held it over you?’
‘Always! … Never any rest day or night. He used to frighten me until I was hysterical with terror, and then gloat over me. Oh, how I longed and prayed that I might die! But even of that I was afraid. What chance would my poor baby have with a man of that type knowing the secret of her birth? As long as I was alive Crowther would satisfy himself tormenting me.’
W.T. rumpled his hair.
From his point of view the most terrible part of the story was that it looped the rope round the woman’s own neck – it supplied her with a good and sufficient motive for the crime – just such a motive that a jury would understand.
The woman’s next remark startled him considerably.
‘Oh,’ she said involuntarily, with heart-felt relief in her tone, ‘I was glad to know that he was dead.’
‘My dear lady – ’he began.
‘Oh, you don’t understand,’ she said swiftly. ‘He made life a nightmare for the whole household. He maddened everyone – ’
‘Estah knew, of course?’ said W.T., the recollection of the old woman’s attitude coming back suddenly to his mind.
‘Oh yes – of course.’
‘And Norah?’
At the mention of her sister’s name the woman stiff
ened perceptibly, and W.T. was conscious of a new barrier of reserve put up against him.
‘No,’ she said stiffly, and was silent.
W.T. was perplexed. Was there some new secret? And why was the woman not terror-stricken now? She was on guard – defensive. But since his assurance that her secret should not come out she seemed almost calm, not like a woman in fear of her life.
‘Crowther was cheated of one thing,’ she said, and there was a suspicion of a smile round her mouth. ‘When Jack was killed he told me that he had made a will in my favour, but that if ever it was proved, suspicion would fall upon me and my baby; but he didn’t make it clear enough – no one noticed it.’
‘“Who ought to have it?”’ said W.T.
Mrs Christensen looked at him sharply.
‘Yes, that was it,’ she said. ‘How did you know?’
W.T. did not reply, but his eyes were troubled.
‘Mrs Christensen,’ he said at last, ‘why were you so upset to see me this morning?’
The woman shook her head nervously.
‘I – I wasn’t. I was surprised to see you – that was all.’
‘That is not true,’ said W.T. gently. ‘We agreed to play fair, didn’t we? You have been frank and helpful, but now you are hiding something. Why were you afraid to see me?’
‘I was not – just surprised.’
W.T. sighed and tried another tack.
‘By the way,’ he said casually, but watching her narrowly at the same time, ‘have you seen anything of Clarry Gale?’
Mrs Christensen raised her eyebrows.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ she said.
W.T.’s eyes narrowed. ‘He sometimes calls himself William Lacy.’
‘Oh!’ The shaft had gone home. The woman sat up stiffly in her chair, every muscle taut, and her eyes frightened.
‘No,’ she said, and her tone showed her a poor actress.
W.T. frowned.
‘Did you know he was in Mentone?’
‘No.’ Again there was no surprise in her tone: nothing but defiance.
W.T. was puzzled. If the woman couldn’t act she was certainly not behaving as if she was guilty. She was hiding something, and she was apprehensive; but there was something missing.
Yet she must have done it, he told himself. The evidence was all against her now. The motive was there – the opportunity was there, and yet … yet why, if she shot Crowther, did she go out of the french windows again, allowing Cellini to come in and rob the body before she dashed back through the room to give the alarm?
W.T. looked at her as she sat there, her head held high, her eyes scared like a colt’s, and he wondered.
‘Mrs Christensen,’ he said pleadingly, ‘won’t you tell me all you know?’
‘I have – what more can I tell you?’
‘Who shot Crowther?’
‘I don’t know.’ Again he was struck by her curious inability to lie. She did know, then …
‘Did you?’ W.T. put the question slowly.
‘I? Of course not.’ There was no fear in her tone, no surprise. She laughed at him naturally.
W.T. marvelled at her, and he was mystified too. The end of the puzzle was not yet.
‘Mrs Christensen,’ he said gently, ‘I must ask you not to leave this town without communicating with me … this is only a precautionary matter, you understand?’
‘Oh, quite,’ she said, in a tone that told him that she did not. ‘Mr Challoner – you remember your promise – my secret?’
He looked at her vaguely, his mind on the crime.
‘My baby,’ she said helplessly. ‘You promised.’
‘I will keep my word,’ he assured her gravely.
As he went off down the stairs he marvelled. ‘No sense of proportion,’ he said. ‘None at all … Now, I wonder …’
14 The Blackmailer
When W.T. walked back to his hotel from his interview with Mrs Christensen, the sun was high in the sky and the heat poured down upon the narrow deserted streets like a scourge. The detective strode on quickly without noticing it, however, his eyes fixed straight ahead of him and his forehead wrinkled with perplexity.
Had Mrs Christensen been the only person in the White Cottage at the time of the murder who had had both a motive for and an opportunity to kill Crowther, there could have been now no doubt in his mind of her guilt; but she had not been so by any means. There was circumstantial evidence strong enough to arrest almost anyone in the household, but of actual proof there was none.
The Cellini affair had not been pleasant to report, and for his pride’s sake he was not anxious to repeat the experience. Subconsciously, also, he was loth to believe her a murderess. If she was, her behaviour contradicted all his theories. What puzzled him more than anything else, was the fact that she seemed to know – or to think she knew – the real offender.
‘No,’ he said at last under his breath. ‘No, she must have been acting – trying to throw me off the scent – she must be guilty.’
He was in no enviable frame of mind when he at last entered the hotel looking for Jerry. There was no sign of the boy, and he was just about to stride off up to his room when his eyes fell upon a girl seated by a window looking on to the street. It was Norah.
At the moment that he caught sight of her she turned, saw him, sprang to her feet and came hurrying across the room.
‘Oh, Mr Challoner,’ she said thankfully, ‘I am glad to see you. I’m so scared about Jerry.’
‘About Jerry? Where’s Jerry?’
‘That’s it,’ said the girl. ‘I don’t know. You see, I came to him and told him something about that awful man Lacy, and he just sort of went mad – he said, “Wait here till I come back,” and dashed out of the hotel. That was two hours ago.’
W.T. looked down at the girl, a slightly dazed expression in his eyes.
‘Let’s sit down,’ he said. ‘And then suppose you tell me all about it.’
The girl nodded eagerly and seated herself opposite him at a table in a deserted corner of the room.
Norah was clearly anxious to talk about Jerry, and the old detective realized that she was in love with the boy.
‘Well, you see,’ the girl began, ‘I was worried, so I came to Jerry.’
‘Just the person!’ commented W.T. acidly to himself, while outwardly he smiled and nodded. A moment later, however, he was frowning.
‘You came to him?’ he said. ‘How did you know where he was?’
The girl sighed.
‘I’ll tell you all about it if you’ll only listen,’ she said. ‘You see, it all happened like this. Ever since we’ve been down here we’ve been worried by that awful valet person of Mr Crowther’s – William Lacy. He called on us the first day we arrived, and wanted to see my sister alone. I wanted to send him away, but Grace said she’d see him. She did, and since then he’s always coming. I can’t get rid of him. Grace won’t let me have the hotel people throw him out … she seems to be afraid of him.’ She paused and looked at the old man doubtfully. ‘He makes life unbearable, and poor Grace gets more and more nervy. I felt something must be done.’
‘I see,’ said W.T. gently. ‘But that doesn’t answer my question, does it? How did you know where Jerry was to be found?’
‘Oh, Lacy told us – at least, he told Grace. I wondered why you hadn’t told us you were coming here when we were in Paris.’
‘Lacy told your sister, did he? Do you know what else he told her?’
‘No, she wouldn’t tell me.’ The girl frowned as she spoke. ‘It’s something that is worrying her. I can’t think what it was. You see, Mr Challoner, ever since Lacy came the first time she’s been so queer-so sort of reserved and shut away. I can’t get anything out of her, and Lacy came so often and made himself so objectionable that I thought I must do something to get rid of him. I couldn’t throw him out myself, so I was driven to coming to Jerry.’
‘Yes?’ said W.T.
Norah looked at him. ‘So I
came,’ she said simply, ‘and told him, and he just dashed out of the hotel shouting to me to wait for him.’
The detective nodded.
‘Did you tell Jerry just exactly what you have told me?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you ask him to do in the matter?’
The girl looked at him, surprised at his stupidity.
‘There wasn’t any need to ask,’ she said. ‘I just explained that the man was making himself a nuisance to us …’
‘And Jerry dashed off to knock his head off, I suppose?’ said W.T. gravely.
‘I suppose so,’ said she, equally gravely, and added with a sudden return of her old anxiety, ‘But he hasn’t come back.’
W.T. rose to his feet.
‘I’ll go down and see what’s going on,’ he said.
‘Will you? Shall I come with you?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ The old man shook his head as he spoke. ‘You wait here for us. Jerry’s all right,’ he added more kindly. ‘Don’t worry. He’s had worse people to deal with than Lacy in his time. We shan’t be long.’
‘Silly young fool!’ said the detective testily to himself as he trotted down the hotel steps to the street. ‘Silly young fool – as if things weren’t sufficiently involved already … The secret between Mrs Christensen and Gale seems fairly obvious, though … He may have actual proof against her. Well, we shall see – we shall see.’
He strode on down the street, still grumbling to himself until he paused before the somewhat unprepossessing entrance to the hotel and café, the ‘Maison Sud’.
It was an ordinary little place, not too clean or too airy, but a bright enough double-fronted affair with a striped canvas awning over the two windows, beneath which chairs and tables were set out on the pavement. At this hour of the day they were deserted, however. It was very hot, and the townsfolk preferred to remain within doors.
W.T. paused under the awning and mounted the single step that led into the café.
A brown-skinned waiter, with nothing remarkable about him save a magnificent moustache, shambled forward to inquire his pleasure.
W.T. asked for William Lacy, guessing that Gale would not use his own name anywhere if he could help it.
The White Cottage Mystery Page 10