Basil corresponded to the description more nearly; he sometimes walked with a slouch, which Jones might call a “slink”, and he had certainly set forth from Tavistock Square on Friday morning in a bowler hat. The inspector had decided that Jones was a mutt; now he began to wonder whether, after all, Jones might have seen Gerry. If that were so, Gerry must have spent some ten minutes on the stairs—and how had he occupied that time? Inspector Caird feared that the answer to that question was the solution to the puzzle. The time at which Gerry had reached his office on Friday morning had not been very surely vouched for, the inspector recollected; and Bob Thurlow was in such a state of terror and seemed so afraid that the truth would incriminate him further, that anything he said about the time when he had spoken to Gerry was quite unreliable.
The inspector looked up Mrs. Daymer’s alibi for Friday morning; she had been engaged on “literary work” alone in the smoking-room at the Frampton; no one had enquired very closely into that. The inspector believed that if only Jones could identify Gerry, a plausible case might be pieced together against him. But now where was Gerry to be found?
Chapter XVI
Discoveries
That dark drenched Monday was the most wretched day of Beryl’s life. The police gave her no peace. Clearly they were rattled by Gerry’s unexplained disappearance. They visited his rooms and interrogated his landlord, as Beryl heard when she herself rang up his address in the forlorn hope that he might have left more precise information there. Beryl’s feelings changed from annoyance to exasperation and finally to dismay. Was it possible that he had actually meant to give the police the slip and that he would not come back? She dismissed the idea indignantly but it returned again and again. She remembered what she and Gerry had heard at the Frampton on Sunday morning about another will. If it existed it was probably in Beryl’s favour. The police of course were capable of believing anything; they might think that the possibility of Aunt Phemia’s money going to Beryl would provide Gerry with a motive for…Beryl refused to name it, even to herself.
Of course it was utterly ridiculous. Beryl herself was not badly off and Gerry was doing well on the Stock Exchange; at least, he always seemed to be doing well—he was never short of cash or worried about his rent, as Basil constantly was. But one did hear of people who seemed quite prosperous and suddenly crashed financially. That was absurd. Gerry wasn’t a gambler. Besides, they had talked over their plans again and again; had even begun to look for a flat and mapped out the honeymoon tour. It was impossible to imagine that Gerry had been deceiving her all the time. That he could be in desperate need of money, need so desperate that…Again she refused to put the possibility into words, even in her mind.
She wished that she had drawn the conversation with Inspector Caird to that possible will and made it clear that even if it disinherited Basil in her favour it would make no difference to him in the end. The money was always regarded in the family as due to him at his aunt’s death, and certainly it would go to him.
So all through the day Beryl’s thoughts tormented her, and to smother them she talked frantically to her family in a way quite unlike her usual calm manner—which had sometimes been described, spitefully, as blasé. Mrs. Sanders was annoyed to notice that Beryl was irritating her Uncle James by her random remarks.
James Pongleton disliked being away from home; his habits were almost as regular as Mr. Slocomb’s, and he felt unhappy without his own familiar leather armchair and his own rooms in which he knew exactly where to lay his hand on anything he wanted. He was anxious to get things settled and return to Yorkshire at the earliest possible moment. It was all very distressing about poor Phemia, but they couldn’t make things better by hanging around, and it was best to get the funeral over with the least possible fuss and go quietly home.
Mrs. Pongleton would have liked to stay in Hampstead a little longer. It was so difficult to get James to consent to any expedition from home nowadays, and the journey was tiring and expensive. Of course this was not really a fitting time for shopping and sight-seeing; nevertheless, it really was waste of a good journey to London to return home after only two days! Susan Pongleton would not have spoken so unfeelingly of the present melancholy occasion; she would be shocked if she could read her thoughts in cold print. But Euphemia Pongleton, her sister-in-law, had been almost a stranger, and in fact it had seemed providential that they had not met more often; Susan had always felt that it would be difficult to love Euphemia at close quarters, though it was possible to maintain a correct sisterly attitude towards her at a distance.
As for Basil, who had joined the rest of the family after the inquest, he had been in a state of wavering uncertainty all day, feeling that he ought to do something about the pearls, but unable to decide what he should or could do.
So in various states of discontent, irritation, and unhappiness, Susan and James Pongleton, Basil, Beryl and her mother, sat crowded together in the hired car in which they had followed Euphemia’s body to the rainswept slopes of Highgate cemetery. They were all tired by the harassing events of the day, and Beryl, with her nagging anxiety about Gerry added to the strain of the inquest and the funeral, was in a state of wretched exhaustion. But when, in the evening, her Uncle James asked her to accompany him to the Frampton, where he was to go through Phemia’s things, she thought that even that dreary occupation would be better than sitting, worrying about Gerry, in the restless atmosphere at home. So they drove up the hill in the Alvis and Basil was not able to make up his mind definitely before they left to give Beryl a tip about the pearls.
“Is your young man going to show up again before we leave?” Uncle James asked Beryl as they drove up the hill.
“I’ve told you, Uncle, I don’t know,” Beryl replied with weary exasperation.
“Seems to be a lot of mysterious business on hand,” grunted Uncle James.
“Everyone’s upset,” replied Beryl shortly, and not very helpfully.
Inspector Caird and Mr. Stoggins, Miss Pongleton’s solicitor, were waiting for them at the Frampton and they went at once to Miss Pongleton’s room, which the detective unlocked.
Before they began to check Miss Pongleton’s small collection of valuables by a list which Mr. Stoggins had brought, Mr. Pongleton handed to him a packet of letters neatly secured with rubber bands. Mr. Stoggins, a plump little man with a bald head and melancholy eyes, looked puzzled.
“These are a few of my sister’s letters, covering a period of some years, which I have kept because they refer to her investments. They may be of help to you, but I believe her affairs in that direction are in order. Possibly Inspector Caird may wish to look at them, though I doubt whether he will find any clues. There is mention of some advice on investments which a friend gave my sister from time to time, but on which she did not act.”
Inspector Caird took the packet from Mr. Stoggins. “The trouble about this case is that there are far too many clues, all pointing in different directions,” he grumbled. “However, I don’t want to imply, Mr. Pongleton, that we shall not track the criminal ultimately. I think I’ll take a look at these letters.”
Inspector Caird reflected that the discovery of the criminal might prove an unwelcome surprise for Beryl’s uncle, and he was glad that the old man would be safely on his way home in little more than twelve hours’ time. He sat down in a wicker chair near the fire and began to examine the letters. The others were investigating Miss Pongleton’s jewel-cases and bureau-drawers systematically.
“Are you acquainted, Mr. Pongleton, with the gentleman mentioned in these letters who seems to have been so anxious to give Miss Pongleton advice on her investments? A Mr. Slocomb, who lives in this boarding-house?”
“I have never met him, and what my sister wrote about his confidential advice was so vague that one cannot judge of its wisdom. Her investments were perfectly secure and reasonably good, and therefore I counselled her not to disturb her money. She had
no particular motive for wishing to gamble with her securities in the hope of large profits.”
“Hm! I will return these to you, Mr. Stoggins.” The solicitor stowed them away in his leather case.
Nearly all Miss Pongleton’s valuables had been accounted for, but there was no sign of the pearls. Beryl was worried; she had hardly hoped to find them in this locked room, but yet had a wild idea that somehow Basil might have put them here. She opened a little case which seemed the kind of thing in which they might be found. It was empty except for a wad of cotton wool which clung to the lid. Beryl removed it and a folded slip of paper floated out, partly opening, so that Beryl saw something written on it in her aunt’s hand. The word “Basil” started up at her from the spiky writing. She tried to suppress a little gasp and to occupy herself with another box, whilst peering surreptitiously at the inscription. Inspector Caird was behind her; she dared not look round; she dared not pick up the paper and put it back in the case or in her pocket. She took up another case and placed it upon the paper, which it did not quite conceal.
“May I come in?” called Basil’s voice, and she turned to see him in the doorway. After a difficult half-hour with his mother, who was anxious to be assured that he was not making “undesirable friends”, he had decided that the Frampton might be more restful than Beverley House.
Inspector Caird made an unobtrusive movement towards the chest-of-drawers near which Beryl stood, and helplessly she saw his hand reach out towards the leather case which she had just put down.
“Excuse me, Miss Sanders—haven’t you overlooked something?”
He picked up the paper. Beryl held her breath and looked appealingly at Basil. Inspector Caird perused the note with interest and then he too looked towards Basil.
“You have arrived at the right moment, Mr. Pongleton. You can explain this, of course?” He handed the note to Basil, who took it with a puzzled look.
“Read it,” commanded Inspector Caird, as Basil stood holding it and gaping rather aimlessly at the others. They all felt that this was a significant moment, though only the most ordinary remarks had been made.
“Oh! One of Aunt Phemia’s notes. She often used to write little notes like this; memoranda, she called them, to make everything clear! But it doesn’t help much in this case, does it?” He looked round anxiously at his relatives, avoiding the cold gaze of the inspector, who remarked sternly:
“The note states that the pearls were entrusted to you on a date some three weeks ago, to be restrung.”
“That’s so. I gave them back to Aunt Phemia last Wednesday, when I came here to tea with her. Can’t think why she didn’t put them back and destroy the note, but I expect she just tucked them away somewhere else for the moment.”
“Of course,” said Beryl quickly. “The sort of thing she was always doing!”
“Basil, what does this mean?” his father demanded sternly. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“The note? I didn’t know about it.”
“Don’t prevaricate, boy! You know we’ve all been speculating on what had become of the pearls. Why didn’t you tell us that you had them until last Wednesday?”
“Didn’t I? I mean, it didn’t seem important,” blundered Basil. “I thought you all knew that. I gave them back to her, and obviously, if they are lost, they have got lost since then, so it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”
There was an awkward silence. Uncle James abruptly remarked, “Wednesday? That was the day that young man Thurlow saw your aunt after you had left and, according to him and the young woman who was with him, witnessed a will for her.”
“Tell you what,” exclaimed Basil. “Those two came in and Aunt Phemia didn’t want them to see the pearls lying about, so she tucked them away somewhere downstairs—in the drawing-room, where she was sitting. Let’s go and look there!”
“And is it likely,” his father enquired, “that she would leave them there all night and the next day and the next night?”
“It might be,” put in Beryl hastily. “Aunt Phemia’s memory was failing a little, and if she had really been making a will that may have put other things out of her head. We’d better look; don’t you think so, Inspector Caird?”
“I think we had,” the inspector agreed grimly.
Beryl led the way downstairs. Only Mr. Blend was in the drawing-room, and the inspector gently asked him to leave them alone. He shuffled out with some dishevelled newspapers under his arm. They all looked round the room vaguely.
“That’s the chair she always sat in,” said Basil, pointing out the one which Mr. Slocomb had annexed since Friday. “Try the crack down the side. It would be the natural place for anyone to stow things away.”
“So it would!” Beryl agreed.
Inspector Caird aimed a quick look of suspicion towards her. He approached the chair cautiously, as if it were an animal of doubtful temper, and plunged his hand down one side—the side on the right hand of anyone seated in the chair—between the arm and the seat. He shook his head and tried the other side. His hand came up again holding an oblong buff envelope.
“That’s not the pearls!” blurted out Basil in surprise and dismay.
“Correct!” said Inspector Caird, after feeling the envelope.
“The missing will, I think,” suggested Mr. Stoggins gently, looking very melancholy.
James Pongleton stepped forward and put out a hand, but the inspector, disregarding him, placed the envelope gingerly on the mantelpiece and probed again in the side of the chair. They all watched him, open-mouthed in suspense. There was a slight rustling sound and he produced a small tissue-paper packet.
“Yes!” gasped Beryl and Basil in chorus.
“That looks more like them!” Basil added. “They were done up like that.”
Inspector Caird sat on the sofa and opened the packet carefully. There lay the lustrous, delicate-looking necklace.
“Rather a slapdash parcel to come from a jeweller,” he suggested.
“Oh, Aunt Euphemia opened the parcel to look at them,” Basil explained hastily. He wondered anxiously whether one could tell by looking carefully—as Inspector Caird was looking now—whether pearls had lately been restrung.
“She was going to give them to Beryl as a wedding present,” he added. “That was why she wanted them restrung now.”
“Was your sister left-handed?” Inspector Caird asked Mr. Pongleton.
“No—no,” replied the old man, too dazed by the startling events of the last few minutes to grasp the significance of the question.
The inspector had wrapped the pearls up again and slipped them into his pocket. Everyone noticed that, but no one liked to say anything. He took the long envelope from the mantelpiece, holding it by one corner. “Perhaps we had better look at this, Mr. Stoggins? If you have no objection, I will open it.”
He examined it very carefully before ripping it open neatly with a pocket-knife, and drew out the document, holding it by the edges. He handed it to Mr. Stoggins, who took it with equal care.
“Yes, yes,” muttered Mr. Stoggins mournfully. “Miss Pongleton’s will, dated Wednesday, March fourteenth—last Wednesday—and witnessed by Robert Thurlow and Eleanor Foster. I think there is no doubt that this supersedes the one we read this afternoon. Perhaps it would be advisable for me to read it, Mr. Pongleton?”
“Yes, of course, read it!” snapped James Pongleton.
The will enumerated various small bequests and made provision for Tuppy, as the previous one had done. “A string of pearls, formerly the property of my mother and at the time of making this will in the possession of my nephew, Basil Pongleton, who is to return them to me as soon as they are restrung, I bequeath to my niece, Beryl Sanders. Five thousand pounds I bequeath to Mr. Joseph Slocomb as some return for his unfailing kindness and helpful advice. My nephew, Basil Pongleton, having incurred my grave d
ispleasure, inherits nothing from me but his grandfather’s gold watch. The residue of my estate I leave to my niece, Beryl Sanders.”
“Irregular, most irregular,” Mr. Stoggins murmured as he concluded the reading. “Should have been drawn up by a solicitor—but probably it can be upheld.”
No one took any notice of him. They were all startled by the introduction of Mr. Slocomb’s name; too startled to realize at once the significance of that phrase about the pearls, which Basil was supposed to have returned to his aunt before the will was made. But Basil himself was more interested in a voice and a step which he heard in the hall outside, than even in the confirmation of his fear that he had been disinherited.
“Just a minute,” he muttered. “I want to speak to Betty.”
He did not notice that the inspector followed him quietly to the door.
Betty, who had paused on her way through the hall to say something to Nellie, who was laying the tables for dinner, was pale, with dark shadows below her eyes. But she smiled at Basil.
“Had an awful day? Poor old boy! I’ve got a rotten headache and came home a bit early. What’s up?”
“It’s all right! They’ve found the pearls—in the chair!” he told her in a low voice. Betty showed no surprise. “And Aunt Phemia’s will too,” Basil went on. “It was in the same place—disinheriting me!”
“In the chair too!” gasped Betty. “But it can’t have been— I mean it wasn’t…”
“It was.”
“Then it must have been put there later!”
She had come towards Basil and was on a line with the door of the drawing-room. Something drew her to look in that direction and she saw Inspector Caird standing in the doorway, gazing at her enquiringly. She grasped Basil’s hand. Had she messed things up hopelessly after all?
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