“I’ll do so,” Craythorn replied.
No point in catechising her further on these lines, he reflected. She knows nothing about her husband’s affairs. A run through Hyson’s papers and a check-up at Lockhurst’s office would be more likely to unearth anything there was to find. Probably there would be some signs of hanky-panky in Hyson’s finances. That was the likeliest reason for a suicide, with a man of his position. He was about to terminate his inquisition when a thought crossed his mind.
“I found a letter in the letter-box,” he explained. “You’ve no objection to my opening it, I suppose? We shall have to examine it anyhow, sooner or later, you know.”
Linda shrugged her shoulders.
“Certainly do as you wish. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t look at it now.”
Craythorn stepped into the hall, picked up the envelope, and brought it back with him.
“I’ll open it now,” he decided. “You may be able to throw some light on the thing, if it needs it. I mean, if it’s from a friend you can tell us who the writer is, and so on.”
He opened the envelope with his penknife and extracted the contents gingerly so as to leave no finger-prints on the paper.
“Hullo! It’s one of these poison-pen productions, Mrs. Hyson. Have you been troubled with them before?”
His upward glance caught a curious expression on Linda’s face. There was disgust in it, but just for a moment he thought he recognised something else — a faint symptom of uneasiness or even fear. It was gone in a moment and she seemed to have made up her mind to let things take their course.
“Yes,” she admitted frankly. “We’ve all had them: the maid, my husband, and myself. They’re beastly productions, aren’t they? But perhaps you haven’t seen any of them?”
“I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never seen one before,” Craythorn confessed.
He glanced through the letter.
What a hugger-mugger family! You hug girls at your office after hours while Barsett hugs your wife at home, you mug. If you had spunk or decency you’d whip him. But perhaps he pays his way. Ha! Ha! A very mixed marriage you’ve made, you cuckoo, and I wish you joy of it.
Craythorn mechanically re-read the letter, thinking hard as he did so. No use taking poison-pen stuff too literally, he reflected. Still, one couldn’t ignore things when they were thrust under one’s nose. This production of a filthy mind certainly opened up fresh fields. Cissie Worgate, quite independently, had told him that Barsett was Mrs. Hyson’s friend, not Hyson’s. So there was the old triangle that so often led to trouble. And then, on the other hand, up came this insinuation about intrigues between Hyson and the office typists. Another triangle, or more than one. But since Hyson and his wife had drifted completely apart, why should any intrigue — on either side of the house — drive the man to suicide? Unless it was a case of blackmail, of course. That might fit. But blackmail means a threat of exposure. If Mrs. Hyson had already received one of these poison-pen productions, she must be quite well aware of the charges against her husband. Trust the poison pen for that! So where could exposure come in? That must be the wrong gum-tree, evidently. The inspector unconsciously shrugged his shoulders. Nothing in it. Some financial trouble was a much more likely solution of the business.
He looked up to find Linda holding out her hand.
“Let me see that letter, please,” she demanded.
Craythorn hesitated for a moment. Without being squeamish, he had a distaste for putting it into her hand.
“You don’t want it really, Mrs. Hyson,” he temporised, beginning to stow it away again in its envelope. “It’s just the usual sort of thing. Do you no good to read it.”
“I want to see it, please,” Linda declared in a tone so firm that the inspector was slightly surprised.
Why was she so eager to see this letter which could only shock and irritate her? Funny, that. Then he thought he saw light. She guessed that her name and Barsett’s might be in it, and she wanted to know the exact accusation in case she were questioned about it later on. Let her have it, then, and see what happened next.
He made no further protest but handed the thing over to her, watching her closely as she perused it. Her brows contracted slightly as she read, but apart from that he could see no indication of her reaction to the contents. Evidently she had a firm grip on herself, he reflected. But then, was that extraordinary, after the training she must have had in living with Hyson that queer independent life under the same roof? He wondered what comment she would make on the letter when she handed it back to him. Would she deny the charge in it?
But when she had finished it she simply held it out to him without remark, and he was forced to take the initiative.
“You said you’ve had others of the sort before, Mrs. Hyson. Were they on the same lines?”
“Not very different,” Linda admitted at once.
“They mentioned Mr. Barsett?”
“They mentioned Mr. Barsett,” Linda concurred. “I think it’s only fair to myself to say that the writer’s mistaken if he means to insinuate that I’m Mr. Barsett’s mistress.”
This was taking the bull by the horns! Craythorn had hardly expected such a blunt handling of the situation, and he looked at Linda with a certain admiration. She didn’t look like the kind of girl to go in for unnecessary plain-speaking, and yet she had come down flat on the very danger-point without the slightest hesitation.
“Who is Mr. Barsett?” he asked.
“He’s a friend of mine, nothing more. He lives in this neighbourhood — at Ardenlea, Dartmouth Road. My sister acts as his secretary. He’s a friend of hers and of mine; but he had very little in common with my husband so they saw next to nothing of each other, which I suppose is what you mainly want to know.”
That sounded very frank and honest. All the cards on the table. No hedging, apparently. But an afterthought brought other possibilities into Craythorn’s mind. Even if Mrs. Hyson was truthful in denying that she was Barsett’s mistress, that didn’t cover anything like the whole ground. A man may be head-over-ears in love with a married woman without the final step being taken. But just because the final step hasn’t been taken, there might be a strong incentive to clear up the situation in one way or another. H’m! Was it suicide after all, or something else?
And if it was something else? Here was Hyson on the one side and on the other was the possible confederacy of three: Mrs. Hyson, Barsett, and this sister who acted as Barsett’s secretary. What about the sister? Well, there was that rum tale about the telephone call, the practical joke. That might very well have been planned to give Mrs. Hyson an alibi while the job was being done. At the best, it didn’t sound an altogether likely tale. Surely, if they had plenty of time to think things over beforehand, they could have hit on something more plausible.
Then again, this was Cissie Worgate’s night out, one of the nights in the week when the coast would be clear. Why had Hyson’s death happened on just that particular night? If it had been a case of suicide, then Hyson must have thought it out beforehand and chosen the evening when the maid was out of the kitchen and he could get at the gas-stove without interruption. Quite possible, of course, but it implied that Hyson’s suicide was due to no sudden decision.
“Good Lord! What a tangle! And five minutes ago it seemed as plain as could be,” Craythorn reflected indignantly, as he realised how much extra work all this would throw on his shoulders.
He turned the poison-pen letter over in his hands and then slipped it back into its envelope. Incuriously he glanced at the address: “Mister Hyson, Medina Lodge, Cowslip Avenue.” Posted at 12.30 P.M. according to the office stamp. H’m! “Mister”? Was that an ignorant writer or was it an educated person deliberately avoiding “Mr.” or “Esq.” to suggest an imperfect education? Cray thorn decided to pass the thing to the Post Office expert, that man Duncannon who had charge of this local poison-pen case. If they could get hold of the poison pen, they might get some information about the r
elations of this quartette: the Hysons, Barsett, and this sister who had appeared on the scene.
“What’s Mr. Barsett’s profession?” he inquired, merely to prevent the silence becoming awkward.
“I don’t think he has any,” Linda answered. “I think he’s a partner in some firm, but he takes nothing to do with the actual running of it.”
Sleeping partner, Craythorn inferred. Lucky devil! No work to do and an income big enough to run a large house and keep a secretary as well.
The sound of a motor entering the gate caught his ear and interrupted his musings.
“That’s the ambulance, likely,” he explained. “I think you’d better stay in here for a minute or two, Mrs. Hyson. We’re taking him away. You don’t want to be there while we’re doing that, I’m sure.”
“No, I don’t,” Linda confessed. “I’ll wait here. And after that? What do you wish to do?”
“I’ll have to go through his papers. Take me an hour or two, I expect. No need for you to sit up, though, Mrs. Hyson. If you can sleep you’d better get to bed, hadn’t you? Or perhaps you’d rather go to your sister’s for the night?” he added, with a certain tact.
“But then, what about my maid?” Linda pointed out. “I could hardly go off and leave her alone in the house. And there’s no friend’s house where she could stay. I’d better stay here and keep her company so that she won’t feel nervous. It’s not pleasant, you know, Mr. Craythorn, even if one isn’t superstitious. I’d much rather go to my sister’s, but I can’t leave Cissie here alone.”
“She wouldn’t be alone in the house,” Craythorn pointed out. “Some of my people will be on the premises all night. There are things to do. . . . I hope we shan’t disturb you. I’ll give orders that they’re to be as quiet as possible. I’ll be here myself for a good while yet.”
“Thanks. Still, I don’t think it would be fair to leave her. I’ll stay to-night. Perhaps to-morrow I can make some other arrangement. I could hardly blame her if she wanted to go elsewhere — for a day or two, at least.”
Craythorn gave her a good mark for her thoughtfulness in very trying circumstances. Of course, it wasn’t a case of losing a husband she was fond of. Happy release, more likely, in this affair. Still, it was a horrible position for a woman to find herself in, and she’d kept her nerves well under control, wonderfully well. Very cool indeed.
Then his suspicions began to creep back again. After all, it might not have taken her by surprise. She might have been braced up, ready for it. Well, in that case also, she must be a cool card.
Chapter Eleven
Grandfather’s Clock?
HYSON had been one of those men who preserve even the most useless documents for a time, a habit which Inspector Craythorn cursed at intervals as he plodded his way through the mass of material which choked the drawers of the escritoire and encumbered the shelves of the dead man’s private safe. It was well into the small hours before he had completed the examination and classification of it all, having found very little of real importance amongst the chaff. Next morning, armed with an empty suit-case, he went back to Cowslip Avenue to await the arrival of the Chief Constable with whom he had been in communication at an earlier hour.
“Anything fresh, Inspector?” Sir Clinton inquired as he came into the drawing-room.
Craythorn, looking rather heavy-eyed after his vigil, pointed to the escritoire on which he had ranged a series of packets of documents.
“I’ve got everything shipshape for you, sir, if you wish to look through the stuff. It never rains but it pours,” he added. “There’s been a burglary in Vendale Road. Scarsdale’s the occupier’s name. He and his family went off to the Continent last week and left the place empty. Not much harm done, luckily. The burglar must have been disturbed before he’d time to do his job thoroughly. There’s nothing missing, so far as we can see. And we caught Joe Whitcher at his old game last night — stealing lead piping from an empty house in Westow Road. It’ll cost the insurance people a tidy bit to repair the damage he’s done.”
“I’m afraid Whitcher’s incurable,” commented Sir Clinton with a smile. “He never seems to learn by experience.”
“Even if we could sell all the swag he ever gets away with, sir, it wouldn’t cover the cost of keeping him while he’s serving his time,” the inspector estimated sourly. “It’d be cheaper to pay him a pension. Much cheaper. I’ve rung up Miss Errington, sir, Mrs. Hyson’s sister; and she’s come over here so that you can question her if you want to. We’ve got the photographs of the body printed, if you want to see them. But it was just the ordinary gas-oven affair.”
“You’ve been through his papers?”
“A bit of a job, sir. Everything was in confusion. But I’ve sifted out the important items” — he waved his hand toward the neat packets on the escritoire — “and they tell the tale plain enough. He’s been gambling heavily on the Exchange and came out on the wrong side. I’ve rung up Lockhurst’s office. Got some man Forbury on the phone and told him I’d be along later to see if any shares are missing from the safe there. Hyson dealt in bearer bonds and one expects embezzlement in a case like this.”
“He wasn’t doing his gambling through his own firm, of course?”
“No, sir. He dealt with a London firm — Erkenwald and Maitland — from this address.”
“And all this rather incriminatory stuff was left loose on his desk?”
“What did that matter, sir, seeing he was going to commit suicide? He’d no further reason for keeping things quiet, at that stage. As a matter of fact, he must have made up his mind pretty quick at the last moment, sir. He was writing a letter to his brokers and broke off short in the middle to go to the gas-oven. Right in the middle of a sentence.”
“He may have learned of Mr. Lockhurst’s death,” Sir Clinton ruminated. “That would mean auditors and trouble for Hyson.”
“Is Mr. Lockhurst dead, sir?”
“I saw it in the obituary column of my morning paper.”
From the inspector’s face it was clear that he envied the leisure of his superior.
“I haven’t had much time for studying the news this morning,” he confessed. “When did he die, sir?”
“I don’t know,” Sir Clinton admitted. Then a thought seemed to strike him. “They have a phone here? I think I’ll ring up and find out.”
He left the room and came back in a few minutes with further information.
“Mr. Lockhurst died on Tuesday night, it seems. Hyson heard about it on Wednesday forenoon when he happened to ring up the house to ask for the invalid. So the nurse tells me. But there’s something further. The executor is Mr. Harberton, the solicitor. He came to the phone and told me that in going through some letters which Mr. Lockhurst hasn’t been allowed to deal with he found one of these poison-pen productions. I asked him to read it to me and I took a copy. He’s sending the document itself to me at Lockhurst’s office. Here are the contents to go on with:
Hyson is using your private room to meet one of your typists after the office is closed for the night. After this you cannot pretend you don’t know what is going on.
What do you make of that, Inspector?”
“Somebody jealous of somebody,” Craythorn decided, rather vaguely. “Might be a woman who thinks someone’s poaching on her preserves. Might be a man trying to put a spoke into Hyson’s wheel — one of the office staff, perhaps.”
“Mr. Lockhurst was rather strait-laced about that sort of thing,” said Sir Clinton. “If that letter had fallen into his hands, he’d have been nettled at the idea of his office being turned to such purposes. And it wouldn’t have stopped there.”
“Looks like someone trying to get Hyson the push, sir, so as to get a bit of promotion on the cheap, doesn’t it?”
“Possibly he had enemies,” Sir Clinton concurred. “But that will keep till we go to the broker’s office. We’d better have a look round here, first.” He glanced at his wrist-watch and then mechanically compared it
with the mains-controlled electric clock on the mantelpiece. “Suppose we begin with that. It’s stopped at 9.20.”
Craythorn in turn glanced at the clock dial and found the hands at 9.20, whilst the seconds disc was motionless.
“Stopped, right enough, sir,” he confirmed. “Twenty past nine. I wonder . . .”
Sir Clinton smiled quizzically at him.
“Thinking of a new version of ‘Grandfather’s Clock,’ are you?
‘For it stopped short — never to go again — When the young man died.’
And so we get the time of death neatly recorded, eh? I’m afraid it won’t wash. If you find an electric clock not going, there are only three probable explanations: first, it hasn’t been started; second, it’s out of order; and third, there’s been an interruption of the current. Now make a note of 9.20 and we’ll see if it’s in working order.”
He pressed in the stud at the back, released it gently, and the clock started immediately.
“Nothing wrong with the mechanism, evidently. So either it wasn’t going yesterday or else someone interrupted the current. We may as well ask if it was a going concern yesterday, but that will keep for the present. Let’s look around first. We may have more questions to put.”
As he was about to step back from the clock his eyes fell on the hearth and he stooped down interestedly.
“You haven’t been smoking here, have you?” he inquired.
“No, sir,” the inspector declared, rather indignantly. “And I think I ought to say, sir, that I haven’t had time yet to search this room thoroughly. These papers of his kept me up till all hours, and this morning I thought it as well to wait till you came.”
“Quite all right, Inspector,” said the Chief Constable soothingly. “On the face of it, his papers were the likeliest place to look for an explanation of his death. But let’s get on now, shall we? Someone has knocked out his pipe on the fender here. It wasn’t you. So we’ll have to ask what Hyson did in the way of smoking. Was there a pipe in his pocket when the contents were examined?”
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