The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  The bookcases, sturdy constructions of oak, had evidently been built to fit the room. The upright junctions between the sets of shelves were masked by slim carved panels which slid upwards, leaving a gap of eight inches at the most. No one could have hidden between the shelves or, for that matter, behind or on top of them.

  The study itself was a pleasant enough room, panelled to shoulder height in oak. There was a substantial oak table, with a brass ashtray, a bunch of keys, a desk-lamp, pens, blotter and a quire of writing paper. A box file, with papers beside it, covered with dust, lay on the table. The carpet, which covered most of the floor, was a rich Indian design, evidently old but of good quality.

  Against the fireplace was a comfortable chintz armchair, flanked by a standard lamp and a small table, on which was a litter of pipes, a tobacco jar and an upturned book, a nurse’s account of life in Belgium. Anthony remembered from Sir Douglas’s report that Maurice Knowle’s fiancée, Miss Edith Wilson, was nursing in Belgium.

  Anthony settled himself in the armchair, coughing as a cloud of dust puffed up from the cushions. Mrs Harrop wasn’t joking when she said she hadn’t dusted. A fine layer of dust covered the entire room.

  Despite Mrs Harrop’s forebodings, there didn’t seem to be any ghostly chill in the atmosphere, but a murder – two murders and a sudden death – had certainly occurred. It was clear, from the conversation that Father Quinet had overheard, that someone had been in that room and that someone had murdered both Edward Jowett and his wife. It wasn’t, thought Anthony, a planned murder. The servants had clearly heard Mr Jowett’s furious voice and a snatch of what he’d said: ‘The police … law … disgrace …’

  Then, when the argument had reached a point where there was nothing else for it, the killer had struck. The kerfuffle outside the door had given the killer time, but he simply couldn’t have escaped. Therefore he had hidden himself in the room. So far, so good, but where? Where had he managed to hide so successfully that he escaped Inspector Tanner’s thorough search?

  From the moment the door was broken down until the police had departed, some hours later, there had been at least one person in the room, either the doctor, a member of the household or the police.

  After he’d broken the door down, Constable Coltrane had left the servants in the room and telephoned the station for instructions. Inspector Tanner had established that the only telephone in the house was downstairs in the hall. However, once Constable Coltrane was in the hall, the servants didn’t stay in the room. Two of them had helped the fainting Mrs Harrop to her bed, leaving Annie Colbeck alone.

  Annie Colbeck; the inefficient Annie Colbeck, as much use, Mrs Harrop had said, as a wet washday. Annie who had cried and sobbed outside the door and took as much time as she possibly could to fetch Hawthorne’s drops. Was she trying to give the killer time? Was she the woman in the church, the woman who Father Quinet had overheard?

  What had Father Quinet actually heard? The woman had lived in France for five years and spoke good French. She was asked to look after a little girl who more or less had to be Milly. The woman had never looked after children before but she had promised to be competent within a fortnight.

  So who looked after children? In Milly’s case, it was the nuns who ran the orphanage, but there were also teachers, nurses, governesses and nursemaids. Nursemaids. Servants. Annie Colbeck was a servant, a housemaid. Was she a housemaid who could switch roles to that of nursemaid within a fortnight? Anthony rather thought she was. After all, he added to himself, his stomach tightening, it wasn’t, by the sound of it, a role she’d have to keep up for very long.

  All that, however, was in the future. Granted that Annie Colbeck had managed to usher the killer out of the room in the time she was alone in here, he’d still managed to escape detection when the door had been broken down.

  How? There was no sofa to hide behind and the table, sitting squarely a few feet from the wall in the middle of the room, had no cloth to conceal anyone underneath.

  For an ordinary room, the place was as devoid of hiding places as a billiard table. Where the devil had he been?

  He got up and strolled round the room. Something about the room seemed wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  Idly he glanced at the papers beside the open box file on the table. The papers were contained in manila cardboard sleeves. Anthony read the names on the sleeves. Douglas, Denshaw, Drake and Sons, Dauntless Insurance, Dobson, Dreadnaught Iron Ltd., Dysart …

  They seemed to be banking records, confidential documents relating to loans and businesses, copies, Anthony thought, of records that were probably in the bank. These were the papers that Mr Jowett had needed at home, papers he wanted to study … That was it!

  That was the thing that seemed wrong. For a room that was called ‘the study’ there seemed to be an absolute lack of things to actually study. There should have been a filing cabinet or a shelf at least, devoted to working papers.

  Anthony flicked back the lid of the box file and wasn’t, granted the names on the manila folders, surprised to see the initial D.

  So if this was the box file containing the papers for clients whose name began with D, where were the others? A, B, C and through to Z, if there were any clients whose name began with Z. There weren’t any box files on the bookcase.

  Anthony looked round the room. There weren’t any box files anywhere. Edward Jowett could, he supposed, have brought this one file home, but surely the bank would have missed it and would have asked for its return?

  Then he froze. A low groan sounded behind him, then another groan. What the devil? He jumped as the groan was followed by a sharp crack!

  The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Could Mrs Harrop possibly be right? Was the room haunted?

  The room seemed exactly as before. It was quiet, almost mockingly quiet. Anthony took a firm grip on his nerves. Something had groaned and something had cracked. What?

  The sun streamed through the window, glinting diamond sparks off the dust on what had once been the highly polished table. The light brought out the deep reds of the Indian carpet, the rich golden browns of the oak panels, touching the oak floorboards, not quite catching the fringe of the Turkish carpet on the wall. Everything, absolutely everything, was filmed with dust, except the oak floorboards in front of the hanging carpet on the far side of the fireplace. Here the dust was shaped into little tracks and tiny mounds.

  As Anthony watched, the fringe of the carpet lifted slightly, then flattened. The dust on the floorboards in front of the carpet swirled, lifted, then settled.

  He walked to the hanging carpet and drew it back. It swung outwards on its rail, revealing the oak panels underneath.

  Anthony stepped back, then, taking a box of matches from his pocket, lit a cigarette. The smoke from the cigarette curled upwards. Holding the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, he reached out to the panelling, watching the smoke as it drifted up beside the panels. Nothing. He started on the adjacent panel.

  The smoke blew out into the room.

  That was it! Despite looking exactly like its neighbour, that panel had to open. He ran his fingers round the edge. There had to be a catch or a lock somewhere. Nothing opened to his touch but surely, outlined in the dust, was the faint impression of a hand. He pressed down against the outline and with a click, the panel swung back.

  Sunlight streamed into the room from the open panel. Behind the door, for that was what it was, was a low space about six-foot-long and four across, illuminated by a skylight. It looked like the end of the eaves of the attic, partitioned off to make a separate room.

  This was where Mr Jowett kept his files. There were shelves with initialled box files on them (Z was part of V to Z) and other documents, all neatly arranged. There wasn’t, Anthony thought, anything necessarily mysterious about the room. At a guess, the cupboard was as old as the house and used by Mr Jowett to keep confidential files neatly out of sight and away from prying eyes. There was somethin
g else in there, too. A stumpy Webley Bulldog revolver together with a box of ammunition that presumably was Edward Jowett’s own. So there had been two guns. Anthony didn’t need any more proof that the Jowetts had been murdered, but here it was, all the same.

  The skylight wasn’t properly shut. Anthony could see the outline of a chimney stack outside of the skylight. The wind gullied round the stack and, as Anthony watched, the skylight lifted in its frame and slammed down with a bang. The long arm of the metal latch was hanging loose, preventing it closing properly.

  Anthony grinned and, lifting the latch, fastened the skylight firmly in position. He had exorcized Mrs Harrop’s ghost for her. It seemed the least he could do.

  SEVEN

  ‘And there it was, Talbot,’ said Anthony pouring out a glass of whisky. He added a splash of soda and handed it to Sir Charles. They were in Anthony’s sitting room in the flat in Grosvenor Road.

  Tara, after listening enthralled to his story of ghost-hunting had, with some reluctance, gone out to a meeting of the Belgian Relief Aid.

  ‘A secret cupboard?’ said Talbot.

  ‘As a matter of fact, it wasn’t so secret. Mrs Harrop knew all about it. However, Inspector Tanner didn’t ask her if she knew of such a thing and it never occurred to her to mention it.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ commented Sir Charles ironically. ‘I thought Tanner was meant to be one of the best.’

  ‘To be fair to him, I didn’t ask Mrs Harrop how an intruder could conceal himself in that room and I don’t suppose he did, either. It’s a lesson to us all, I suppose, to ask the obvious question.’

  Sir Charles grinned. ‘To take you at your word, I’ll ask it. What do you think happened that day?’

  Anthony took a thoughtful sip of whisky. ‘I don’t think it was a premeditated murder. No one in their right mind would plan a murder that had so many opportunities to go wrong. I think we have to go back to a few weeks before when Mr Jowett complained that someone had searched his study. He kept the door to the study locked after that. He was unhappy and Mrs Jowett was unsettled and worried.’

  ‘Who searched the study? Do you know?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure it was Annie Colbeck, the maid. However, on that occasion she was unsuccessful. I don’t think she found the cupboard. Mrs Harrop, when I questioned her afterwards, told me she’d never mentioned it to anyone and she certainly didn’t chat about it to Annie Colbeck. The cupboard wasn’t of any importance to her, you see, and it’s very well concealed. A searcher would have to be very lucky indeed to stumble across it. If the skylight hadn’t been left open, I doubt I would have found it.’

  ‘I think you’re underestimating your abilities, but go on.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Anthony with a grin. ‘In a way,’ he said, picking up his pipe and stuffing tobacco into it, ‘it’s a great pity that Annie Colbeck didn’t find what she was looking for. If she had, I’m sure that both the Jowetts and that poor beggar, Hawthorne, would be alive today.’

  ‘That poor beggar, Hawthorne,’ repeated Sir Charles thoughtfully. ‘He said, “It’s my fault, Maurice.” Have you any idea what those last words meant?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘I think so. Tell, me, Talbot, what does a butler do? What’s his job?’

  ‘He does various things,’ said Sir Charles with a shrug. ‘His main role is looking after the wine, fining it, bottling it and corking it and so on. It’s quite a responsibility. My uncle served as a butler in Ireland and it’s no sinecure, believe you me. What else? You could say he’s in charge of the house. He pays the bills, takes charge of the valuable plate, he waits at the table and carves the joint, gets up first thing and sees that everything is safe and sound at night. It’s early mornings and late nights, but if the butler’s doing his job, there shouldn’t be a problem with burglars.’

  ‘A butler also answers the door to visitors, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He takes the visiting cards into the master or mistress, helps the guests with their coats and shows them in.’

  ‘Exactly. He opens the door to visitors. A lot of Hawthorne’s duties were taken over by Mrs Harrop, as his health was so poor, but what I think happened is this. A visitor came to the door – and if that visitor wasn’t Father Quinet’s first man in the church, I’m a Dutchman. The man wanted to see Mrs Jowett.’

  ‘Mrs Jowett?’ questioned Sir Charles.

  ‘That’s my guess. I haven’t got any direct proof but I think the man handed Hawthorne his visiting card and, in order to ensure Mrs Jowett did receive him, I think he’d scribbled a note on the card saying words to the tune of “Concerning Maurice Knowle”, or something similar.’

  ‘Where’s the card?’ began Sir Charles, then stopped. ‘He’d have taken it with him, of course. Go on, Brooke.’

  ‘I think Hawthorne was uneasy about the visitor. Hawthorne had served Mrs Jowett’s family all his life and, according to Mrs Harrop, felt very protective towards her. I think he would have kept as close a watch on things as he could, in order to step in if necessary. I know and you know that he was a frail old soul, but he didn’t see himself like that. He was the Jowetts’ butler and it was his duty to protect the house. He would have certainly known that Mrs Jowett had gone with the man from the drawing room, where she usually received visitors, into Mr Jowett’s private study. I know it was kept locked but if anyone could get hold of the key, she could. Hawthorne wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t like it at all,’ agreed Talbot. ‘What were they doing in the study? Was it something to do with that box file on the table?’

  ‘I believe it was. All the folders in that file related to businesses and people with the initial D. Who do we know who’s got the initial D?’

  ‘Diefenbach!’ exclaimed Sir Charles. ‘Paul Diefenbach!’

  ‘Exactly. Paul Diefenbach, the head of the Capital and Counties bank, who trusted and relied on Mr Jowett.’ Anthony briefly recounted the facts he had gained from Mrs Harrop. ‘So you see, Talbot, granted that Edward Jowett was a trusted colleague, as well as a friend, it’s possible that Diefenbach kept any confidential papers and so on lodged with Jowett for safekeeping.’

  ‘That’s perfectly possible,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘You say Diefenbach’s married?’

  ‘Yes, but separated, according to Mrs Harrop. Apparently he lives in his club. Which one, I don’t know.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Brooke. I’ll make a few enquiries. I’d like to talk to the man himself but, as Inspector Tanner found out, he’s en route for God knows where.’

  ‘I suppose he really is abroad?’ asked Anthony, suddenly uneasy. ‘There seem to be some very sinister types who are determined to get hold of him. I’d like to know why.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sir Charles took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit it thoughtfully. ‘Usually when someone in his position disappears, the first thing that springs to mind is that he’s absconded with the cash, but there’s nothing untoward been reported at the bank.’

  He shook himself. ‘To stick to what we do know, let me sum up what you’ve worked out so far. Annie Colbeck searched Jowett’s study a month before he died. We’re assuming that she was looking for information about Paul Diefenbach.’ He gave Anthony a quizzical look. ‘Why did our man wait a month before he called?’

  ‘Again, this is guesswork, but it fits. I think it took that long to find out something about Maurice Knowle, something that could be used to put pressure on Mrs Jowett to let our man see Edward Jowett’s confidential papers about Paul Diefenbach.’

  ‘Blackmail?’ asked Sir Charles sharply.

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ said Anthony, picking up his whisky and swirling it round in his glass.

  ‘But Maurice Knowle sounds like a first rate sort of man,’ objected Sir Charles. ‘Apart from anything else, he’s crippled. What could he have done to be blackmailed?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I intend to find out,’ said Anthony, pulling on his pipe. ‘Maurice Knowle called on his mot
her that morning. Mrs Harrop said that he was distracted and worried, quite different from his usual self. All she actually heard him say was something about chocolate, which doesn’t seem to make any sense, but the effect of the visit was that Mrs Jowett was on edge afterwards. I think Maurice Knowle had warned his mother to expect the man to call.’

  ‘He was warning her to expect a blackmailer?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘What’s more, it worked. The fact that Mrs Jowett took the man into the study and got the box file out of the concealed cupboard proves that. Then, of course, it all went wrong. Edward Jowett returned from the bank early. Presumably Hawthorne met him in the hall. Jowett enquired if his wife was at home – he would, you know – and Hawthorne, who was probably very relieved to see his master, told him that Mrs Jowett was indeed at home and, what’s more, in the study with a dubious visitor.’

  ‘So Jowett goes into the study to see for himself what’s afoot,’ completed Sir Charles.

  ‘And Hawthorne, worried about what will happen, breaks the habit of a lifetime and listens apprehensively at the door.’ Anthony got up and stretched his shoulders. ‘You see why Hawthorne would feel guilty? One of his main duties, as a butler, is to guard the house. Against his better judgement, he’s admitted this man instead of sending him packing. The fact he listened at the door shows how unhappy he was. He didn’t intervene, as perhaps he felt he should, but let the situation continue until, as we know, it got out of control. After the shots rang out, poor Hawthorne must’ve been in despair.’

  ‘That adds up,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Now, once Edward Jowett went into the study, he was horrified. I don’t know if Mr Jowett knew who the man was, but it’s clear that his wife has shown him confidential papers. As we know, Jowett lost his temper. The servants heard Mrs Jowett say “Maurice” – I imagine she was protesting that she’d acted for Maurice’s sake – and Mr Jowett responded with the words the servants overheard. “The police … law … and disgrace” .’