The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “Right!”

  “Thirdly: Whittall’s explanation of his wife’s alleged depression is mere nonsense. It is a simple matter for a rich woman to adopt a child if she is lonely.”

  The Inspector nodded.

  “Fourthly: when a person shoots himself dead one of two things happens. Occasionally the grip on the gun is spasmodic, and remains fixed in death. More often in the act of death all the muscles relax. In that case when she fell from the steps the gun would have been knocked from her hand, just as the comb was knocked from her head. As a matter of fact, they say the gun was found lying in her open hand. I am forced to the conclusion that it was placed there afterwards.”

  I looked at her, struck with horror.

  “In that case she must have been decoyed to the pavilion,” said the Inspector.

  “That is for us to find out.”

  “The double identification of the gun as hers is an awkward point to get over,” he suggested.

  “Matson 32’s are sold by the hundreds,” said Mme. Storey. “There is no evidence that this one bore any distinguishing marks. Why not another of the same design?”

  “In that case Mrs. Whittall’s gun would have been found.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  The Inspector slowly nodded. “A case begins to shape itself,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “It is not yet a matter of public interest,” said Mme. Storey. “As soon as we have sufficient evidence that it is, we will put it in your hands. In the meantime I wish you’d trace where and when Whittall bought the gun that he gave his wife, and the number of it. You have better facilities for doing that than I have.”

  He nodded.

  III

  A pleasant-faced young woman, very neatly and plainly dressed, came into my office somewhat shyly, and mutely offered me a printed slip which had been filled in. I read at a glance that the bearer was Mary Thole, who had been sent by Mrs. ——’s Employment Agency as an applicant for the position of maid. One of our operatives had brought about this visit without the girl’s suspecting what we wanted of her. I looked at her with a strong interest. Through my association with Mme. Storey I have learned to read character to some degree, and I said to myself that the lady who secured this girl would be lucky. Good servants are rare.

  I took her in to Madame Storey.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked my mistress.

  “Yes, Madame, I read in the papers…”

  “Good! then you know something of my business. I may as well tell you at once that I do not need a maid. That was merely a pretext.”

  The girl looked at her, greatly startled.

  “Oh, you have nothing to fear,” Mme. Storey went on. “I merely wished to satisfy myself that you were an honest and a faithful girl. I am satisfied of it. I mean to be frank with you. Mr. Whittall has engaged himself to marry a friend of mine, a beautiful young girl. I think that is a great shame.”

  “Oh, yes, Madame!” she said earnestly. “He…he is not a good man!”

  “So I think myself,” said Mme. Storey dryly. “I want you to tell me all the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Whittall’s death.”

  The girl’s eyes widened in horror, and she pressed one hand to her cheek. “Oh, Madame, do you think…do you think…that he…!”

  “Hush!” said Mme. Storey. “Answer my questions carefully, and we’ll see.”

  The girl went on in a daze, more to herself than to us: “Of course, I always knew it was due to him…in a way…he made it impossible for her to live…but I never thought that he might actually…”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” warned Mme. Storey. She reseated herself at her desk.

  “May I ask you something?” said Mary humbly.

  “Certainly.”

  “Is it…is it the beautiful young actress, Miss Brunton?”

  “Yes. What put that into your head?”

  “Well, it came to my mistress’s ears that her name was being connected with Mr. Whittall’s, and she heard she was a nice girl, so it seemed a great shame to her on the girl’s account. So she asked Miss Brunton and her mother to come to Oakhurst—that was the name of the house—to lunch and spend the afternoon. She wanted to stop any scandal that was going about, that might hurt the girl. That was the sort of woman she was; thinking of everybody before herself.”

  “Hm!” said my mistress, “and did they come?”

  “Yes, Madame, and my mistress told me the girl was a dear—that was her own word, and she hoped she could really make friends with her.”

  “Was Mr. Whittall present at this luncheon?”

  “No, Madame. My mistress had fixed a day when she knew he would be out of town.”

  “When was this?”

  “I cannot say to a day. Late in August some time. Two weeks, maybe three, before my mistress died.”

  “What can you tell me about that visit?”

  “Not much, Madame. I was busy about my work, of course. When the car drove up to carry them away, I peeped out of the window, and I had a glimpse of the young lady, as she turned around to say good-bye. Such a beautiful young lady! She was happy and smiling, so I supposed everything had gone well.”

  “You cannot tell me anything they did?”

  “Nothing, except I heard they had tea sent out to the pavilion.”

  “Who served it?”

  “The butler would be at the tea-wagon, Madame, and the second man serving.”

  “What were the relations, generally, between Mr. and Mrs. Whittall?” asked Mme. Storey.

  Mary looked uncomfortable. She said in a low voice: “They were living apart, Madame—though under the same roof, since before I came. They never quarrelled before the servants, of course. They were cold to each other. It was the gossip among the servants that Mr. Whittall was always trying to persuade her to get a divorce, and she wouldn’t because it was against the laws of her church.”

  “So is self-destruction,” remarked Mme. Storey gravely.

  Mary looked up quickly. Evidently this was a new thought to her.

  “You considered that Mrs. Whittall was an unhappy woman?” asked Mme. Storey.

  The girl nodded. “But I never heard her complain,” she added quickly.

  “Had she ever spoken of adopting a child?”

  “Not seriously, Madame. Once I heard her say that a child was entitled to a father as well as a mother.”

  “Now let us come to the day of the tragedy,” said Mme. Storey. “I want you to tell me everything that happened that day, beginning with the morning.”

  “I can’t tell you much,” said Mary. “What happened at night seems to have driven it all out of my head….It was Sunday. I suppose Madame went to early mass as usual. She would not let me get up on Sunday mornings to dress her, nor would she have the car. She walked to church. Then came breakfast. I tidied up her room then. I don’t remember anything about the morning; I suppose she was writing letters. After lunch she slept; I dressed her when she got up. I scarcely saw her during the day. She wanted us to rest on Sundays. Dinner was always earlier; half-past six. I had heard downstairs that the master was dining out. Mrs. Whittall didn’t dress for dinner on Sundays. She came up from the table in less than half an hour. I was in her room then….”

  “How did she look?”

  “Quite as usual, Madame. Calm and pale.”

  “What happened then?”

  “A few minutes later a special delivery letter was brought to the door.”

  “Ha!” said Mme. Storey. “Why was this never mentioned before?”

  “Nobody asked me about it, Madame.” For the first time an evasive note sounded in the girl’s honest voice.

  “Was not such a thing very unusual?”

  “No, Mad
ame. Mrs. Whittall’s mail was very large, she was interested in so many charities and committees. So many people wrote to her asking for one thing or another. There were often special delivery letters; telegrams too.”

  “Did you have this letter in your hands?”

  “Yes, Madame. I carried it from the door to my mistress.”

  “Describe it.”

  “Just an ordinary white envelope with the address written on it. No printing.”

  “Did you recognise the handwriting?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “Was it a man’s handwriting?”

  “I don’t know. I just gave it a careless glance.”

  Again the evasive note. However, Mme. Storey chose to ignore it.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Mrs. Whittall said she wouldn’t want me any more, and I went away.”

  “Then?”

  “After a while, an hour maybe, she sent for me back again.”

  “You found her changed then?”

  Mary looked at Mme. Storey in a startled way. “Y-yes, Madame,” she faltered. “Her cheeks were red. She was nervous. She tried to hide it.”

  “Where was the letter then?”

  “It wasn’t anywhere about. It was never seen again.”

  “Was there a fireplace in the room?”

  Mary looked frightened again. “Y-yes, Madame.”

  “Did you not look there afterwards—next day perhaps?”

  The girl hung her head. “Y-yes, Madame.”

  “And found some scraps of burned paper?”

  “Yes, Madame,” This very low. “I swept them up.”

  Once more, to my surprise, Mme. Storey dropped this line of questioning for the moment. “What did Mrs. Whittall say to you?” she asked.

  “She said her afternoon dress was too hot, Madame, and she wanted to change. So I started to get a négligée from the wardrobes, but she said no, she had a fancy to put on her blue net evening dress that she had never worn. She wanted her hair done in a different way, too. I was a long time dressing her. It was the first time I had ever found her hard to suit. At the end she asked for her blue velvet evening cloak, as she wanted to walk in the grounds for the cool.”

  “Had she ever done that before?”

  “Not as far as I know, Madame.”

  “Describe the blue dress.”

  “A simple little frock, Madame. Just a plain, tight bodice of charmeuse, and a full skirt of net in points over underskirts of malines. A scarf of blue malines went with it. She had never worn it because she said it was too young for her.”

  “How old was Mrs. Whittall?”

  “Thirty-seven, Madame….She wasn’t old at all!” the girl went on warmly. “She was beautiful! She was beautiful all over!”

  “Where did she keep her revolver?” asked Mme. Storey.

  “In the top drawer of the chiffonier in the bedroom. I could feel it lying at the bottom of the drawer when I put things away.”

  “Were you in the bedroom when you were dressing her that Sunday night?”

  “No, Madame; in the dressing-room, which adjoined.”

  “Did she leave the room at any time while you were dressing her?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “Did you leave the room?”

  “No, Madame. The wardrobes were right there along the wall.”

  “When she was dressed, who left the room first?”

  “She did, Madame. I remained to tidy things up. I was still in the dressing-room when I heard…when I heard…”

  “I know,” said Mme. Storey gently. “Please attend well to what I am going to ask you. When Mrs. Whittall left the room where did she go?”

  “Out through the door into the hall, Madame, and down the stairs. I heard her heels on the stairs. She was in a hurry.”

  “She did not go into the bedroom first?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “Did she have anything in her hands when she went out of the dressing-room?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “Did the blue cloak have a pocket in it?”

  “Only a tiny pocket inside for a handkerchief.” Mary held up thumb and finger, indicating a space of an inch and a half.

  “Would it have been possible for her to conceal the revolver inside that tight bodice?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “Then I ask you, was it possible that she could have carried her revolver out of the house with her?”

  The girl stared at her with wide eyes of horror. “No, Madame! No! No!…I never thought it out before….Oh, my poor mistress!”

  She broke down completely. Mme. Storey lit a cigarette, to give her time to recover herself.

  “Well, after that we know pretty well what happened,” my mistress said soothingly. “Just a few more questions….Did it occur to you at any time before your master came home, to look in the chiffonier drawer to see if Mrs. Whittall’s gun was there?”

  “No, Madame. I never thought. I scarcely knew what I was doing.”

  “When did you first see Mr. Whittall?”

  “He came running up the stairs to the bedroom where the…where the body was lying. He ordered us all out of the room. ‘I must be alone with my dead!’ he said. Those were his words. Very dramatic.”

  “Hm!” said Mme. Storey with a hard smile. “And then?”

  “In just a minute he called me back into the room by myself, and started to question me, very excited.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “I can’t remember exactly….Like the questions you were asking me. What she was doing all day? What made her go out, and so on.”

  “Did you tell him about the letter which came?”

  “Yes, Madame, because he asked if any message had come.”

  “What did he say when you told him about the letter?”

  “He didn’t say anything, then. Later, when we were waiting to be questioned by the police, he sort of said to me and Mr. Frost, the butler, and Mr. Wilkins, the second man—we were the only ones who knew about the letter; he said maybe it would be better if nothing was said about it, and we agreed, of course, not wishing to raise any scandal about the mistress.”

  “What can you tell me about his subsequent actions?”

  “Well, Madame, whenever he got a chance, I saw him looking, looking about the sitting-room and the bedroom…”

  “For the letter?”

  “So I supposed.”

  “Did you know then that it had been burned?”

  “Yes, Madame; I had looked before he came home.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him it had been burned?”

  “I didn’t want to give him that satisfaction.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, as long as the police were in the house, Mr. Whittall was right there with them. After they had gone he went out. He took a flashlight with him, because I could see it flashing down the path to the pavilion. Then I lost him. He was out of the house about ten minutes. When he came back he wanted me to go to bed. But I asked to stay up…by her. He went to bed.”

  “Can you tell me what became of the pistol that was found in Mrs. Whittall’s hand?”

  “The police captain took it away with him that night. Later I heard that Mr. Whittall had given it to him.”

  “Now to go back,” said Mme. Storey. “When your mistress sent for you to dress her, you said you found her excited. Do you mean pleasurably so?”

  “Yes…no…I can hardly say, Madame. When I thought over it afterwards, I supposed she had made up her mind then to end it all, and was just sort of wrought up.”

  “That was reasonable. But you know now that you were wrong.”

  Ma
ry nodded. “I don’t know what to think now,” she said unhappily.

  “That letter,” said Mme. Storey—and Mary instantly began to look nervous, “what do you think was in it, Mary?”

  “How should I know?” she said. “A girl like me, just a lady’s maid.”

  “But you thought it had something to do with the tragedy.”

  “Not direct.”

  “Well, indirectly, then.”

  “Whatever I may have thought is proved wrong now.”

  “Tell me what you thought.”

  “I don’t think I ought,” was the stubborn reply. “I told you the truth when I said I didn’t know the handwriting. It was only a guess.”

  Mme. Storey tried another tack. “Mary,” she said, “Mr. Whittall has told his fiancée that his wife killed herself because she was in love with another man.”

  “That’s a lie!” she said excitedly. “At least, the way he means it. My mistress was a good woman!”

  “I am sure of it!” said Mme. Storey gravely. “But I can also understand how a woman, married to a man like Whittall, might conceive an honourable love for another man, and still remain true to her marriage vows.”

  The girl broke into a helpless weeping. Still she stubbornly held her tongue.

  At length Mme. Storey said: “Mary, your mistress was foully murdered. Don’t you want to see justice done?”

  “Yes!…Yes!” she sobbed. “But I don’t see how he could have done it. I don’t know what to think! I don’t see any use in raking up a scandal!”

  “The whole story must be opened to the light now,” said Mme. Storey gravely. “If that is done, no possible blame can attach to your mistress’s name. Wouldn’t you rather tell me here than be forced to tell in open court?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Then, Mary, from whom did you think that letter had come?”

  “Mr. Barry Govett,” she whispered.

  I exclaimed inwardly. Barry Govett!

  “You mustn’t lay too much on that!” Mary went on, as well as she could for sobbing. “I am ready to swear there was nothing wrong between them. I don’t believe they ever saw each other alone but once. That was at our house in the summer. Mr. Govett called unexpected. He didn’t stay but an hour. I happened to go into my mistress’s sitting-room where they were, and I saw them. I saw by the way they looked at each other how…how it was with them both. How it would always be. I had never seen anything like that….” She was unable to go on.