“Very nearly,” French returned. “That statement is perfectly satisfactory to me, and all I require is a bit more detail. Now first”— And he began in his painstaking way to dissect the evidence. Amplified, the statement amounted to the following:
Slade had reached St. Kilda about 3 p.m. and left about 3.15. He had seen Lucy, who had opened the door, and Julia, Marjorie and Ursula, who were in the drawing-room. He had driven to Petersfield, reaching his friends about four. He had stayed about an hour, leaving about five. The drive back took another three-quarters of an hour and he was about a quarter of an hour changing. That brought it about six. As soon as he had changed he went to the club, only of course two or three minutes in the car. He parked his car at the club and drove home about eleven. Then followed a list of persons who might witness on his behalf.
French was a good deal impressed by the statement. So much of it could apparently be vouched for that he scarcely saw how it could be false. All these people could not be accomplices. And if the statement were true it looked as if Slade must be innocent.
What had French to check? First the time of Slade’s arrival in Petersfield. French had an idea of the distance and he felt sure the run could not have been made in less time than Slade had said. If Slade therefore had arrived about four, he couldn’t possibly have committed the murder before his trip.
Again, if he had filled in his time even approximately as he had said, he would not have had time to dispose of the body between his return from Petersfield and his departure for the golf club. And he would scarcely have attempted it after eleven, when he would expect the search to be in progress.
It would be necessary, of course, to get these key hours checked, and French decided that he would take this on next. Accordingly next morning he went out again to Altadore and asked to see the servants.
As on the day of Earle’s disappearance, only the cook had been on duty on this Sunday. When he had previously interrogated her French had been impressed with her straightforwardness. Now as he talked to her again he received the same impression.
When therefore she told him that Slade had been out all Sunday afternoon and had returned at quarter to six, leaving again in some fifteen minutes, French believed her. All the same, he asked how she remembered the hour so clearly. She had, she explained, supposed Mr. Slade would be in for dinner, and at six o’clock she would have begun preparations for the meal. She was therefore watching the time, and noted exactly when the young man had arrived. When she had heard him go out it had occurred to her that it was just the time she would have been starting work, had he not done so. The cook also stated that during the fifteen minutes Slade was changing, she had seen the Bentley standing at the door.
French then went on and saw his friends the chauffeur and his wife. The chauffeur could not entirely answer his questions, as he had been at Arundel with Colonel and Mrs. Dagger on the Sunday. They had left about midday, and up to that time all three cars had been in the garage. When he returned about 10.30 in the evening the small car was there, but the Bentley was out. Mr. Slade brought in the Bentley about eleven, and he, the chauffeur, put it away.
The chauffeur’s wife, however, was able to give further information. She had been about the premises during the entire day and stated positively that no cars could have been taken out or left in unknown to her. Mr. Slade had come to the yard about three, and had taken out the Bentley. The small car had not been taken out at all, and the Bentley had not been brought back till the time her husband stated—namely, eleven.
“Well, that’s pretty useful to me,” French declared cheerily. “Have you cleaned the Bentley since Sunday?”
The chauffeur looked slightly shocked. He had been cleaning the Daimler and adjusting its brakes on Monday, and it surely wasn’t expected that he could have dealt with the Bentley as well? Besides, the Bentley wasn’t dirty. He had been over her thoroughly on Saturday, and she was quite all right.
French saw that he had been injudicious. He agreed that the Daimler was more than enough for anyone, and then said he would like to have a look at the Bentley. If Ursula’s green wool would catch on twigs, a strand might stick to the cushions of a car.
But no strand had done so. French was very thorough in his examination and he found nothing suggesting Ursula’s presence. The only thing he noted was that Slade at some time must have been walking on muddy ground, as traces of yellow clay showed in the pile of the carpet at the driver’s seat.
So far everything that French had learned corroborated Slade’s statement. French, however, could not be content with corroboration of a part of the statement; he must check it all. The golf club was close at hand and he would take it next.
The club-house was situated on the road running between Hampton Common cross-roads and the village of Seale. It was a low rambling house of mellow red brick walls and mellower red roof tiles, with half timbering on the upper story. It looked genuinely old, as if two or three cottages had been knocked into one. There was a U-shaped drive, forming an entrance, a sweep before the door, and an exit. Round at the side of the building, hidden by a screen of trees both from the windows and the road, was a macadamised area used as a car park. Between the drives was a grass plot with flower-beds and shrubs. At the other side of the building from the park was the first tee.
It happened that the secretary was in his office when French arrived, and he saw him at once. French had to put his questions delicately. He wanted to check the alibi of a man who was not under suspicion. Making official red tape the scapegoat therefore, he besought the secretary’s good offices.
Curiously enough it happened that the secretary himself had seen Slade’s arrival on the Sunday evening. He happened to be on the steps in front of the building when Campion drove up. Campion went into the club-house, remaining for a couple of minutes only. On his reappearance the two men exchanged a few words, and while they were doing so Slade arrived in his sports Bentley. He parked and entered the building. As he passed the others he asked if certain other members were in the club, saying he had come for an evening’s bridge. Campion then drove off and the secretary went home. The latter reached his house a few minutes past six, and as it was only seven or eight minutes’ walk, Slade must have arrived at the club about six.
Though this was all the secretary knew personally, he continued to be extremely helpful. He called waiters and attendants from whom French was able to get conclusive testimony that Slade had remained in the club-house till it closed at eleven.
There remained now only the enquiry at Petersfield, and in the afternoon French took a bus thither. Here the information he obtained was equally conclusive. He interviewed two members of the family on whom Slade had called and they confirmed the young man’s statement on every point. He had turned up almost exactly at four o’clock and had stayed for just an hour.
All this testimony seemed to French to constitute overwhelming proof of Slade’s innocence. At no time before eleven would he have had an opportunity either to commit the murder or to dispose of the body. And French could not bring himself to believe that he would have left any part of the dreadful scheme over till this hour, as he would have foreseen the presence of police in the neighbourhood. Besides this, of course, there was the testimony of the chauffeur and his wife that all cars were in the garage by eleven o’clock and remained there all night.
No, Slade was out of it. And if Slade was out of it, French believed that Julia was out of it too. And he had never believed that Marjorie was in it. This whole line of suspicion must be erroneous and the truth must lie in some totally different direction. What possible direction could that be? French recognised creeping over him that dreadful baffled feeling which had so often oppressed him when a promising clue petered out.
He sighed. Curse it all! If Julia and Slade were innocent, who was guilty? French really suspected no one. But someone must have done it. What had gone wrong with him was that
he was so bankrupt of ideas. He might not be able to obtain proof of guilt, but he should at least know whom to suspect.
In the hope of something having resulted from the local men’s activities, he went in to see Sheaf. Their results, however, could be covered by the one word, Nil. No one, either walking or driving a car, had been seen on the roads or in the vicinity of St. Kilda, nor had anything affecting the case been discovered.
Pessimistically French returned to his hotel to write up his notes.
Chapter XV
Oak Panelling
A night of sound sleep and a bright sunny morning raised French’s outlook once again to the optimistic level. To be held up in a case was no new experience. Again and again in the past he had reached a deadlock and always (or at least, very nearly always) these checks had proved temporary. He would find a way out, as he had so often before.
Moreover, as he considered his day he saw that he had been wrong on the previous night. He was not really held up at all. A deadlock was not yet in sight. It was true that progress on the Ursula Stone problem had been checked. But fortunately or unfortunately, the Ursula Stone problem was only a part of the case. He had still to trace the car and driver who had met Nurse Nankivel on the Hog’s Back at six o’clock on the Sunday on which she had disappeared. He would get on to that at once. A bit of luck with it might solve all his problems.
When he came down a letter was handed to him. It was from the Yard and stated that the samples which he had sent up had been examined. The blood in Thicket No. 1 was human blood, and the sand from the study floor was the same as that from behind the bush. Somehow this letter, giving a firm foundation to at least part of his case, still further increased his wave of optimism.
But when he came to examine his immediate problem, the wave became somewhat dissipated. This line of finding out who met the nurse was not so promising after all. French had already had a try at it and had failed to learn anything. Because of the telegram and the journey to Staines, Earle was the likely man, but no one had been able to tell him where Earle was at the time in question or whether the St. Kilda car had been out. Earle therefore remained a possibility, though there was no proof that he was anything more. Julia, Marjorie and Ursula Stone, French had checked up, satisfying himself they were all at St. Kilda.
On the other hand, Campion by his own admission might have been near the by-pass bridge at six o’clock, and therefore could have met the nurse. But there was no reason to suspect Campion.
Nor did French believe there was any reason to suspect Slade. He had not, however, enquired into Slade’s whereabouts at this time, and he decided to do so at once.
Once again he rode out to Altadore and looked up his friend the chauffeur. Would the man carry his memory back to Sunday fortnight, when Dr. Earle disappeared…?
The chauffeur and his wife both carried their memories back. Their effort, however, didn’t help French. Both were positive that at six o’clock on that Sunday afternoon all three cars were in the garage.
This was only what French had expected. He had never been able to see why Slade should have desired the nurse’s death.
As he rode out of Altadore gate on his way back to Farnham he saw Miss Campion. She was strolling slowly along the road and signed to him to stop.
“I’ve just been at St. Kilda,” she said, “and I’m waiting for the bus. I wondered how you were getting on. I don’t know whether I should ask or not, but I feel this dreadful affair so much that I’d like to know.”
“I can understand, madam,” French returned sympathetically. “It must have been a blow to you. The poor lady was your friend, was she not?”
“A lifelong friend. I knew her as a child at Bath, where we were both brought up. It does seem to me the most terrible affair. If ever there was a kindly and innocent and harmless individual in the world, it was Miss Stone. Really good, you know, without any nonsense about it.”
“I understand, Miss Campion. It was just my own estimate of her, though of course I hadn’t your opportunities of judging.”
“That’s why I feel it so dreadfully. I’m afraid something must have happened to her. She never would have gone away like that of her own accord; never. What do you think, inspector? You haven’t said anything.”
“I’m afraid because I don’t know anything, madam. I admit that the idea you’ve mentioned occurred to me, but I’ve got no proof of it.”
“Proof? You don’t want proof. Her character was proof enough. Something has happened to her; some accident or something. I’m convinced of it.”
“I’m glad to have your opinion,” French declared. “I suppose you can’t form any idea of what might have happened?”
Miss Campion made a gesture of despair. “Absolutely none. The thing’s an insoluble mystery to me. I can’t think of anything.”
“You don’t know if she had any enemies?”
She looked at him in horror. “Is that what you fear?” she said, almost in a whisper. “Not murder! Oh poor Ursula! How unspeakably dreadful!” For a moment she seemed overwhelmed, then went on: “But good heavens, inspector, who would do such a thing? What could anyone have against her? She who never hurt anyone in her life!”
French shrugged. “I appreciate the difficulty, Miss Campion, but there seem to me only the two ways out of it. Either she disappeared voluntarily, or she—didn’t. Which is the more likely?”
Alice Campion was obviously deeply shocked and grieved. “I couldn’t have believed that either could have happened,” she declared. “Oh, if someone is to blame for this, if someone—” she boggled over the word, then forced it out—“if someone has murdered her, how I hope you’ll get him. I’d go gladly to see him hanged, and I’m not vindictive. But there: I don’t believe anyone could have done it.”
For a moment they walked on in silence, then Miss Campion spoke again. “Do you think this affair is connected with the other? I mean Dr. Earle’s disappearance?”
French moved uneasily. “To be strictly truthful,” he said at last, “I don’t know. What do you think, madam?”
“I don’t see how it could be, and yet it’s strange that the two cases should be so alike. My brother was talking about it. I said they were so alike that they must be connected, but he said it didn’t follow, that the second case might have been intentionally copied from the first.”
French nodded. “I agree with Dr. Campion. It’s possible they were connected, or it’s possible that the perpetrator of the second was simply trying to make it look like his predecessor’s work. I’m obliged to you, Miss Campion, for talking like this. Your ideas may be a help to me. And there’s another thing that might help me. Perhaps while we’re talking you’d tell me in as full detail as you can, what you know about last Sunday. The statement you gave me that night was necessarily short. If you wouldn’t mind repeating it with plenty of details, some chance phrase might give me an idea.”
“I don’t think I know anything which could help you,” she returned. “However, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to get the thing cleared up. We spent that afternoon very quietly. From lunch till tea the three of us, my brother and sister and I, sat reading and chatting in the drawing-room. Then after tea my brother got out the car and we went over to St. Kilda. There was nothing abnormal there; I can assure you of that, inspector. Mrs. Earle and Miss Lawes were just as usual. I asked where Miss Stone was, and Mrs. Earle said she was lying down. She offered to call her, but I wouldn’t hear of it. Well, nothing happened during the visit; absolutely nothing out of the common. We stayed three-quarters of an hour or so and then drove back. Or no; I’m wrong there. We didn’t drive directly home. We went round to the golf club, where my brother wanted to see one of the members. But that only took a minute or two. Then we drove home. I prepared supper and my brother and sister sat and read in the drawing-room. It was while we were at supper that Mrs. Earle rang up.”
“You went over at once?”
“We went over at once. Mrs. Earle told us what had happened. She seemed very much upset and of course I didn’t wonder. Howard—my brother—suggested ringing up the superintendent at once; then he agreed with us we might have a look round ourselves first. I think we all see now that we were wrong, but you can understand—I don’t mean any discourtesy—that application to the police is distasteful and is usually made as a last resource.”
“It’s natural, madam,” French said smoothly.
“We organised a search, or rather my brother did. But when we met without having made any discoveries, we agreed that an application to the police could no longer be delayed. We rang up Farnham, and I think you know the rest.”
“I think so,” French agreed. “Well, madam, I’m glad we met here and much obliged for your ideas.”
The bus turned up presently and French saw the lady into it. She had not really told him anything he had not known before, and yet it was interesting to find her so convinced that only foul play could account for Ursula Stone’s disappearance.
French had by this time completed all those obvious and local enquiries which the tragedy of Ursula Stone had suggested. He was worried by the question of whether or not he should run down to Bath and have a look over the missing woman’s house. He did not think there was the slightest chance of learning anything useful from such a visit, and yet he doubted the propriety of omitting it. Finally he decided to go, and after sending a wire to the Bath police, he set off to Reading to get the afternoon express.
The Hog's Back Mystery Page 18