“Oh, yes,” said Roger, with an equally casual air. “Very Sound, I think.”
“He didn’t seem surprised to see me turn up yesterday evening,” hinted Pleydell.
“No,” Roger parried. “We rather thought you might.”
“You’re connected with Scotland Yard,” said Pleydell, framing his remark in the form of an assertion rather than a question. “It must be extraordinarily interesting.”
“Yes, it is,” Roger agreed, accepting the implication, as indeed he could hardly help doing.
Pleydell looked him in the face. “You’re a man of sense,” he said abruptly. “What do you think about my fiancée’s death?”
This time Roger refused the advance. “We thought it sufficiently strange to warrant a little investigation,” he replied colourlessly, trying to re-establish the impersonal note.
“It certainly is that,” Pleydell muttered. “You think there’s a man at the back of it?” he attacked again. “At least, that seems the inference from the list Moresby wanted.”
“It’s always possible, isn’t it?” Roger fenced.
“Oh, why not be open with me, Sheringham?” Pleydell said swiftly in a low voice that nevertheless shook a little. “Can’t you see that the whole thing is torturing me beyond endurance? I shall go mad if it isn’t cleared up soon.”
Roger was taken aback. An appeal to the emotions was the last thing he was expecting from the collected, self-contained Pleydell. He realised something of what the man must be suffering to expose his innermost feelings to a complete stranger like himself, and guessed that perhaps no other person in the world had ever been granted such a view of the human fires that were hidden under that cool exterior—except, of course, Lady Ursula.
“You don’t suppose I’d ever have brought myself to go to Scotland Yard and talk to a damned policeman about—about her,” Pleydell continued, crumbling the bread on his plate with shaking fingers, “if I hadn’t reached my own limit, do you? For heaven’s sake tell me what they really think, and what they’re going to do about it.”
Roger was alarmed. His earlier conviction, that once Pleydell learned the truth he would be ruthless in his vengeance, returned in doubled strength. Far more formidable because normally so self-controlled, once he reached his breaking-point the man would be dangerous. In his own interest he must be restrained.
And yet, if he stumbled on the truth by himself (as sooner or later he surely must), would he not be even more dangerous, because out of reach of control? Would it not be better to give him an idea of the truth now and bind him not to take individual action? If he really gave his word, Roger was inclined to think that he would abide by it. And in any case Moresby was going to break the news to him on the next day, as he must before putting the further questions that were necessary; it could hardly make any difference to forestall him by twenty-four hours, and it would give the poor devil a certain measure of relief; to know the worst is always better than to fear it.
Roger had to make up his mind in an instant, and be did so.
“What do you think about it first, Pleydell?” he asked, in a tone of voice different from the defensive one in which he had spoken hitherto.
Pleydell looked at him quickly, and the expression he read in his host’s face showed that he was to be fenced with no longer. “I?” he said slowly. “I hardly like to tell you what I think. You might call it too fantastic.”
“Then put it this way,” Roger said bluntly, now sure that the other’s suspicions went nearer towards the truth than he had thought before. “Put it this way: do you think Lady Ursula took her own life?”
Pleydell did not flinch. It was as if he had feared all the time the hint conveyed by Roger’s question and so was not unprepared. “Ah!” he said, scarcely above a whisper. “So it was murder, was it?”
Roger was relieved. The man was taking it bravely, that Roger had expected; but it was not such a shock to him as it might have been had the idea been a new one. After all, Pleydell was no fool. It was a possibility that must have occurred to him.
“We don’t know for certain,” he said, though in a voice that held out little hope. “But coming after those others, you know.”
Pleydell nodded. Now that suspicion had been changed into certainty he had pulled himself together, and when he spoke it was in tones that were almost matter-of-fact. Roger marvelled again at his self-control.
“Yes,” he said. “I was afraid of it as soon as I realised that. In fact, it was that which sent me to Scotland Yard. But when I got there I hardly liked to say so straight out. It did seem fantastic, somehow. Ursula, you know, and the idea of murder.… Incongruous, to the point of absurdity.” He sighed. “But I suppose murder always does seem fantastic when applied to somebody in one’s own circle. Have you got any clues?”
“Precious few,” Roger said ruefully. “We’ll lay our hands on him sooner or later, I promise you; but it’s not going to be an easy job. By the way, Pleydell…” He paused awkwardly.
Pleydell looked up. “Yes?”
“Look here,” said Roger in some embarrassment, “you mustn’t forget the man’s mad, of course.”
“Mad?”
“Yes. A sexual maniac. I mean, it isn’t like an ordinary case of murder, where one can feel as rancorous as possible against the murderer. I don’t know whether the law will hold this man responsible for his actions, but I very much doubt it.”
“Do you?” said Pleydell, with a certain dry grimness. “But I think we’d better make sure of catching him all the same.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But——”
“And I need hardly say,” Pleydell interrupted, as if hardly conscious that Roger was speaking at all, “that if you want anything in the nature of funds to help you do so, you’ve only got to mention it to me. I’m a pretty rich man, but I’d give almost everything I’ve got to see that swine brought to the scaffold.”
“Oh, yes,” murmured Roger, acutely uncomfortable. “Of course.”
“And any other way I can help …”
“Yes!” said Roger abruptly. “There’s one way you can help. Scotland Yard’s got the matter in hand, and they’re the best man-hunting machine in the world. I want you to remember just that. In other words, I want you to promise not to attempt anything off your own bat. You couldn’t effect anything, and you might very easily queer our pitch.” It was remarkable how Roger, now that he was firmly established in an official status, seemed to have imbibed also the official ideas about enthusiastic amateurs and their well-intentioned industry.
Pleydell looked extremely unwilling to give any such under-taking.
“I’ve told you a lot more than I ought,” Roger urged, “and I want you to reciprocate by giving me your word on this point. It’s important, honestly.”
Pleydell appeared to be considering. “Very well,” he said slowly. “I’ll give you my word on one condition, and that is that you keep me closely informed about how you get on and any discoveries you may make. Otherwise I shall hold myself free to employ private detectives, if I want, to supplement your efforts.”
“Oh, don’t do that!” said the Scotland Yard man, with all the correct horror of such a notion. “Yes, I’ll keep you informed all right (unofficially, of course, and you must keep anything I tell you a close secret); but for heaven’s sake don’t go and let a lot of private detectives loose on us. Why, nobody outside Scotland Yard except yourself even guesses that we’re looking into these cases at all. Our great hope is to capture the chap by complete surprise.”
“Very well, then,” said Pleydell briefly. “That’s a bargain. Tell me exactly how the case stands at present.”
As he complied, Roger felt that he had succeeded in turning what might have proved an awkward situation into a helpful one. Without doubt Pleydell, if handled properly and kept within bounds, could help the investigation to a very considerable extent.
Having given his guest a synopsis of the facts and the hopes entertained, he proceeded
to his chief reason for asking Pleydell to lunch. “So you see,” he concluded, “that a good deal depends on these three men whose names are on both the lists. That is, on one of them, because in my private opinion both Newsome and Beverley are quite out of the running. By the way, I suppose you know nearly all of the men on your own list pretty well, don’t you?”
“Most of them, more or less, yes. Well, I understand now what the Chief Inspector wanted that list for, which I must say puzzled me; but it’s a great pity that I wasn’t at Monte Carlo myself at the time of that girl’s death. The fellow may have gone before I got there, you see.”
“It’s possible, of course. But I don’t think it’s very likely. There’s a gap of only five days, you see. Of course he may have got frightened and bolted at once, but we can easily find out who did leave during those five days. Personally, I think he would have stayed.”
Pleydell looked grave. “All this is rather a shock to me, Sheringham. It never occured to me that this brute could be actually one of our own friends.”
“It seems as if he must be. And you must remember that the fellow is quite probably sane enough in all other respects, except for this fatal kink. No doubt Jack the Ripper, whoever he was, was regarded in private life as a model citizen.”
“This is rather horrible,” Pleydell murmured.
“Well, anyhow,” Roger went on briskly, “there are sure to be some people on your list whose careers I shall want to look into, and I think the best way of approaching them will be through you. Can you manage that for me?”
“Certainly, if they’re men I know. I only wish you could give me something more difficult to do. I can tell you, Sheringham, I’m just itching to get my hands on that fellow.”
“Well,” said Roger, disregarding his companion’s hands, “I’d like to make a start with George Dunning. Do you know him?”
“Know George? Oh, yes. But it’s evident that you don’t.”
“Why?”
Pleydell glanced at his watch. “You’ll see. I’ll take you round to his rooms directly we’ve finished lunch on some pretext or other, and leave you there. George will never smell a rat. But I warn you, Sheringham,” he added, with a slight smile, “if you really suspect Dunning you’re making a hopeless mistake. George couldn’t put a kink into his brain if he tried with curling-tongs.”
“Oh!” said Roger, somewhat dashed.
CHAPTER XI
AN INTERVIEW AND A MURDER
CIRCUMSTANCES which, applied to ourselves, can only bear one interpretation find themselves carrying quite different ones when applied to other people. On finding Gerald Newsome’s name on the list of suspects Roger had no hesitation in affirming, and thoroughly believing his affirmation, that he could not possibly be guilty because Roger knew he could not be; and he expected this statement to be accepted as authoritative. But when Pleydell, with equal certainty, pronounced that George Dunning could not possibly be guilty because he could not possibly be, Roger was able to set this down at once as mere personal prejudice.
Yet it must be admitted that, when confronted an hour later with the gentleman in question, Roger’s heart did sink. Instead of the potentially sinister, secretly vicious creature whom his imagination had tricked him into anticipating, he found himself face to face with a large mountain of transparent guilelessness and innocent benevolence. If appearances counted for anything at all in this world, George Dunning could no more be a potential murderer in cold blood than could Roger himself. Less so, if anything, for whereas Roger was at least able to put himself in that murderer’s place and obtain some faint understanding of the horrible enjoyment experienced by that warped brain, George Dunning was obviously incapable of putting himself in any other place but his own, and possibly not always even there.
Only one thing did strike Roger as mildly curious, and that was the evident lack of ease which Dunning seemed to experience in Pleydell’s presence. Even that, however, was explained when Pleydell, having settled the excuse which had brought him, a matter of a mooted bachelor dinner-party which would now have to be cancelled owing to his mourning, somewhat abruptly took his departure without offering to take Roger as well.
Dunning turned to his unsought guest with something of the aspect of a bewildered but well-meaning ram faced with a new shepherd. It was obvious that though perfectly ready to be hospitable, he had not the least idea what to do with this Pleydell-imposed encumbrance.
His countenance cleared. “Have a drink, eh?” he said, with relief.
“Well, thank you,” Roger agreed. A drink would at least serve him with an excuse for a twenty-minutes’ stop.
“Great fellow, old Pleydell,” observed George Dunning, mixing the drinks with skill. “You know him well?”
“Oh, fairly well, yes,” said Roger, his back to the fire. He looked round the very comfortable room, in which fishing-rods, an oar and other sporting trophies figured prominently. Like most bachelor rooms, it seemed typical of its owner. Women’s rooms, like their figures, are rarely individual.
“Rotten, that business about poor old Ursula, eh?” pronounced Dunning, squirting soda. “Say when. Makes one feel all thumbs with Pleydell, doesn’t it? Don’t know what the deuce to say to a feller whose fiancée’s just hanged herself. Devilish awkward.”
“Devilish,” Roger agreed. “When.”
Dunning approached him with a half-filled tumbler. “Well, chin-chin,” said the suspect.
“Good luck,” said the man from Scotland Yard.
They settled themselves in chairs before the fire.
“You were at Rugby, weren’t you?” said Roger conversationally. “I wonder if you knew J. B. Fotherington?”
“The games-bird?” rejoined Dunning, with some approach to enthusiasm. “Rather. I should jolly well say so. Why, he taught me to play rugger.”
“Did he really? I knew him very well at Oxford. We had rooms on the same staircase.”
Confidence being thus established, Roger allowed it to be increased by a judicious conversation upon sporting topics, in the course of which he allowed Mr. Dunning to elicit the fact that he had once upon a time been awarded a half-blue for playing golf against Cambridge.
“And now you write books, eh?” pursued Mr. Dunning, in the course of his artless questionnaire. “Pleydell said you were the Sheringham who wrote novels, didn’t he?”
Roger admitted modestly that he wrote novels.
“Dashed good too,” said Mr. Dunning politely. “I’ve read one or two. Jolly interesting. Look here, finish that up and have another.” Roger suspected that it was the half-blue rather than his art that had prompted the offer, but he accepted readily enough.
“Yes,” he said in a meditative voice when Dunning returned from the sideboard, “I’ve been lunching with Pleydell. He seems very cut up.”
“Well, naturally,” pointed out Dunning, with reason.
“You knew Lady Ursula pretty well, didn’t you?” Roger asked innocently.
“Oh, so-so, you know. Not so frightfully. Not my type, exactly.”
“No,” said Roger. Dunning’s type, he knew without being told, would be small, fluffy, blue-eyed and extremely clinging; he shuddered slightly; it was not his own type. “She was a very modern sort of person, wasn’t she?”
“Oh, yes, fairly hectic. Awfully good sort and all that, of course, but a bit—well, hectic, you know. Not exactly loud, but—well, hectic.”
“I know,” said Roger gravely. “Hectic. The kind that calls every man ‘my dear,’ whether she’s known him ten minutes or ten years.”
“That’s it, exactly.”
“One gathered that,” observed Roger to his glass, “from that note she left.”
“Oh, yes; rather. Exactly like her, that note. Just the sort of thing she would leave.‘Mother have a fit,’ eh? Jolly good.”
“But it was the sort of thing she would do?”
“What, hang herself? No, that I’m dashed if it was; I could hardly believe it at first. Last
thing in the whole world Ursula would go and do, if you’d asked me.”
“So I’d gathered,” said Roger.
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
Suddenly Roger started. “Oh, good Lord, I’ve just remembered a note I’ve got to get written in a frightful hurry. I must run round to my club and get it done at once.”
“Oh, rot,” said the hospitable Mr. Dunning. “No need to do that. Why not write it here?”
“That’s very good of you,” Roger murmured. “Thanks. I’d like to.”
A moment later he was seated at his host’s writing table, a sheet of thick creamy notepaper before him as unlike the bluish-grey paper of Lady Ursula’s note as he had feared. Neatly printed at the top was Mr. Dunning’s address. There was no possibility even that this was a new lot, hastily ordered.
Roger scribbled something on the sheet, put it into an envelope and thrust it into his pocket.
“My man can run out to the post with it for you,” Dunning suggested as Roger rose.
“Oh, no, thanks,” Roger replied carelessly. “It’s only a memorandum about some work, and I shall be passing the place. I can drop it in now as I go by.” He resumed his seat. To himself he was thinking: “Well, there’s not the slightest hope, but I’ll try the last card. Though how on earth does one steer the conversation on to such matters with this simple creature?”
“I’ve just been reading Freud, Dunning,” he remarked, a little abruptly.
“Most interesting. Have you ever read him?”
“Good Lord, no,” replied that gentleman, shying violently.
Shortly afterwards Roger took his leave, with the full knowledge that whenever his name should be mentioned hereafter in Mr. Dunning’s presence, the formula would greet it: “That Chap? Oh, yes, not a bad fellow, really. Got a half-blue for golf, you know. But a bit of a bore in these days. Will talk a hell of a lot of rot about sex and all that sort of thing. Get a bit fed up with that sort of thing nowadays, don’t you?”
The Silk Stocking Murders Page 9