by Roy Vickers
“Get a screen for this door,” he ordered Benscombe.
The team was pouring into the hall. They knew their work and needed no shepherding. But there was a small point to be cleared up at once.
“Do the key in the door first, and check with the finger prints of the deceased.”
Out came a powder spray. When the powder had settled:
“There’s no print on the key, sir. There’s a lot of scratches on the stub—the part that sticks out on the other side.”
So Watlington had not locked himself in. It was theoretically possible that some innocent person wearing gloves had done so. But it was extremely unlikely.
The scratches, Crisp reflected, had probably been made by himself. Nevertheless: “Wrap the key for microscopic examination,” he ordered.
He left the fingerprint man, the doctor, and the photographers to their work and went to the terrace. More than half the guests had arrived. Bright sunlight was streaming on the white shirt fronts of the men, making them look like foreigners at a wedding. They were clustered round Querk, questioning and even heckling him. The presence of the police in numbers had produced a variety of reactions, chief of which was the dread of being associated with a financier who had broken the law.
Most of the guests were well known in fashionable and sporting circles. In one way and another, they had been profitably entangled in Watlington’s massive financial movements.
They had received invitations to dinner at short notice, couched in terms that were almost peremptory. Those who had previous engagements cancelled them. They felt for Watlington that gratitude which is a lively sense of favours to come.
They all turned as Crisp approached.
“It’s the Chief Constable himself … That looks serious … What’s it all about, Colonel?”
“I am sorry to tell you that Lord Watlington is dead,” said Crisp.
The collective gasp was broken by Claudia Lofting.
“Has he been murdered?”
“We don’t know yet. I imagine that those who have been asked here to dinner will not care to stay. I would be obliged if you would kindly give your names to the constable at the door before you go. And please don’t walk about the garden.”
Thank heaven it had nothing to do with the accounts! The guests, chilled by Crisp’s method of kicking them out, began to drift back to their cars. Some of their chatter reached Crisp.
“They say he married in South Africa, but no one has ever seen her. Perhaps she was waiting behind the door with an assegai—or is it a tomahawk? What is a tomahawk?”
Then a deep, self-assured voice:
“It’s either natural causes or murder. I happen to know it can’t be suicide.”
Crisp swooped. The speaker was a distinguished looking man in the middle thirties. His face was long and thin: his eyes, large but deep set, were framed with thick, curving eyebrows. In contrast to the evening dress of the others, he was wearing baggy flannel trousers and a sports coat of somewhat elaborate cut; it was pleated, back and front, and had special side pockets, from one of which protruded the edge of a leather-bound sketch-book. On his left hand, unexpectedly, was a dun-coloured, cotton glove.
“How d’you know that?” asked Crisp.
The other looked Crisp up and down. He was unimpressed by the badges of rank, paid more attention to the bulging pockets.
“Because he told me he intended to make an announcement tonight about his nephew’s engagement to Miss Lofting. And because he made an appointment to sit for me next Tuesday.” He added, with some surprise: “I say—don’t you know who I am?”
Crisp admitted ignorance.
“As a matter of fact, I’m Arthur Fenchurch!”
“Thank you, Mr. Fenchurch,” said Crisp and lost interest.
While Crisp was talking to Fenchurch, Claudia sought Ralph Cornboise.
“More people are turning up,” she warned him. “I don’t think we need bother to break it gently.”
The newspaper descriptions of Claudia in court, by emphasising her physicality and writing up every detail of her dress, contrived to suggest a type of mindless play-girl who would do most things for money, including murder if necessary.
Actually, her appearance did not justify the superlatives of the special reporters. She was a smallish woman, but so well proportioned that no one would have called her short. Her disciplined body gave her unusual poise and gracefulness—missed by the reporters. Her hair was dark, as were her wide-set eyes: her skin fair, so that she looked fragile, which she was not. Her features escaped the regularity demanded of the standard glamour girl. Her nose had the hint of a tilt, and her mouth was dynamic.
In sum, not a ravishing beauty but a good-looking girl with a physical individuality. From an artist’s point of view, her weak spot was her hands, which were a shade too large and lacked femininity.
As Ralph showed no sign of taking action, she added: “Hadn’t you better go and head them off?”
Ralph Cornboise, to look at, was any schoolgirl’s ideal. He was tall and athletic, with crisp gold curls and long eyelashes, which concealed the slight prominence of his eyes. Claudia approved of his appearance, much as a woman approves of a man’s clothes and with as little emotion. She had been drawn to him by that element in herself which she had not tried to understand—a desire to protect and sustain a neurotic whose nature needed hers. This desire had grown to a dominating passion.
“Very well!” He was reluctant. “If you think I ought to.”
“I’ll join you in a minute.” Claudia raised her voice for the benefit of some laggards. “We’re awfully sorry, everybody, but we’re afraid you’ll have to go.”
Crisp approached her.
“Are you hostess for Lord Watlington?” he asked.
“No. Not officially. I’m Miss Lofting. I’m engaged to his nephew—Mr. Cornboise. He and I and Mr. Querk—the one bowing people out over there—were asked to stay for the weekend. I must hurry and help Ralph—that is, Mr. Cornboise. He’s a bit shaken.”
Crisp told Benscombe to find out all about the imported waiters and to get rid of them, too. “Have their names and addresses taken. And pass the word that those three—Miss Lofting and Cornboise and that fleshy chap who has just sat down over there—are not to leave the house until I give the word.”
Crisp went back to the house, taking note of the groundfloor rooms.
As you entered the house, through a lobby, the dining-room was on your right, the east side: behind it, the onetime ‘smoking room’ and a second small room, which the caretaker called the gun-room.
Opposite the dining-room was the drawing-room: next to it, the library, then the morning-room.
Tredgold, the doctor, came out of the library and approached Crisp.
“Better take the morning-room, sir,” suggested Benscombe, who was passing Crisp’s orders to the sergeant in charge of the hall. As was his duty, he followed Crisp and the doctor into the morning-room.
“It’s murder right enough, Colonel—and that doesn’t mean that I’m trespassing on your ground. A good many years ago, deceased had a trepanning operation. There was a silver plate set in the top of his skull. Over it he wore a wig. The plate was crumpled and driven in.”
“Smashing the brain?”
“Piercing the brain. That would account for the distortions of the body you noticed. The wig was, as far as I could see, undamaged.”
“How many blows?”
“By the appearance of the plate, only one.”
“Heavy blow required?” asked Crisp.
“N-no. I’m no metallurgist, but I should say an eight or ten pound blow would do it. A child of ten could certainly exert enough pressure to smash that plate—using a blunt instrument, of course.”
“A ten-pound wallop! Wouldn’t that have damaged the wig?”
“It would indeed. All the same, he was not wearing the wig when he was struck. It’s very unlikely that he himself had previously removed it—trepanned pati
ents are always cautioned never to leave the head uncovered.”
“Then the murderer removed the wig, delivered his blow, then replaced the wig?” asked Crisp.
“I don’t see how it could have been done otherwise,” answered Tredgold. “Anyhow, I can positively assure you that the blow was not struck through the wig.”
While Crisp pondered the doctor’s statement, young Benscombe cut in:
“Could he possibly have done it himself, doctor?”
“Hardly!” The doctor smiled. “Anyhow, he couldn’t have replaced the wig, because he’d have been dead.”
“How long has he been dead?” asked Crisp.
“About a couple of hours. I can’t get nearer than that. Call it between five and five thirty.”
“Can you give us a lead as to the weapon?”
“I’m afraid not. The condition of the plate might help you there. It might have been any object in the room weighing a pound or two—or a fair-sized spanner carried in the pocket. If you don’t want me any more at the moment, I’ll go and get everything ready for conveyance to the mortuary. Awkward that all this should happen on a Saturday evening!”
“Thanks, doctor,” said Crisp after a short silence. “You might have that plate ready for us as soon as possible You’ve given us plenty to start on.”
When the doctor had gone, Crisp asked Benscombe:
“Who was it who spoke to you on the phone?”
“I don’t know, sir. As I told you at the time, he cut off.”
“It was a man’s voice, then?”
“I remember supposing it was a man.” Benscombe stared down at his feet while his face flushed. “But now—I can’t swear it wasn’t a woman with a lowish voice—or a man with a softish voice.”
As Crisp scowled, Benscombe added:
“I’m very sorry, sir. At the police college we had that very test, and no one ever got one hundred per cent.”
Crisp turned his back, looked out of the window.
“Come here a minute, Benscombe.”
Benscombe exclaimed as he stared at a grouping of three grotesque shapes, clipped out of the yew trees. A vaguely heraldic figure that might have been a two-headed serpent menaced a huge, impossible fowl, which was curtseying to a green octopus. The trees stood at an intersection of the avenues of yew hedges. Under the two-headed serpent, some fifty yards from the window, was a stout woman, unfashionably dressed and apparently elderly. She was sitting on a rustic bench, knitting.
“Shall I go and quizz her?”
“No. Keep an eye on her while I see what they’re doing next door.”
In the library, the doctor was bending over the corpse, as if continuing his examination. The upper part was already covered. The photographers had completed their preliminary work and were waiting for the finger-print man.
“We’ve got a lot, sir,” said the latter. “All over the writing table, two or three on the window, and two on the sash outside.”
“Just a minute, Colonel!” The doctor seemed to have increased in stature. “I suggest that you try this signet ring for prints.” He paused to rivet Crisp’s attention. “It was removed after death and replaced. I missed that point the first time.”
“After death? You’re sure of that?”
“I oughtn’t to say I’m sure, but I am. The ring is a very tight fit. He would probably have needed soap to coax it off himself. Soap was not used. A small knife was used—as a shoe-horn is used—possibly that little pearly knife on the table. The flesh is perceptibly cut in two places, but the incisions have not bled.”
The powder was applied, but with negative result. The ring had been wiped clean.
The table had been dealt with for finger prints. Across the blotting pad opposite the swivelled chair, covered with a maze of notes in pencil, was a sheet, torn from a writing pad, all four sides of which were dotted with embossments of a crest—a two-headed serpent.
“Have the notes on that blotting pad typed out,” ordered Crisp.
Laid on an oilskin cloth and ticketted were the contents of the deceased’s pockets. A gold cigar case, a slim wallet containing notes, a toothpick, several pencils, a bunch of keys, a gold watch and chain, with a key on the end of the chain.
Crisp glanced from the key to the wall safe, then picked up watch and chain and applied the key to the safe, hoping to find a significant document.
He at once found what he sought—indeed, the safe contained nothing but a long envelope with a printed address to a firm of solicitors. He picked it up, found that it had been lying on a similar envelope, empty, with the same printed address. On the back of the topmost envelope was a liberal blob of red sealing wax.
Crisp took the sealed envelope by the edges.
“Try this for a finger print.”
This time the powder gave a clear result. The prints were immediately photographed.
Next, Crisp examined the sealing wax on the envelope. Imprinted was the crest of the two-headed serpent. To make sure, he dropped wax on a writing pad and applied the signet ring. The imprints were identical.
He ran his fingers the length of the envelope. It certainly was very slim—if indeed it was a significant document.
It seemed to contain a single folded sheet.
Chapter Two
Inspector Sanson, who was superintending measurements, approached Crisp.
“We’ve taken the prints of Harridge’s waiters and of the three resident servants,” he reported. “There’s a lady and two gentlemen staying in the house—”
“Take those, too,” ordered Crisp, and added: “As soon as your log is ready bring it to me in the little room behind this.”
Crisp strode on to the terrace. Benscombe was at the west end.
“The old girl is still knitting,” he reported. “I think she’s watching points, sir. That bench is at the crossing of four avenues. She doesn’t catch the eye herself, but she can see this terrace and the side of the house. By the way the hedges run, she could probably see anyone coming to the house from the garden.”
“Right! I’ll tackle her myself.”
As he crossed the strip of lawn and entered the nearest avenue, the woman placed her knitting in a large canvas handbag. Crisp noted that she was probably about sixty, that her dress, though dowdy, was by no means shoddy. She was a big woman and even stouter than she had appeared to be when seen from the window of the morning-room. Yet her face was thin and boney, her skin excessively wrinkled, so that her large, well-shaped eyes created the eerie effect of having been filched from a younger woman.
“Good evening,” she said in the tone of one who has been kept waiting. She shifted her position on the bench, to make room for him.
Crisp echoed her greeting and sat beside her. Unexpectedly, she opened the canvas bag and took out the knitting she had just put away.
“D’you mind telling me,” he asked, “what you are doing here?”
“I guessed you’d want to know. That’s why I waited until you came.”
Her words were well formed, but the intonation was unmistakably Cockney. Her voice might once have been a pleasing contralto, but with the years it had dropped almost to tenor. “I told myself it doesn’t matter talking to the police because they don’t tell the newspapers anything they don’t have to. And it wouldn’t be fair to him—” she nodded in the direction of the house “——to put me in the papers. And fair’s fair, whatever a man has done!”
“Quite so!” agreed Crisp. In her conversational stance he recognised the recluse. She was not talking directly to him. She was talking to herself and allowing him to listen. “Will you begin with your name, please?”
“I had better begin with my name.” Crisp observed that even his question registered as her own thought. “I’m a married woman. Agnes Julia Cornboise.” She added her address.
“Cornboise,” repeated Crisp. “Are you related to that young man staying in the house?”
“So that’s his name is it!” The old lady seemed deepl
y impressed. “Well, I never! He must be that nephew of his he’s told me so much about. Then, of course, I’m his aunt by marriage, though there’s no need for him to know that.” Again she nodded at the house. “I’m his wife, though we’re separated these thirty years or more.”
“D’you mean that you’re Lord Watlington’s wife—that you’re Lady Watlington?” For a moment, Crisp suspected her mental balance.
“Oh, I don’t take any notice of all that! And it certainly wasn’t why I came and sat in his garden.” She was amused. “Me setting up as a ladyship at my time o’ life and living in Kilburn—I’d never hear the last of it!” She became abstracted. Crisp gave her time. “Did I say thirty years? It’s thirty-two years, come next October, since we parted, because he wanted to. He never told me why, though I guessed. It wasn’t another woman. Though it’s wrong to say so, I wish it had been, because he’d have got tired of anybody but me. He never did get tired of me. Why in thirty years, I’ve got more than twenty big bundles of his letters—the nice ones, I mean: I didn’t keep the other sort.
“Nice letters,” she repeated. “You’d think we’d gone on living together and only parted a week or two before they were written. I suppose I ought to have known better at the time than to marry him. But there it is! What’s done can’t be undone. At least, it oughtn’t to be, when it’s marriage.”
She showed signs of drying up. She began to knit, somewhat clumsily. Crisp had already winnowed two small points and wanted more.
“And you wrote nice letters back to him?” he prompted.
“I never wrote to him at all. Only picture post-cards, saying I’d got the letters. He’d write when the mood was on him, sometimes three letters in a week and sometimes none for a couple of months. Used to write about me as if I was still a young woman.”
“That’s very unusual,” said Crisp. “Why did he desert you?”
“Who said he deserted me!” She was indignant. “If I said anything to make you think that, I did wrong. Fair’s fair, whatever I’ve suffered. He always sent me the money he said he would. And lots of extra, sometimes. But the extra was because he wanted to bribe me into going against my principles and have a divorce. Those were the letters I didn’t keep. And now you’ve made me forget what I was saying.”