Murder of a Snob

by Roy Vickers

  “‘A comparatively light blow with the open hand,’ he says, ‘would give you a cauliflower ear. Then you’d look like a prizefighter’s auntie, and no one would notice your legs. And that’s what you’ll get if you tell anybody I was going to Watlington Lodge’.”

  Glenda broke off and tapped the table. “It’s no use you looking as if you thought he’d committed the murder,” she warned him, “because I happen to know he was counting on Lord Watlington’s money for the picture. It’s my belief the talk about Ralph was just a blind, and he was really going to see Miss Lofting and he didn’t want it talked about.”

  That was one to Glenda. By an unguarded expression he had stopped her in mid-stream. He remembered Fenchurch’s rot about admiring her vanity.

  “I think you’re right, Glenda. And it’s obvious you can read that feller’s mind like an open book. But why did you walk out on him?”

  “That was your fault, getting me to say what I did on the telephone. I knew it would be sure to come out sooner or later, and Arthur would know. You see, artists know a lot about what the body is made of. And of course, I don’t think I’m at all pretty and no one else does, and, besides, it’s a silly word. But I’ve seen a girl with a cauliflower ear. So I quarrelled a bit and said I’d had enough and I was going to pack and I did pack, and I slipped away by an early train while he was sleeping it off.”

  Benscombe decided that her words rang true. She might be a spineless little cheat, but she was very unsubtle. He remembered how feeble had been her attempt to lie to the Chief.

  “If you’ll give me your address, we probably shan’t trouble you again,” he said. “And you needn’t worry about Fenchurch. As a matter of fact, you don’t know that he did go to Watlington Lodge until about dinner time.”

  “I may not know, but I’m sure, all the same,” she retorted. “For one thing, there was all that fuss he made about telling me what to say about the river. And for another, while he was storming about at night and saying what he’d do to my face, I saw one of those funny pencils of Lord Watlington’s, sticking out of his top pocket, which wasn’t there when he left the flat.”

  That was a point, thought Benscombe. Not one of the dinner guests had been permitted to enter the house after the arrival of the police. Fenchurch had not entered until he had been escorted to the interview with Crisp.

  But Glenda did not know this, and he was not going to tell her.

  “But he might have picked that pencil up when he was there at dinner time. After all, he had his sketch book with him.”

  “I never thought of that,” said Glenda indifferently.

  In order to be ready for the Coroner’s inquest at eleven, the Chief Constable had to start work at eight—beginning with the wire basket on his desk marked ‘urgent,’ now overflowing. True that all reports went into that basket, even those which merely confirmed earlier reports. But as a check-up by one man would sometimes affect the report of another, the sorting could only be undertaken by a principal.

  Among the new reports was one—marked ‘N,’ meaning negative—which concerned the missing registered package delivered at Watlington Lodge on Saturday afternoon. Beyond stating that the package had been dispatched at 10.30 a.m. on Saturday from the Western District Office, the officials could not help. There had been the usual queue at the counter, and the clerk was unable to remember even the sex of the sender.

  That registered package, in short, promised to become a first class nuisance. It was but one of a score of trifles that had to be checked, on the minute chance of something important emerging.

  “Probably somebody knocked it off the table in the hall and later one of the waiters spotted it and mopped it up—which means an expensive check-up,” reflected Crisp. He was already using a lot of men on the case and would soon have to use more.

  Another new report contained a duplicate copy of the ticket handed to every patron of the car park at the Three Witches, showing that a Reindert two-seater, registered number noted, had been parked by Mr. Cornboise at five forty-six. A covering note by the constable explained that the time stated could be taken as being within a minute of the actual time of arrival. Pinned to it was Benscombe’s note estimating eight minutes for the journey. Given that Ralph had left Watlington Lodge not later than five-twenty, that left a margin of some sixteen minutes to be accounted for.

  From a bulging pocket, Crisp brought out a wad of unused postcards, secured with a rubber band. On the topmost was his own private chart of the peak features of the case.

  Querk was assumed to have left the library at five twenty-eight, some eight minutes after Mrs. Cornboise had seen Ralph depart in the Reindert.

  Suppose Ralph had driven to a point, say, a couple of minutes walk from the house—and then come back? Assuming that he could have entered the house unobserved by Mrs. Cornboise, he would have had at least five minutes for the murder and two minutes in which to return to the car—leaving eight minutes for the journey to the Three Witches car park. He wrote a slip for Benscombe on the points to be checked.

  At ten-thirty he was revising the notes of the evidence to be given at the inquest, when an orderly reported that the Registrar would like a word with the Chief Constable.

  Crisp’s guess as to the Registrar’s business was proved correct.

  “Young Cornboise, the old man’s heir, and a Miss Lofting were in my office five minutes ago giving statutory notice. I’m to marry them to-day week. It seems a bit surprising in the circumstances, and I thought you might like to know before it gets about.”

  “Officially, of course, it’s no affair of ours,” said Crisp.

  The Registrar nodded. “I came for my own sake as much as yours, Colonel. As you know, we’re supposed to keep our eyes open. And I didn’t quite like the look of those two! I wondered whether you’d give a tip, off the record. Is young Cornboise a sane man?”

  “Difficult to give you a straight answer,” replied Crisp. “He’s neurotic. He did some funny business with us—though we’re not taking any action about it. His friends called in Sir William Turvey, the psychiatrist. He might give you some information. Anyhow, I think she is a bit frightened about his mental condition, and that’s why she’s marrying him at once.”

  “She’s marrying him all right!” said the Registrar. “Practically led him in—it was like the music hall joke, except that she’s not the man-chasing type. All the same, she pushed him and prompted him, told him his name and address—”

  “Was he as bad as that!”

  “Oh not really, I suppose. But when I asked him his name he glared at me. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Possibly Cornboise, possibly Watlington.’ Then he laughed like a hyena. ‘That’s a knotty point of law, Mr. Registrar, with more in it than meets the eye,’ he said. I explained the legal difference between a name and a title, and that they could leave the title out if they wanted to, and that seemed to please her. I suppose, as far as you know, she isn’t ‘dominating’ him is she? Those cases always mean a lot of bother for us. Especially when there’s a peerage and a good deal of money hanging to it.”

  “I don’t think she is ‘dominating’ him within the meaning of the Act.”

  The interview satisfied the Registrar, but left Crisp uneasy.

  “She ought to have seen the folly of rushing it like this!” ran his thoughts. “The newspapers will make a splash. Also, it throws the whole thing out of focus for us. And it’s bound to upset the coroner’s jury.”

  He snatched up the house telephone and rang the head of the legal department.

  “There’s been a new development,” he announced. “I want you to stall the inquest. Go all out for formal evidence only, and a fortnight’s adjournment.”

  A coroner rarely refuses a police request for adjournment. The actual hearing occupied but a few minutes. While Crisp was giving the formal evidence as to the finding of the body, his eye lit on the bench of witnesses—who would not be called. The Big Three and Bessie Walters. Ralph whispered to
Claudia, then, at a nod from her, crept out of court.

  After the court had risen, Crisp had an informal chat with the coroner then returned to the office, to find Benscombe waiting to report on his interview with Glenda.

  “Good! The Glenda sequence is buttoned up and we can forget her,” approved Crisp. “It adds up to corroboration of the existence of those letters.”

  “What about Fenchurch, sir?”

  “Not much there about him, if you analyse it. He told her he was going to Watlington Lodge. He may or may not have gone there. Bullying her into denying what he’d said could be attributed to reasonable anxiety on his part.”

  “But the pencil, sir?”

  “Yes—if you like. As it stands, it only means that she noticed the pencil at one time and not at another. He might have been carrying that pencil around since his last call on Watlington some ten days ago. Still, when you’ve time it wouldn’t do any harm to drop in on him and, if you find the pencil, see what lies he tells you.”

  Benscombe felt that he had failed to put his case over. The Chief was talking about Ralph Cornboise.

  “It might rattle him less if you were to see him without any formality. Find out why he took more than twenty minutes to get to the Three Witches. He’s knocking about the town. You might spot him before he goes back.”

  “Very good, sir. Querk is in the waiting-room. He’s in a bit of a lather. Says he fears he unconsciously misled you. I got two or three minutes of his fears. Shall I stall him?”

  “No. Never stall Querk. Let him pour it all over you every time. Send him in as you go out to find Ralph Cornboise.”

  Querk came in, bringing, as ever, the sense of occasion.

  “Ah, my dear Colonel, I am fortunate to catch you with a minute to spare. For my part, I have not been idle since our last meeting.” He bowed himself into a chair. “I have, in fact, had an important—a most important—conversation with Mrs. Cornboise.”

  “Indeed!” Crisp was annoyed. If the infernal fellow was going to tamper with witnesses there would be trouble.

  “Let me guess what is in your mind!” mouthed Querk. “You wish to remind me that a co-operator—if I may presume so to style myself—is by no means the same as a colleague. Had I the privilege of being your colleague you would have told me—as soon as I mentioned the existence of poor Lord Watlington’s wife—that you had already encountered her and obtained from her what appeared to be important evidence.”

  Confound the fellow, what did he mean by ‘appeared to be’ important—when it was important!

  “It is perhaps not you but I, my dear Colonel, who should apologise. I had the presumption to examine that evidence somewhat more closely. Mrs. Cornboise—as she prefers to be called—was most helpful. She reacted to my little tests—particularly in regard to the movements of Ralph’s car. The Reindert! With its highly tuned engine, if you remember.”

  “You don’t tell me that Mrs. Cornboise knows anything about the tuning of engines?”

  “Ah! I fear that I seriously misled you as to Mrs. Cornboise’s nature. I represented her—I regret to say—as ungrateful and embittered. I have since discovered that she has a mature mind and a generous temperament. If she suffers the pangs of loneliness, that should have evoked my pity, not my criticism. I blame myself and shall do all in my power to make amends.”

  Crisp’s curiosity overcame his impatience. He had grasped Querk’s technique of throwing a net of platitudes over his opponent and striking through the net. And he had begun to suspect that Querk never wasted a platitude.

  “I am all attention, Mr. Querk.” Crisp scowled as he said it. Querk’s manner was catching.

  “You are most kind, Colonel. I have to remind myself that you have a great many calls on your time. So I must not weary you with the details of my amateur investigation. Instead, I will give you my conclusion. As my poor dear friend, Lord Watlington, used to say so often—‘it’s the totals that count.’ My conclusion, Chief Constable, is that Ralph—in a state of dementia, of course, poor fellow!—in all probability killed his uncle at approximately five-thirty—that is, after I had left the library.”

  This, from Querk, was startling. In an intuitive flash there came to Crisp the conviction that opposite him, in the guise of a fatuous busybody, sat a formidable antagonist—the more dangerous because his objective was a complete mystery. In future, he would double his precautions in dealing with Querk.

  “You have changed your opinion of Ralph, Mr. Querk?”

  “Superficially, yes. Substantially, no. From the first, I suspected that the hallucination was too sharp in outline to be wholly without some foundation in fact. Both you and I were a little bemused, if I may say so, by the crushing weight of my own evidence. It made the poor boy seem to be raving like a madman. Yet the only impossible element in his self-accusation was the element of time. The position of the hands of the clock when he murdered his uncle.”

  Querk was wrong there, reflected Crisp. Ralph said he had struck through the wig. If he remembered the murder at all, he would remember removing the wig and replacing it—if he committed the murder.

  “Let’s get it clear,” said Crisp. “In the hallucination, he went once to the library—about five-fifteen. You are suggesting that, in fact, he went twice?”

  “Tentatively suggesting!” amended Querk. “The unhappy conclusion to which I have been driven requires confirmation. ‘Check-up’ is, I believe, the technical term. Would it be possible for your staff to find out from the Three Witches—the road-house of that name—what time he arrived there in his car?”

  Crisp nodded. He was willing to believe now that Querk had worked with his own county Chief Constable—willing to believe anything Querk said, because the man was too clever to tell any lie that could be exposed.

  “You were going to say something about that car, weren’t you—something about a test with Mrs. Cornboise?”

  “You have again put your finger on the exact spot! Now, you will remember that I told you that I myself heard Ralph’s car leaving the garage and passing down the drive while I was talking to Lord Watlington at, say, between five-fifteen and five-twenty. I stressed, I think, the high-pitched, whining note of the engine.

  “Re-enacting those painful incidents in my mind as I lay seeking sleep, I became conscious of a break in the logical sequence of events. The whining note of that engine! It did not fade away. It stopped. I imagine, at the Lodge gates.”

  “Or your consciousness of it stopped?” put in Crisp.

  “And the consciousness of Mrs. Cornboise? Without revealing my purpose—without her being aware of what I was doing—I induced her to reconstruct her memory on that point. She came to precisely the same conclusion. She was able to go further than myself. She was able to remember that, some five minutes later, she again heard that very individual note of the engine and thought that the car must be coming back to the garage. In her quaint phrase she said the engine made a ‘mingy sort of noise’.”

  The amateur investigator and the man who remembers things afterwards, twin nuisances to the police, were combined in the person of Querk—who obviously never forgot anything he intended to remember!

  “If there is anything in your theory, Mr. Querk, it hardly leaves room for the hallucination, does it?”

  “The hallucination—as I think Sir William Turvey will tell us—would lie in the fusing of the two mental images so that the poor fellow honestly believes that he went to the study only once.”

  And a separate hallucination that he had struck through the wig, thought Crisp to himself.

  Aloud, he thanked Querk for his help, listened to Querk’s protestations of his own pain in giving testimony against Ralph, and got rid of him.

  When Crisp was leaving for lunch, Benscombe reported.

  “I haven’t contacted Ralph yet, sir. He’s gone off by himself in his car. Claudia says she expects him back at the Lodge for lunch.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Claudia’s Expect
ation that Ralph would be back for lunch was falsified, as Benscombe found out by telephone. He spent the bulk of the afternoon on deskwork for the Chief Constable, and at about five drove over to Watlington Lodge. When the constable informed him that Ralph was still absent, he sent Bessie to find Claudia.

  She came running down the stairs.

  “If he’s had an accident tell me quickly, please,” she said.

  “We’ve no information. I’ve come to ask you how I can get at him. The Chief wants me to check-up.”

  “There’s no reason why he should have had an accident,” said Claudia, half to herself. “He’s a competent, steady driver. And he was in good fettle this morning after a long sleep. Can I give you the check-up you want?”

  “Afraid not, thanks! It wasn’t exactly urgent, but we’d like to know where he is.”

  “I wish I could tell you. This morning he said he would take the car to a garage to get the windscreen wiper adjusted, and that as he felt he wanted some air he would go and see a mutual friend, if there was time before lunch. I’ll ring and see if he went there.”

  She turned the extension switch and spoke on the instrument under the staircase. From her half of the dialogue, Benscombe could tell that Ralph had not called on the friend.

  “Don’t worry,” he said as she returned. “If he had a smash, we should know at headquarters. I expect he just felt he must have a bit of time away from this place. It must be rather depressing.”

  “It’s certainly been grim since Saturday evening!” She added: “I’ve arranged with the trustees to stay on here until we are married.”

  At her last words, he caught her eye. He was thinking that she was marrying a man she thought a poor fish.

  “You see him at a great disadvantage,” she said, startling him by interpreting his thoughts.

  “I was thinking it was rotten for you—for both of you—starting up in these conditions.”

  “Thank you!” she said. He was still in plain clothes, and looked like any young man of her acquaintance. “When we’re married, I hope you’ll come and see us. And it won’t be in this nightmarish place.”