Murder of a Snob

by Roy Vickers

  On the telephone, he spoke to headquarters.

  “Chief Constable speaking from Watlington Lodge. Ring me back here in two minutes, and keep ringing until I answer.”

  He switched the extension so that the bell would ring in the library. Then he went upstairs to the bedroom occupied by Querk.

  In case Bessie might be roving, he locked himself in. The imprint of Querk’s personality was immediately obvious. On the dressing table a stolidly liberal toilet equipment, including an eau-de-cologne spray and a bottle of smelling salts. A framed photograph of Watlington, to which a crepe surround had been fastened—a fashion that was disappearing in the 1890’s. On a bedside table, leather bound editions of Simple Thoughts and Alice in Wonderland.

  In five minutes he had satisfied himself that the room had been deliberately prepared for his inspection—that he would find nothing he was not meant to find.

  On the way back to the hall, he chuckled with profound satisfaction. He was so well pleased with himself that he evolved a boyish riddle: ‘I searched your room and found nothing. But in your room I found what I sought.’

  He sobered up in the hall when he heard faintly the regular burr of the telephone bell.

  No sign of Bessie.

  Crisp went into the library, lifted the receiver and announced himself.

  “You told me to ring you back, sir.”

  “Oh yes! How long have you been ringing?”

  “Six-and-a-half-minutes from the first ring, sir.”

  “All right. I don’t want anything, now. You can hang up.”

  Six-and-a-half minutes. That clicked into place, too. But nothing could now prevent Ralph from appearing before the Judge tomorrow morning.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Half smile remained unshattered during the time Ralph Cornboise was in court. The serenity with which he received sentence of death had nothing in common with the sullen, unimaginative courage of the tough. It impressed the Judge. It deceived the warders.

  In a room off the court sat potential members of a jury, to be empanelled should the plea of guilty be withdrawn at the last moment. The potential witnesses waited in another room—Claudia Lofting, Fenchurch, Mrs. Cornboise, Querk and Bessie, together with medical and police personnel. Crisp, with Benscombe, was in the well of the court, to give formal evidence of the murder, of the arrest and of the confession.

  There are forms to be observed, even when there is no trial. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed before Treasury counsel laid down his papers and directly addressed the Judge.

  “As your lordship is aware, a plea of guilty to the charge of murder is sometimes an embarrassment to the Prosecution. I would like to acknowledge that both the police and the governor of the prison have made unremitting efforts to persuade the prisoner to plead not guilty.

  “In case your lordship should feel inclined to add your own persuasion—and what I have to say is relevant to that possibility only—I would point out that, apart from several inaccuracies, there are two major mis-statements in the revised confession signed by the prisoner. One is that the prisoner struck deceased through his wig. There is incontrovertible evidence that the wig was undamaged, from which we may infer that the wig must have been removed and replaced after the blow. The other concerns the die-stamp—undoubtedly the weapon used. There is evidence that the die-stamp was not handled in the manner described by the prisoner.

  “There is the further fact—extraneous to the prisoner’s statement but strikingly inconsistent with his account of the crime—that, by means of a pen-knife, a signet ring was removed from deceased’s finger after death, and replaced. In short, my lord, there is enough debatable material to provide a basis for a feasible defence in the hands of learned counsel. Thank you, my lord.”

  The Judge turned to the prisoner.

  “You have heard what learned counsel said to me. Do you understand that you can make, at this moment if you wish, a technical plea of not guilty, which would enable you to have a fair trial?”

  “Yes, my lord. But I do not wish to be tried.”

  “Do you further understand that a trial would enable me to take notice of any mitigating circumstances and possibly to reduce the charge from one of murder to one of manslaughter?”

  “Thank you, my lord, but there are no mitigating circumstances.”

  The judge seemed to be considering a further appeal to the prisoner and to decide that it would be futile.

  “I see that your purpose is fixed. I have before me the statement of two eminent alienists that you are of sound mind and capable of understanding your position. It is therefore my duty to pass sentence upon you …”

  “I know that there can be no question of appeal or commutation. But I’ve still got more than a fortnight in which to correct one or two mistakes.” Crisp had been detained in the corridor by the D.P.P. himself, who had been conducting a case in another court.

  “Correcting mistakes will get you nowhere.” The eminent lawyer raised his wig to take advantage of the welcome draught. “A confession, followed by sentence, takes the effect of a jury’s verdict. That is to say, there can be no re-examination of fact.”

  “‘No re-examination of fact!’” snorted Crisp. “That’s a bit of law I shall never understand!”

  “There are other bits, old man, if you don’t think me rude,” laughed his friend. “Don’t cut my birthday party next Thursday, or you’ll never get any more help from me.”

  Crisp strode gloomily out of the building. On the steps he stopped.

  “Benscombe! Nip back inside and see if you can scrounge a pair of handcuffs from one of those warders. Sign for it and pledge your word and mine that he shall have them back this afternoon. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  Within five minutes, Benscombe rejoined the Chief.

  “I got ’em from Hendricks,” he explained. “They don’t expect any trouble from Ralph.”

  After removing a number of articles to make room, Crisp stowed the handcuffs in his hip pocket.

  “Dump me at Watlington Lodge—I’ll get a taxi back,” he ordered. “I got it from Bessie that Querk is going back there.”

  Arrived at the Lodge, Crisp learned that Querk had not yet returned. He found this out by walking through the open front door to the kitchen and asking the cook. In turn she asked when the servants would be paid their board wages and from whom they were supposed to take orders. Was she herself standing, if he would pardon the question, upon her head or her heels? The house had acquired a quality of ownerlessness.

  He drifted into the dining-room, idly surveyed the window by which Ralph was deemed to have entered the house around five twenty-eight. The window had told them nothing. The long spell of fine weather had made the soil hard and dusty. If there had been a heavy shower on Saturday morning, he reflected, Ralph Cornboise might not have been where in fact he was.

  Behind him the door was opened. He turned and faced Fenchurch. Claudia was behind him.

  “Hullo!” said Fenchurch amiably. “We’re looking for Querk.”

  “So am I.”

  They both came into the room. Crisp felt himself shrinking from Claudia’s presence. If she had made any parade of grief, he would have had the satisfaction of telling himself that she was humbugging. She was self-possessed as ever, looking slightly pre-occupied, as if with troublesome business. That she should be in Fenchurch’s company at such a time was outrageous.

  “If Colonel Crisp wants to see Querk officially, Arthur,” said Claudia, “we’d better wait elsewhere.”

  “He can’t want to see him officially. It’s all over, isn’t it, Colonel?”

  “Not altogether!” said Crisp. He felt an overpowering desire to shatter the composure of these two. “I think you may—both—be interested to know that I have had an illuminating conversation with Tarranio.”

  “Good Lord, have you!” Fenchurch made no attempt to conceal his dismay. “What a fool I was to show you that envelope with his London address on
it!”

  “You were!” agreed Crisp.

  “I say, when you saw Tarranio—”

  “Arthur! You’ll make a fool of yourself all over again if you talk about it.”

  “Excellent advice—Mrs. Fenchurch!” snapped Crisp.

  “He had better keep his mouth shut until his solicitor tells him how far to open it.”

  “By all the gods, Colonel, you’ve pulled it off again!” cried Fenchurch with boyish delight. “That’s almost exactly what Watlington said!”

  “Arthur! Don’t talk!”

  “I must tell him this bit, dear. He was so frightfully sarcastic about my picking up an old envelope in case I might want to make a note on it. ‘Solicitor’ is the key, Colonel. I don’t possess a solicitor. I told Watlington I needed one who wasn’t squeamish, and he gave me his own. The envelope had the name and address printed on it—yards of it. So I bagged the envelope.”

  To Crisp, the explanation was no longer important. Everything would now depend upon how much he could frighten out of Querk. In the meantime, Fenchurch might conceivably provide another weapon, since he could never resist answering a question.

  “It’s stuffy in the house, Arthur. Let’s wait in the garden.”

  “One question before you go!” Crisp found himself addressing Claudia. “Were you two working with Querk in this scheme for a fake marriage to Ralph Cornboise?”

  Fenchurch spun round, virile and aggressive.

  “What the blue hell d’ you mean, Colonel Crisp!”

  “Arthur! Be quiet!” Claudia dragged at his arm. “There’s no need to say anything. Come into the garden.”

  “Garden my foot! Chief Constable or Lord Chief Justice, he’s going to explain that offensive question—oh lord, darling, I see the explanation myself! He thinks—”

  Claudia had thrust her hand over his mouth—the hand that was unexpectedly large and strong.

  “Arthur, you must not! It’s madness! What does it matter what he thinks!”

  Fenchurch removed her hand, which was actually suffocating him—held her by both wrists as if he expected further assault.

  “Sorry, darling, but I must!” he exclaimed. “It’s no good my trying not to be a fool. I could never paint again if I let that pass. Rank sentimentalist, I know. Goodbye!” He kissed her violently. “Now get out!”

  “No,” said Claudia. “I want to see whether he’ll arrest you.”

  “You want to cry over him. It’s no good with his kind.”

  Fenchurch turned his back on Claudia.

  “Sorry I lost my temper, Colonel! Stand by for a spot of exhibitionism. Manly confession. I married Claudia bigamously. I lied to her. She didn’t know my wife was alive, until she died. Then the ass of a doctor—who knew we’d been separated for years—sent a cable to Casa Flavia marked ‘urgent.’ It was so phrased that I couldn’t possibly explain it away to poor Claudia. Then she felt that, because I had pulled her leg, she couldn’t stay with me. Tarranio doesn’t know that. If you don‘t mind, don’t tell him. Because after I’ve been to quod for bigamy, we shall probably get married and we might want to go back to Casa Flavia.”

  “Listen to me—” began Crisp.

  “No, you listen to me, Colonel! Watlington gave me some errand-boy stuff about her being a ‘kept woman’— the sort of thing you said just now in all innocence. I lost my temper and showed him the marriage certificate. I also showed him—dammit Claudia, I wish you had cleared out when I told you to—I showed him the letter Claudia wrote when she left me, because it carried complete conviction to any sane man, even Watlington, that she hadn’t known it was bigamy.”

  “But why did you tell Watlington?” demanded Crisp. “Did you want her to marry Ralph?”

  “Don’t be absurd, my dear fellow! I didn’t want it. But I was naturally distressed that Claudia had found out I’d swindled her. She told me she was through with men like me, and that she was dedicating herself to this poor devil who needed her—which I thought rather ridiculous. But it was a wealthy marriage. And I felt I owed it to her to co-operate! So I made Watlington understand that she had thought herself legally married to me.

  “By Watlington’s odd code, she was promptly transformed from a trollop to an Innocent Girl. My hat, Claudia! Then he gave me fatherly advice on how not to go to quod for the bigamy—which, unfortunately, I’ve forgotten. Anyhow, part of the advice was not to tell anybody else.”

  Claudia moved from behind Fenchurch and faced Crisp.

  “That was why Watlington changed his attitude to me so suddenly and so completely,” she said. “Poor Ralph knew, because Arthur had told him. Ralph wanted me to tell his uncle when we were having that scene in the library. But I was afraid Arthur might go to prison.”

  “So am I!” said Crisp.

  He had got a weapon from Fenchurch—that Querk had lied in describing his conversation with Watlington about Claudia.

  “What’s the next move, Colonel? Can I have bail, or something? It would be a pity not to finish Benscombe’s head before we start the quod programme.”

  Crisp turned to Claudia.

  “I understand that the mayor of Casa Flavia warned you against marrying this man,” he said. “I echo that warning. Why, he hasn’t even the sense to tell me that he thought his legal wife was dead, so as to give me a colourable excuse for not running him in! Take him into the garden—take him anywhere—before I remember my duty.”

  “By the window—before you say another word!” cried Claudia. She pushed him out and shut the window after him. When she turned round and faced Crisp, he had the illusion that she had grown older.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And—and I congratulate you. Prison would turn him into a very dangerous criminal.”

  He looked at her with detachment, his mind on Querk. In all his encounters with her she had never lost her dignity.

  “You are a very strange woman,” he said.

  “Because I can love two men?”

  “Lots of women can do that. But you manage to make it seem decent. Anyway, love doesn’t interest me.”

  “But it often explains people’s queer behaviour!”

  A car purred in the drive, presumably Querk’s. Crisp looked out of the window, saw Fenchurch sitting on his haunches, sketch-book in hand.

  “Fenchurch may have genius. But he’s a lame dog, like the other one.”

  “Yes. But he has the charm of not knowing it. He’s too conceited ever to find me out, as Ralph did. Here’s Mr. Querk!”

  Querk paused in the doorway, the more effectively to confer his presence.

  “Ah! Chief Constable. At last I’ve run you to earth. I tried to find you at headquarters. Don’t go, I beg, Miss Lofting—stay and hear me abase myself. On the telephone this morning, Chief Constable, my secretary informed me of your call at my office yesterday. How can I ever apologise for giving you all that trouble! The matter had passed completely out of my mind. I’m talking about that registered parcel, Miss Lofting. Can you believe that it was dispatched by my secretary acting on my instructions! And it contained—” he finished in an arch whisper “—a new wig for poor Lord Watlington!”

  Querk, Crisp reminded himself, had not been present in court, and so had not heard counsel’s reference to the wig and the signet ring—he could have no suspicion of their importance.

  Claudia was slipping past Querk to the door.

  “And now,” said Querk, “if the Chief Constable will accept my heartfelt apology, I must fly to keep a personal appointment before lunch—”

  “Mr. Querk!” said Crisp. “I came here to see you.”

  “Indeed? Of course, if it is important—?”

  “It is.” Because Querk looked elaborately surprised, Crisp added: “I am investigating the murder of Lord Watlington.”

  Querk sighed heavily. He removed his glasses and polished them. His response was interrupted by the appearance of Bessie.

  “Can you gentlemen let me have the room now, so’s I can lay for lunch?
”

  Following Querk to the morning-room, Crisp was halfway across the hall when for an instant he stopped. In that instant he grasped the full significance of Fenchurch’s statement a few minutes ago. It came to him that the statement was true in every detail.

  Fenchurch had become a background against which Crisp could see the movements of every person in the orbit of the murder.

  “I think the library would be better, Mr. Querk,” said Crisp.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Normally Querk would have waited, bowing in the doorway for Crisp to precede him. Instead, he walked abstractedly into the library and sat in an upright chair at the table, facing the wall safe and the empty swivel chair.

  Crisp shut the door, then locked it noisily.

  “Would you like me to begin, Mr. Querk?”

  “If you please!” Querk inclined his head in a bow. “I am so glad you locked the door. Perhaps it would even be wise to shut the window.”

  Crisp went to the window. While he was shutting it, his eye strayed over the border of lawn to the yew trees. He stared with a sense of shock. At the intersection, under the green octopus and the preposterous fowl, Mrs. Cornboise was sitting, as she had been sitting when he and Benscombe had first seen her through the adjacent window of the morning-room. It was as if she had never moved. But now she was not knitting, and the voluminous bag was missing. He knew it was his own fancy that gave her the appearance of mocking him.

  He strode from the window, dropped into the swivel chair, in which Watlington had sat. His confidence was at an ebb as he faced Querk. He rallied, decided that his best chance lay in surprise.

  “When you removed the signet ring with Claudia’s penknife, you cut the skin. Did you know that?”

  “I did not know it. But now that you mention it, I am not wholly surprised. Throughout this very unhappy business I have had to combat a certain physical clumsiness. Let me see now! The absence of blood enables you to infer that the ring was moved after death.”

  Querk had the air of a man lost in his own thoughts. Crisp waited. Presently the other looked up at him with a little start of surprise.