The Piccadilly Murder

by Anthony Berkeley

  Lord Milborne was alone. He gave Mr. Chitterwick a cigar, offered him a whisky-and-soda, put him into the most comfortable chair in the room, and then began on him.

  “Glad that boy’s not here for the moment. I wanted a word with you alone, Chitterwick.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Mr. Chitterwick, still more uncomfortably.

  “Judy Sinclair’s had a talk with you, hasn’t she? You must forgive our deception to get you down here, by the way. All in a good cause, you know.”

  “Oh, yes; quite; of course,” muttered Mr. Chitterwick.

  “Well, all this nonsense about Lynn Sinclair poisoning his aunt, eh?” Lord Milborne pulled at his greying moustache and looked almost as uncomfortable as Mr. Chitterwick. “All rot, of course. Known the feller since he was so high. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Nasty mix-up somewhere.” The imputation that Mr. Chitterwick was responsible for the nasty mix-up was obvious.

  The culprit moved uneasily in his chair. “But—I saw him do it, you know.”

  “Nonsense! My dear chap, I know you’re perfectly sincere and all that, but you’re wrong. It’s clear enough you saw someone with Miss Sinclair, but it wasn’t Lynn. Couldn’t have been.”

  “I’m afraid there can be no mistake,” muttered Mr. Chitterwick miserably. “I recognized him instantly the next time I saw him.”

  “But Sinclair swears he never got to the place till nearly half-past three and never saw his aunt alive at all; and what Lynn Sinclair says is good enough for me.” Lord Milborne implied that what Major Sinclair said should also certainly be good enough for anyone else, especially one who had shamefully confessed at dinner that he neither hunted, shot, nor even fished.

  “But his fingerprints were on the phial,” countered Mr. Chitterwick desperately. “One can’t get over that.” He did not want to argue the case in the least, but presumably one owes certain duties to one’s host.

  “Coincidence,” retorted Lord Milborne robustly. “Lynn’s solicitor isn’t bothering too much about that. It’s your evidence about seeing the feller actually putting the stuff in Miss Sinclair’s cup, and this idea you’ve got that it was Sinclair himself—that’s the snag we’re up against. I’d hoped Judy might have shown you that you must be wrong.” This time the implication was that any one with the least pretensions to being a gentleman, even one who neither hunted, shot, nor even fished, would at least remove any snags in the path of a lady.

  “I’d much rather not discuss it, really,” almost begged Mr. Chitterwick. “My position is intensely distasteful to me; I would have given anything to avoid it; but as things are I must tell the truth as I believe—as I know it to be. I’m sure it would have avoided much embarrassment and unhappiness if I had not been inveig—invited down here at all. I realize, of course, that there was no intention of attempting to tamper with justice, but my position here is quite impossible and, if you will excuse me, I propose to return to London first thing to-morrow morning.” Mr. Chitterwick spoke from his heart and therefore a good deal more firmly than he felt.

  Lord Milborne eyed him with dubious disappointment, pulling at his moustache and obviously uncertain what to do next. “Of course, if you feel like that. . . .” He seemed to arrive at a decision. “Well, we’ll say no more about it. Naturally Sinclair doesn’t mean as much to you as he does to us. Play billiards?”

  “Well, in a way,” said Mr. Chitterwick humbly. “But—–”

  “My wife’s brother thought you might like a game. I believe he’s waiting in the billiard-room. I’ll take you along.”

  Once more Mr. Chitterwick was shepherded down stone passages and passed from one keeper to another. But this time, as the older shepherd handed him over to the younger, Mr. Chitterwick did see a distinct sign pass between the two—a raising of eyebrows from the latter, and a shake of the head and shrug of the shoulders from the former. It is well known that women are more subtle than men.

  As the door closed behind Lord Milborne Mr. Chitterwick’s heart, which he had already thought to be in his shoes, sank to somewhere below the floor. It was quite obvious what was being done with him; he was being passed from one to another in the hope that where others had failed the next might succeed. After this young man had dealt with him presumably he would be handed on to the black-and-silver lady, and after her—well, there seemed no reason why the dome-like butler should not be called in to have a try. To tell the truth, Mr. Chitterwick felt that the butler stood the best chance of the lot; he simply would not have the moral courage to stand out against him for long.

  The information that the young man, still known to Mr. Chitterwick only as Mouse, was the brother of his hostess and that the last piece of the social jigsaw had been fitted into place did not console him for the forthcoming interview at all.

  The preliminaries were settled with great heartiness on the part of the young man and something approaching moroseness on that of Mr. Chitterwick, who, in his agitation, miscued his opening and allowed his opponent to run off a break to twenty-six.

  “I’m afraid you’re too good for me,” said Mr. Chitterwick, and missed a simple cannon.

  “Not a bit,” said the young man, with obvious untruth, and went on to compile a break of thirty-four.

  The game ended a few minutes later. Scores:

  Mouse

  100

  Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick

  3

  “You were too good for me,” fluttered Mr. Chitterwick, seeking to put off the unwelcome moment and not despising the use of self-evident truths in doing so. “Er—no doubt you play a lot?”

  “Quite a fair amount,” agreed the other, putting the cues back in their rack. “I say, this is all rot about you making out that Lynn Sinclair, Major Sinclair, poisoned his aunt, isn’t it? You’re not really serious, surely?”

  Mr. Chitterwick groaned.

  The interview proceeded on the stereotyped lines.

  When Mr. Chitterwick had at last succeeded in putting an end to it (the young man was more tenacious than any except Mrs. Sinclair) he announced his intention of going to bed. It was not yet half-past ten, but only in his bedroom, with the door locked, did Mr. Chitterwick feel that he would be safe from the black-and-silver lady; and the thought of another interview made him almost hysterical.

  Without going back to the drawing-room, or saying good night to anyone but the chastened Mouse, he slunk upstairs.

  Of one thing Mr. Chitterwick was not sorry. His room seemed to be well away from those of the rest of the party. It was down a little corridor all to itself in the east wing, which was otherwise empty; the others, so far as Mr. Chitterwick could gather, were all in the main part of the building. If, therefore, his nerves should so far give way in the night as to cause him to scream violently, there was little chance of his being overheard.

  It was a nice room, and Mr. Chitterwick locked himself into it gratefully. Not being in the main building, it was not so old as the rest, a mere sixteenth-century room instead of thirteenth; but there was a nice open fireplace, plenty of oak beams, and two latticed windows with deep window seats overlooking the grounds. It was a big room, and its low ceiling made it look larger still. In other circumstances Mr. Chitterwick could have spent a very pleasant week in it.

  He undressed and got into bed.

  Of course he could not sleep. Things had been far too agitating. But a copy of the latest psychological novel—after he had read through the first two pages four times in an effort (a) to concentrate, (b) to make out what it was about, (c) and why—worked wonders. By the end of the first chapter he was definitely soothed; by the end of the second things had fallen into their proper perspective; by the end of the third he was really sleepy; at the end of the fourth, at half-past eleven, he put out the reading lamp by his bed. By a quarter to twelve, with the aid of Mr. Longfellow to pr
event his mind going over and over again the events of the evening, he was sound asleep.

  It seemed to Mr. Chitterwick when he woke up that he had been asleep a very long time. He did not wake somnolently and lazily as one does in the morning, but suddenly. One moment he was asleep, the next he was awake—and afraid. He did not know what had wakened him, but whatever it was there was an ominous feel about it; and he was almost sure there was someone, or something, in the room. Mr. Chitterwick was not a nervous man, or a superstitious; but the house was very old, he knew for certain that he had locked the door, and yet he was convinced . . .

  Mr. Chitterwick might not have been morally the bravest of men, but to this occasion he certainly rose, both literally and metaphorically. Without even a moment’s cowering under the bedclothes he sat bolt upright and switched on the lamp. He was perfectly right; there was someone in the room, and it was Judith Sinclair.

  They faced each other; Mr. Chitterwick sitting up like an Epstein statue, his face very flushed and his rather scanty hair at all angles (and, shameful, disobedience, uncovered by any nightcap); Judith Sinclair, tall and dark and beautiful and slim, in a pale-blue silk wrapper. It was an interesting situation, and Mr. Chitterwick’s aunt would have been surprised at it. His aunt had a poor opinion of Mr. Chitterwick in more ways than one.

  Mr. Chitterwick’s first words were somewhat of an anticlimax. “How—how d-did you get in?” he gasped.

  “There’s a door to the next room at the back of that cupboard,” replied Mrs. Sinclair in a low, toneless voice. She paused for a moment, then began to speak in hurried, urgent tones, jerking her words out and nervously plucking at the lace on her bosom. “Mr. Chitterwick, they told me you’re leaving first thing to-morrow. I couldn’t let you go without . . . I had to see you again. Mr. Chitterwick, let me implore you. You hold my husband’s life in your hands. I’ll do anything to redeem it—anything. Because he’s innocent. I know he’s innocent. You don’t know him. I do. He’s the most upright, honourable man I’ve ever known. He couldn’t have done this terrible thing. It’s impossible. If you kill him you kill me, too. He’s everything to me—everything. You can’t go into court and swear his life away. I’ll do anything in the world to save him. I mean it. Mr. Chitterwick!” To Mr. Chitterwick’s dismay she fell on her knees by his side and seized one of his hands in hers.

  For a moment or two Mr. Chitterwick was speechless, in sheer, choking consternation. This was a very different Mrs. Sinclair from the collected, consciously superior young person of the pseudo-Greek temple, and infinitely more alarming. This was a desperate woman, the mask off, the veil of convention thrown aside; no tragedy queen, but a distracted wife employing in despair the only resources left to her. And Mr. Chitterwick had no experience in dealing with desperate women.

  They gazed at each other in silence, Mr. Chitterwick’s eyes round with dismay, Judith Sinclair’s swimming with tragic entreaty. Her wrapper had fallen away from one bare shoulder, and through the thin silk of her nightdress her skin showed white; her hands clasped Mr. Chitterwick’s in a feverish grasp.

  When at last Mr. Chitterwick did speak he failed lamentably to cope with the situation. “Mrs. Sinclair, isn’t—isn’t this rather—rather imprudent?” he stammered. “I—I could see you in the morning before I go. I mean, if—if anyone heard you . . .”

  The lady spoke scornfully. “Oh, what does anything like that matter? Not that anyone will hear us. But this is a thing of life and death. I’m here to save my husband’s life, and I can’t help who knows it. Mr. Chitterwick, I’m on my knees to you.”

  “Please—please get up,” begged Mr. Chitterwick, in high embarrassment.

  Bed is not a good place from which to conduct an interview, if one happens to be a man. A woman in bed is not only decorative but at home. A man is at a complete disadvantage. He is not decorative, and he knows it, and his morale is at its lowest. If this interview was to be prolonged (and it looked distressingly probable) Mr. Chitterwick badly wanted the moral as well as the physical support of his own feet, to say nothing of a dressing-gown, to help him with his share of it; but he could see no chance of achieving it.

  A certain measure of relief was accorded him, however, for Judith Sinclair did rise from her knees, though only to stand over him and continue her entreaties, her hands clasped tensely.

  “I don’t want you just to take my word for it that my husband’s innocent, Mr. Chitterwick. That would be unreasonable, I know. All I want you to do is simply to recognize that you might have been making a mistake and take some steps to prove it. That’s all. It isn’t much to ask, surely. And you must! In common justice. Mr. Chitterwick, there’s some devil going about the world who did this thing. Somebody who must be very much like Lynn. And I must find him. I must!”

  “But your husband’s solicitors—–” mumbled Mr. Chitterwick.

  “They think he’s guilty. I’m sure they do. They don’t say so, but I’m sure that’s what they think. They say there could be nobody as like Lynn as all that, and it would be a waste of time to look. Mr. Chitterwick, you hold my husband’s life in your hands. You hear what I tell you about him; you’ve heard what the others think of him. Isn’t that enough to make you doubt that a man like him could be guilty of such a mean murder? I don’t want you to be dishonest or to swear to anything you don’t believe. All I want is for you to save an innocent man’s life by simply admitting that it is possible that you were mistaken in what you thought you saw. That would be honest enough, wouldn’t it? It’s so easy to make mistakes. And you can’t be quite certain, in any case. Mr. Chitterwick, that’s all I want you to do. You will, won’t you? And I know you wouldn’t want to make a bargain with me, or—or anything like that; but if you’d just let me show my gratitude, and—and—–” She wavered into silence and stood looking at him appealingly, an attempt at a smile on her lips. Her wrapper had slipped almost to the ground by now, but she did not seem to notice.

  Sheer nervousness made Mr. Chitterwick perhaps brusquer than he intended, or it may be that he judged it kinder to be cruel. “Really, Mrs. Sinclair, I’m afraid I can’t. . . . The matter is out of my hands. I appreciate . . . Believe me, I am exceedingly sorry, but no. It’s—it’s out of the question.”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  “You mean,” said the girl slowly, “you won’t do just that little thing? Not even if . . . That’s quite final?”

  “I can’t,” almost bleated Mr. Chitterwick. “My dear young lady, I would if . . . Yes, quite final.”

  There followed quite the most unhappy minute in Mr. Chitterwick’s life, while the girl looked at him in complete silence, her eyes full of unutterable things. Then her lower lip began to tremble, at first spasmodically and then without control. She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, God,” she moaned, “what am I to do? What am I to do?” The next instant she seemed to collapse on to the end of Mr. Chitterwick’s bed, and her body shook with sobs. She wept quietly but hopelessly, as if, having nerved herself to stake everything on the last throw she had lost and now had nothing left.

  Mr. Chitterwick gazed at her in frozen consternation. What on earth was he to do? He had probably never seen a woman weep before except his own relations, and relations don’t count. That crumpled body, its weight actually across his own feet, seemed to him quite unbearably pathetic, while the stifled sobs that issued from it distressed him almost to a similar point. There was a large lump in his throat as he crept out of bed and sought distractedly for his dressing-gown. Of course, poor woman, really convinced as she was of her husband’s innocence . . . It was too dreadful.

  But having found his dressing-gown and duly arrayed himself in it, what to do then? It was impossible to stand there and calmly look on. Not that Mr. Chitterwick was calm or anything resembling it. As he ran his hand through his already dishevelled hair and wondered desperately what ought to be done he felt like running round the room in aimles
s and distracted circles. Should he go and rouse Lady Milborne and get her to take the situation in hand? Or the black -and-silver aunt? But that would be to . . . No. Besides, he didn’t know their rooms. Then, what?

  Timidly he touched one shaking shoulder. “Please, Mrs. Sinclair, don’t—er—don’t cry.” His tones were almost as quavery as those of the muffled voice which answered him.

  “It’s—it’s all right. I’m s-sorry. I’ll be better in a minute. Just l-leave me alone.”

  But she wasn’t better in a minute, and to leave her alone seemed to the conscience-stricken Mr. Chitterwick just about the most heartless thing in the world. Something had got to be done, and done manfully. The room seemed to swim round him, echoing with those heart-breaking sobs. Mr. Chitterwick swam with the room. . . .

  How he had managed it Mr. Chitterwick never afterward knew, but when he recovered his senses it was to find himself sitting on the end of his bed and rocking the girl in his arms, while she wept on his shoulder and he promised her all sorts of impossible and utterly dishonourable things.

  “Yes, my dear,” babbled Mr. Chitterwick, “I’ll look into the matter. No doubt I was mistaken after all. We must try to find the man. If your husband is innocent it is bound to be established. There, there.” For the truth was that for the first time in his life Mr. Chitterwick had lost his head—and let the man who has never lost his own to feminine tears utter the first snigger at him. And for the first time in his life too he had kissed a woman who was not a relation (most decidedly relations do not count), and that woman another man’s wife. Mr. Chitterwick’s aunt would have been surprised.

  Moreover, and as if no limit were to be set to his devilry, he went on kissing her. They were only paternal kisses, it is true, and confined to the top of her dark head, as much of one cheek as he could reach, and her right ear; but the lady seemed to find them soothing, and Mr. Chitterwick himself found them by no means unpleasant.