Slowly she regained her usual grip on herself, the tension of her attitude relaxed, and she smiled uncertainly. “I’m sorry,” she said in a shaky voice, passing her hand across her forehead. “I try not to show it as a rule, but all this business is rather a strain on me, you know.” She stood up, swaying a little. “I think, if you don’t mind, Miss Chitterwick, I’ll go to bed.”
“Of course, my dear,” said Miss Chitterwick, rising too and speaking in unwontedly gentle tones. “We quite understand. And I’ll come along soon and bring you something soothing.”
Mouse had jumped up and slipped his arm round her waist. “Come along, Judy, old girl. I’ll help you upstairs.”
Judith looked round with tragic eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I hate making an exhibition of myself, and a nuisance. Good night.” She walked out of the room, leaning heavily on Mouse.
Mr. Chitterwick, who realized that he had just been permitted a glance at a raw human soul, looked and felt like a small boy caught stealing jam.
XIV
ROUGH HOUSE
The journey the next day from Southampton to Dorsetshire was, so far as Mr. Chitterwick was concerned, a silent one. Mouse was occupied with driving, Mr. Chitterwick was occupied with his thoughts; in the back seat, exchanging rather stilted politenesses, were Judith and the new cousin.
It had not been a difficult task, as the three stood on the quay and watched the passengers threading their way down the gangway, to pick out the object of their search. Whatever his father might have been, the stock had evidently been unable to stand up against that of the Sinclairs; the nose which preceded the new cousin down the gangway would have marked him out as a Sinclair whatever the accident of his name. As a matter of fact, this was Benson.
Mr. Chitterwick had marked his appearance with a good deal of interest.
Harold J. Benson, then, had proved to be a man in the late twenties, and the possessor not only of the Sinclair nose, but the Sinclair physique too. He was large and sturdy, with grey-green eyes and a lot of tow-coloured hair, which he wore in a strange roll over the middle of his head, giving him the appearance rather of a cockatoo than of a parrot; the only particulars in which he deviated from the traditional Sinclair appearance, apart from the roll of tow-coloured hair, were his somewhat receding forehead and chin, the latter perhaps a legacy from his father—the only one he had received.
He had wrung Judith’s hand till the tears came into her eyes, then Mouse’s, and then Mr. Chitterwick’s, while he assured the three of them with the utmost enthusiasm how pleased he was to meet them, how sorry he was that it should be in these circumstances, and how he was going to instil such pep into Scotland Yard and the whole Metropolitan Police Force that they wouldn’t be able to see their eyes for tears before he’d done with them. His audience, at that moment, who could hardly see their own for the same reason, agreed vaguely, and hoped in silence that Mr. Benson would shake hands with the whole Metropolitan Police Force too.
Still telling them at the top of a pronounced American voice (the most American voice Mr. Chitterwick thought he had ever heard) his ideas for instilling pep into Scotland Yard, promising Judith that her husband should be hanging up his hat in the little old back porch again within three days, observing to Mouse how tickled to death the folks would be way back to hear that he’d no sooner set foot in England than up runs a real he-duke and grabs his mitt and calls him brother, and remarking parenthetically to Mr. Chitterwick that a duke didn’t look too different from other folk, which seemed a bit tough on the dukes, he led them through the customs sheds, ushered them into their car, and was, Mr. Chitterwick felt, within an ace of offering to show Mouse a better way of driving it. In short, Mr. Harold J. Benson presented a perfect replica of the popular English idea of the travelling American—so perfect that Mr. Chitterwick, who had always thought this idea to be more in the nature of a caricature than a replica, marvelled greatly at finding it actually translated into flesh and blood.
At Riversmead Priory he remained no less true to type. Mr. Chitterwick, who remembered only too well his own embarrassment at being pitchforked into the middle of a set of complete strangers, envied exceedingly the easy assurance with which Mr. Benson wrung his hostess’s hand (while Judith looked on with malicious amusement), clapped his host on the back, thereby causing that elderly nobleman to stagger convulsively, made a small speech thanking the entire party for (a) their devotion to his cousin Lynn’s interests, (b) their kind welcome of himself, and (c), he need hardly add, their sympathy with his cousin Lynn’s plucky little wife in this terrible misfortune, and addressed the butler (that same fish-eyed, magnificent butler who had so seared Mr. Chitterwick’s soul on the night of his arrival) as “Bo.”
The rest of the party gazed after him with starting eyes as he clumped in his thick-toed shoes after the footman to his room.
Then Agatha began to giggle. “He—he’s just like the comic American in a bad farce,” she said in a stifled voice. “He might have stepped straight off the stage.”
“That,” said Mr. Chitterwick thoughtfully, “is just exactly what he has done.”
“What did you say, Mr. Chitterwick?” asked Judith, looking at him curiously.
“I—only that I understood that that was exactly what he had done,” explained Mr. Chitterwick, in some confusion. “You did mention that he had been on the stage at one time, did you not?”
A muttering growl was audible from the direction of Lord Milborne. “And to think of that,” muttered the growl, “coming into Earlshaze.” One gathered that in Lord Milborne’s opinion that was the worst tragedy of the lot.
They turned solemnly into the house and dispersed to get ready for lunch. There was at least half an hour before the meal, but, as Judith said, dispersal seemed the only possible thing.
At that meal, however, it may be said at once that Mr. Benson showed himself much improved. It may have been that his surroundings and the company in which he found himself were beginning to overawe Mr. Benson, it may have been (and this Mr. Chitterwick considered quite possible) that somebody had managed to convey a warning hint to him; in any case, he made no more speeches, his enthusiasm was patently damped, and even the breadth of his American accent had narrowed perceptibly. After all, there is nothing like a well-bred English household for making a guest feel thoroughly uncomfortable.
If the truth must be told (and presumably it must) it was Mr. Chitterwick who displayed himself after lunch as one of the worst types of rank bores. It appeared that Mr. Chitterwick was that fiend in human form, an enthusiastic amateur photographer. Hitherto he had kept this mania under control; now apparently it had to find an outlet. Regardless of all decency and the undisguised reluctance of his victims, he produced a camera and insisted on marshalling them on the terrace and photographing them a surprising number of times, both in groups and even singly, prattling artlessly the while about his fondness for souvenirs of all the places he had stayed in and all the people he had met, and gloating quite shamelessly over the valuable additions he would now be able to make to his albums. Lord Milborne did not try to conceal the pain with which he watched his wife abetting Mr. Chitterwick in this ignoble pursuit as, hardly less insistently than the chief torturer, she ordered the other victims about and posed them delightedly for his delectation. It was not a pleasant quarter of an hour.
Flushed but triumphant, though taking some pains to avoid his host’s eye, Mr. Chitterwick retired with the two rolls of films he had taken, carrying a reluctant Mouse with him under pretext of helping him develop them. As soon as they were out of sight of the others, however, he led the way not to the bathroom but to his own bedroom, where he proceeded to lock the door behind them.
“Never knew you were a photographer, Chitterwick,” remarked Mouse, viewing the door locking with some surprise.
“I’m not,” said Mr. Chitterwick. “But I can press a bulb, I hope, as wel
l as another man. I bought this camera yesterday, for the express purpose of taking those photographs. Your sister very kindly undertook to help me obtain them. At least,” said Mr. Chitterwick with some misgiving, “I hope I have obtained them; but a camera is really rather more complicated than I expected. However, your sister said she understood the things, so no doubt it will be all right.”
“I noticed she changed the films for you,” said Mouse slowly.
“I found that most difficult to master,” deprecated Mr. Chitterwick, “although I practised in my bedroom last night.”
Mouse looked at him. “Come on, Chitterwick. There’s more in this than meets the eye. What is it?”
Mr. Chitterwick did not reply immediately. He sat down, placed his hands on his knees, and looked extremely solemn. “It was a subterfuge, of course. I wanted those photographs.”
“But why?”
“Mouse,” said Mr. Chitterwick soberly, “I’m of the opinion that I have found the man who impersonated Major Sinclair in the Piccadilly Palace.”
“You have?” said Mouse, rather stupidly.
“Well—there’s only one possible one, isn’t there? I’ve suspected so for some time. It all depended on his nose. As soon as I saw that I was certain.”
“Benson?” said Mouse incredulously. “But his voice, man. He’s obviously American, if ever anyone was. He couldn’t have taken Miss Sinclair in for a minute.”
“He’s an actor. But he’s a bad actor. He exaggerated the Oxford accent of Eccles over the telephone; he exaggerated his American accent this morning; when he realized he was doing so, he toned it down.”
“But he was in America at the time!”
“Was he?” said Mr. Chitterwick briskly. “That’s just what I propose to find out. And that’s the reason why I wanted those photographs. If he was here at the time of the murder, he would naturally have gone back again immediately afterward. I am going to show his photographs to the clerks in the various shipping offices and ask them if they can recognize him as a man who booked a passage at about that date.” If Mr. Chitterwick had entered upon this case reluctantly and with diffidence concerning his own powers of real detection, that reluctance and that diffidence had left him now; he spoke with unusual determination, and it was evident that the excitement of the chase had gripped him.
“I’ll come with you,” said Mouse promptly.
“I was hoping you would see your way to do so,” said Mr. Chitterwick with gratitude. “You know, we really ought to start almost at once.”
“The sooner the better. Five minutes, if you like. But we must tell Judy the good news first.”
“Do you think so?” Mr. Chitterwick hesitated. “We haven’t proved our case yet, you see. Would it not be better to wait until we can tell it to her as a fact instead of just a theory?”
“She’d never forgive us if we did,” Mouse assured him.
“Oh, well, perhaps it can do no harm.” But Mr. Chitterwick still seemed a little dubious. “No doubt you would prefer to tell her yourself, while I am making my excuses to your sister for this very brief visit.”
Mouse generously suggested that, the inspiration having been Mr. Chitterwick’s, he should be the one to impart it; but that gentleman, twittering something about keeping an eye on the car till Mouse arrived, hurried off to look for Lady Milborne, clasping his precious films inside his pocket. Mouse had evidently not seen through his little stratagem.
Within ten minutes they were on the road once more.
Mouse reported that Judith had been intensely interested in Mr. Chitterwick’s solution, but slightly incredulous. However, she had offered to keep an eye on the suspect while they were away.
During the journey, Mr. Chitterwick seemed wrapped in his thoughts, which were apparently of a rather onerous nature, for he sighed more than once. Mouse, respecting his silence, was taciturn too, and for the first fifty miles Mr. Chitterwick volunteered only two remarks; the first being that a second reason for obtaining the photographs was that they could make inquiries at the costumiers for anyone buying a red wig round about that date, and the second to suggest that it was not necessary perhaps to go quite so fast, as they could hardly begin their inquiries that evening.
They arrived in London just before six, and Mr. Chitterwick directed his chauffeur to the shop where he had bought the camera. While Mouse stayed outside in the car he hurried in and handed over his two rolls to be developed, stipulating that it must be done, and prints taken, that evening, no matter what it cost. “And I want enlargements of the fourth film on this roll, and the third on that,” he added, consulting his notebook. “Those must be done to-night too. Everything must be ready first thing to-morrow morning.”
“I’m afraid we can hardly get the enlargements done to-night, sir,” objected the shopman.
“I can get you authority from Scotland Yard if you like,” retorted Mr. Chitterwick truculently, and quite without truth.
The shopman looked at him. “It’s something really important, sir?”
Mr. Chitterwick assured him with emphasis that it was. The shopman thought that in that case something might be done. Mr. Chitterwick gave his name, and got out of the shop just as they were beginning to put up the shutters.
It being then too late to do anything further, Mouse took Mr. Chitterwick to his club and bought him an astonishing number of drinks.
They dined at the club and, by way of relaxation, went to a revue afterward, Mr. Chitterwick having telephoned through to Chiswick before dinner. It was not till nearly twelve o’clock that they reached his aunt’s house. To their surprise they found Judith sitting up for them.
“I simply couldn’t help it,” she said. “I know I promised to stay and guard the suspect, I know I’ve deserted my post, I know I’m everything that I shouldn’t be—but I simply had to take the first train I could catch and come up to see how you were getting on. Well, Mr. Chitterwick, tell me all about it. It’s all over bar the shouting, is it?”
Mr. Chitterwick smiled at her a little nervously. A very different Judith this from the desperate, half-hysterical woman of the evening before. “I hope so, Mrs. Sinclair, I hope so.”
“Oh, call me Judith,” she smiled. “Really, Mr. Chitterwick, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone so long (What is it? Nearly a whole fortnight!) without being called by my Christian name. It simply isn’t done nowadays, you know.”
Mr. Chitterwick murmured something which he hoped was suitable.
“What about the photographs? Have you developed them yet? I’m dying to see them.”
“We dropped them on our way,” put in Mouse, munching a sandwich.
“Dropped them?”
“To be developed.”
“Oh! You quite alarmed me for the moment. Well, have you discovered anything else?”
“Only that Celia Perry’s legs are getting fatter. We’ve been to Knees Up, and the Princess’s.”
“I don’t care a bit about Celia Perry’s legs. I want to know why Mr. Chitterwick thinks our simple cowboy cousin poisoned an aunt he’d never heard of. At least, he says he never had. Tell me, Mr. Chitterwick.”
Mr. Chitterwick told her. Judith did not think Mr. Benson had so much ingenuity. Mouse was inclined to agree with her. They argued for nearly an hour. Then Mr. Chitterwick went to bed. As Judith assured him that she was far too excited to go to bed at all that night, and Mouse seemed quite ready to sit up till morning with her, he left them sitting.
But Mr. Chitterwick did not sleep very much that night.
Nevertheless, he was down the next morning punctually for an eight-thirty breakfast, and so was Mouse. Judith, it seemed, having gone to bed the previous night after all, now found it a good deal more difficult to get up again.
Leisurely Mr. Chitterwick helped his guest to porridge and sat down with his own. Murmuring an excuse, he began to open his
post. Suddenly there burst an exclamation from him. His chair, abruptly pushed back, squealed on the boards. Mr. Chitterwick half rose, sat down again, half rose once more, and then thrust a letter in front of Mouse. “God bless my soul, this is dreadful,” he murmured quite distractedly. “Read that.”
The letter which had so perturbed Mr. Chitterwick ran as follows:
DEAR MR. CHITTERWICK:
Of course I realized that you suspected me when you made that very thin excuse to see me without my spectacles. I was afraid then that you had recognized me from the Piccadilly Palace. But having been interviewed this afternoon by a policeman I see your suspicion has turned into certainty. Well, you are perfectly right; but naturally I am not going to sit here and wait to be arrested as an accessory in a murder charge. By the time you get this I shall be safe enough.
At least, I shall if you will let me, and the reason I am writing is to ask you to do so. It is perfectly true, as I said, that I helped Lynn get rid of the old lady, but he really forced me to it, in a way. He had got hold of some information about my past, which isn’t quite so blameless as it might be, and held it over my head to make me help him. He had to get Miss Sinclair out of the way, because she was going to disinherit him, but he couldn’t do it alone. He worked out the plan, and all I had to do was to dress up as a waitress and put that phial in her hand after she was unconscious to make it look like suicide, which was easy enough, but the silly fool went and left his fingerprints on it. But for that, and the rotten luck of you having been watching him, there would never have been the faintest chance of his being found out or even suspected.
Well, what I mean is, can’t you let me off? I don’t know what you’ve told the police, or whether you’ve told them anything beyond my being a suspicious character, but is there any need to tell them about my share in this job? I can assure you, I’ve been punished enough already. It’s been hell. And they’ve got the real murderer—Lynn Sinclair. I should never have had a hand in it if he hadn’t threatened me. Be a sportsman, Mr. Chitterwick. Tear this letter up and forget you ever suspected me. It isn’t much to ask, is it?
The Piccadilly Murder Page 22