Ne'er Do Well

by Dornford Yates

  “‘I hope you’ve been taken off duty.’

  “‘For tonight – yes.’

  “‘I’d like to see you tomorrow. Would midday be all right?’

  “‘As – as far as I’m concerned.’

  “‘Good. And please don’t worry. It’s going to be quite all right.’

  “‘It can never be that,’ she said quietly. ‘Not if murder was done.’

  “‘I feel the same,’ I said. ‘A masterpiece has been broken. And we have so few today.’

  “‘That’s perfectly true.’

  “As I opened the door for her–

  “‘You’ve been very kind,’ she said.

  “And then she was gone.

  “I went back to the station then and dictated a further report. Then I drafted her statement and gave it to Roan to type out. Then I went to the mortuary. The surgeons were waiting for me, with certain sealed jars. They handed these to Rogers, who signed a receipt.

  “‘Anything new?’ I asked.

  “‘A first–class life.’

  “When Paterson left, I walked with him to his car. I told him I’d seen the night-sister.

  “‘Was the Mother Superior tiresome?’

  “‘She wasn’t there.’

  “‘You never saw her alone?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘God in heaven,’ he said. And then, ‘There’ll be a row about that.’

  “‘The day-sister arranged it at my request.’

  “He nodded.

  “‘Sister Geneviève is the salt of the earth.’

  “‘You’ll be called, of course. I’ll bring a draft statement tomorrow, for you to approve.’

  “‘All right.’

  “‘About eleven o’clock?’

  “‘Just ask for me.’

  “Then I saw the Coroner.

  “I think he’ll be quite all right. I mean, he won’t run out. In fact, he himself declared that the Convent must be considered in every possible way. I imagine the Mother Superior has to be thanked for that. Her writ runs everywhere. I suggested whom he should call and said he should have their statements tomorrow afternoon. I then broached the question of revealing the sisters’ true names.

  “‘I hope you’ll agree,’ I said, ‘that that should not be done. By such revelations, Justice will in no way be served. Only the press will profit: and the Sisters will suffer incredible misery. I mean, all this publicity’s bad enough.’

  “Mercifully, he agreed at once.

  “Then we had a short talk. I said that the local superintendent would ask for an adjournment for a week.

  “‘Do you expect developments?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘You suspect that Lord St Amant was murdered?’

  “‘I do indeed.’

  “‘Any luck so far?’

  “‘None.’

  “‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘If I can help, you’ve only to let me know.’

  “I thanked him and took my leave.

  “Then I saw the Press. They were waiting in force. ‘Where the carcase is,’ you know.

  “I told them the bare facts. That St Amant who was perfectly well had suddenly died. That there seemed to be no explanation of how or why he had died. That before we did anything else, we had to find that out. I said I had been sent down because, if he died by design, it was of the utmost importance that experts should be on the spot as soon as possible.

  “‘Do you suspect foul play?’

  “‘You musn’t say that. You may say that, in view of all the circumstances, the police have yet to be satisfied that Lord St Amant died a natural death.’

  “I gave them a lot of details – that’s what they like. In fact, I did them well. And then I spoke out.

  “‘I’ll see you like this, whenever I have some news which I think you may well report. But only on this condition – that no reporter enters the Convent grounds. If that occurs, you’ll get no more from me. The nursing home is run by a deeply religious House. The sisters are nuns, and their life is very sheltered and very retired. It follows that the publicity which this tragedy must receive is to them a most bitter blow. I’m very sorry for them, and I’m going to do my best to spare them all I can. I hope that you’ll do the same. You’ve got to tell your stories, of course: and you’ll do that as you think best. But don’t forget that the sisters are holy women, vowed to the service of God, that they work very hard indeed for nothing at all, that this disaster has caused them the very greatest distress. If you can lighten their burden, I’m sure that you will.’

  “They took it very well – they’re a decent crowd.

  “Then one of them asked the question I wanted asked.

  “‘Will any sisters be called?’

  “‘I think that’s possible. If they are, I can’t prevent your taking photographs of them. But if you do, you’ll make them very unhappy. I hope you’ll bear that in mind.’

  “Then I looked in at the station and called it a day.”

  “Poor Superintendent,” said Jenny, “you must be so terribly tired.”

  “No, Mrs Chandos, I’ve had more tiring days. And being with you three here is the greatest relief. Any comments, Colonel Mansel?”

  “I think you’ve done awfully well.”

  “You have, indeed,” said I.

  “In fact,” said Jenny, rising, “we’re going to drink your health. Would you like a brandy and soda?”

  “I’d rather have a soft drink.”

  “We always drink barley-water.”

  “Please give me some.”

  Mansel spoke.

  “He was poisoned, of course. The japonica tablets were taken and two poisoned tablets were left. That could only have been done by someone who knew quite a lot: knew that he had two tablets put by his side and knew that he used to take them during the night. One naturally looks very hard at the occupants of the Home – the sisters, the house-surgeon and the other patients. But the deed might well have been done by a complete outsider.”

  “I entirely agree,” said Falcon. “Access was easy. Deserted meadows, ringed by a very low wall, the terrace in darkness, and French windows wide open all night long. By the way, Mr Chandos, have you a binocular?”

  “I have. Would you like to borrow it?”

  “If I may. I want to see how much I can see from the road.”

  “Bell shall give it to you before you go off. It’s very powerful.”

  “Good. Casual observation might have been kept from a car. As for special, close observation – well, the meadows and the terrace by night would offer a perfect field. I mean, you could hardly go wrong.”

  “Who,” said Mansel, “who knew he was in the Home and where he was likely to be put?”

  “Ah,” said Falcon. “To find the answer to that may be very hard.”

  There was a little silence. Then– “I feel,” said I, “that a woman committed the crime.”

  “Why d’you say that, Mr Chandos?”

  “I don’t think a man would have thrown away the tablet you found.”

  “It may have been dropped.”

  “I don’t think a man would have dropped it. The man who would do such a thing would have been more careful than that.”

  “What would you have done with it – them?”

  “Swallowed them,” said I.

  “So should I,” said Falcon. “But then we’re rather good at covering up. Never mind. A man has pockets, but a woman has not. In any event, I’m inclined to agree with you. It looks to me much more like a woman’s crime.”

  “You’ve a friend in the day-nurse,” said Mansel.

  “I think I have. Had I had to question Sister Helena in the presence of the Mother Superior, to a great extent I should have gone empty away. And it would have been a dreadful ordeal for us both. From what Paterson said, I’m afraid Sister Geneviève will be roasted for what she did.”

  “A courageous woman,” said Mansel. “But I don’t think you’ll see the Madonna alone agai
n.”

  “Nor do I. But that won’t matter so much. At least, I hope it won’t.”

  “Now what have you got, Falcon?”

  “The tablet and Dallas’ contribution. That may or may not be of value. But that is all.”

  “Not bad for the very first day.”

  “No, I’ve been very lucky.”

  “Acquaintances?”

  “London is on that now. His papers may reveal something. The Will may be a pointer – you never know. Who stood to gain by his death?”

  “I don’t like that one,” said Mansel.

  “Neither do I. But there must be a motive somewhere.”

  “Somehow I don’t think it was gain. Jealousy, yes. Hatred. But somehow not gain.”

  “I’m inclined to agree; but I can’t rule anything out. There are three more patients on the terrace. I can hardly believe that one of them is concerned, but I’ll have to see them tomorrow.”

  “Dallas sounds rather glib.”

  “I’m with you there. I’m not quite sure of the man. But Paterson says that he can’t put his foot to the ground.”

  “And after the Inquest?”

  “I shall go to Curfew Place. His servants may be able to help.”

  “House-surgeon all right?” said I.

  “I think so. He’s rather hard to sum up. But then at this stage I can take no one on trust.”

  “Except the night-sister,” said Jenny.

  “Quite right, Mrs Chandos. She is above suspicion. So are they all, more or less. But as for her – well, I might as well suspect you.”

  There was a little silence. Then –

  “Superintendent,” said Jenny, “may I ask you a personal question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, this evening you’ve told us exactly not only what you have done, but what you have seen and heard. And very much more than that. You have repeated in detail each conversation you’ve had. Question and answer, over and over again. How on earth can you remember?”

  Falcon smiled.

  “It’s a matter of practice, Mrs Chandos. If you’d practised as long as I have, you would be able to do exactly the same. You see, very early on I realized this – that I should never get on terms with a witness, if he saw that what he was saying was being taken down. Not the terms I wanted to be on. Yet sometimes every word – almost every inflection – might have an important bearing upon the case. And so I began to train my memory – make it into a record, like that of a dictaphone. I’ve played it to you this evening. After thirty years it’s getting quite good.”

  “I think it’s marvellous.”

  “So it is,” said Mansel. “I need hardly add that, for obvious reasons, such a faculty is quite invaluable.”

  “I’ve found it so,” said Falcon, “again and again. Of course the impression fades. But if it’s important, I dictate it while it is clear.”

  What more was said, I forget: but very soon after that, we all of us went to bed.

  Not till the Inquest was over did Falcon go on with his tale; for on the following night he spent an hour or more in the curtilage of the Home. It was past eleven o’clock by the time he got back, and, though he was ready to talk, Jenny would not let him, but put on some Chopin records, to stop our mouths. So, after a quiet half hour, we all retired. But on Friday, the following evening, Falcon sat back in his chair and told us the truth.

  “Yesterday morning I took the road past the Home. I stopped by the side of the way and used your binocular. I could see right into the rooms. I saw a sister moving in Dallas’ room. But I couldn’t see any detail. If close observation was kept, it was kept in the meadows by night.

  “Then I went to the station and had a word with the Yard. Inspector Welcome is down at Curfew Place. The solicitors are most helpful. They’re the executors, too, and Welcome’s been given a room and all facilities. The new Lord St Amant, a cousin, is overseas. The tablet I found disclosed no finger-marks, but was japonica. The analysis was being done.

  “Then I set Rogers to work – to see if any car had been noticed at rest not far from the Home on Monday or Tuesday night. And then I left for the Home, taking the statements with me.”

  “Sister Helena’s and the House-Surgeon’s?”

  “That’s right. For them to approve.

  “When I arrived, the porteress asked me to wait. After a minute or two, a sister appeared and asked me to come with her. I knew what that meant.

  “The Mother Superior received me alone.

  “She was seated at her table, but she didn’t rise and she didn’t ask me to sit down. She neither moved nor spoke. I felt that something must be done. Accordingly, I sat down and looked at my watch. Then –

  “‘Madam,’ I said, ‘I assume that you wish to see me. I beg that you’ll tell me why, for I have a great deal to do. I hope you have some information which you think that I ought to know.’

  “‘I wished to see you,’ she said, ‘to tell you this – that I will permit no sister of mine to be questioned without my consent.’

  “‘In that case I must ask your consent to see Sister Helena at twelve o’clock. And Sister Geneviève: but not at that hour.’

  “‘I am engaged at twelve. Tomorrow perhaps.’

  “‘I’m afraid I must see her this morning. I have the draft of her statement, for her to revise.’

  “‘Give it to me.’

  “‘That would be most improper. I have no objection to your being present, when I go through it with her.’

  “‘No objection?’

  “The words flamed.

  “‘None,’ said I. ‘But I must do it this morning, because the Coroner must have it this afternoon. The Inquest will be held tomorrow at two o’clock. I formally ask you to allow Sister Helena to attend.’

  “‘And if I refuse?’

  “‘Madam,’ said I, ‘a summons to attend will be served upon her today. If she fails to obey it – well, I can’t answer to the coroner, but I know what the Press will do.’

  “‘What will they do?’

  “‘Report it in banner headlines.’

  “There was a little silence. Pride was fighting with Discretion – a battle royal. At length –

  “‘If I must–’

  “I got to my feet.

  “‘Madam, there must be no ‘if’. Church and State – both are subject to the Law. I am a Superintendent of the CID: but if I exceed a speed-limit, I can be summoned and fined. I am ready to show you the greatest regard; but if that conflicts with my duty, my duty will take precedence of my regard. At your convenience, I’m going to question you.’

  “‘Me?’

  “‘On the rules and habits and customs of this establishment. If you embarrass me, I shall have to report the fact to my superiors. They have sent me here, to get to the bottom of this most grievous affair. The Home Office is behind them in all they do.’

  “‘What do you want?’

  “‘I want you to tell your people – sisters and staff – that they must speak freely to me or my men, must give us every assistance, volunteer information they think that we ought to have. If I have any difficulty, Madam, I want to be able to come to you, lay the matter before you and ask your help and advice. I want to hear your suggestions and what you think. I want to be on those terms with the lady whose word is law within these walls.’

  “There was a long silence. Then –

  “‘Come back at twelve,’ she said. ‘Sister Helena will be here.’

  “Good for you,” cried Mansel, and Jenny was clapping her hands.

  “It’s an old trick,” said Falcon, “that I learned in the First Great War. I had a rogue in my troop, so I gave him a stripe. He made the best lance-corporal I’ve ever seen.

  “I took my leave of her and ran into Paterson. He was then too busy to talk, but said I could see two patients out of the three. The third was too ill and had been for more than a week. So I saw the two.”

  “Two out of the three?” said Jenny.
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  “My fault, Mrs Chandos. It’s an important point, and I ought to have made it clear. Six rooms on the terrace. Number Four was St Amant’s room. Dallas is Number Five. The patient in Number Three is dying hard – under morphia most of the time. The patient in Number One is seriously ill – too ill to be interviewed. As I’d seen Dallas, Two and Six were left.

  “Number Two, I wrote off at once. He was very old and shaky. Had been in the Indian Civil for most of his life. He’d known St Amant’s father and talked about nothing else. Had no idea that St Amant was two rooms off. ‘If only they’d told me, I would have sent in my card. I hope he didn’t know I was here. You see, when I was in Lahore…’ I gave up as soon as I could, and visited Number Six.

  “Number Six made me think. His name is Berryman – aged, he said, thirty-one. When Paterson had left us –

  “‘Head Sleuth?’ he said, with a lazy look in his eyes.

  “‘Some people might call me that.’

  “‘A gentleman copper. Hence the promotion, of course.’

  “‘That’s not for me to say.’

  “‘Winchester?’

  “‘No. And my antecedents don’t matter. What does matter is that Lord St Amant is dead.’

  “‘D’you know what I’d do to the fellow that bumped him off?’

  “‘What?’ said I.

  “‘Give him a drink.’

  “‘Would you now?’ said I, and took a chair.

  “‘One lord the less. You see, I’m what you’d call Labour.’

  “‘I see. But you prefer this Home to a casual ward.’

  “‘I had no say in the matter. My – my relatives sent me here.’

  “‘I see. When did you learn that Lord St Amant was dead?’

  “He pointed to a paper, lying on the foot of his bed.

  “‘Not till this morning?’

  “‘No. I knew there was something afoot.’

  “‘How did you know that?’

  “‘Because The Virgin Goddess failed to appear.’

  “‘I see.’

  “‘Alias Lady Rosemary Vernon.’

  “‘Indeed?’ said I, masking annoyance with surprise.

  “‘And you call yourself a sleuth.’

  “‘I don’t, as a matter of fact: but that’s neither here nor there. Whoever Sister Helena is is nothing to do with me. And now let’s get back on the rails. It was her failure to call you that told you that something was wrong.’