Murder Underground (British Library Crime Classics)

by Mavis Doriel Hay

  James Pongleton disliked being away from home; his habits were almost as regular as Mr. Slocomb’s, and he felt unhappy without his own familiar leather armchair and his own rooms in which he knew exactly where to lay his hand on anything he wanted. He was anxious to get things settled and return to Yorkshire at the earliest possible moment. It was all very distressing about poor Phemia, but they couldn’t make things better by hanging around, and it was best to get the funeral over with the least possible fuss and go quietly home.

  Mrs. Pongleton would have liked to stay in Hampstead a little longer. It was so difficult to get James to consent to any expedition from home nowadays, and the journey was tiring and expensive. Of course this was not really a fitting time for shopping and sight-seeing; nevertheless, it really was waste of a good journey to London to return home after only two days! Susan Pongleton would not have spoken so unfeelingly of the present melancholy occasion; she would be shocked if she could read her thoughts in cold print. But Euphemia Pongleton, her sister-in-law, had been almost a stranger, and in fact it had seemed providential that they had not met more often; Susan had always felt that it would be difficult to love Euphemia at close quarters, though it was possible to maintain a correct sisterly attitude towards her at a distance.

  As for Basil, who had joined the rest of the family after the inquest, he had been in a state of wavering uncertainty all day, feeling that he ought to do something about the pearls, but un-able to decide what he should or could do.

  So in various states of discontent, irritation, and unhappiness, Susan and James Pongleton, Basil, Beryl and her mother, sat crowded together in the hired car in which they had followed Euphemia’s body to the rainswept slopes of Highgate cemetery. They were all tired by the harassing events of the day, and Beryl, with her nagging anxiety about Gerry added to the strain of the inquest and the funeral, was in a state of wretched exhaustion. But when, in the evening, her Uncle James asked her to accompany him to the Frampton, where he was to go through Phemia’s things, she thought that even that dreary occupation would be better than sitting, worrying about Gerry, in the restless atmosphere at home. So they drove up the hill in the Alvis and Basil was not able to make up his mind definitely before they left to give Beryl a tip about the pearls.

  “Is your young man going to show up again before we leave?” Uncle James asked Beryl as they drove up the hill.

  “I’ve told you, Uncle, I don’t know,” Beryl replied with weary exasperation.

  “Seems to be a lot of mysterious business on hand,” grunted Uncle James.

  “Everyone’s upset,” replied Beryl shortly, and not very helpfully.

  Inspector Caird and Mr. Stoggins, Miss Pongleton’s solicitor, were waiting for them at the Frampton and they went at once to Miss Pongleton’s room, which the detective unlocked.

  Before they began to check Miss Pongleton’s small collection of valuables by a list which Mr. Stoggins had brought, Mr. Pongleton handed to him a packet of letters neatly secured with rubber bands. Mr. Stoggins, a plump little man with a bald head and melancholy eyes, looked puzzled.

  “These are a few of my sister’s letters, covering a period of some years, which I have kept because they refer to her investments. They may be of help to you, but I believe her affairs in that direction are in order. Possibly Inspector Caird may wish to look at them, though I doubt whether he will find any clues. There is mention of some advice on investments which a friend gave my sister from time to time, but on which she did not act.”

  Inspector Caird took the packet from Mr. Stoggins. “The trouble about this case is that there are far too many clues, all pointing in different directions,” he grumbled. “However, I don’t want to imply, Mr. Pongleton, that we shall not track the criminal ultimately. I think I’ll take a look at these letters.”

  Inspector Caird reflected that the discovery of the criminal might prove an unwelcome surprise for Beryl’s uncle, and he was glad that the old man would be safely on his way home in little more than twelve hours’ time. He sat down in a wicker chair near the fire and began to examine the letters. The others were investigating Miss Pongleton’s jewel-cases and bureau-drawers systematically.

  “Are you acquainted, Mr. Pongleton, with the gentleman mentioned in these letters who seems to have been so anxious to give Miss Pongleton advice on her investments? A Mr. Slocomb, who lives in this boarding-house?”

  “I have never met him, and what my sister wrote about his confidential advice was so vague that one cannot judge of its wisdom. Her investments were perfectly secure and reasonably good, and therefore I counselled her not to disturb her money. She had no particular motive for wishing to gamble with her securities in the hope of large profits.”

  “Hm! I will return these to you, Mr. Stoggins.” The solicitor stowed them away in his leather case.

  Nearly all Miss Pongleton’s valuables had been accounted for, but there was no sign of the pearls. Beryl was worried; she had hardly hoped to find them in this locked room, but yet had a wild idea that somehow Basil might have put them here. She opened a little case which seemed the kind of thing in which they might be found. It was empty except for a wad of cotton wool which clung to the lid. Beryl removed it and a folded slip of paper floated out, partly opening, so that Beryl saw something written on it in her aunt’s hand. The word “Basil” started up at her from the spiky writing. She tried to suppress a little gasp and to occupy herself with another box, whilst peering surreptitiously at the inscription. Inspector Caird was behind her; she dared not look round; she dared not pick up the paper and put it back in the case or in her pocket. She took up another case and placed it upon the paper, which it did not quite conceal.

  “May I come in?” called Basil’s voice, and she turned to see him in the doorway. After a difficult half-hour with his mother, who was anxious to be assured that he was not making “undesirable friends”, he had decided that the Frampton might be more restful than Beverley House.

  Inspector Caird made an unobtrusive movement towards the chest-of-drawers near which Beryl stood, and helplessly she saw his hand reach out towards the leather case which she had just put down.

  “Excuse me, Miss Sanders—haven’t you overlooked something?”

  He picked up the paper. Beryl held her breath and looked appealingly at Basil. Inspector Caird perused the note with interest and then he too looked towards Basil.

  “You have arrived at the right moment, Mr. Pongleton. You can explain this, of course?” He handed the note to Basil, who took it with a puzzled look.

  “Read it,” commanded Inspector Caird, as Basil stood holding it and gaping rather aimlessly at the others. They all felt that this was a significant moment, though only the most ordinary remarks had been made.

  “Oh! One of Aunt Phemia’s notes. She often used to write little notes like this; memoranda, she called them, to make everything clear! But it doesn’t help much in this case, does it?” He looked round anxiously at his relatives, avoiding the cold gaze of the inspector, who remarked sternly:

  “The note states that the pearls were entrusted to you on a date some three weeks ago, to be restrung.”

  “That’s so. I gave them back to Aunt Phemia last Wednesday, when I came here to tea with her. Can’t think why she didn’t put them back and destroy the note, but I expect she just tucked them away somewhere else for the moment.”

  “Of course,” said Beryl quickly. “The sort of thing she was always doing!”

  “Basil, what does this mean?” his father demanded sternly. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “The note? I didn’t know about it.”

  “Don’t prevaricate, boy! You know we’ve all been speculating on what had become of the pearls. Why didn’t you tell us that you had them until last Wednesday?”

  “Didn’t I? I mean, it didn’t seem important,” blundered Basil. “I thought you all knew that. I gave them back to her, and obviously, if they are lost, they have got lost since then, so it
doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

  There was an awkward silence. Uncle James abruptly remarked, “Wednesday? That was the day that young man Thurlow saw your aunt after you had left and, according to him and the young woman who was with him, witnessed a will for her.”

  “Tell you what,” exclaimed Basil. “Those two came in and Aunt Phemia didn’t want them to see the pearls lying about, so she tucked them away somewhere downstairs—in the drawing-room, where she was sitting. Let’s go and look there!”

  “And is it likely,” his father enquired, “that she would leave them there all night and the next day and the next night?”

  “It might be,” put in Beryl hastily. “Aunt Phemia’s memory was failing a little, and if she had really been making a will that may have put other things out of her head. We’d better look; don’t you think so, Inspector Caird?”

  “I think we had,” the inspector agreed grimly.

  Beryl led the way downstairs. Only Mr. Blend was in the drawing-room, and the inspector gently asked him to leave them alone. He shuffled out with some dishevelled newspapers under his arm. They all looked round the room vaguely.

  “That’s the chair she always sat in,” said Basil, pointing out the one which Mr. Slocomb had annexed since Friday. “Try the crack down the side. It would be the natural place for anyone to stow things away.”

  “So it would!” Beryl agreed.

  Inspector Caird aimed a quick look of suspicion towards her. He approached the chair cautiously, as if it were an animal of doubtful temper, and plunged his hand down one side—the side on the right hand of anyone seated in the chair—between the arm and the seat. He shook his head and tried the other side. His hand came up again holding an oblong buff envelope.

  “That’s not the pearls!” blurted out Basil in surprise and dismay.

  “Correct!” said Inspector Caird, after feeling the envelope.

  “The missing will, I think,” suggested Mr. Stoggins gently, looking very melancholy.

  James Pongleton stepped forward and put out a hand, but the inspector, disregarding him, placed the envelope gingerly on the mantelpiece and probed again in the side of the chair. They all watched him, open-mouthed in suspense. There was a slight rustling sound and he produced a small tissue-paper packet.

  “Yes!” gasped Beryl and Basil in chorus.

  “That looks more like them!” Basil added. “They were done up like that.”

  Inspector Caird sat on the sofa and opened the packet carefully. There lay the lustrous, delicate-looking necklace.

  “Rather a slapdash parcel to come from a jeweller,” he suggested.

  “Oh, Aunt Euphemia opened the parcel to look at them,” Basil explained hastily. He wondered anxiously whether one could tell by looking carefully—as Inspector Caird was looking now—whether pearls had lately been restrung.

  “She was going to give them to Beryl as a wedding present,” he added. “That was why she wanted them restrung now.”

  “Was your sister left-handed?” Inspector Caird asked Mr. Pongleton.

  “No—no,” replied the old man, too dazed by the startling events of the last few minutes to grasp the significance of the question.

  The inspector had wrapped the pearls up again and slipped them into his pocket. Everyone noticed that, but no one liked to say anything. He took the long envelope from the mantelpiece, holding it by one corner. “Perhaps we had better look at this, Mr. Stoggins? If you have no objection, I will open it.”

  He examined it very carefully before ripping it open neatly with a pocket-knife, and drew out the document, holding it by the edges. He handed it to Mr. Stoggins, who took it with equal care.

  “Yes, yes,” muttered Mr. Stoggins mournfully. “Miss Pongleton’s will, dated Wednesday, March fourteenth—last Wednesday—and witnessed by Robert Thurlow and Eleanor Foster. I think there is no doubt that this supersedes the one we read this afternoon. Perhaps it would be advisable for me to read it, Mr. Pongleton?”

  “Yes, of course, read it!” snapped James Pongleton.

  The will enumerated various small bequests and made provision for Tuppy, as the previous one had done. “A string of pearls, formerly the property of my mother and at the time of making this will in the possession of my nephew, Basil Pongleton, who is to return them to me as soon as they are restrung, I bequeath to my niece, Beryl Sanders. Five thousand pounds I bequeath to Mr. Joseph Slocomb as some return for his unfailing kindness and helpful advice. My nephew, Basil Pongleton, having incurred my grave displeasure, inherits nothing from me but his grandfather’s gold watch. The residue of my estate I leave to my niece, Beryl Sanders.”

  “Irregular, most irregular,” Mr. Stoggins murmured as he concluded the reading. “Should have been drawn up by a solicitor—but probably it can be upheld.”

  No one took any notice of him. They were all startled by the introduction of Mr. Slocomb’s name; too startled to realize at once the significance of that phrase about the pearls, which Basil was supposed to have returned to his aunt before the will was made. But Basil himself was more interested in a voice and a step which he heard in the hall outside, than even in the confirmation of his fear that he had been disinherited.

  “Just a minute,” he muttered. “I want to speak to Betty.”

  He did not notice that the inspector followed him quietly to the door.

  Betty, who had paused on her way through the hall to say something to Nellie, who was laying the tables for dinner, was pale, with dark shadows below her eyes. But she smiled at Basil.

  “Had an awful day? Poor old boy! I’ve got a rotten headache and came home a bit early. What’s up?”

  “It’s all right! They’ve found the pearls—in the chair!” he told her in a low voice. Betty showed no surprise. “And Aunt Phemia’s will too,” Basil went on. “It was in the same place—disinheriting me!”

  “In the chair too!” gasped Betty. “But it can’t have been— I mean it wasn’t...”

  “It was.”

  “Then it must have been put there later!”

  She had come towards Basil and was on a line with the door of the drawing-room. Something drew her to look in that direction and she saw Inspector Caird standing in the doorway, gazing at her enquiringly. She grasped Basil’s hand. Had she messed things up hopelessly after all?

  Inspector Caird came forward. “Mr. Basil Pongleton, I think I must ask you to come to the station for a talk, to clear up one or two matters. And perhaps Miss Watson can give us some information?”

  Beryl, followed by Uncle James and Mr. Stoggins, came out of the drawing-room. There were tears in her eyes and she blinked desperately, hoping to hide them.

  “I think I had better take my uncle home,” she said uncertainly, and with a question in her voice, to Inspector Caird. He nodded and they went out. James Pongleton looked dazed. The full significance of that sentence about the pearls in Phemia’s will was dawning upon him, but he could not reason it out. He wanted to get away from this strange house. He felt old and helpless.

  Inspector Caird signed to Basil and Betty to enter the drawing-room; he followed them and shut the door carefully. They sat side by side on the sofa and he faced them from the chair which had just disclosed its secrets. Betty sat upright and looked determined.

  “As you know, Miss Watson, I overheard what you said outside this door just now. ‘It must have been put there later.’ I think you may like to explain that. You probably realize that we are hampered in our enquiries by lack of information which someone is withholding. Do you wish to tell me anything more?”

  Betty had recovered her composure. She wrinkled her brows at him innocently. “I didn’t mean anything in particular—only that Miss Pongleton must have put the pearls down the side of the chair after Basil gave them back to her at tea-time on Wednesday, and then she must have put the will there later, after Nellie and Bob had witnessed it. We’ve all heard about that. It’s quite obvious, isn’t it?”

  “I see,” s
aid Inspector Caird, nodding slowly. “And you knew that Mr. Pongleton had them in his possession and—hm!—returned them to his aunt! I may have to ask you to make a statement later, so may I know if I shall find you here in, say, an hour or so?”

  “Certainly. I’m not going out to-night. Is there anything more I can tell you now?”

  “That is for you to say.”

  The door opened gently and Mr. Slocomb entered, for it was now half-past six, his usual time of arrival at the Frampton.

  “Inspector Caird! This is very fortunate!” he exclaimed cordially. “I was considering the best means of communicating with you. A further scrap of information which may be of use, though I do not know if it has any bearing on the matter. Can you spare me a moment? Nothing confidential, you know,” he added, with a glance at Betty and Basil.

  Inspector Caird seemed to sigh, but he rose and walked over to Mr. Blend’s table in the corner. Mr. Slocomb followed him.

  “You may remember that during our conversation on Friday night I told you of my belief that the dog-leash with which Miss Pongleton was—er—strangled was not in its accustomed place in the lounge hall on Thursday night, after young Thurlow had been here?”

  The inspector nodded.

  “I am now certain that it was not there. A little incident has come to my mind which fixes the matter beyond doubt, and I thought it right to inform you of this. On Thursday evening I had occasion to write a letter of some importance—on a business matter to a friend—and for this purpose I went into the smoking-room....”

  The inspector nodded again, with a trace of impatience.

  “On leaving that room at about ten o’clock, the question came into my mind whether Miss Pongleton’s little dog had been taken for a run that evening. Miss Pongleton herself was reluctant to venture out in the night air in the winter and it was customary among us here—we are a friendly family party, Inspector—for one or other of us to take the dog for his constitutional, as is advisable before he settles for the night. I therefore looked on the umbrella stand, as I passed through the hall, for his leash. The absence or presence of the leash would normally give a clue to the animal’s whereabouts.”