"I daresay, because it's perfectly true! Why I wasn't made a Superintendent years ago I shall never know! These two bits of wire, Sandy, show how the best laid plans of mice and men can gang agley!"
"Ma seadh!" said the Inspector, his hand on the doorknob. "But where you learned that Lowland accent I know not!" Upon which Parthian shot he circumspectly withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
Chapter Eighteen
They met on the following morning. The Inspector made a little gesture of incomprehension. "It becomes more and more duilich!" he said. "Unless they lied to me at Poulton's office, or he to them, they expect him to return this afternoon. I had the particulars of this conference he has gone to .attend from his head clerk. Och, I suspected there was no conference, but it is true enough!"
"Well, that doesn't surprise me," replied Hemingway. "Somehow it never seemed likely that a bird like Poulton would have skipped the country for good. Too hard a head, for one thing; and too much at stake for another. Not counting that wife of his. If, as seems the safest bet at the moment, he committed the second murder, I don't doubt he's got an unshakeable alibi up his sleeve."
"Now, that he cannot have," the Inspector said reasonably. "For well we know he was the last man to see the poor lady alive!"
"The murderer was the last man to see her alive, my lad, and don't you lose sight of that fact! If the murderer is Poulton, I shall find myself up against something,- because he hasn't got where he is without being a very cool customer! Now we'll get along to Charles Street!"
They reached Charles Street barely five minutes before the younger Mr.. Eddleston was also set down at the house, and were received by Miss Pickhill. She informed them that her niece was closeted with the dressmaker, who had arrived that morning with the altered black frock, and was making some final adjustments to it. She said, in rather a grudging way, that she had been agreeably surprised in Miss Birtley, who had not only come to the house at the correct hour, but had been helpful in drafting the notice for The Times, and ordering mourning-cards. Of her niece's activities she said nothing, but from the prim look round her withered mouth it was to be inferred that these had not met with her approval. The sealing of the two rooms seemed still to rankle in her mind; and she said with a good deal of asperity that she would insist upon being present when the Chief Inspector searched her sister's bedroom.
Young Mr.. Eddleston was discovered to be a middleaged man with the long upper-lip that was so often to be found amongst the members of his profession. He had been bred in a firm whose chief livelihood derived from Conveyancing; he was always opposed to any form of litigation, invariably advising his clients to keep out of the Law Courts; and, as he informed Hemingway at the outset, he had never before found himself involved in criminal proceedings. He said that he had very little knowledge of his late client's affairs: he had drafted her Will; he had conducted the negotiations for the leasing of her house; but he had rarely been called upon to advise her in affairs of more moment.
"I may say," he remarked, as the seals on the door of the boudoir were broken, and they entered this apartment, "that I was very much shocked by the intelligence you conveyed to me on the telephone last night, Chief Inspector. I was never at all intimate with Mrs. Haddington, but, as I told you, I think, it so happens that I had had a telephone conversation with her that very day. Nothing of importance: just a slight question about the repairs to this house; but I had quite a little chat with her, and she seemed to be in good spirits - quite herself! How little did I think that before nightfall she would be dead!"
"Did she say anything to you about the murder of Mr.. Seaton-Carew?" asked Hemingway, moving towards the desk.
"A few words! Just a few words! She was not a woman who ever wore her heart on her sleeve, as the saying is, and naturally I forbore to question her closely."
"Naturally," Hemingway agreed. "I daresay she was a good deal upset? An old friend, I understand?"
"So I believe," said Mr.. Eddleston, gravely nodding his head. "She was disinclined to discuss the matter, but I should not have described her as upset, precisely. A very unpleasant thing to happen in one's house!"
"Was that all Mrs. Haddington felt about it?" Hemingway asked.
"No doubt," said Mr.. Eddleston, "Mrs. Haddington was distressed to have lost a friend under such tragic circumstances; but I am quite sure there was no reason for her to feel - um - any stronger emotion! Indeed, I can confidently assert that she did not feel such an emotion. We conversed together perfectly cheerfully for several minutes, first about her landlord's liabilities; then about possible marriage settlements for Miss Cynthia - poor child, this will have come as a crushing blow to her! Then Mrs. Haddington desired me to furnish her with certain information about the Marriage and Legitimacy Acts, for a friend of hers; and I think that was all - no, not quite! Mrs. Haddington wished to know what her legal position was in regard to her servants' wages, two of whom, as I understood, had threatened to leave without the customary notice given."
As he spoke, he seated himself at the desk; but before he opened it, he cast a glance round the room, and said, with a cough: "This, I believe, is the actual room where… ?"
"That chair," said Hemingway, indicating it.
Mr.. Eddleston set his pince-nez on his nose the better to survey the fatal chair. He then said: "Terrible! Terrible!" and turned his attention to the desk.
There was nothing amongst the papers discovered in it to give the slightest indication of who might have killed Mrs. Haddington, or from what source she had derived the greater part of her income. She had never consulted her solicitors on the disposal of her property; Mr.. Eddleston only knew that she was a woman of considerable substance. Pressed, he admitted that he had had reason, during the past years, to assume that her investments had been fortunate; but he was ignorant of the sum bequeathed to her by her husband, a gentleman whose affairs he had not handled. He disclosed to Hemingway that her Will was a very simple document: she had left everything of which she died possessed to her daughter. Until the Will was proved, her trustees, of whom he was one, could not know the size of her estate.
The desk contained such oddments as a ball of string, a pair of large scissors in a leather case, paper clips, visiting-cards, and wrapping-paper. The only documents of possible interest were some Bank Pass-sheets, and an investment book. A cursory glance at this yielded little information, beyond the bare fact that Mrs. Haddington's investments had been many, and, apparently, sound. The Pass-sheets showed a small over-draft: it was plain that Mrs. Haddington had been living for some time rather beyond her very large income.
This was shown to be much too large in an epoch when not the largest fortune was permitted to yield its owner more than five thousand pounds yearly, nor did the entries on the credit side bear any relation to certain outgoing sums made payable to the Commissioners of Inland Revenue. This discrepancy was accounted for by the frequent occurrence of the word Cash against some of the sums received. Mr.. Eddleston, peering at these, looked faintly revolted, but said, removing his pince-nez from his nose and polishing the lenses with his handkerchief: "It is regrettable, Chief Inspector, but, I fear, inevitable under our present system of taxation, that more and more people are being forced to evade excessive taxation by employing shifts they would not, I venture to state, have stooped even to contemplate ten years ago."
"It might be that, of course," Hemingway said, shutting the leather folder which contained the Pass-sheets. "I shall want this, sir."
"Certainly," said Mr.. Eddleston. "You are, of course, entitled to retain whatever you wish."
"There's nothing else I want here, thank you, sir. She doesn't seem to have kept many papers. We may find some more in her bedroom."
When they left the boudoir, they found Miss Pickhill hovering outside the drawing-room, on the landing above. She eyed them with some hostility, and informed young Mr.. Eddleston that she was bound to say she was surprised at his conduct. He very unwisely tried to expla
in the difficulties of his position to her. Before he had in any way convinced her either that he was powerless to prevent the police from searching her sister's house or that his father would have acted otherwise, a further interruption occurred. Thrimby came up the stairs, bearing, on a silver salver, a large, square-cut emerald, set in diamond claws on a platinum bar. This he presented to Hemingway, saying: "Madam's brooch, Chief Inspector, which she lost yesterday afternoon, and asked to have carefully looked-for. I fancy the safetycatch is defective, for it was found slipped down the side of one of the armchairs in the drawing-room. I thought it best, sir," he added, staring over Miss Pickhill's head, "to give it into your charge."
As Hemingway picked the brooch up, and looked at its catch, which was indeed loose, Cynthia appeared at the head of the stairs, with Miss Spennymoor behind her. Cynthia was clad in the altered black frock. She looked ethereally fair, but her beauty was spoilt by a sullen pout.
She exclaimed, on catching sight of the brooch: "That's Mummy's! What are you doing with it?"
She came running down the stairs, and almost snatched it from Hemingway's hand. Miss Pickhill, clucking her displeasure, explained the circumstances to her, whereupon she said: "I know the catch is loose. It came undone at tea-time, and Mummy said she must take it to be mended." She began to pin it to the bosom of her frock, adding: "Has the chemist sent yet, Thrimby?"
No, miss.,
"Well, Miss Birtley can dam' well go and collect the stuff! It's no use giving me marvellous medicines if they're not even sent for me to take!"
"Cynthia, I beg you will take that brooch off at once!" Miss Pickhill said, her cheeks showing a heightened colour. "It isn't decent! Besides, emeralds for a girl of your age - ! Let alone that you are in deep mourning!"
"All that sort of thing is hopelessly out-of-date!" Cynthia declared. "I don't mind wearing this ghastly rag just at first, but I'm not going to stay in mourning for a year! I'd rather die! What's more, all Mummy's things are mine now, and I have a perfect right to do what I like with them! Haven't I?" she demanded, turning to Mr.. Eddleston.
This gentleman, finding himself much in sympathy with Miss Pickhill, coughed, and suggested that perhaps it would be more proper if the brooch were put amongst Mrs. Haddington's other jewels, until the Will had at least been read. Cynthia at once displayed a lamentable desire to argue the point, but her aunt, of whom she secretly stood rather in awe, clinched the matter by wresting the trinket from her, and announcing her intention of bestowing it in her sister's jewel-case with her own hands. Cynthia then complained of the total lack of sympathy she met with on all sides, and added that Mummy always kept her jewel-box locked, anyway, and as nobody knew where her keys were it would puzzle her aunt to put the brooch with the other jewels.
"I have Mrs. Haddington's keys, miss," Hemingway interposed. "They were in her handbag - some of them, that is. Perhaps you can tell me what they belong to?"
"I call it pretty good cheek of you to take my mother's keys without asking me first!" said Cynthia. "That's the one to her jewel-box, and the other's the little desk in her room. And that's her latch-key. And if you're going to unlock her room now, I'm coming too!"
"Cynthia, dear child!" said Miss Pickhill, repressing, as a Christian, her strong desire to box her niece's ears, "there is no need for you to do that. I will accompany these Persons. You do not want, I am sure, to go into your poor mother's room today."
"Yes, I do," asserted Cynthia obstinately. "Of course it'll practically kill me, but I've got to face it sometime, haven't I? And if I havee to wear this dingy frock, I don't see why I shouldn't have that marvellous black-andsilver scarf of Mummy's, to go with it. She'd like me to: I know she would!"
Miss Pickhill found this speech so daunting that she was unable to think of a reply to it that would not violate her own canons of behaviour towards the bereaved.
Inspector Grant, averting his grave eyes from the pretty, spoilt face of the orphan, encountered a glance from Hemingway, and went up the stairs, carrying the key to Mrs. Haddington's bedroom in his hand. With the exceptions of Miss Spennymoor and Thrimby, the party followed him.
The room was in darkness, the heavy curtains of brocaded silk still being drawn across the windows.
When these had been pulled back, it was seen that Mrs. Haddington's dinner-gown of black velvet had been laid out on the bed, her opulent dressing-gown disposed across a chair, and a pair of paper-thin stockings placed ready for her to put on. Miss Pickhill drew in her breath with a hissing sound, and Cynthia burst into tears. However, when it was suggested to her that she should withdraw from a scene so painfully reminiscent of her loss, she stopped crying, very nobly announcing her determination to face facts, and went to powder her face at the dressing-table between the two windows.
The furniture in the room, besides the bed and the dressing-table, included an enormous wardrobe of Victorian design, the central division of which contained shelves and drawers; an upholstered day-bed, several chairs, and a small walnut bureau on cabriole legs, which stood on one side of the fireplace. The top of this contained nothing of more interest than two cheque-books; an engagement diary; a bundle of letters tied up with faded ribbon, which a cursory glance informed Hemingway were the letters Cynthia had written to her mother from school; and a quantity of writing-paper and envelopes. There were three drawers to the bureau, the two small top ones containing such oddments as sealing-wax, a supply of postcards, stamps and telegraph-forms; the long drawer beneath them was, unlike them, locked. In it lay a piece of petit-point, with the needle still stuck in it, a sewing-bag, and, lying beneath the unfinished embroidery, a large black lace fan, mounted on ebony sticks.
The sight of it most vividly conjured up the picture of Mrs. Haddington, as he had first seen her, to Hemingway's memory. She had been holding the fan between her ringed hands, gripping it rather tightly when some question he had asked her annoyed, or perhaps alarmed her. Hemingway lifted it out of the drawer, staring at it. Across the polished guards several deep scratches were visible, andd where the lace-leaf protruded beyond them he saw that it had been slightly torn. Standing with his back to the room, he carefully opened the fan, observing as he did so that it had suffered some kind of a wrench which had thrown the sticks out of the straight. The tear in the lace cut irregularly across the leaf, small holes occurring here and there only, but always in the same diagonal line. He shut it, found Grant at his elbow, and gave it to him, muttering: "Take that, and keep your mouth shut!"
"You won't find anything in there," Cynthia said, over her shoulder. "That's only where Mummy keeps her work!"
Hemingway shut the drawer. "So I see, miss. Now, if you'll be so good, I should like just to look inside the wardrobe."
"I find it most objectionable to have my poor sister's clothing pawed about by Men!" announced Miss Pickhill, her eyes snapping.
"I shan't disturb anything more than I need, madam. Yes, I see: dresses in the side-wings: I don't want to touch anything there, thank you. If I may see inside the central division?"
As he had expected, shelves, with drawers below them, were concealed by the double doors in the middle of the wardrobe. On one of the shelves a large jewel-box stood, beside a glove-box, and a quilted handkerchief sachet.
Miss Pickhill, perceiving this, instantly called upon Mr.. Eddleston to open it, and to place in it the emerald brooch, which she was still holding. "And for the present," she said, "I consider the case ought to be in safe custody! Perhaps you will take charge of it! My sister possessed some very valuable jewels."
Cynthia at once protested, pointing out that it had nothing to do with her aunt. Miss Pickhill retorted that as her niece's guardian it had everything to do with her, a pronouncement which caused Cynthia to express an impassioned wish that she too were dead. Meanwhile Mr.. Eddleston, carefully avoiding the Chief Inspector's speaking eye, lifted the box out of the wardrobe, and asked for its key. Hemingway handed it to him, and he unlocked the box, disclosing a collection
of ornaments of a fashionable rather than a valuable nature, tumbled into a velvet-lined tray.
"That isn't where Mummy puts her good stuff!" Cynthia said scornfully. "Oh, couldn't I just have those paste-clips to wear now? I don't see why I shouldn't! They aren't real, but they'd look rather marvellous on this frock. Mummy used to wear them with it. They go with it!"
"Jewellery is not worn with deep mourning!" said Miss Pickhill. "Can you think of nothing but personal adornment, child?"
"I think you're most unfair!" Cynthia cried, tears once more starting to her eyes. "You know I'm absolutely shattered, and you begged me to try not to think about it, and the instant I manage to take my mind off it you're beastly to me!"
Mr.. Eddleston, who was beginning to look harassed, lifted out the tray of the jewel-box, and laid it aside. A number of leather cases were stacked under the tray.
"If you must put the brooch away, just as if you thought I meant to steal it," said Cynthia, "this blue case is where it lives." She lifted the case out as she spoke, and gave an involuntary exclamation. "My compact!"
Under the blue-leather case lay a powder-compact, its lid covered in petit-point.
Cynthia dropped the blue case on the floor, and eagerly snatched the compact from the box. Her cheeks were suddenly flushed, and her eyes sparkling. She cast a quick look at Hemingway, and said: "It's the one I lost. My favourite one! Mummy must have found it, and - and put it here to be safe!"
"Nonsense, child!" said Miss Pickhill. "Why should your mother have done any such thing? Put it back, for goodness' sake!"
"It's mine, I tell you! It's mine!" Cynthia declared clasping it tightly to her bosom. "It's' the one Dan gave me! No one but me has any right to it!"
"May I see it, miss?" said Hemingway, holding out his hand.
She backed away from him, frightened, staring at him. "No! Why should you? It isn't my mother's! Send for Miss Birtley! She'll tell you it's truly mine!"
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