“I shall be happy to give you any information if it is proper for me to do so,” said the lawyer.
“It concerns the late Captain Trevelyan’s will,” said Narracott. “I understand the will is here in your office.”
“That is so.”
“It was made some time ago?”
“Five or six years ago. I cannot be sure of the exact date at the moment.”
“Ah! I am anxious, Mr. Kirkwood, to know the contents of that will as soon as possible. It may have an important bearing on the case.”
“Indeed?” said the lawyer. “Indeed! I should not have thought that, but naturally you know your own business best, Inspector. Well—” he glanced across at the other man. “Major Burnaby and myself are joint executors of the will. If he has no objection—”
“None.”
“Then I see no reason why I should not accede to your request, Inspector.”
Taking a telephone that stood on his desk he spoke a few words down it. In two or three minutes a clerk entered the room and laid a sealed envelope in front of the lawyer. The clerk left the room, Mr. Kirkwood picked up the envelope, slit it open with a paper knife and drew out a large and important-looking document, cleared his throat and began to read—
“I, Joseph Arthur Trevelyan, of Sittaford House, Sittaford, in the County of Devon, declare this to be my last will and testament which I make this thirteenth day of August nineteen hundred and twenty-six.
“(1) I appoint John Edward Burnaby of 1 The Cottages, Sittaford, and Frederick Kirkwood of Exhampton, to be the executors and trustees of this, my will.
“(2) I give to Robert Henry Evans, who has served me long and faithfully, the sum of £100 (one hundred pounds) free of legacy duty for his own benefit absolutely, provided that he is in my service at the time of my death and not under notice to leave whether given or received.
“(3) I give the said John Edward Burnaby, as a token of our friendship and of my affection and regard for him, all my trophies of sport, including my collection of heads and pelts of big game as well as any challenge cups and prizes awarded to me in any department of sport and any spoils of the chase in my possession.
“(4) I give all my real and personal property, not otherwise disposed of by this, my will, or any codicil hereto, to my Trustees upon Trust that my Trustees shall sell, call in and convert the same into money.
“(5) My Trustees shall out of the moneys to arise out of such sale, calling in and conversion pay any funeral and testamentary expenses and debts, and the legacies given by this, my will, or any codicil hereto and all death duties and other moneys.
“(6) My Trustees shall hold the residue of such moneys or the investments for the time being, representing the same upon Trust to divide the same into four equal parts or shares.
“(7) Upon such division as aforesaid my Trustees shall hold one such equal fourth part or share upon Trust to pay the same to my sister Jennifer Gardner for her own use and enjoyment absolutely.
“And my Trustees shall hold the remaining three such equal fourth parts or shares upon Trust to pay one such equal fourth part or share to each of the three children of my deceased sister, Mary Pearson, for the benefit of each such child absolutely.
“In Witness whereof I, the said Joseph Arthur Trevelyan, have hereunto set my hand the day and year first above written.
“Signed by the above names Testator as his last will in the presence of us both present at the same time, who in his presence and at his request and in the presence of each other have hereunto subscribed our names as witness.”
Mr. Kirkwood handed the document to the Inspector.
“Witnessed by two of my clerks in this office.”
The Inspector ran his eye over the will thoughtfully.
“My deceased sister, Mary Pearson,” he said. “Can you tell me anything about Mrs. Pearson, Mr. Kirkwood?”
“Very little. She died about ten years ago, I believe. Her husband, a stockbroker, had predeceased her. As far as I know, she never visited Captain Trevelyan here.”
“Pearson,” said the Inspector again. Then he added: “One thing more. The amount of Captain Trevelyan’s estate is not mentioned. To what sum do you think it will amount?”
“That is difficult to say exactly,” said Mr. Kirkwood, enjoying, like all lawyers, making the reply to a simple question difficult. “It is a question of real or personal estate. Besides Sittaford House, Captain Trevelyan owns some property in the neighbourhood of Plymouth, and various investments he made from time to time have fluctuated in value.”
“I just want an approximate idea,” said Inspector Narracott.
“I should not like to commit myself—”
“Just the roughest estimate as a guide. For instance would twenty thousand pounds be out of the way?”
“Twenty thousand pounds. My dear sir! Captain Trevelyan’s estate will be worth at least four times as much as that. Eighty or even ninety thousand pounds will be much nearer the mark.”
“I told you Trevelyan was a rich man,” said Burnaby.
Inspector Narracott rose.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Kirkwood,” he said, “for the information you have given me.”
“You think you will find it helpful, eh?”
The lawyer very clearly was agog with curiosity, but Inspector Narracott was in no mood to satisfy it at present.
“In a case like this we have to take everything into account,” he said, noncommittally. “By the way, have you the names and addresses of this Jennifer Gardner and of the Pearson family?”
“I know nothing of the Pearson family. Mrs. Gardner’s address is The Laurels, Waldon Road, Exeter.”
The Inspector noted it down in his book.
“That will do to get on with,” he said. “You don’t know how many children the late Mrs. Pearson left?”
“Three, I fancy. Two girls and a boy—or possibly two boys and a girl—I cannot remember which.”
The Inspector nodded and put away his notebook and thanked the lawyer once more and took his departure.
When they had reached the street, he turned suddenly and faced his companion.
“And now, sir,” he said, “we’ll have the truth about the twenty-five past five business.”
Major Burnaby’s face reddened with annoyance.
“I have told you already—”
“That won’t go down with me. Withholding information, that is what you are doing, Major Burnaby. You must have had some idea in mentioning that specific time to Dr. Warren—and I think I have a very good idea of what that something is.”
“Well, if you know about it, why ask me?” growled the Major.
“I take it that you were aware that a certain person had an appointment with Captain Trevelyan somewhere about that time. Now, isn’t that so?”
Major Burnaby stared at him in surprise.
“Nothing of the kind,” he snarled, “nothing of the kind.”
“Be careful, Major Burnaby. What about Mr. James Pearson?”
“James Pearson? James Pearson, who’s he? Do you mean one of Trevelyan’s nephews?”
“I presume it would be a nephew. He had one called James, hadn’t he?”
“Not the least idea. Trevelyan had nephews—I know that. But what their names were, I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
“The young man in question was at the Three Crowns last night. You probably recognized him there.”
“I didn’t recognize anybody,” growled the Major. “Shouldn’t anyway—never saw any of Trevelyan’s nephews in my life.”
“But you knew that Captain Trevelyan was expecting a nephew to call upon him yesterday afternoon?”
“I did not,” roared the Major.
Several people in the street turned round to stare at him.
“Damn it, won’t you take plain truth! I knew nothing about any appointment. Trevelyan’s nephews may have been in Timbuctoo for all I knew about them.”
Inspector Narracott was a l
ittle taken aback. The Major’s vehement denial bore the mark of truth too plainly for him to be deceived.
“Then why this twenty-five past five business?”
“Oh! well—I suppose I had better tell you,” the Major coughed in an embarrassed fashion. “But mind you—the whole thing is damned foolishness! Tommy rot, sir. How any thinking man can believe such nonsense!”
Inspector Narracott looked more and more surprised. Major Burnaby was looking more uncomfortable and ashamed of himself every minute.
“You know what it is, Inspector. You have to join in these things to please a lady. Of course, I never thought there was anything in it.”
“In what, Major Burnaby?”
“Table-turning.”
“Table-turning?”
Whatever Narracott had expected he had not expected this. The Major proceeded to explain himself. Haltingly, and with many disclaimers of his own belief in the thing, he described the events of the previous afternoon and the message that had purported to come through for himself.
“You mean, Major Burnaby, that the table spelt out the name of Trevelyan and informed you that he was dead—murdered?”
Major Burnaby wiped his forehead.
“Yes, that’s what happened. I didn’t believe in it—naturally, I didn’t believe in it.” He looked ashamed. “Well—it was Friday and I thought after all I would make sure and go along and see if everything was all right.”
The Inspector reflected on the difficulties of that six mile walk, with the piled-up snowdrifts and the prospect of a heavy snowfall, and he realized that deny it as he would Major Burnaby must have been deeply impressed by the spirit message. Narracott turned it over in his mind. A queer thing to happen—a very queer thing to happen. The sort of thing you couldn’t explain satisfactorily. There might be something in this spirit business after all. It was the first well-authenticated case he had come across.
A very queer business altogether but, as far as he could see, though it explained Major Burnaby’s attitude, it had no practical bearing on the case as far as he himself was concerned. He had to deal with the physical world and not the psychic.
It was his job to track down the murderer.
And to do that he required no guidance from the spirit world.
Eight
MR. CHARLES ENDERBY
Glancing at his watch, the Inspector realized he could just catch the train for Exeter if he hurried off. He was anxious to interview the late Captain Trevelyan’s sister as soon as possible and obtain from her the addresses of the other members of the family. So, with a hurried word of farewell to Major Burnaby, he raced off to the station. The Major retraced his steps to the Three Crowns. He had hardly put a foot across the doorstep when he was accosted by a bright young man with a very shiny head and a round, boyish face.
“Major Burnaby?” said the young man.
“Yes.”
“Of No. 1 Sittaford Cottages?”
“Yes,” said Major Burnaby.
“I represent the Daily Wire,” said the young man, “and I—”
He got no further. In true military fashion of the old school, the Major exploded.
“Not another word,” he roared. “I know you and your kind. No decency. No reticence. Clustering round a murder like vultures round a carcass, but I can tell you, young man, you will get no information from me. Not a word. No story for your damned paper. If you want to know anything, go and ask the police, and have the decency to leave the friends of the dead man alone.”
The young man seemed not a whit taken aback. He smiled more encouragingly than ever.
“I say, sir, you know you have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I know nothing about this murder business.”
This was not, strictly speaking, the truth. No one in Exhampton could pretend ignorance of the event that had shaken the quiet moorland town to its core.
“I am empowered on behalf of the Daily Wire,” went on the young man, “to hand you this cheque for £5,000 and congratulate you on sending in the only correct solution of our football competition.”
Major Burnaby was completely taken aback.
“I have no doubt,” continued the young man, “that you have already received our letter yesterday morning informing you of the good news.”
“Letter?” said Major Burnaby. “Do you realize, young man, that Sittaford is about ten feet deep in snow? What chance do you think we have had in the last few days of a regular delivery of letters?”
“But doubtless you saw your name announced as winner in the Daily Wire, this morning?”
“No,” said Major Burnaby. “I haven’t glanced at the paper this morning.”
“Ah! of course not,” said the young man. “This sad business. The murdered man was a friend of yours, I understand.”
“My best friend,” said the Major.
“Hard lines,” said the young man tactfully averting his eyes. Then he drew from his pocket a small folded piece of mauve paper and handed it to Major Burnaby with a bow.
“With the compliments of the Daily Wire,” he said.
Major Burnaby took it and said the only thing possible under the circumstances.
“Have a drink, Mr.—er—?”
“Enderby, Charles Enderby my name is. I got here last night,” he explained. “Made inquiries about getting to Sittaford. We make it a point to hand cheques to winners personally. Always publish a little interview. Interests our readers. Well, everyone told me it was out of the question—the snow was falling and it simply couldn’t be done, and then with the greatest good luck I find you are actually here, staying at the Three Crowns.” He smiled. “No difficulty about identification. Everybody seems to know everybody else in this part of the world.”
“What will you have?” said the Major.
“Beer for me,” said Enderby.
The Major ordered two beers.
“The whole place seems off its head with this murder,” remarked Enderby. “Rather a mysterious business by all accounts.”
The Major grunted. He was in something of a quandary. His sentiments towards journalists remained unchanged, but a man who has just handed you a cheque for £5,000 is in a privileged position. You cannot very well tell him to go to the devil.
“No enemies, had he?” asked the young man.
“No,” said the Major.
“But I hear the police don’t think it is robbery,” went on Enderby.
“How do you know that?” asked the Major.
Mr. Enderby, however, did not reveal the source of his information.
“I hear it was you who actually discovered the body, sir,” said the young man.
“Yes.”
“It must have been an awful shock.”
The conversation proceeded. Major Burnaby was still determined to give no information, but he was no match for the adroitness of Mr. Enderby. The latter made statements with which the Major was forced to agree or disagree, thereby providing the information the young man wanted. So pleasant was his manner, however, that the process was really not painful at all and the Major found himself taking quite a liking to the ingenuous young man.
Presently, Mr. Enderby rose and observed that he must go along to the post office.
“If you will just give me a receipt for that cheque, sir.”
The Major went across to the writing table, wrote a receipt and handed it to him.
“Splendid,” said the young man and slipped it into his pocket.
“I suppose,” said Major Burnaby, “that you are off back to London today?”
“Oh! no,” said the young man. “I want to take a few photographs, you know, of your cottage at Sittaford, and of you feeding the pigs, or hoeing up the dandelions, or doing anything characteristic that you fancy. You have no idea how our readers appreciate that sort of thing. Then I would like to have a few words from you on ‘What I intend to do with the £5,000.’ ” Something snappy. You have no idea how disappointed our readers would be if they didn’t get
that sort of thing.”
“Yes, but look here—it’s impossible to get to Sittaford in this weather. The fall of snow was exceptionally heavy. No vehicle has been able to take the road for three days anyway, and it may be another three before the thaw sets in properly.”
“I know,” said the young man, “it is awkward. Well, well, one will just have to resign oneself to kicking up one’s heels in Exhampton. They do you pretty well at the Three Crowns. So long, sir, see you later.”
He emerged into the main street of Exhampton and made his way to the post office and wired his paper that by the greatest of good luck he would be able to supply them with tasty and exclusive information on the Exhampton Murder Case.
He reflected on his next course of action and decided on interviewing the late Captain Trevelyan’s servant, Evans, whose name Major Burnaby had incautiously let slip during their conversation.
A few inquiries brought him to 85 Fore Street. The servant of the murdered man was a person of importance today. Everyone was willing and anxious to point out where he lived.
Enderby beat a smart rat-tat on the door. It was opened by a man so typically an ex-sailor that Enderby had no doubt of his identity.
“Evans, isn’t it?” said Enderby cheerfully. “I have just come along from Major Burnaby.”
“Oh—” Evans hesitated a moment. “Will you come in, sir.”
Enderby accepted the invitation. A buxom young woman with dark hair and red cheeks hovered in the background. Enderby judged her as the newlywed Mrs. Evans.
“Bad thing about your late master,” said Enderby.
“It’s shocking, sir, that’s what it is.”
“Who do you think did it?” demanded Enderby with an ingenuous air of seeking information.
“One of those low-down tramps, I suppose,” said Evans.
“Oh! no, my dear man. That theory is quite exploded.”
“Eh?”
“That’s all a put-up job. The police saw through that at once.”
“Who told you that, sir?”
Enderby’s real informant had been the housemaid at the Three Crowns whose sister was the legal spouse of Constable Graves, but he replied:
“Had a tip from headquarters. Yes, the burglary idea was all a put-up job.”
The Sittaford Mystery Page 5