“Who do they think did it then?” demanded Mrs. Evans, coming forward. Her eyes looked frightened and eager.
“Now, Rebecca, don’t you take on so,” said her husband.
“Cruel stupid the police are,” said Mrs. Evans. “Don’t mind who they take up as long as they get hold of someone.” She cast a quick glance at Enderby.
“Are you connected with the police, sir?”
“Me? Oh! no. I am from a newspaper, the Daily Wire. I came down to see Major Burnaby. He has just won our Free Football Competition for £5,000.”
“What?” cried Evans. “Damn it all, then those things are square after all.”
“Didn’t you think they were?” asked Enderby.
“Well, it’s a wicked world, sir.” Evans was a little confused, feeling that his exclamation had been wanting in tact. “I have heard there’s a lot of trickery concerned. The late Capting used to say that a prize never went to a good address. That’s why he used mine time and again.”
With a certain näiveté he described the Captain’s winning of three new novels.
Enderby encouraged him to talk. He saw a very good story being made out of Evans. The faithful servant—old sea dog touch. He wondered just a little why Mrs. Evans seemed so nervous, he put it down to the suspicious ignorance of her class.
“You find the skunk that done it,” said Evans. “Newspapers can do a lot, they say, in hunting down criminals.”
“It was a burglar,” said Mrs. Evans. “That’s what it was.”
“Of course, it was a burglar,” said Evans. “Why, there’s no one in Exhampton would want to harm the Capting.”
Enderby rose.
“Well,” he said. “I must be going. I will run in now and then and have a little chat if I may. If the Captain won three new novels in a Daily Wire Competition, the Daily Wire ought to make it a personal matter to hunt down his murderer.”
“You can’t say fairer than that, sir. No, you can’t say fairer than that.”
Wishing them a cheery good day, Charles Enderby took his leave.
“I wonder who really did the beggar in?” he murmured to himself. “I don’t think our friend Evans. Perhaps it was a burglar! Very disappointing, if so. Doesn’t seem any woman in the case, which is a pity. We’ve got to have some sensational development soon or the case will fade into insignificance. Just my luck, if so. First time I have ever been on the spot in a matter of this kind. I must make good. Charles, my boy, your chance in life has come. Make the most of it. Our military friend will, I see, soon be eating out of my hand if I remember to be sufficiently respectful and call him ‘sir’ often enough. Wonder if he was in the Indian Mutiny. No, of course not, not old enough for that. The South African War, that’s it. Ask him about the South African War, that will tame him.”
And pondering these resolutions in his mind Mr. Enderby sauntered back to the Three Crowns.
Nine
THE LAURELS
It takes about half an hour from Exhampton to Exeter by train. At five minutes to twelve Inspector Narracott was ringing the front door bell of The Laurels.
The Laurels was a somewhat dilapidated house, badly in need of a new coat of paint. The garden round it was unkempt and weedy and the gate hung askew on its hinges.
“Not too much money about here,” thought Inspector Narracott to himself. “Evidently hard up.”
He was a very fair-minded man, but inquiries seemed to indicate that there was very little possibility of the Captain’s having been done to death by an enemy. On the other hand, four people, as far as he could make out, stood to gain a considerable sum by the old man’s death. The movements of each of these four people had got to be inquired into. The entry in the hotel register was suggestive, but after all Pearson was quite a common name. Inspector Narracott was anxious not to come to any decision too rapidly and to keep a perfectly open mind whilst covering the preliminary ground as rapidly as possible.
A somewhat slatternly-looking maid answered the bell.
“Good afternoon,” said Inspector Narracott. “I want to see Mrs. Gardner, please. It is in connection with the death of her brother, Captain Trevelyan, at Exhampton.”
He purposely did not hand his official card to the maid. The mere fact of his being a police officer, as he knew by experience, would render her awkward and tongue-tied.
“She’s heard of her brother’s death?” asked the Inspector casually as the maid drew back to let him into the hall.
“Yes, got a telegram she did. From the lawyer, Mr. Kirkwood.”
“Just so,” said Inspector Narracott.
The maid ushered him into the drawing room—a room which, like the outside of the house, was badly in need of a little money spent upon it, but yet had, with all that, an air of charm which the Inspector felt without being able to particularize the why and wherefore of it.
“Must have been a shock to your mistress,” he observed.
The girl seemed a little vague about that, he noticed.
“She didn’t see much of him,” was her answer.
“Shut the door and come here,” said Inspector Narracott.
He was anxious to try the effect of a surprise attack.
“Did the telegram say that it was murder?” he asked.
“Murder!”
The girl’s eyes opened wide, a mixture of horror and intense enjoyment in them. “Murdered was he?”
“Ah!” said Inspector Narracott, “I thought you hadn’t heard that. Mr. Kirkwood didn’t want to break the news too abruptly to your mistress, but you see, my dear—what is your name, by the way?”
“Beatrice, sir.”
“Well, you see, Beatrice, it will be in the evening papers tonight.”
“Well, I never,” said Beatrice. “Murdered. ’orrible, isn’t it? Did they bash his head in or shoot him or what?”
The Inspector satisfied her passion for detail, then added casually, “I believe there was some idea of your mistress going over to Exhampton yesterday afternoon. But I suppose the weather was too bad for her.”
“I never heard anything about it, sir,” said Beatrice. “I think you must have made a mistake. The mistress went out in the afternoon to do some shopping and then she went to the Pictures.”
“What time did she get in?”
“About six o’clock.”
So that let Mrs. Gardner out.
“I don’t know much about the family,” he went on in a casual tone. “Is Mrs. Gardner a widow?”
“Oh, no, sir, there’s master.”
“What does he do?”
“He doesn’t do anything,” said Beatrice staring. “He can’t. He’s an invalid.”
“An invalid, is he? Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.”
“He can’t walk. He lies in bed all day. Got a nurse always in the house we have. It isn’t every girl what stays on with an ’ospital nurse in the house the whole time. Always wanting trays carried up and pots of tea made.”
“Must be very trying,” said the Inspector soothingly. “Now, will you go and tell your mistress, please, that I am here from Mr. Kirkwood of Exhampton?”
Beatrice withdrew, and a few minutes later the door opened and a tall, rather commanding woman came into the room. She had an unusual-looking face, broad about the brows, and black hair with a touch of grey at the temples, which she wore combed straight back from her forehead. She looked at the Inspector inquiringly.
“You have come from Mr. Kirkwood at Exhampton?”
“Not exactly, Mrs. Gardner. I put it that way to your maid. Your brother, Captain Trevelyan, was murdered yesterday afternoon and I am Divisional Inspector Narracott in charge of the case.”
Whatever else Mrs. Gardner might be she was certainly a woman of iron nerve. Her eyes narrowed and she drew in her breath sharply, then motioning the Inspector to a chair and sitting down herself she said:
“Murdered! How extraordinary! Who in the world would want to murder Joe?”
“That is what I�
�m anxious to find out, Mrs. Gardner.”
“Of course. I hope I shall be able to help you in some way, but I doubt it. My brother and I have seen very little of each other in the last ten years. I know nothing of his friends or of any ties he has formed.”
“You’ll excuse me, Mrs. Gardner, but had you and your brother quarrelled?”
“No—not quarrelled. I think estranged would be a better word to describe the position between us. I don’t want to go into family details, but my brother rather resented my marriage. Brothers, I think, seldom approve of their sisters’ choice, but usually, I fancy, they conceal it better than my brother did. My brother, as perhaps you know, had a large fortune left him by an aunt. Both my sister and myself married poor men. When my husband was invalided out of the army after the war with shell shock, a little financial assistance would have been a wonderful relief—would have enabled me to give him an expensive course of treatment which was otherwise denied to him. I asked my brother for a loan which he refused. That, of course, he was perfectly entitled to do. But since then we have met at very rare intervals, and hardly corresponded at all.”
It was a clear succinct statement.
An intriguing personality, this Mrs. Gardner’s, the Inspector thought. Somehow, he couldn’t quite make her out. She seemed unnaturally calm, unnaturally ready with her recital of facts. He also noticed that, with all her surprise, she asked for no details of her brother’s death. That struck him as extraordinary.
“I don’t know if you want to hear what exactly occurred—at Exhampton,” he began.
She frowned.
“Must I hear it? My brother was killed—painlessly, I hope.”
“Quite painlessly, I should say.”
“Then please spare me any revolting details.”
“Unnatural,” thought the Inspector, “decidedly unnatural.”
As though she had read his mind she used the word that he had spoken to himself.
“I suppose you think that very unnatural, Inspector, but—I have heard a good many horrors. My husband has told me things when he has had one of his bad turns—” she shivered. “I think you would understand if you knew my circumstances better.”
“Oh! quite so, quite so, Mrs. Gardner. What I really came for was to get a few family details from you.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know how many relatives living your brother has besides yourself?”
“Of near relations, only the Pearsons. My sister Mary’s children.”
“And they are?”
“James, Sylvia and Brian.”
“James?”
“He is the eldest. He works in an Insurance Office.”
“What age is he?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Is he married?”
“No, but he is engaged—to a very nice girl, I believe. I’ve not yet met her.”
“And his address?”
“21 Cromwell Street, S.W.3.”
The Inspector noted it down.
“Yes, Mrs. Gardner?”
“Then there’s Sylvia. She’s married to Martin Dering—you may have read his books. He’s a moderately successful author.”
“Thank you, and their address?”
“The Nook, Surrey Road, Wimbledon.”
“Yes?”
“And the youngest is Brian—but he is out in Australia. I am afraid I don’t know his address, but either his brother or sister would know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gardner. Just a matter of form, do you mind my asking you how you spent yesterday afternoon?”
She looked surprised.
“Let me see. I did some shopping—yes—then I went to the Pictures. I came home about six and lay down on my bed until dinner, as the Pictures had given me rather a headache.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gardner.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No, I don’t think I have anything further to ask you. I will now get into communication with your nephew and niece. I don’t know if Mr. Kirkwood has informed you of the fact yet, but you and the three young Pearsons are the joint inheritors of Captain Trevelyan’s money.”
The colour came into her face in a slow, rich blush.
“That will be wonderful,” she said quietly. “It has been so difficult—so terribly difficult—always skimping and saving and wishing.”
She started up as a man’s rather querulous voice came floating down the stairs.
“Jennifer, Jennifer, I want you.”
“Excuse me,” she said.
As she opened the door the call came again, louder and more imperiously.
“Jennifer, where are you? I want you, Jennifer.”
The Inspector had followed her to the door. He stood in the hall looking after her as she ran up the stairs.
“I am coming, dear,” she called.
A hospital nurse who was coming down the stairs stood aside to let her pass up.
“Please go to Mr. Gardner, he is getting very excited. You always manage to calm him.”
Inspector Narracott stood deliberately in the nurse’s way as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” he said. “My conversation with Mrs. Gardner was interrupted.”
The nurse came with alacrity into the drawing room.
“The news of the murder has upset my patient,” she explained, adjusting a well-starched cuff. “That foolish girl, Beatrice, came running up and blurted it all out.”
“I am sorry,” said the Inspector. “I am afraid that was my fault.”
“Oh, of course, you couldn’t be expected to know,” said the nurse graciously.
“Is Mr. Gardner dangerously ill?” inquired the Inspector.
“It’s a sad case,” said the nurse. “Of course, in a manner of speaking, there’s nothing the matter with him really. He’s lost the use of his limbs entirely through nervous shock. There’s no visible disability.”
“He had no extra strain or shock yesterday afternoon?” inquired the Inspector.
“Not that I know of,” the nurse looked somewhat surprised.
“You were with him all the afternoon?”
“I intended to be, but, well—as a matter of fact, Captain Gardner was very anxious for me to change two books for him at the library. He had forgotten to ask his wife before she went out. So, to oblige him I went out with them, and he asked me at the same time to get one or two little things for him—presents for his wife as a matter of fact. Very nice about it he was, and told me I was to have tea at his expense at Boots. He said nurses never liked missing their tea. His little joke, you know. I didn’t get out until past four, and what with the shops being so full just before Christmas, and one thing and another, I didn’t get back until after six, but the poor fellow had been quite comfortable. In fact, he told me he had been asleep most of the time.”
“Mrs. Gardner was back by then?”
“Yes, I believe she was lying down.”
“She’s very devoted to her husband, isn’t she?”
“She worships him. I really do believe that woman would do anything in the world for him. Quite touching, and very different from some of the cases I have attended. Why, only last month—”
But Inspector Narracott fended off the impending scandal of last month with considerable skill. He glanced at his watch and gave a loud exclamation.
“Goodness gracious,” he cried, “I shall miss my train. The station is not far away, is it?”
“St. David’s is only three minutes’ walk, if it’s St. David’s you want, or did you mean Queen Street?”
“I must run,” said the Inspector, “tell Mrs. Gardner I am sorry not to have seen her to say good-bye. Very pleased to have had this little chat with you, nurse.”
The nurse bridled ever so slightly.
“Rather a good-looking man,” she said to herself as the front door shut after the Inspector. “Really quite good-looking. Such a nice sympathetic manner.”
And wi
th a slight sigh she went upstairs to her patient.
Ten
THE PEARSON FAMILY
Inspector Narracott’s next move was to report to his superior, Superintendent Maxwell.
The latter listened with interest to the Inspector’s narrative.
“It’s going to be a big case,” he said thoughtfully. “There’ll be headlines in the papers over this.”
“I agree with you, sir.”
“We’ve got to be careful. We don’t want to make any mistake. But I think you’re on the right track. You must get after this James Pearson as soon as possible—find out where he was yesterday afternoon. As you say, it’s a common enough name, but there’s the Christian name as well. Of course, his signing his own name openly like that shows there wasn’t any premeditation about it. He’d hardly have been such a fool otherwise. It looks to me like a quarrel and a sudden blow. If it is the man, he must have heard of his uncle’s death that night. And if so, why did he sneak off by the six train in the morning without a word to anyone? No, it looks bad. Always granting that the whole thing’s not a coincidence. You must clear that up as quickly as possible.”
“That’s what I thought, sir. I’d better take the 1:45 to town. Some time or other I want to have a word with this Willett woman who rented the Captain’s house. There’s something fishy there. But I can’t get to Sittaford at present, the roads are impassable with snow. And anyway, she can’t have any direct connection with the crime. She and her daughter were actually—well—table-turning at the time the crime was committed. And, by the way, rather a queer thing happened—”
The Inspector narrated the story he had heard from Major Burnaby.
“That’s a rum go,” ejaculated the Superintendent. “Think this old fellow was telling the truth? That’s the sort of story that gets cooked up afterwards by those believers in spooks and things of that kind.”
“I fancy it’s true all right,” said Narracott with a grin. “I had a lot of difficulty getting it out of him. He’s not a believer—just the opposite—old soldier, all damned nonsense attitude.”
The Sittaford Mystery Page 6