“Yes, Miss Trefusis, I see exactly what you mean. You’ll understand that contrary to the popular belief in novels it is extremely difficult to fix the time of death accurately. I saw the body at eight o’clock. I can say decidedly that Captain Trevelyan had been dead at least two hours. How much longer than that would be difficult to say. If you were to tell me that he was killed at four o’clock, I should say that it was possible, though my own opinion inclines to a later time. On the other hand he could certainly not have been dead for much longer than that. Four and a half hours would be the outside limit.”
“Thank you,” said Emily, “that’s all I wanted to know.”
She caught the three ten train at the station and drove straight to the hotel where Mr. Dacres was staying.
Their interview was businesslike and unemotional. Mr. Dacres had known Emily since she was a small child and had managed her affairs for her since she came of age.
“You must prepare yourself for a shock, Emily,” he said. “Things are much worse for Jim Pearson than we imagined.”
“Worse?”
“Yes. It’s no good beating about the bush. Certain facts have come to light which are bound to show him up in a most unfavourable light. It is those facts which led the police actually to charge him with the crime. I should not be acting in your interests if I withheld these facts from you.”
“Please tell me,” said Emily.
Her voice was perfectly calm and composed. Whatever the inward shock she might have felt, she had no intention of making an outward display of her feelings. It was not feelings that were going to help Jim Pearson, it was brains. She must keep all her wits about her.
“There is no doubt that he was in urgent and immediate need of money. I am not going to enter into the ethics of the situation at the moment. Pearson had apparently before now occasionally borrowed money—to use a euphemism—from his firm—I may say without their knowledge. He was fond of speculating in shares, and on one occasion previously, knowing that certain dividends were to be paid into his account in a week’s time, he anticipated them by using the firm’s money to buy certain shares which he had pretty certain knowledge were bound to go up. The transaction was quite satisfactory, the money was replaced and Pearson really doesn’t seem to have had any doubts as to the honesty of the transaction. Apparently he repeated this just over a week ago. This time an unforeseen thing occurred. The books of the firm were examined at certain stated times, but for some reason or other this date was advanced, and Pearson was faced with a very unpleasant dilemma. He was quite aware of the construction that would be put on his action and he was quite unable to raise the sum of money involved. He admits himself that he had tried in various quarters and failed when as a last resource he rushed down to Devonshire to lay the matter before his uncle and persuade him to help him. This Captain Trevelyan absolutely refused to do.
“Now, my dear Emily, we shall be quite unable to prevent these facts from being brought to light. The police have already unearthed the matter. And you see, don’t you, that we have here a very pressing and urgent motive for the crime? The moment Captain Trevelyan was dead Pearson could easily have obtained the necessary sum as an advance from Mr. Kirkwood and saved himself from disaster and possibly criminal prosecution.”
“Oh, the idiot,” said Emily helplessly.
“Quite so,” said Mr. Dacres dryly. “It seems to me that our only chance lies in proving that Jim Pearson was quite unaware of the provisions of his uncle’s will.”
There was a pause while Emily considered the matter. Then she said quietly:
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. All three of them knew—Sylvia, Jim and Brian. They often discussed it and laughed and joked about the rich uncle in Devonshire.”
“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Dacres. “That’s unfortunate.”
“You don’t think him guilty, Mr. Dacres?” asked Emily.
“Curiously enough I do not,” replied the lawyer. “In some ways Jim Pearson is a most transparent young man. He hasn’t, if you will allow me to say so, Emily, a very high standard of commercial honesty, but I do not believe for one minute that his hand sandbagged his uncle.”
“Well, that’s a good thing,” said Emily. “I wish the police thought the same.”
“Quite so. Our own impressions and ideas are of no practical use. The case against him is unfortunately strong. I am not going to disguise from you, my dear child, that the outlook is bad. I should suggest Lorimer, K.C., as the defence. Forlorn hope man they call him,” he added cheerfully.
“There is one thing I should like to know,” said Emily. “You have, of course, seen Jim?”
“Certainly.”
“I want you to tell me honestly if you think he has told the truth in other respects.” She outlined to him the idea that Enderby had suggested to her.
The lawyer considered the matter carefully before replying.
“It’s my impression,” he said, “that he is speaking the truth when he describes his interview with his uncle. But there is little doubt that he has got the wind up badly, and if he went round to the window, entered that way and came across his uncle’s dead body—he might just possibly be too scared to admit the fact and have concocted this other story.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Emily. “Next time you see him, Mr. Dacres, will you urge him to speak the truth? It may make the most tremendous difference.”
“I will do so. All the same,” he said after a moment or two’s pause, “I think you are mistaken in this idea. The news of Captain Trevelyan’s death was bandied around in Exhampton about eight thirty. At that time the last train had left for Exeter, but Jim Pearson got the first train available in the morning—a thoroughly unwise proceeding, by the way, as it called attention to his movements which otherwise would not have been aroused if he had left by a train at a more conventional hour. Now if, as you suggest, he discovered his uncle’s dead body some time after half past four, I think he would have left Exhampton straight away. There’s a train which leaves shortly after six and another at a quarter to eight.”
“That’s a point,” admitted Emily, “I didn’t think of that.”
“I have questioned him narrowly about his method of entering his uncle’s house,” went on Mr. Dacres. “He says that Captain Trevelyan made him remove his boots, and leave them on the doorstep. That accounts for no wet marks being discovered in the hall.”
“He doesn’t speak of having heard any sound—anything at all—that gives him the idea that there might have been someone else in the house?”
“He didn’t mention it to me. But I will ask him.”
“Thank you,” said Emily. “If I write a note can you take it to him?”
“Subject to its being read, of course.”
“Oh, it will be a very discreet one.”
She crossed to the writing table and scribbled a few words.
“Dearest Jim,—Everything’s going to be all right, so cheer up. I am working like the worst kind of slave to find out the truth. What an idiot you’ve been, darling.
Love from
Emily.”
“There,” she said.
Mr. Dacres read it but made no comment.
“I have taken pains with my handwriting,” said Emily, “so that the prison authorities can read it easily. Now, I must be off.”
“You will allow me to offer you a cup of tea.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Dacres. I have no time to lose. I am going to see Jim’s Aunt Jennifer.”
At The Laurels, Emily was informed that Mrs. Gardner was out but would be home shortly.
Emily smiled upon the parlourmaid.
“I’ll come in and wait then.”
“Would you like to see Nurse Davis?”
Emily was always ready to see anybody. “Yes,” she said promptly.
A few minutes later Nurse Davis, starched and curious, arrived.
“How do you do,” said Emily. “I am Emily Trefusis—a kind of niece of Mrs
. Gardner’s. That is, I am going to be a niece, but my fiancé, Jim Pearson, has been arrested, as I expect you know.”
“Oh, it’s been too dreadful,” said Nurse Davis. “We saw it all in the papers this morning. What a terrible business. You seem to be bearing up wonderfully, Miss Trefusis—really wonderfully.”
There was a faint note of disapproval in the nurse’s voice. Hospital nurses, she implied, were able to bear up owing to their force of character, but lesser mortals were expected to give way.
“Well, one mustn’t sag at the knees,” said Emily. “I hope you don’t mind very much. I mean, it must be awkward for you to be associated with a family that has got a murder in it.”
“It’s very unpleasant, of course,” said Nurse Davis, unbending at this proof of consideration. “But one’s duty to one’s patient comes before everything.”
“How splendid,” said Emily. “It must be wonderful for Aunt Jennifer to feel she has somebody upon whom she can rely.”
“Oh, really,” said the nurse simpering, “you are too kind. But, of course, I have had curious experiences before this. Why, at the last case I attended—” Emily listened patiently to a long and scandalous anecdote comprising complicated divorce and paternity questions. After complimenting Nurse Davis on her tact, discretion and savoir faire, Emily slid back to the topic of the Gardners.
“I don’t know Aunt Jennifer’s husband at all,” she said. “I’ve never met him. He never goes away from home, does he?”
“No, poor fellow.”
“What exactly is the matter with him?”
Nurse Davis embarked on the subject with professional gusto.
“So, really he might get well again any minute,” Emily murmured thoughtfully.
“He would be terribly weak,” said the nurse.
“Oh, of course. But it makes it seem more hopeful, doesn’t it?”
The nurse shook her head with firm professional despondency.
“I don’t suppose there will be any cure in his case.”
Emily had copied down in her little notebook the timetable of what she called Aunt Jennifer’s alibi. She now murmured tentatively:
“How queer it seems to think that Aunt Jennifer was actually at the Pictures when her brother was being killed.”
“Very sad, isn’t it?” said Nurse Davis. “Of course, she couldn’t tell—but it gives one such a shock afterwards.”
Emily cast about in her mind to find out what she wanted to know without asking a direct question.
“Didn’t she have some queer kind of vision or premonition?” she inquired. “Wasn’t it you who met her in the hall when she came in and exclaimed that she looked quite queer?”
“Oh, no,” said the nurse. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t see her until we were sitting down to dinner together, and she seemed quite her ordinary self then. How very interesting.”
“I expect I am mixing it up with something else,” said Emily.
“Perhaps it was some other relation,” suggested Nurse Davis. “I came in rather late myself. I felt rather guilty about leaving my patient so long, but he himself had urged me to go.”
She suddenly looked at her watch.
“Oh, dear. He asked me for another hot water bottle. I must see about it at once. Will you excuse me, Miss Trefusis?”
Emily excused her and going over to the fireplace she put her finger on the bell.
The slipshod maid came with rather a frightened face.
“What’s your name?” said Emily.
“Beatrice, Miss.”
“Oh, Beatrice, I may not be able to wait to see my aunt, Mrs. Gardner, after all—I wanted to ask her about some shopping she did on Friday. Do you know if she brought a big parcel back with her?”
“No, Miss, I didn’t see her come in.”
“I thought you said she came in at six o’clock.”
“Yes, Miss, she did. I didn’t see her come in, but when I went to take some hot water to her room at seven o’clock it gave me a shock to find her lying in the dark on the bed. ‘Well, ma’am,’ I said to her, ‘You gave me quite a shock.’ ‘I came in quite a long time ago. At six o’clock,’ she said. I didn’t see a big parcel anywhere,” said Beatrice trying her hardest to be helpful.
“It’s all very difficult,” thought Emily. “One has to invent so many things. I’ve already invented a premonition and a big parcel, but so far as I can see one has to invent something if one doesn’t want to sound suspicious.” She smiled sweetly and said:
“That’s all right, Beatrice, it doesn’t matter.”
Beatrice left the room. Emily took a small local timetable out of her handbag and consulted it.
“Leave Exeter, St. David’s, three ten,” she murmured, “Arrive Exhampton, three forty-two. Time allowed for going to brother’s house and murdering him—how beastly and cold-blooded it sounds—and such nonsense too—say half an hour to three quarters. What are the trains back? There’s one at four twenty-five and there’s one Mr. Dacres mentioned at six ten, that gets in at twenty-three minutes to seven. Yes, it’s actually possible either way. It’s a pity there’s nothing to suspect the nurse for. She was out all the afternoon and nobody knows where she was. Of course, I don’t really believe anybody in this house murdered Captain Trevelyan, but in a way it’s comforting to know that they could have. Hello—there’s the front door.”
There was a murmur of voices in the hall and the door opened and Jennifer Gardner came into the room.
“I’m Emily Trefusis,” said Emily. “You know—the one who is engaged to Jim Pearson.”
“So you are Emily,” said Mrs. Gardner shaking hands. “Well, this is a surprise.”
Suddenly Emily felt very weak and small. Rather like a little girl in the act of doing something very silly. An extraordinary person, Aunt Jennifer. Character—that was what it was. Aunt Jennifer had about enough character for two and three-quarter people instead of one.
“Have you had tea, my dear? No? Then we’ll have it here. Just a moment—I must go up and see Robert first.”
A strange expression flitted over her face as she mentioned her husband’s name. The hard, beautiful voice softened. It was like a light over dark ripples of water.
“She adores him,” thought Emily, left alone in the drawing room. “All the same there’s something frightening about Aunt Jennifer. I wonder if Uncle Robert likes being adored quite as much as that.”
When Jennifer Gardner returned, she had taken off her hat. Emily admired the smooth sweep of the hair back from her forehead.
“Do you want to talk about things, Emily, or don’t you? If you don’t I shall quite understand.”
“It isn’t much good talking about them, is it?”
“We can only hope,” said Mrs. Gardner, “that they will find the real murderer quickly. Just press the bell, will you, Emily? I’ll send nurse’s tea up to her. I don’t want her chattering down here. How I hate hospital nurses.”
“Is she a good one?”
“I suppose she is. Robert says she is anyway. I dislike her intensely and always have. But Robert says she’s far and away the best nurse we’ve had.”
“She’s rather good-looking,” said Emily.
“Nonsense. With her ugly beefy hands?”
Emily watched her aunt’s long white fingers as they touched the milk jug and the sugar tongs.
Beatrice came, took the cup of tea and a plate of eatables and left the room.
“Robert has been very upset over all this,” said Mrs. Gardner. “He works himself into such curious states. I suppose it’s all part of his illness really.”
“He didn’t know Captain Trevelyan well, did he?”
Jennifer Gardner shook her head.
“He neither knew him nor cared about him. To be honest, I myself can’t pretend any great sorrow over his death. He was a cruel grasping man, Emily. He knew the struggle we have had. The poverty! He knew that a loan of money at the right time might have given Robert special treatment
that would have made all the difference. Well, retribution has overtaken him.”
She spoke in a deep brooding voice.
“What a strange woman she is,” thought Emily. “Beautiful and terrible, like something out of a Greek play.”
“It may still not be too late,” said Mrs. Gardner. “I wrote to the lawyers at Exhampton today, to ask them if I could have a certain sum of money in advance. The treatment I am speaking of is in some respects what they would call a quack remedy, but it has been successful in a large number of cases. Emily—how wonderful it will be if Robert is able to walk again.”
Her face was glowing, lit up as though by a lamp.
Emily was tired. She had had a long day, little or nothing to eat, and she was worn out by suppressed emotion. The room kept going away and coming back again.
“Aren’t you feeling well, dear?”
“It’s all right,” gasped Emily, and to her own surprise, annoyance and humiliation burst into tears.
Mrs. Gardner did not attempt to rise and console her, for which Emily was grateful. She just sat silently until Emily’s tears should subside. She murmured in a thoughtful voice:
“Poor child. It’s very unlucky that Jim Pearson should have been arrested—very unlucky. I wish—something could be done about it.”
Twenty-one
CONVERSATIONS
Left to his own devices Charles Enderby did not relax his efforts. To familiarize himself with life as lived in Sittaford village he had only to turn on Mrs. Curtis much as you would turn on the tap of a hydrant. Listening slightly dazed to a stream of anecdote, reminiscence, rumours, surmise and meticulous detail he endeavoured valiantly to sift the grain from the chaff. He then mentioned another name and immediately the force of the water was directed in that direction. He heard all about Captain Wyatt, his tropical temper, his rudeness, his quarrels with his neighbours, his occasional amazing graciousness, usually to personable young women. The life he led his Indian servant, the peculiar times he had his meals and the exact diet that composed them. He heard about Mr. Rycroft’s library, his hair tonics, his insistence on strict tidiness and punctuality, his inordinate curiosity over other people’s doings, his recent selling of a few old prized personal possessions, his inexplicable fondness for birds, and the prevalent idea that Mrs. Willett was setting her cap at him. He heard about Miss Percehouse and her tongue and the way she bullied her nephew, and of the rumours of the gay life that same nephew led in London. He heard all over again of Major Burnaby’s friendship with Captain Trevelyan, their reminiscences of the past and their fondness for chess. He heard everything that was known about the Willetts, including the belief that Miss Violet Willett was leading on Mr. Ronnie Garfield and that she didn’t really mean to have him. It was hinted that she made mysterious excursions to the moor and that she had been seen walking there with a young man. And it was doubtless for that reason, so Mrs. Curtis had surmised, that they had come to this desolate spot. Her mother had taken her right away, “to get right over it like.” But there—“girls can be far more artful than ladies ever dream of.” About Mr. Duke, there was curiously little to hear. He had been there only a short time and his activities seemed to be solely horticultural.
The Sittaford Mystery Page 14