To his intense surprise and annoyance and yet, be it confessed, to his slight relief, Ronnie Garfield appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked embarrassed and sheepish.
“Hello,” he said. “I have been looking for you.”
“What do you mean, looking for me?”
“Well, I wanted to tell you that I shan’t be ready at half past four. I’ve got to go into Exeter. So don’t wait for me. I’ll have to get a car up from Exhampton.”
“How did you get into this house?” asked the Major.
“The door was open,” exclaimed Ronnie. “Naturally I thought you were here.”
The Major turned to Evans sharply.
“Didn’t you lock it when you came out?”
“No, sir, I hadn’t got the key.”
“Stupid of me,” muttered the Major.
“You don’t mind, do you?” said Ronnie. “I couldn’t see anyone downstairs so I went upstairs and had a look round.”
“Of course, it doesn’t matter,” snapped the Major, “you startled me, that’s all.”
“Well,” said Ronnie airily. “I shall be pushing along now. So long.”
The Major grunted. Ronnie came down the stairs.
“I say,” he said boyishly, “do you mind telling me—er—er—where it happened?”
The Major jerked a thumb in the direction of the drawing room.
“Oh, may I look inside?”
“If you like,” growled the Major.
Ronnie opened the drawing room door. He was absent a few minutes and then returned.
The Major had gone up the stairs, but Evans was in the hall. He had the air of a bulldog on guard; his small deep-set eyes watched Ronnie with a somewhat malicious scrutiny.
“I say,” said Ronnie. “I thought you could never wash out blood stains. I thought, however much you washed them, they always came back. Oh, of course—the old fellow was sandbagged, wasn’t he? Stupid of me. It was one of these, wasn’t it?” He took up a long narrow bolster that lay against one of the other doors. He weighed it thoughtfully and balanced it in his hand. “Nice little toy, eh?” He made a few tentative swings with it in the air.
Evans was silent.
“Well,” said Ronnie, realizing that the silence was not a wholly appreciative one, “I’d better be getting along. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit tactless, eh?” He jerked his head towards the upper story. “I forgot about them being such pals and all that. Two of a kind, weren’t they? Well, I’m really going now. Sorry if I’ve said all the wrong things.”
He walked across the hall and out through the front door. Evans stayed impassively in the hall, and only when he had heard the latch of the gate close behind Mr. Garfield did he mount the stairs and rejoin Major Burnaby. Without any word or comment he resumed where he had left off, going straight across the room and kneeling down in front of the boot cupboard.
At half past three their task was finished. One trunk of clothes and underclothes was allotted to Evans, and another was strapped up ready to be sent to the Seamen’s Orphanage. Papers and bills were packed into an attaché case and Evans was given instructions to see a local firm of removers about the storage of the various sporting trophies and heads, as there was no room for them in Major Burnaby’s cottage. Since Hazelmoor was only rented furnished no other questions arose.
When all this was settled Evans cleared his throat nervously once or twice and then said:
“Beg pardon, sir, but—I’ll be wanting a job to look after a gentleman, same as I did to look after the Capting.”
“Yes, yes, you can tell anyone to apply to me for a recommendation. That will be quite all right.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, that wasn’t quite what I meant. Rebecca and me, sir, we’ve talked it over and we was wondering if, sir—if maybe you would give us a trial?”
“Oh! but—well—I look after myself as you know. That old what’s her name comes in and cleans for me once a day and cooks a few things. That’s—er—about all I can afford.”
“It isn’t the money that matters so much, sir,” said Evans quickly. “You see, sir, I was very fond of the Capting and—well, if I could do for you, sir, the same as I did for him, well, it would be almost like the same thing, if you know what I mean.”
The Major cleared his throat and averted his eyes.
“Very decent of you, ’pon my word. I’ll—I’ll think about it.” And escaping with alacrity he almost bolted down the road. Evans stood looking after him, an understanding smile upon his face.
“Like as two peas, him and the Capting,” he murmured.
And then a puzzled expression came over his face.
“Where can they have got to?” he murmured. “It’s a bit queer that. I must ask Rebecca what she thinks.”
Twenty-four
INSPECTOR NARRACOTT DISCUSSES THE CASE
“I am not entirely happy about it, sir,” said Inspector Narracott.
The Chief Constable looked at him inquiringly.
“No,” said Inspector Narracott. “I’m not nearly as happy about it as I was.”
“You don’t think we’ve got the right man?”
“I’m not satisfied. You see, to start with, everything pointed the one way but now—it’s different.”
“The evidence against Pearson remains the same.”
“Yes, but there’s a good deal of further evidence come to light, sir. There’s the other Pearson—Brian. Feeling that we had no further to look I accepted the statement that he was in Australia. Now, it turns out that he was in England all the time. It seems he arrived back in England two months ago—travelled on the same boat as these Willetts apparently. Looks as though he had got sweet on the girl on the voyage. Anyway, for whatever reason he didn’t communicate with any of his family. Neither his sister nor his brother had any idea he was in England. On Thursday of last week he left the Ormsby Hotel in Russell Square and drove to Paddington. From there until Tuesday night, when Enderby ran across him, he refuses to account for his movements in any way.”
“You pointed out to him the gravity of such a course of action?”
“Said he didn’t give a damn. He had had nothing to do with the murder and it was up to us to prove he had. The way he had employed his time was his own business and none of ours, and he declined definitely to state where he had been and what he had been doing.”
“Most extraordinary,” said the Chief Constable.
“Yes, sir. It’s an extraordinary case. You see, there’s no use getting away from the facts, this man’s far more the type than the other. There’s something incongruous about James Pearson hitting an old man on the head with a sandbag—but in a manner of speaking it might be all in the day’s work to Brian Pearson. He’s a hot-tempered, high-handed young man—and he profits to exactly the same extent, remember?”
“Yes—he came over with Mr. Enderby this morning, very bright and breezy, quite square and aboveboard, that was his attitude. But it won’t wash, sir, it won’t wash.”
“H’m—you mean—”
“It isn’t borne out by the facts. Why didn’t he come forward before? His uncle’s death was in the papers Saturday. His brother was arrested Monday. And he doesn’t give a sign of life. And he wouldn’t have either, if that journalist hadn’t run across him in the garden of Sittaford House at midnight last night.”
“What was he doing there? Enderby, I mean?”
“You know what journalists are,” said Narracott, “always nosing round. They’re uncanny.”
“They are a darned nuisance very often,” said the Chief Constable. “Though they have their uses too.”
“I fancy it was the young lady put him up to it,” said Narracott.
“The young lady?”
“Miss Emily Trefusis.”
“How did she know anything about it?”
“She was up at Sittaford nosing around. And she’s what you’d call a sharp young lady. There’s not much gets past her.”
“What was B
rian Pearson’s own account of his movements?”
“Said he came to Sittaford House to see his young lady, Miss Willett, that is. She came out of the house to meet him when everyone was asleep because she didn’t want her mother to know about it. That’s their story.”
Inspector Narracott’s voice expressed distinct disbelief.
“It’s my belief, sir, that if Enderby hadn’t run him to earth, he never would have come forward. He’d have gone back to Australia and claimed his inheritance from there.”
A faint smile crossed the Chief Constable’s lips.
“How he must have cursed these pestilential prying journalists,” he murmured.
“There’s something else come to light,” continued the Inspector. “There are three Pearsons, you remember, and Sylvia Pearson is married to Martin Dering, the novelist. He told me that he lunched and spent the afternoon with an American publisher and went to a literary dinner in the evening, but now it seems that he wasn’t at the dinner at all.”
“Who says so?”
“Enderby again.”
“I think I must meet Enderby,” said the Chief Constable. “He appears to be one of the live wires of this investigation. No doubt about it, the Daily Wire does have some bright young men on their staff.”
“Well, of course, that may mean little or nothing,” continued the Inspector. “Captain Trevelyan was killed before six o’clock, so where Dering spent his evening is really of no consequence—but why should he have deliberately lied about it? I don’t like it, sir.”
“No,” agreed the Chief Constable. “It seems a little unnecessary.”
“It makes one think that the whole thing may be false. It’s a far-fetched supposition, I suppose, but Dering might have left Paddington by the twelve ten train—arrived at Exhampton some time after five, have killed the old man, got the six ten train and been back home again before midnight. At any rate it’s got to be looked into, sir. We’ve got to investigate his financial position, see if he was desperately hard up. Any money his wife came into he would have the handling of—you’ve only got to look at her to know that. We’ve got to make perfectly sure that the afternoon alibi holds water.”
“The whole thing is extraordinary,” commented the Chief Constable. “But I still think the evidence against Pearson is pretty conclusive. I see that you don’t agree with me—you’ve a feeling you’ve got hold of the wrong man.”
“The evidence is all right,” admitted Inspector Narracott, “circumstantial and all that, and any jury ought to convict on it. Still, what you say is true enough—I don’t see him as a murderer.”
“And his young lady is very active in the case,” said the Chief Constable.
“Miss Trefusis, yes, she’s a one and no mistake. A real fine young lady. And absolutely determined to get him off. She’s got hold of that journalist, Enderby, and she’s working him for all she’s worth. She’s a great deal too good for Mr. James Pearson. Beyond his good looks I wouldn’t say there was much to him in the way of character.”
“But if she’s a managing young woman that’s what she likes,” said the Chief Constable.
“Ah well,” said Inspector Narracott, “there’s no accounting for tastes. Well, you agree, sir, that I had better take up this alibi of Dering’s without any more delay.”
“Yes, get on to it at once. What about the fourth interested party in the will? There’s a fourth, isn’t there?”
“Yes, the sister. That’s perfectly all right. I have made inquiries there. She was at home at six o’clock all right, sir. I’ll get right on with the Dering business.”
It was about five hours later that Inspector Narracott found himself once more in the small sitting room of The Nook. This time Mr. Dering was at home. He couldn’t be disturbed as he was writing, the maid had said at first, but the Inspector had produced an official card and bade her take it to her master without delay. Whilst waiting he strode up and down the room. His mind was working actively. Every now and then he picked up a small object from a table, looked at it almost unseeingly, and then replaced it. The cigarette box of Australian fiddleback—a present from Brian Pearson possibly. He picked up a rather battered old book. “Pride and Prejudice.” He opened the cover and saw scrawled on the fly-leaf in rather faded ink the name, Martha Rycroft. Somehow, the name of Rycroft seemed familiar, but he could not for the moment remember why. He was interrupted as the door opened and Martin Dering came into the room.
The novelist was a man of middle height with thick rather heavy chestnut hair. He was good-looking in a somewhat heavy fashion, with lips that were rather full and red.
Inspector Narracott was not prepossessed by his apppearance.
“Good morning, Mr. Dering. Sorry to trouble you all here again.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Inspector, but really I can’t tell you any more than you’ve been told already.”
“We were led to understand that your brother-in-law, Mr. Brian Pearson, was in Australia. Now, we find that he has been in England for the last two months. I might have been given an inkling of that, I think. Your wife distinctly told me that he was in New South Wales.”
“Brian in England!” Dering seemed genuinely astonished. “I can assure you, Inspector, that I had no knowledge of that fact—nor, I’m sure, had my wife.”
“He has not communicated with you in any way?”
“No, indeed, I know for a fact that Sylvia has twice written him letters to Australia during that time.”
“Oh, well, in that case I apologize, sir. But naturally I thought he would have communicated with his relations and I was a bit sore with you for holding out on me.”
“Well, as I tell you we knew nothing. Have a cigarette, Inspector? By the way, I see you’ve recaptured your escaped convict.”
“Yes, got him late Tuesday night. Rather bad luck for him the mist coming down. He walked right round in a circle. Did about twenty miles to find himself about half a mile from Princetown at the end of it.”
“Extraordinary how everyone goes round in circles in a fog. Good thing he didn’t escape on the Friday. I suppose he would have had this murder put down to him as a certainty.”
“He’s a dangerous man. Fremantle Freddy, they used to call him. Robbery with violence, assault—led the most extraordinary double life. Half the time he passed as an educated, respectable wealthy man. I am not at all sure myself that Broadmoor wasn’t the place for him. A kind of criminal mania used to come over him from time to time. He would disappear and consort with the lowest characters.”
“I suppose many people don’t escape from Princetown?”
“It’s well-nigh impossible, sir. But this particular escape was extraordinarily well planned and carried out. We haven’t nearly got to the bottom of it yet.”
“Well,” Dering rose and glanced at his watch, “if there’s nothing more, Inspector—I’m afraid I am rather a busy man—”
“Oh, but there is something more, Mr. Dering. I want to know why you told me that you were at a literary dinner at the Cecil Hotel on Friday night?”
“I—I don’t understand you, Inspector.”
“I think you do, sir. You weren’t at that dinner, Mr. Dering.”
Martin Dering hesitated. His eyes ran uncertainly from the Inspector’s face, up to the ceiling, then to the door, and then to his feet.
The Inspector waited calm and stolid.
“Well,” said Martin Dering at last, “supposing I wasn’t. What the hell has that got to do with you? What have my movements, five hours after my uncle was murdered, got to do with you or anyone else?”
“You made a certain statement to us, Mr. Dering, and I want that statement verified. Part of it has already proved to be untrue. I’ve got to check up on the other half. You say you lunched and spent the afternoon with a friend.”
“Yes—my American publisher.”
“His name?”
“Rosenkraun, Edgar Rosenkraun.”
“Ah, and his address?”<
br />
“He’s left England. He left last Saturday.”
“For New York?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’ll be on the sea at the present moment. What boat is he on?”
“I—I really can’t remember.”
“You know the line? Was it a Cunard or White Star?”
“I—I really don’t remember.”
“Ah well,” said the Inspector, “we’ll cable his firm in New York. They’ll know.”
“It was the Gargantua,” said Dering sullenly.
“Thank you, Mr. Dering, I thought you could remember if you tried. Now, your statement is that you lunched with Mr. Rosenkraun and that you spent the afternoon with him. At what time did you leave him?”
“About five o’clock I should say.”
“And then?”
“I decline to state. It’s no business of yours. That’s all you want surely.”
Inspector Narracott nodded thoughtfully. If Rosenkraun confirmed Dering’s statement then any case against Dering must fall to the ground. Whatever his mysterious activities had been that evening could not affect the case.
“What are you going to do?” demanded Dering uneasily.
“Wireless Mr. Rosenkraun on board the Gargantua.”
“Damn it all,” cried Dering, “you’ll involve me in all sorts of publicity. Look here—”
He went across to his desk, scribbled a few words on a bit of paper, then took it to the Inspector.
“I suppose you’ve got to do what you’re doing,” he said ungraciously, “but at least you might do it in my way. It’s not fair to run a chap in for a lot of trouble.”
On the sheet of paper was written:
Rosenkraun S.S. “Gargantua.” Please confirm my statement I was with you lunchtime until five o’clock Friday 14th. Martin Dering.
“Have the reply sent straight to you—I don’t mind. But don’t have it sent to Scotland Yard or a Police Station. You don’t know what these Americans are like. Any hint of me being mixed up in a police case and this new contract that I’ve been discussing will go to the winds. Keep it a private matter, Inspector.”
“I’ve no objection to that, Mr. Dering. All I want is the truth. I’ll send this reply paid, the reply to be sent to my private address in Exeter.”
The Sittaford Mystery Page 17