Bobby thought he said all this rather wistfully, as if well aware that the last thing in the world Mrs Findlay would want would be to lunch alone with her father rather than at one of the smart resorts she had just described as ‘cookshops’. Now her face lighted up suddenly.
“How about,” she exclaimed, “all of us going to Noel’s place in Jermyn Street? He generally gives you something decent to eat, and it would be rather fun to see how he and Kitty looked when they saw us all breaking in on their nice little tête-à-tête. Ivor, too. We would have to take him along.”
“I thought Ivor never lunched,” interposed Acton, and Bobby thought that this suggestion rather disturbed him, was in fact equally unwelcome and unexpected, as if possibly he, on his part, had been looking forward to a tête-à-tête—with Mrs Findlay at a guess. Acton went on in the same rather hurried manner: “He sent me a note last night to tell me what he’s going to say about my everlasting razor blade. For him, most enthusiastic. He promised the formal report soon. I hope he’s working on it now, only he will take on so many things he’s always in such a frightful rush.”
“Oh, another day or two won’t hurt your precious report,” Mrs Findlay answered carelessly. “If it’s that awful row they had you’re thinking of, we can take Mr Policeman along.” This was said with a careless nod towards Bobby, much as if she thought he was there simply for her convenience. Bobby decided that he definitely disliked Mrs Findlay, who was saying now: “Besides, they can’t very well start fighting in Noel’s own restaurant, can they? Customers have to be respected.”
“Is this gentleman you are speaking of on bad terms with Mr Findlay?” asked Bobby, who had been listening to all this with some interest, and was wondering if here there might be some clue to those three mysterious and slightly disturbing ’phone calls.
“Well, they nearly started fighting at the golf club,” Mrs Findlay answered with a smile in which Bobby now found little charm. “Kitty’s fault, the little fool. Ivor tried to kiss her. Common form with Ivor. He thinks that is what girls are for, and most of them think so, too. Especially when it’s Ivor. But Kitty boxed his ears. Ivor says he had a headache for the rest of the day. And then Noel must take it into his head to make a fuss and tell Ivor all the things he would do if Ivor tried again. Ivor pretended to be awfully frightened, and said he was going to carry a revolver about with him for the future. Of course, he was only pulling Noel’s leg, but it made Noel more angry than ever.”
“Well, it’s no use making things worse,” Acton said. “No sense in dragging Ivor round there.”
“I think it would be fun,” Mrs Findlay persisted. “I’ll ring Ivor and tell him he’s wanted.”
Instead, however of picking up the ’phone standing near, she hurried away.
“House ’phone,” Lord Newdagonby explained to Bobby. “In the hall. It’s all a journey up to those attics. Kitty and Mr Lake are more or less engaged,” he added, “though Kitty says she hasn’t made up her mind yet and they haven’t known each other long enough.”
Mrs Findlay came back into the room.
“I can’t get him,” she said. “It must be out of order, or he’s taken the receiver off or something.”
“Means he’s busy that’s all, doesn’t want to be bothered,” suggested Acton. “What about the Ritz?”
“Mr Lake is Noel, I suppose,” Bobby remarked. “He keeps a restaurant?”
“No, it keeps him, and very nicely, too,” Mrs Findlay interrupted. “He’s head waiter or something.”
“Now, now, Sibby,” said Acton.
“Shut up,” said Sibby.
“You know very well he’s managing director,” her father said rebukingly. “Biggest shareholder, too. They run this very expensive little place in Jermyn Street. The ‘Isle du Lac.’ And one or two others near Baker Street, I think, and another in the city.”
“The same food at a quarter the price,” remarked Mrs Findlay.
“But not the same wines,” interjected Acton, this time with an air of smacking his lips over some agreeable memory. “Besides, Noel mayn’t be there if he’s lunching Kitty. He may take her somewhere else. What about the Ritz?” he asked.
“No,” declared Mrs Findlay with emphasis. “I want Ivor, and I want him at Noel’s place. Charley, you run up there and rout him out.”
“No, thank you,” answered Charley with unexpected decision, looking in fact now not at all like a little pet dog on a leash. “I don’t know which is his room for one thing. Never been up there. I should only get lost in this beastly labyrinth of a place of yours. About a hundred rooms on each floor,” he explained to Bobby. “Besides, Ivor can turn jolly nasty if he thinks he is being interrupted for nothing.”
“Oh, very well, I’ll go myself,” Mrs Findlay said, apparently recognizing that this time Charley meant it. “You can pay for the lunch instead, Charley,” she added as she left the room.
“Parting shot,” Acton grumbled as she went off. “Five-shilling limit all right, but you don’t get out of that place of Noel’s under a pound—and then you have to watch your step.” The conversation languished. Bobby was still wondering if, or where, those three mysterious warnings over the ’phone came into all this. He felt that behind it there was something ominous, menacing. He decided he would have to ask Lord Newdagonby a few more questions. Mrs Findlay came back into the room. She seemed excited, even frightened. Breathless, too, as if she had been running. She said:
“The door’s locked. I can’t get it open. I can’t make him hear. I think he must be ill. I think I heard groans. I looked through the keyhole, and his chair’s empty and he didn’t answer when I called.”
CHAPTER V
“THIS IS MURDER”
IN THIS GREAT old rambling house there were three separate stairways. Those generally called the garden stairs led from the garden door to the ‘Royal Suite’, now converted into a self-contained flat for the use of Mr and Mrs Findlay, and thence to the second floor, where they ended. Secondly there were the back stairs reaching from the basement to the attics and intended for the use of the servants, so that there might be no meetings on the main stairway between them and their employers, and so no chance of any whiff of broom or pail or dustpan coming between the wind and Newdagonby nobility. Thirdly, there was the great central stairway, all gilt and gold and marble. It was a really fine piece of work, ascending in a majestic double sweep, then joining again to rise to where in bygone days of splendour the Lord and Lady Newdagonby of the time had been wont to receive their guests. An imposing sight of an imposing era which was at least all glorious without.
Thence these stairs, though in less majestic manner, rose to the third floor and there stopped, since obviously those entitled to the privilege of this stairway could never wish to penetrate to the attic floor. That was solely the upper habitation of the lower world, though also used for the deposit of different kinds of lumber, including, as had recently been discovered, the famous correspondence with Voltaire, now in the British Museum, and still earlier letters from Tudor statesmen.
It was up this great central stairway that Lord Newdagonby, Bobby, and the others were now racing. Charley Acton was the first. He was setting the pace, and the others had trouble in keeping up with him. He had in one hand a poker he had snatched up from before the electric fire, tradition demanding that even if there was no coal fire, there should still be the customary fire-irons. Bobby and Lord Newdagonby followed, his lordship making unexpectedly good use of those very long, very thin legs of his. Mrs Findlay followed more slowly. She had rather the air of hanging back so as to let others arrive first. Her natural pallor had become intensified. Between the second and third floors they met a small, thin elderly woman in whom Bobby recognized the housekeeper he had seen before. She was, he supposed, the Mrs Jacks mentioned by Mrs Findlay. She looked surprised and slightly alarmed at this sudden hurrying bustle, and stood aside. Then when Mrs Findlay arrived and said something to her, she joined in it, bringing up the rear
.
They reached the third floor, where this main stairway ended. From where he ran, behind Acton but in front of Bobby, Lord Newdagonby shouted.
“Stairs left. Turn left.”
Acton obeyed. Lord Newdagonby was evidently beginning to feel the effects at his age of running up so many stairs so quickly. He paused for a moment to take breath. Bobby passed him and caught up Acton, following close behind him. Mrs Findlay and the housekeeper, Mrs Jacks, were at some distance. Up this final stretch of stairway Bobby and Acton raced alone. They reached the fourth floor. Acton still leading the way, they ran down a passage, lit by a skylight, doors on either hand, and then down another corridor at right angles to the first. At the end were three closed doors in a kind of bay, lighted by a side window. At the central one of these three doors, Acton threw himself with savage energy, trying to force it by aid of the poker he had brought with him. Bobby pulled him aside.
“This will be quicker,” Bobby said.
He had in his pocket, as always, a pocket-knife that was really more like a small compendium of tools. He had some skill—quite unofficial—as a locksmith, and, as he had expected, the lock on this door was of the simplest description, little more indeed than a token lock. It was only the work of a moment to open it, while Acton stood fuming to one side. The moment it was open Acton tried to rush through, but Bobby held him back. Acton protested angrily, but Bobby took no notice and continued to prevent him from entering, standing the while himself quite still in the doorway, staring intently into this room, where a man lay crumpled on the floor.
“He’s ill, a stroke, he told me, let me pass,” Acton exclaimed, trying to push by Bobby.
“Not ill,” Bobby said. “This is murder. Stay where you are.”
He went across to where the stricken man lay, the handle of a knife sticking out between the shoulder-blades. Very gently he eased the position in which the body lay, but he did not attempt to remove the knife. Apparently there had been very little bleeding, and Bobby was afraid to draw out the knife for fear the bleeding should start. He did not think death had yet occurred, for it seemed as if there were a faint, occasional drawing in of breath. But he thought death was near. He became aware that Acton, still grasping his poker, ignoring Bobby’s order to stay by the door, was bending over them. Bobby said to him:
“Is it Mr Findlay?”
“Ivor? Yes. What’s . . . what’s happened? . . . it can’t . . . can’t . . .”
His voice trailed off into silence. The dying man opened his eyes. Apparently the slight movement, the heard voices, had for the moment recalled his departing spirit. He said, quite loudly:
“Oh, you, is it? Why?”
“Who did this?” Bobby asked quickly.
Lord Newdagonby was there now, standing in the doorway.
“Good God, what’s this?” he cried.
Acton jumped to his feet, jostling Bobby, nearly pushing him off his balance as he knelt.
“Keep Sibby out,” he shouted. “Keep her out. There’s been an accident. Don’t let her in.”
“Keep quiet,” Bobby said, very angrily indeed. Bending nearer to Findlay, he said again: “Who? Who did this?”
But Findlay did not answer. He closed his eyes, he gave a great sigh and was dead.
Lord Newdagonby was in the room now. He had pushed before Acton, who, still holding his poker he seemed unable to put down, was standing by the door. To Lord Newdagonby, who was staring blankly, as if unable to believe what he saw, as if incapable of either speech or movement, Bobby said:
“Phone at once, for a doctor, for the police. Scotland Yard. I want help. Don’t waste time. Be quick.”
“But what’s happened?” Lord Newdagonby said. “I don’t understand . . . it’s Ivor, and he’s hurt?”
“I want help, I want a doctor,” Bobby repeated. “Ring up Scotland Yard.” But Lord Newdagonby only stood and stared as if still bereft alike of speech and movement. Giving up hope of getting help from him, and no doubt this sudden intrusion of grim murder into his quiet, ordered, scholarly life was sufficient reason for the apparent paralysis of movement that had fallen on him, Bobby called instead to Acton: “ ’Phone for a doctor, Scotland Yard,” he said. “Tell them I’m here and want help. Hurry.”
Acton nodded, flung down the poker he had been clinging to so long, and rushed away.
To Lord Newdagonby Bobby said:
“Leave the room, please. I want no one here at present.”
“This is my house,” Lord Newdagonby protested.
“There’s been a murder here, and I’m taking charge,” Bobby retorted. “Please do as I ask. I want no one in this room, nothing disturbed, till I get help or till the doctor comes. Not that he can do much. Mr Findlay is dead.”
Though he had spoken quietly enough, though he had given a glance behind him to make sure there was no one in the short corridor or passage leading to these three rooms, nevertheless Mrs Findlay, just round the corner where she had paused to stare after Acton’s flying figure as he rushed by, heard him plainly. It was as if their tragic significance had lent to them some strange carrying power. Now she came hurrying, almost running.
“Ivor?” she called. “Ivor?” It was almost as if she expected him to reply and deny what she had just heard. “He can’t be. Not Ivor, not dead,” she said loudly, almost defiantly.
But the words died on her lips when she saw how her father, who had turned to the door as he heard her coming, how Bobby behind him, were looking at her. Lord Newdagonby took a step towards her.
“My poor child, my dear child,” he said softly.
“Please tell Mrs Findlay what’s happened,” Bobby said to him. “Tell her everything possible is being done.” He stepped back across the threshold. “And please remember I want no one here till help comes.”
“Not Ivor, not Ivor,” Mrs Findlay repeated.
Bobby closed the door, shutting them both out. With his back to it he stood there, silent and motionless, alone with the dead, the unforgiving dead. But if Bobby were still and motionless as the dead man himself, his eyes were active as his gaze travelled slowly here and there, regarding every object in the room with close, contained attention.
It was a large room, though its available space was lessened by the way in which its height diminished at one side to rather less than six feet. A result evidently of the slope of the roof above. Opposite, on the other side of the room, and running for two-thirds of the length of the wall, was a strong, plain wooden table or bench. On it stood various apparatus, to some of which Bobby could not even give a name. But he recognized an electric furnace, two sets of scales, a microscope, many flasks. At one end of this table stood two cages. One held two guinea pigs, busy feeding. The second cage was empty, the door open. He thought at first that the animals might have escaped and be at large in the room. But there was no sign of them, though he noticed that fresh food and water had been provided. On shelves standing against the portion of the wall not occupied by the table stood more flasks, glass containers, and other such scientific desiderata. Beneath these shelves was a cupboard, and opposite were two well-filled bookcases. Near one window—the room had two—was a small table bearing a typewriter. Close by was a large, comfortable-looking settee, well provided with cushions and rugs, as if used for an occasional rest or even perhaps sometimes for a night’s repose if some experiment or test were in progress that needed close watching. In the middle of the room was a large, business-like desk. At it Findlay had apparently been sitting and working when attacked, and near it he had fallen. On it lay a confused litter of papers of one sort or another. Whatever Findlay’s scientific qualifications, he evidently had little idea of system in dealing with his papers. His fountain pen lay there, uncapped, as if it had fallen from his hand as he was using it, but there was no trace of any writing he could have been engaged on.
“It was some one he knew,” Bobby reflected, trying to reconstruct the scene in his mind. “Came up behind. Findlay took no notice, o
r possibly glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the knife coming. Was he writing something? Was that something what he was killed for?”
Useless questions. More must be known before any theory could be formed. Heavy steps approaching told Bobby that help was at hand. He opened the door. Police and doctor had arrived together. Not that there was much the doctor could do, except to agree that life was extinct and to express a somewhat hesitating opinion, based on the condition of the blood in what bleeding had taken place, that the wound had probably been inflicted somewhere about eleven, but with a wide margin of error. Bobby had already noticed that the dead man’s wrist-watch, broken in the fall, showed five minutes to eleven. The doctor was very pleased at this proof that his estimate had been so nearly exact, and he did not at all approve of Bobby’s remark that he would have to try to ascertain if Mr Findlay was careful to keep his watch at the correct time. Accepting eleven or thereabouts as the hour of the attack, this meant, Bobby reflected, that it had taken place just about the time that he himself had arrived here on his visit to Lord Newdagonby.
By now, all the usual routine was in full swing. Photographs were being taken, sketches made, measurements recorded. The finger-print expert was scattering his powder on everything available. The knife used in the murder was being examined. It was an ordinary kitchen knife, but it had evidently been sharpened in readiness for the deadly work for which it was intended. At the moment it was being tested for finger-prints. Bobby had also made sure that the electric furnace had not recently been used, and no useful clue destroyed in it.
He now remained standing aside, watching quietly while all this was going on. Chief Inspector Simons, known irreverently to his subordinates as ‘Ju-ju’, because his first name was Julian, had arrived, and was officially in charge. Bobby’s presence was officially purely accidental, and his function was supposed to be confined to the receiving of reports and a general overall direction. Not that any one who knew him or his record really expected he would confine himself to that unexciting part. As a matter of fact, Simons was glad enough to see him there. A difficult case, Simons was saying to himself, and he would probably be glad of any help. Besides, he knew Bobby was always very willing to give full credit, even generously full credit, to all his assistants. Presently Simons came across to him.
Everybody Always Tells: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 5