“That is so,” he said. “An exceedingly rich man. . . .”
“And so will Francis Conyers be—if he can be found,” said Roger.
“That is so,” said Mr. Titer again.
Roger took out his case, helped himself to a cigarette and lighted it.
“You’re advertising for him, I suppose?” he remarked.
Mr. Titer graciously replied once more that “that was so!”
“And if that doesn’t produce results?” asked Roger.
Mr. Titer considered for several seconds before replying.
“In that case we shall have to get the Court to allow us to presume death,” he said. “Of course, that will be a long business—a very very long business. . . .”
“What happens to the estate in the meanwhile?” said Roger.
“We shall, of course, continue to administer that on behalf of the—er—heir or next of kin,” said the solicitor. “The entire matter is very—er—unfortunate.”
“What are the police doing?” asked Roger. “So far as I can see they aren’t doing much.”
“I’ve no doubt,” said Mr. Titer, “that they are pursuing all the necessary inquiries. The police are, as a rule, very efficient.”
“Well,” grunted Roger, “I don’t think they’ve proved so in this particular case. I want to know who was responsible for the death of my sister. I don’t care a button about the others, but I was very fond of Sybil and I shan’t rest until somebody has been brought to book for putting that poison in her glass of water. It’s my private opinion that it was her husband. . . .”
Mr. Titer held up a protesting hand and looked extremely shocked.
“Really!” he remonstrated with almost a note of horror in his voice. “Really, Mr. Marsden, you cannot make these—er—unfounded accusations against people. . . .”
“Only one person,” corrected Roger. “Basil. . . .”
“There is no evidence, no evidence at all, to warrant such a thing,” said Mr. Titer.
“There may not be any evidence but it’s common sense, all the same,” retorted Roger. “Basil was broke, or practically broke. He’d gambled his own fortune away. . . .”
“That doesn’t make him a murderer,” interrupted Mr. Titer. “Really, I’ve never heard of such a thing. . . .”
“If I know anything of Sybil,” went on Roger, taking no notice of the interruption, “she wouldn’t have let him have a penny of her money while she was alive. She’d have paid all the bills and seen that the estate was kept up and all that, of course, but she wouldn’t have given Basil money to chuck away on horses and women. I think my suggestion is pretty reasonable. In fact, evidence or no evidence, I’m convinced that her husband poisoned her to get her money.”
“But he was murdered himself,” said Mr. Titer.
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” agreed Roger, “but all this business of that little crook at Jackson’s Folly and the rest of it may not have anything to do with Sybil’s death. That may very easily have been something to do with one of Basil’s schemes, you know. He was up to all kinds of tricks. . . .”
“I hardly think it could have been one of his schemes to get himself knocked on the head,” remarked the lawyer with a rather wintry smile.
Roger made a grimace.
“No, I’ll admit that doesn’t fit in,” he said. “But the rest does. If we could find someone with a motive for killing Basil, I believe that I’m right.”
“You are the only person with a motive for that,” said Mr. Titer shrewdly. “You were very fond of your sister and if you believed as you say you do, that her husband was responsible for her death. . . .”
“You think I might have bashed him over the head?” finished Roger. “Well, you’re quite right!”
Mr. Titer’s eyes widened in horrified surprise.
“Are you—are you telling m-me . . .?” he stuttered, “that y-y-you . . .”
“I’m not confessing to the murder of Basil, if that’s what you mean,” broke in Roger, laughing. “What I meant was that you were quite right about the motive. If I’d known for certain that it was Basil who killed my sister, I certainly would have murdered him.”
Mr. Titer looked relieved. For the moment he had imagined that the man before him was admitting to murder. . . . He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Before he could say anything further on the subject, however, the door opened and Mrs. Mortlock came in.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said in a tone that suggested she didn’t much care whether she was or not, “but I should like to know when we can leave here, or perhaps I should say when I can leave here. That is the thing that interests me most.”
“I’m afraid you will have to ask the officer in charge of the police investigation that, madam,” said Mr. Titer. “I am—er—not in a position to inform you.”
“I should doubt very much if he would be able to tell anyone anything,” said Mrs. Mortlock shrugging her thin shoulders. “If you mean that fat man. He always seems to be half asleep to me.”
“Yes, I shouldn’t think he was very intelligent,” said Roger, falling into the same error regarding Mr. Budd as a great many people had done before him—to their ultimate cost. “He seems to be a very stolid, unimaginative sort of man.”
Mr. Titer cleared his throat.
“I am given to understand,” he remarked, “that Superintendent Budd is one of the Yard’s best men.”
Mrs. Mortlock sniffed disparagingly.
“I’m sorry for the others, if that is the case,” she snapped. “However, the point is how long are we going to be detained here?”
Mr. Titer shook his head.
“That, as I’ve already told you,” he replied, “I cannot tell. It’s entirely a question for the police. . . .”
“Why are you so anxious to get away?” asked Roger.
“I’ve got my own life to lead,” answered Mrs. Mortlock. “Now that the whole household here has become disorganized there seems no point in remaining here longer than one can help. Angela, of course, will have to go There’s nothing for her to stay for now that Sybil is dead. I don’t know what will happen to Mr. Harper. What is going to be done with the estate?”
Mr. Titer repeated what he had already told Roger Marsden.
“Do you mean that if Francis is proved to be dead, the estate will come to me?” demanded Mrs. Mortlock incredulously. “To me?”
“As the next of kin,” said Mr. Titer, “I don’t think there is any doubt of it.”
She looked at him and Roger thought there was a slightly dazed expression in her eyes. And yet, he thought, it couldn’t have been a complete surprise to her. She must have known that it was a possibility—even more than a possibility.
“There may, of course,” went on the lawyer carefully, “be a considerable lapse of time before we can—er—definitely hand over the estate to you, but I was going to suggest that you should, in the meanwhile, and pending the necessary legal formalities, take—er—up your residence here and act as—er—steward. You will, naturally require help in the administration of the property and this, of course, we shall be prepared to give you. You could also retain the services of Mr. Harper, whose previous experience would be of value. Would you be prepared to do this?”
Mrs. Mortlock considered.
“I think I should,” she replied at last. “I’m quite sure that Francis is dead. That was Basil’s opinion. Nothing has been heard of him for years. . . .”
“If proof of his death can be found it will expedite matters considerably,” said Mr. Titer. “If we have to go to the Courts to presume death it may, as I told Mr. Marsden, be a rather protracted matter. . . .”
“Nobody knew where he went to after he’d forged that cheque,” said Mrs. Mortlock, shaking her head. “And nobody has heard anything of him since. I should think it would be very difficult to prove that he’s dead.”
“I should say he’d turn up quickly enough if he knows that he’s heir to
the estate,” remarked Roger.
“That depends on whether he sees the advertisement,” said Mr. Titer. “We shall, of course, have it inserted in the foreign press as well as in America and other English speaking countries. We can only hope that it will bring results. Otherwise . . .” He shook his head. “It will be a long business—a long business.”
But it wasn’t to be so long as he anticipated. Francis Conyers was to turn up in circumstances that none of them would have dreamed of—even in their wildest imaginings.
Chapter Fifteen
Harry Bates stirred the cup of tea which Miss Titmarsh had made and looked gloomily at the swirling contents.
“And that’s all?” he inquired.
She nodded.
“That’s all,” she said.
“I was hoping that he’d told you more,” said Harry. He took a sip of the hot tea. “He was very excited about something the last time I saw him. ‘I’ll be independent for life’ he said. ‘I’m on to a good thing.’ But he wouldn’t tell me any more. . . .”
“He mentioned something of a similar nature to me,” said Miss Titmarsh. “He said that he would soon be rolling about in his own car. But he was always so untruthful, I didn’t take a lot of notice.”
“But he did mention these people up at Marbury Court?” said Harry.
“Yes,” replied Miss Titmarsh reluctantly. “Yes, he did. He was going to make them pay, he said, a whole lot of money. But he never told me how. . . .”
He looked at her with a keen, shrewd glance. Was this prim, school-marmish woman telling the truth? Was she concealing something? He couldn’t be sure. She’d concealed the fact of her relationship to Sam pretty well. She might be concealing something else. He wasn’t sure, he couldn’t be sure. But there was nothing much he could do about it. If she chose to deny any knowledge of what Sam had been after he would have to believe her—or, at least, pretend to. He couldn’t call her a liar without more definite knowledge.
He drank his tea and got up.
“Well, I suppose I’d better be going,” he said. “I’m sorry that my visit has been so unprofitable.”
Miss Titmarsh said nothing but he saw the look of relief on her thin face. She too got up and at that moment there came a knock at the front door.
Miss Titmarsh’s hand flew up to her flat breast. Her eyes widened with fear and her lips parted.
“Who is it?” whispered Harry Bates, seeing the look on her face.
Miss Titmarsh shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she answered in a voice that was scarcely audible.
“Whoever it is I don’t want to be found here,” said Harry. “Is there a back way?”
Again she shook her head.
“It can be seen from the front porch,” she said in the same low tone. “Go into the kitchen—through that way.”
She pointed to the door. Harry nodded quickly and she waited until he had disappeared into the little kitchen before she went along the narrow hall and opened the front door.
“Good evenin’,” said Mr. Budd. “I’m sorry to call so late, m’am, but I’d like to have a word with you, if I may.”
Harry Bates, lurking behind the kitchen door, heard the stout superintendent’s voice and recognized it. Had the police followed him here after all? Hadn’t he been successful in shaking off his tailer? Perhaps there had been more than one?
His jaw tightened as his mouth compressed. He’d no wish for Budd to find him here. Not that there was anything wrong in it but . . . He strained his ears as he heard Miss Titmarsh reply.
“I—I’m just thinking of going to bed,” she said. “If it isn’t anything urgent. . . .”
“But I’m afraid it is, m’am,” interrupted Mr. Budd, and the listening Harry wondered why he used the word “m’am” to a supposed spinster. “Miss” would have been the right address. . . .
Miss Titmarsh had noticed it too. The big man had previously addressed her as “Miss” . . . Was it just a slip, or did he—know?
“I’m afraid it is rather urgent,” repeated Mr. Budd. “But I shan’t keep you long.”
“Very well,” said Miss Titmarsh.
She opened the door wider and Mr. Budd sidled with difficulty into the hall. She led the way into the sitting-room, turned and faced him.
“Please tell me as quickly as possible,” she said, “what it is you want.”
Mr. Budd’s sleepy eyes noticed the second cup on the table by the chair and Mr. Budd’s sensitive nose smelt the stale cigarette smoke that lingered in the atmosphere. There had been somebody else here recently—very recently for a cigarette end was just smouldering out in the teacup’s saucer.
He wondered who the visitor had been and whether he, or she, was still lurking somewhere in the house, but he made no comment.
“I should like to ask you a few questions concernin’ the dead man, Sam Sprigot,” he said in his usual sleepy manner, but his eyes, under their half-lowered lids were watchful.
“I know nothing about him—nothing at all,” answered Miss Titmarsh quickly.
But she felt her heart give a sudden jump that made her feel dizzy and faint.
“I don’t think that’s quite right, is it?” said the stout superintendent slowly. “I understand that you knew quite a lot about him at one time.”
Miss Titmarsh put out her hand and grasped the back of the chair near which she was standing. How could this man know, she thought.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said, and her voice sounded strange and husky even to herself. It might have been somebody else speaking.
“I think you do,” murmured Mr. Budd gently. “Now, why not admit it, m’am. Sam Sprigot was your husband, wasn’t he?”
It was a guess based on that small item in the dead man’s record that referred to the “schoolteacher” but he knew as soon as he saw her face that the shot had gone home.
She made no effort to deny it. Very slowly she nodded.
“Now, m’am,” said Mr. Budd in his most avuncular manner, “why didn’t you tell the police this before? Why did you try and hide up the fact?”
Her eyes, dull and with a queer look behind them of pain, surveyed him almost as though she were blind.
“It wasn’t anything to be proud of,” she answered bitterly. “I have tried to forget it—to keep it from everyones knowledge. I have always been regarded as respectable here. . . .”
Mr. Budd sighed.
Respectable. The motive behind more crimes than he could count. The basis of all blackmail. That fetish of respectability—of what the neighbours would say. . . . Murder had been committed time and again to save the murderer’s respectability. And yet, he thought, so few people, if every incident in their lives became suddenly known, were respectable.
“Was that the only reason you kept this to yourself?” he asked.
“Isn’t it reason enough?” she said, in that colourless tone that blent with the expression in the dull eyes. “Do you think I wanted everyone in the village to know that I was married to a criminal—a man who had been in gaol. . . .”
Mr. Budd nodded sympathetically.
“I can understand what you mean,” he said, “but when it comes to murder. . . .”
“I know nothing about that,” she broke in quickly with a tinge of life coming back into her voice. “I know nothing that could help the police in that. . . .”
“You should have let us be the best judge of that, m’am,” said the stout superintendent shaking his head. “We don’t want to make trouble for people, you know. Unless it was necessary to the clearing up of these crimes, there would’ve been no reason why your relationship with the dead man should have become public property. If only people ’ud realise that the police are always willin’ to respect a confidence, it ’ud be much easier for everybody concerned. It’s this stupid hidin’ up that makes so much trouble an’ work. An’ it don’t do any good in the long run. We always find out, you know.”
Miss Titmarsh sa
id nothing.
“Now,” went on Mr. Budd, “when did you last see your husband?”
After a moments hesitation she told him. She told him exactly what she had told Harry Bates, and that nervous man, listening in the kitchen, heard every word.
Would she mention anything about him, he thought uneasily. She might. There was no reason why she shouldn’t, now that the police had discovered for themselves the truth about her. . . .
Harry had no wish to be discovered there by Mr. Budd. The high hopes with which he had set out on this journey had come to nought. He wasn’t sure whether the woman knew more than she had said or not, but if she did, it was pretty certain that she wasn’t going to divulge it. The best thing he could do would be to make himself scarce while the going was good.
The back door was just behind him and he moved stealthily over to it. It was locked and bolted—Miss Titmarsh, or Mrs. Sprigot, whichever you liked to call her—was evidently a nervous woman. Well, maybe she had cause. It depended how much she really knew about the whole business. Harry softly turned the key in the lock and then set about easing back the bolts. They fitted tightly and he dare not risk making a noise. It took him a little while but he succeeded at last, and opened the door.
There was a little, narrow path that joined the main path to the front gate, and softly closing the door behind him, Harry tip-toed down the path to the gate.
His hand was on the latch when a shadow loomed up in front of him—a thin, lanky shadow that seemed to have been lurking in the gloom of the wall.
“Hello,” said a lugubrious voice. “Who are you an’ what are yer doin’ sneakin’ out like that?”
Harry Bates had heard that voice before. It belonged to Sergeant Leek.
*
“Well, well,” remarked Mr. Budd, a few minutes later, eyeing Harry Bates and Leek as they faced him in Miss Titmarsh’s little sitting-room. “So you’re ’ere, are you, Harry? Two minds with but a single thought, eh?”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t visit the widow of me old friend?” asked Harry in an injured voice. “It’s a nice thing if a chap can’t pay a visit without gettin’ collared by the police.”
The Nursery Rhyme Murders Page 11