The Boathouse Riddle

by J. J. Connington

“Well, sir, he talks like a gentleman—I mean his accent’s all right. If you took him out of that uniform and put him in plain clothes he’d look upper class, I think.”

  “I was wondering what his line was before the Salvation Army made him see the error of his ways. With that manner and his glibness, he’d do well at the confidence trick. I wonder if he’s a genuine convert.”

  Chapter Five

  The Keith-Westerton Imbroglio

  “NOW let’s settle the next moves,” Sir Clinton suggested, when Severn had rejoined them at the Grange after breakfast. “We’ve found nothing useful in the way of fingerprints on that bag, so we may as well use it in another way. We’ll go to the Dower House, ostensibly to return lost property. I’m the finder; you’re the police, Inspector; and Mr. Wendover will come along as a friend of the family, if he wants to. You’ll do the questioning. We must find out what the Keith-Westertons were doing last night—and this morning as well. It may lead to nothing; but it’s the obvious first step. You’d better question the servants as well when you’re about it.”

  Accompanied by Wendover, the two officials drove down to the Dower House. The Squire’s mind was a battle ground of emotions. He hated the idea of meddling in the private affairs of his neighbours, since he had not the slightest belief that Mrs. Keith-Westerton’s bag had any connection with the Horncastle murder. On the other hand, he could not suppress a natural curiosity to see the full development of the case, even in its blind alleys; and in addition, he hoped that he might be able to put a spoke in the Inspector’s wheel if he grew too blunt in his inquiries. “Exert a moderating influence,” was the form in which he phrased this idea in his own mind.

  Severn’s ring was answered by an obviously agitated maid.

  “I don’t think Mr. Keith-Westerton’s in just now,” she explained in answer to the Inspector’s inquiry. “He went out on the chauffeur’s motor bike before breakfast.”

  “Mrs. Keith-Westerton will do as well, if she’s at home.”

  “Mrs. Keith-Westerton isn’t at home, sir.”

  “Then we’ll come in and wait for a while,” Severn proposed, after a glance at Sir Clinton.

  “It’s no good waiting for Mrs. Keith-Westerton; she’s gone from home; and I don’t know when Mr. Keith-Westerton will be back.”

  “We’ll wait for a short time, anyhow,” Severn decided, in a tone which took no denial.

  Rather reluctantly, the maid showed them into the smoking room and left them. Wendover, feeling in a false position, walked over to the window which overlooked the drive. Sir Clinton and the Inspector, having no ties of bread and salt to hamper their feelings, made themselves more at home.

  “Rather untidy, burning papers in an empty grate and leaving the ashes,” Sir Clinton commented, as he drew the Inspector’s attention to the fireplace.

  Before Severn could say anything, Wendover stepped back from the window with a sharp movement, as though to avoid being seen from without. They heard the whirr of a motorcycle on the drive. In a few minutes, young Keith-Westerton entered the room and favoured his visitors with a glance in which Wendover seemed to detect a mingling of suspicion and apprehension.

  “Well, what d’you want at this ungodly hour?” he demanded angrily of the Inspector. Then, seeing Wendover and Sir Clinton he moderated his voice. “Sorry. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  “This bag has been found,” said the Inspector, producing it as he spoke. “I believe it belongs to Mrs. Keith-Westerton, so I’ve brought it around to make sure.”

  Wendover, watching Keith-Westerton’s face, was encouraged by the immediate change in its expression. Obvious relief was written large on it as soon as the Inspector had spoken.

  “Oh, yes. That’s her bag. See her initials on it? Thanks for bringing it around. Very good of you.”

  He took the bag from the Inspector and stood in an attitude which suggested dismissal in the plainest fashion. Severn was obviously undecided as to his next step; and Sir Clinton gave him no help. As the pause became awkward, the Inspector made up his mind.

  “There’s something more valuable than the bag, but I’m not quite sure about it. Has Mrs. Keith-Westerton a pearl necklace among her jewels, by any chance?”

  “Yes, she has. What about it?”

  “Would you mind seeing if it’s all safe?”

  “I expect it is. She was wearing it at dinner last night. D’ you think we’ve been burgled?”

  Wendover, studying Keith-Westerton’s expression closely, saw something like bewilderment replace the earlier relief.

  “I’d like you to see if it’s there, all right,” Severn persisted politely. “We’ve had some information received that makes me ask that.”

  “Oh, all right. If you make a point of it. But I’m sure . . .” he hesitated for a moment and then went on. “I’m not sure I can tell you anything certain. I’ll go and look.”

  In a few minutes he returned with an empty necklace case in his hand.

  “It doesn’t seem to be here,” he said, as though in some perplexity. “It’s generally kept in this and not along with the other things in her jewel case. And it’s not with the other things, either, for I’ve searched.”

  “Were the pearls in it anything like these?” Severn asked, as he drew some tiny objects from his pocket and laid them on a table. “I don’t expect you to identify them, of course. Your jeweler could do that for us, later on, perhaps.”

  As Keith-Westerton bent over the table, Wendover could see a deepening of his perplexed expression.

  “They’re very like them. That’s as far as I can go.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Keith-Westerton could be certain?” Severn suggested.

  “She’s not here at present.”

  “When did she leave?” Severn demanded.

  Keith-Westerton seemed taken aback.

  “What the hell’s that to you?” he retorted angrily.

  Severn’s face lighted up at the tone.

  “I shouldn’t lose your temper, sir, if I were you,” he said decidedly. “We’re in very deep water in this business, and it would be better if we take it quietly.”

  At the words “deep water”, Wendover saw Keith-Westerton’s look change to one of apprehension, like that which he had worn when he first came into the room. There was no denying that he looked like a man who momentarily expects trouble to break on him. Severn, watching also, evidently decided that now was the time to show his hand.

  “Your keeper, Horncastle, was found shot dead this morning—murdered, we have reason to believe.”

  If the Inspector hoped to get evidence from Keith-Westerton’s face at this point, he must have been embarrassed by the obvious confusion of emotions which struggled for expression. It was clear that Keith-Westerton was taken aback by the statement; and yet Wendover, searching for something else, could not help feeling that a faint relief underlay the main feeling. Then the perplexed look returned to the eyes and deepened, as though the young man could not see his line of action clear before him.

  “Horncastle shot?” he said, with obvious mistrust in his tone. “And you say it’s murder? How d’ you know that? It doesn’t sound likely. Who’d murder him?”

  Severn, scanning Keith-Westerton’s face, apparently made up his mind to put all his cards on the table.

  “This is a very awkward business,” he said, with a certain reluctance. “The fact is, I’ve got to ask you some questions. You mayn’t like them; but I’ve got to ask them and you’d be well advised to answer them frankly. When did you see Mrs. Keith-Westerton last?”

  This blunt question seemed to throw Keith-Westerton into complete confusion.

  “What’s my wife got to do with it?” he demanded, after a moment or two. “Leave her out of it, d’ you hear? What right have you to drag her name into a case of this kind, eh?”

  “Now this sort of talk does no good, Mr. Keith-Westerton,” Severn pointed out coldly. “You’ve as good as identified these pearls as belonging to Mrs. Kei
th-Westerton. Very well, then. These pearls, or some of them, at least, were picked up alongside Horncastle’s dead body. I don’t know how they came there. I don’t suggest anything. But you can see for yourself that questions are bound to be asked.”

  Wendover could see that this evidence came as a thunderbolt on Keith-Westerton. He looked suddenly like a sick man, and almost mechanically he moved over to a chair and sat down, as though he felt unable to stand. Wendover’s eye was caught by a slight rhythmic quiver of his knee, which betrayed that he was strung up to a high pitch of nervousness and had lost some muscular control. At last, moistening his lips, Keith-Westerton spoke in a high-pitched voice.

  “There’s nothing in it. There’s nothing in it,” he said, as though trying to raise his courage by repetition.

  “Then the truth’s the best thing,” Severn suggested dryly. “When did you see Mrs. Keith-Westerton last?”

  Instead of answering immediately, Keith-Westerton quite obviously turned the question over in his mind.

  “Last night,” he replied reluctantly after a few seconds.

  “At what hour last night?”

  Again Keith-Westerton evidently paused to consider the query carefully.

  “Just after dinner.”

  “You said good-bye to her then, I suppose, since she was going away?”

  This time Keith-Westerton’s reluctance was even more apparent than before.

  “No,” he said, at last, “I didn’t see her before she went.”

  “She left unexpectedly, then?” Severn demanded sharply. “Did you know that she was going away last night?”

  “I didn’t know beforehand.”

  “Where has she gone?”

  Wendover, watching Keith-Westerton’s face, had no difficulty in deciding that the answer to this, when it came, would be a falsehood, either direct or indirect.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  The Inspector’s face darkened at this evasion.

  “You’ll gain nothing by this, Mr. Keith-Westerton,” he said with asperity. “Either you know where she is or you don’t. Which is it?”

  “She’s somewhere where you won’t find her, anyhow,” Keith-Westerton snapped out. “What right have you to badger me about my wife’s affairs, eh? It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  “Up to a point, it is,” Severn agreed, in a more courteous tone. “You refuse to answer that question? Well, I can’t force you. I think you’re making a bad mistake, that’s all. Now I’ve got to ask you about your own movements last night.”

  Keith-Westerton shrugged his shoulders impatiently; but Wendover could see that he was relieved at this turn in the inquiry.

  “You and Mrs. Keith-Westerton had dinner together, I suppose?”

  Keith-Westerton contented himself with a nod of assent.

  “Had you any disagreement during the day? Did anything happen which might have made her go away from home suddenly?”

  Keith-Westerton’s face betrayed something of the thoughts in his mind. “How much should I give away?” seemed written plainly in his expression; and his eyes hinted at a swift rejection of one idea after another.

  “We hadn’t the slightest disagreement,” he replied at last, dragging out his sentence as though even at the last moment he might wish to reconsider his course. “There was nothing in the very slightest that you could call a disagreement, up to the moment when I left her.”

  “You left her? Where did you leave her?”

  “In her sitting room next door—where we usually go after dinner.”

  “I see,” said Severn. “You left her there. And that would be about—what time?”

  “A few minutes after nine,” Keith-Westerton answered at once.

  “Oh, within a few minutes—say five minutes?”

  “Immediately after nine,” Keith-Westerton said definitely. “I’d been keeping my eye on the clock.”

  “And you went out, I take it? Did you change before you went out?”

  “No, I put on a light coat over my dinner jacket. I changed into outdoor shoes. I was going out for a walk.”

  “I see. You didn’t say good night when you went out, or good-bye, or anything of that sort? No? Now, Mr. Keith-Westerton, what sort of walk did you take?”

  It needed no expert in physiognomy to see that this question gave Keith-Westerton trouble. He considered for some seconds before replying, lamely:

  “It was a fine night. I walked about a good deal.”

  “On the main roads?”

  “Mostly. Once I crossed a field, but there was a heavy dew. After that I kept to the road or to paths.”

  “I see. And you got home again—when?”

  “I don’t know, really,” Keith-Westerton answered hesitatingly. “Round about one o’clock in the morning, I should think.”

  “Must have been a long walk you took, surely. Where did you go?”

  “Just round about. I can’t remember exactly where I went. I was in a brown study, most of the time. Busy thinking about some business and didn’t notice where I was going.”

  “I see,” Severn commented discouragingly. “Well, you must be able to remember what direction you started in and what road you came back by, surely.”

  Keith-Westerton obviously resented this.

  “I turned along the road towards the Grange to start with, and I came back the same way finally. I really can’t remember where I got to. I was just walking aimlessly, trying to think something out.”

  “H’m!” Severn mused aloud. “Can’t you remember anything more than that? No? Well, what happened when you came in?”

  “I took off my shoes. . . . Then, I think I came in here for a moment or two. . . . And almost at once I went up to my wife’s room.”

  “And found she wasn’t there? Did you search for her?”

  “No, I went to my own room.”

  “I see.”

  Severn’s tone indicated very clearly that whatever he saw, it was not an explanation of Keith-Westerton’s behaviour.

  “You have a key to Mr. Wendover’s boathouse, haven’t you?”

  This question evidently perturbed Keith-Westerton profoundly. For some reason, Severn’s inquiry seemed to touch him unexpectedly on a raw spot.

  “Yes, I have,” he admitted.

  “And Mrs. Keith-Westerton had a key also?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, tell me,” Severn spoke very suavely, “did you visit the boathouse in the course of your walk?”

  It was obvious that this question gave Keith-Westerton more trouble than any of the others.

  “No use humming and hawing about it,” Severn said sternly. “Either you did or you didn’t. Which is it?”

  “I didn’t,” Keith-Westerton said sullenly, but without convincing any of the trio that he was speaking the truth.

  “Oh, well . . .” Severn seemed as though he wished to give his victim a chance of reconsidering his statement; but as Keith-Westerton remained silent, he went on. “You row a boat, don’t you? I mean, you’re in practice?”

  “Well enough,” was the reply, in a tone which showed that the bearing of the question escaped Keith-Westerton.

  “Can Mrs. Keith-Westerton row?”

  “She’s learning. She rows not badly, considering how little practice she’s had.”

  “When were you out on the lake last?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Mrs. Keith-Westerton with you?”

  “Yes.”

  It was evident that no thought was needed by Keith-Westerton before answering these questions. Severn now switched his inquiries to a fresh line.

  “Mrs. Keith-Westerton didn’t take her jewels with her when she went away?”

  “No, I told you that they’re upstairs in her jewel case.”

  “She must have taken something with her, surely—clothes, a suit case, or something.”

  “I don’t know. Probably her maid could say.”

  This was what Severn had been angling
for.

  “I’ll see the maid then, by-and-by, H’m! Mrs. Keith-Westerton would hardly walk out on the roads carrying a suit case. She must have had some conveyance?”

  “I wasn’t here to see,” Keith-Westerton said, as though he were scoring a point.

  A momentary reflection, however, seemed to suggest a fresh idea to him; and he bit his lip as though he had made a mistake.

  “Did she take your car?”

  “I wasn’t here to see.”

  “Then I’ll have to ask your chauffeur about that,” Severn replied, keeping his eyes on Keith-Westerton’s face.

  “If you want to,” was the answer, given in a tone which indicated that this suggestion was anything but palatable.

  “About when did Mrs. Keith-Westerton leave the house?”

  “I wasn’t here to see.”

  “You’re not trying to help us much, Mr. Keith-Westerton,” Severn pointed out seriously. “Remember, this is a bad business. A man’s been murdered. . . .”

  “Well, what the devil’s that got to do with me?” Keith-Westerton demanded callously. “One would think, by the way you’ve been poking your nose into my affairs, that you thought I’d murdered him. Are you charging me with that? Let’s have the cards on the table.”

  “I’m not charging you with murdering him. I don’t know who shot him,” Severn explained suavely. “But I’ve got to clear up the matter of these pearls; and I must say plainly that I don’t think you’re doing any one much good by this sort of thing, Mr. Keith-Westerton. We know a good deal more than you think.”

  Wendover caught a twinkle in Sir Clinton’s eye as Severn produced this well-worn cliché. It seemed to have its effect, however, for Keith-Westerton looked distinctly uneasy when he heard it.

  “You don’t want to add anything to what you’ve told us already?” the Inspector asked.

  Keith-Westerton shook his head.

  “Then I think I’d better see your servants,” Severn suggested. “I’d rather that you weren’t here when I question them.”

  “I don’t mind,” Keith-Westerton replied, with an attempt at indifference which was far from successful. “If you ring the bell, you can get any one you want.”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Keith-Westerton,” Sir Clinton interposed. “Can you give us the name of the jeweller from whom this necklace of Mrs. Keith-Westerton’s was bought, if it was bought recently?”