The Boathouse Riddle

by J. J. Connington

  Ferrers made a silent acknowledgment of this and then turned to Severn as though awaiting his inquiries.

  “Did you see Mr. Keith-Westerton before dinner last night?” the Inspector began.

  “Yes. Two or three times a week he asks me to spar with him, just to keep in practice. I had the gloves on with him for a quarter of an hour or so. That was about six o’clock or so.”

  “Are you any good at it?”

  Ferrers’ mouth twisted in a faint smile.

  “I’m not good enough to stand up to him if he really meant business,” he admitted wryly. “He knows far more about it than I do.”

  “That was round about six o’clock,” Severn proceeded. “Did you notice anything about him that struck you? Was he just as usual in his manner?”

  Ferrers reflected carefully before answering.

  “I should say that he was. I saw nothing out of the way.”

  “You saw him again before dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice any change in him?”

  “Nothing I can remember.”

  “You were in the room during dinner. Did you see anything then that suggested a disagreement between Mr. Keith-Westerton and his wife?”

  Again Ferrers considered carefully.

  “No. I can’t say I did,” he admitted at last. “He seemed a bit absent-minded, perhaps; but it wasn’t noticeable. When she spoke to him, he might have been thinking about something else; but he pulled himself up at once and answered her just in his usual way. I saw no signs of the slightest friction, if that’s what you want.”

  “After dinner, you went out with Miss Sandeau?”

  “Yes.”

  Severn put some more questions with regard to the movements of the couple and the lights in the boathouse. Ferrers corroborated Louise’s evidence. He had returned to the Dower House not long after the French girl, had gone straight to bed, and had learned of Mrs. Keith-Westerton’s disappearance only in the morning.

  “Do you know a man Horncastle, one of the keepers?” Severn demanded, when these points had been cleared up.

  “I’ve had trouble with him,” Ferrers volunteered curtly.

  “You have? What sort of trouble?”

  “I gave him a good hiding last Thursday,” Ferrers explained, in a tone which betrayed his satisfaction. “He’d insulted Miss Sandeau the day before; and she complained to me about his manners, naturally enough. I had it out with him as soon as I could get hold of him; and I don’t think he’ll trouble her again after what he got.”

  Wendover, examining the spruce figure before him, was led to reflect that civilisation does not necessarily reach down to the core of a personality, even though the surface is presentable. Behind this rather vulgar little episode, the Squire could catch a glimpse of the caveman defending his mate from a rival and rejoicing in a victory. “He must be devilish fond of that French maid,” Wendover concluded. “And that glad eye of hers will get him into a lot of trouble, if this is the way he goes about things.”

  “Thursday, this happened?” Severn demanded. “Have you seen Horncastle since then?”

  “No. Has he been complaining about it?” Ferrers replied, in a faintly apprehensive tone. “I don’t want any trouble over it. He was just asking for it and he got it; he’s no cause to complain.”

  “He hasn’t complained.”

  “Then what are you asking about it for?”

  “Because he’s been found dead this morning and I’m making inquiries about his death.”

  The tinge of apprehension faded out of Ferrers’ voice.

  “Oh, I see now,” he said. “You got on to this scrap I had with him and you thought you had a clue? No, I’d squared the account with Horncastle over his rudeness on Thursday and I haven’t come across him since then. He got enough then to make him keep out of my road.”

  “When did you enter Mr. Keith-Westerton’s service?” Severn switched to a fresh line of inquiry.

  “Just before Mr. Keith-Westerton got married. My predecessor preferred a bachelor; and he left on that account.”

  “You were with him through his honeymoon trip? Did you see anything that struck you?”

  “They were like most honeymoon couples, very fond of each other, so far as I could see.”

  “And there’s been no change in them since they came home again?”

  “No, they’ve been just the same.”

  “H’m! You met nobody in the house when you came in last night?”

  “No, I went straight to bed as soon as I came in.”

  Severn reflected for a moment, but seemed unable to think of any further questions. He glanced at the Chief Constable, but Sir Clinton obviously had no wish to make any inquiry.

  “Well,” said the Inspector, “that’s all I want with you. Send the chauffeur here; I want to see him too.”

  Hyde turned out to be a heavily built, sullen-looking man of about thirty. As he came into the room, he glanced suspiciously at the Inspector.

  “Your name’s Hyde, isn’t it? How long have you been in Mr. Keith-Westerton’s service?”

  “David Hyde. A couple of years.”

  “You spar with Mr. Keith-Westerton sometimes?”

  “As little as possible. He hits too hard when he gets keen.”

  “I’m inquiring about a crime that’s been committed. I want to know what you did yesterday evening.”

  Hyde was obviously taken aback by this.

  “I’ve nothing to do with a crime.”

  “Then there’s no harm in telling us what you were doing, is there?” Severn retorted.

  “I suppose not,” Hyde admitted reluctantly. “Well, what do you want to know?”

  “Was the car out yesterday?”

  Across Hyde’s face there flitted for a moment an expression which Wendover could not interpret. Evidently the word “car” suggested something out-of-the-way to him; and for a moment it seemed as though he was about to volunteer something. Second thoughts prevailed, apparently, for he confined himself to answering Severn’s question.

  “I took Mrs. Keith-Westerton into Ambledown to do some shopping yesterday morning.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I was told in the afternoon that the car wouldn’t be required for the rest of the day.”

  “What did you do with your spare time?”

  “I took my motor bike and went into Ambledown in the afternoon. I’d some shopping of my own to do.”

  “You were back for dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  Hyde seemed to have lost a certain amount of his earlier suspicion, Wendover noticed, though his answers were still curt.

  “After dinner, what did you do?”

  “I went for a walk with Miss Holland.”

  “The house-parlourmaid? Are you engaged to her?”

  “Not likely,” said Hyde, rather contemptuously.

  “When did she come in?”

  “About ten o’clock, I should think. She’s an early bird.”

  “And you?”

  “I strolled up the road a bit before turning in.”

  He reflected for a moment as though doubtful whether he ought to volunteer anything.

  “I met a Salvation Army man on the road. He asked me the way to the Dower House, so I put him on his way and went on.”

  “What time was that?” Severn demanded sharply.

  “How do I know? Round about ten o’clock. I didn’t look at my watch.”

  “You didn’t think it curious that he should be asking the road to the Dower House at that time of night?”

  “No business of mine,” Hyde retorted, rather surlily.

  “How long was it before you came back here?”

  “Half an hour or so. I don’t really know. About that, I should think.”

  “And you went to bed when you came in?”

  “Straight.”

  After answering the question, Hyde seemed to bethink himself of something. He made a gesture as though
about to speak, then apparently refrained. Severn noticed his hesitation and put a further question.

  “Did you wake up during the night?”

  “Now you ask it, that’s so,” the chauffeur replied.

  “About what time was that?”

  This time Hyde had no difficulty.

  “Just about half-past eleven. My bedroom’s on the same side of the house as the garage. I’m a light sleeper. I woke up with the notion that some one was in the garage. I looked out of my window and I could see the garage lights on and the doors open. Thieves, I thinks, so I went downstairs. I looked out of the dining-room window. I could see the open door of the garage from there and I heard the car’s engine running. I was just going to open the window and yell at them, whoever they were, when Mrs. Keith-Westerton drove the car out of the garage. I could see her plain enough when she got out of the car to switch off the lights and shut the garage doors. I knew it was all right, then, so I went back to bed.”

  “And what about the car?”

  “What about it? It wasn’t here this morning, of course. Mrs. Keith-Westerton hasn’t come back.”

  “When you went upstairs again, after seeing the car go off, did you switch on the hall and stair lights to see your way?” Sir Clinton demanded.

  “I did, of course. It’s awkward finding your way about this place in the dark.”

  “There’s a table in the hall beside the switch,” Sir Clinton reminded him. “Did you see anything on it when you were turning on the light—anything that caught your eye?”

  Hyde looked suspiciously at the Chief Constable.

  “I didn’t see anything out of the way,” he answered. “A letter was lying there. It’s the place where letters are put if they’re to go to the post in the morning. I remember it because I usually take them down to the post office in the car; and when I looked for it this morning it wasn’t there.”

  “You remember what it was like?”

  “Just an ordinary squarish envelope, same as all the house letters are in.”

  “You didn’t notice if it was stamped or not?”

  “No. If an unstamped letter’s left there, I stamp it at the post office when I’m posting it.”

  Sir Clinton had obviously no further questions, so Severn recommenced.

  “Mr. Keith-Westerton borrowed your motorcycle this morning?”

  Hyde nodded.

  “You don’t know where he went?”

  “No.”

  “Have you a speedometer with a mileage dial on your motorcycle?” Sir Clinton inquired.

  Hyde nodded again.

  “Do you ever take readings of it?”

  “I set the trip dial every time I come in, because I keep a note of my mileage and check my oil and petrol consumption by it.”

  “Did you reset it last night?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” Sir Clinton said. “Don’t reset it for the present.”

  Severn, seeing that the Chief Constable had no desire to put further questions, turned to Hyde.

  “That’ll do. Send the house-parlourmaid here.”

  Hyde’s suspicions were evidently reawakened by this demand but he refrained from saying anything as he left the room. In a minute or two, Ida Holland entered, bringing with her Mrs. Keith-Westerton’s paint box. Sir Clinton looked up as she came in.

  “I think you were a little flustered, weren’t you, when we saw you before?” he said soothingly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, but I want you to remember one or two things, if you can. I expect you were flurried at being questioned. Now, just think for a moment. Yesterday, do you remember a telegram or a telephone message coming for Mrs. Keith-Westerton?”

  The maid thought hard for a moment or two before replying.

  “No, sir. I’d have been sure to have known about it if it came when I was in. Nobody rang up and no wire came that I heard about. She got no letter by the post yesterday, either.”

  “Did anybody call that night?”

  The maid’s face showed more than a trace of confusion.

  “Oh, yes, sir. I ought to have told you that, perhaps; but I was flustered, just as you said. A Salvationist in uniform came to the front door just after I came in—about ten o’clock at night.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He asked for Mr. Keith-Westerton, sir. I went to look for Mr. Keith-Westerton, but I couldn’t see him anywhere, and Mrs. Keith-Westerton wasn’t there, either. I thought she’d gone to bed. I told the man that Mr. Keith-Westerton wasn’t in. Then he asked for Mrs. Keith-Westerton and I said she was out. He seemed a lot taken aback at that and he was muttering to himself. I was quite glad to shut the door on him. He called again this morning, early; and I told him Mr. and Mrs. Keith-Westerton were out. He went away without leaving a message.”

  “You passed through the hall at that time. Did you see a letter—an envelope—lying there anywhere?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t see anything of that sort. Not on the table, at any rate.”

  “I thought not. Now, will you ask Mrs. Featherstone to come here for a moment?”

  The cook was able to fill in the gap during which Ida Holland had been out of the house. No telegram, telephone call, or message of any kind had reached Mrs. Keith-Westerton, so far as could be ascertained.

  “Now, Inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested, when Mrs. Featherstone had left the room, “you’d better get all these people to sign your notes of the evidence, so as to have everything in proper form. And in doing that, you’ll be able to get their fingerprints on the leaves of your notebook, if you go about it in the right way. I specially want Mr. Keith-Westerton’s.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And now we’ll get these ashes out of the grate as best we can without breaking them up too much. I think I can get some of them on to a soup plate; and if we cover them with the other soup plate, upside-down, I expect we’ll be able to transport them without damage. You can cover our retreat to the car with our treasure; keep the household busy signing your stuff. And then you might have a look at that trip dial on the motorcycle and make a note of the figures.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll manage all that.”

  “Then there’s another thing. Send some one at once up to town with these pearls and get them identified by the jewellers if possible. We must know definitely if they were from Mrs. Keith-Westerton’s necklace.”

  “I’ll see to that, sir.”

  “And, finally, when you’ve got Mr. Keith-Westerton’s fingerprints—and Mrs. Keith-Westerton’s from this paint box—you might develop the prints on this envelope addressed to ‘COLIN’ and see if it was handled by any one except those two people.”

  When all the witnesses had been dismissed, Severn’s official mask relaxed, and now it was clear that he felt very perplexed.

  “I don’t see my way through this business at all, sir,” he confessed frankly. “We seem to have dropped on a lot of weird goings-on here; and yet, when I come to think over it, I can’t see much connection between them and Horncastle’s death.”

  “On the surface, they haven’t,” Sir Clinton agreed, “but I’ll be surprised if those pearls we found beside Horncastle’s body didn’t come from Mrs. Keith-Westerton’s necklace. In which case, there’s an obvious connection; and the weirder the doings round about here last night, the better chance we have of picking up something.”

  Severn made a sudden gesture of annoyance.

  “I ought to have asked these people for the loan of a match,” he said in a tone of vexation.

  “To see if they carried Swan vestas? Quite right, but unfortunately there are no less than three match stands in this room, all of them filled with Swan vestas. I doubt if you would have got any of the men to take a box out of his pocket unless you’d asked for it point-blank. And, most likely, with all this supply of free Swans, you’d find each of them carrying a box.”

  He glanced round the room for a moment.

  “I
don’t think there’s anything further to be seen here. You’d better go off and attract these people’s attention.”

  Under cover of the Inspector’s doings, Sir Clinton had little difficulty in removing the ashes of the letter to the car which had been left outside. Severn returned soon afterwards with a slip of paper which he showed to Sir Clinton.

  “These are the figures from the speedometer, sir.”

  The Chief Constable glanced at them.

  “Rather more than twice the distance from here to Ambledown,” he calculated. “That ought to simplify matters. Keith-Westerton didn’t think of that.”

  Severn was evidently pondering on a different subject.

  “She must have bolted in a hurry if she didn’t take an evening dress and her jewels with her,” he mused aloud, in evident reference to Mrs. Keith-Westerton.

  “She may have gone to a place where they don’t wear evening dresses or jewels either,” Sir Clinton commented, in a curious tone. “Perhaps the Abbé Goron could give you a hint, Inspector. We’d better try him. You’ll find him a tough nut, though, unless I’m much mistaken.”

  A sinister interpretation of Sir Clinton’s phrase struck a chill into Wendover.

  “Good God, Clinton! You don’t mean she’s dead?”

  “We’ll be fishing in deepish waters presently,” was all that Sir Clinton would vouchsafe in reply. “Mark my words.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Salvationist

  “I THINK we’ll try Ambledown,” Sir Clinton suggested.

  Wendover obediently turned the car to the right as they left the Dower House grounds. A little beyond the gate, his eye was caught by the figure of the Salvationist who had appeared at the boathouse earlier in the morning; and at a sign from Sir Clinton the car drew up alongside the man.

  “Stop a moment, Mr. Sawtry,” the Chief Constable requested. “I want to ask you a question. Why did you call at the house up yonder, last night, and ask to see Mr. and Mrs. Keith-Westerton?”

  A flash of suspicion crossed the Salvationist’s face at the words. Then the light of fanaticism flamed up in his eye.

  “If you saw a woman living in sin,” he demanded, “would you let her go her way? Or would you stand up to Beelzebub like a man and send him howling?”