The Boathouse Riddle

by J. J. Connington

  For a moment Wendover failed to grasp the implication of the last sentence; then it flashed across his mind that the girl was probably a Catholic and that naturally she would choose a French priest for her confessor rather than the local man. Of course the Abbé must have the strings of the whole case in his hands, if this girl were mixed up in it as well as Mrs. Keith-Westerton. He stole a glance at the priest; but the Abbé Goron seemed completely aloof from the whole proceedings, so far as could be gauged from his expression.

  “You were in the boathouse on the night of the murder of Horncastle.”

  Sir Clinton’s tone made the sentence a statement and not a question. The girl started and made a faint gesture as though pushing something away from her. Her dilated eyes proved beyond a doubt that Sir Clinton had got under her guard by this sudden thrust. She was quite clearly in a state bordering on panic; but she mastered herself with an effort.

  “No! No! I was not there!”

  Sir Clinton dropped his hand into his pocket and brought out a little leather-bound volume which he held out to her.

  “Will you swear that that is the truth?” he demanded harshly.

  As she put out her hand for the Testament, the Chief Constable caught her eye and with an almost imperceptible gesture he led her glance around to the Abbé. Wendover, unconsciously following the byplay, was amazed to see the pitilessness of the expression on the face of the priest. The Abbé Goron might have sat for the portrait of an implacable avenger, stayed in the very act of launching his bolt. His fierce eyes fastened upon the girl’s, held them for a moment or two, and then beat down her glance as swiftly and contemptuously as though he had struck an actual blow. “A sort of cold fanatic. He’d go to any length to stamp out sin.” Wendover, impressed despite himself by the dynamic personality before him, owned inwardly that Sir Clinton seemed to have read Goron aright, even at their first encounter. This man would have no scruples in dealing out retribution to a wilful worker of iniquity.

  The girl snatched back her hand as though the Testament had been white-hot.

  “No! I will not swear that!” she cried, almost cringing under the Abbé’s unspoken menace.

  “Ah! Then you were at the boathouse that night?” said Sir Clinton quietly. “I was sure of it.”

  He paused for a moment, and when he continued, Wendover was surprised at both the subject and the tone.

  “It’s important that you should understand how we do things in this country, Miss Sandeau. You are a foreigner and cannot be expected to know about our English laws. If I do not make myself quite clear, Monsieur L’Abbé will be able to translate what I say into language which you can clearly understand. I am sure that he will not mind doing us that favour.”

  He glanced at Goron, who bowed slightly to show his acquiescence in this.

  “In English law,” Sir Clinton went on, “we recognise three ways in which a person may come to a violent death: murder, manslaughter, and accident. You understand me?”

  A glance at the girl’s face showed Wendover that she was obviously afraid. Guilt and terror were clearly written on her features. She moistened her lips nervously, tried to pull herself together, and at last managed to say faintly:

  “I think I understand, sir, but I am not sure of the words.”

  “I’ll try to make it clear,” Sir Clinton pursued. “When one person deliberately plans the death of another, we call it murder. You understand that? The punishment for murder is death, in most cases. Manslaughter is much less serious. If one person, without intending to kill, causes the death of another, he may be found guilty of manslaughter. For example, if I drive a car recklessly and run over somebody, and my victim dies, I may be put on my trial for manslaughter. If I am convicted, the sentence may be merely a comparatively short imprisonment. There is no question of the death penalty when the charge is merely one of manslaughter. And, even when a charge is brought, it many quite frequently fail, if there are any circumstances which tell in favour of the accused. You understand that, I hope?”

  Louise nodded doubtfully.

  “If you intend to kill, then it’s murder; if you kill, but did not mean to kill, then it’s manslaughter. Will you make that quite clear to her, Monsieur L’Abbé? It is important that she should understand exactly the difference between the two things and also the fact that in the case of manslaughter the punishment is light, and may even be escaped, whereas murder means a death sentence.”

  The Abbé Goron turned to the girl and explained curtly in French. For all the feeling he betrayed, he might have been an interpreter in a court.

  “She understands,” he reported, turning to Sir Clinton.

  The Chief Constable seemed to take pity on the tense figure before him, with its anguished eyes.

  “I am not a juge d’instruction,” he pointed out. “My impression is that the woman at the boathouse was not murdered, and I am not trying to fasten an accusation of murder on you. But unless I know what actually happened at the boathouse, it may be very difficult to avoid charging you with murder. If things happened as I think they happened, then I do not believe you could be convicted of even manslaughter. But you are the only person who can give the evidence which would clear you of the charge. If you refuse to tell what happened, then the law will take its course. You may refuse if you wish. No one can compel you to speak, now or at any future time.”

  He turned again to the Abbé.

  “Will you be so good as to make that quite clear to her? It is most important. I think you understand what I mean—knowing what you do know—when I say that it is entirely in her own interest to tell her story fully and truthfully.”

  Again there was a rapid interchange in French. The girl’s face seemed to relax slightly and she looked doubtfully at Sir Clinton as the Abbé proceeded. At one point the Chief Constable broke in on the dialogue and emphasised something which the Abbé had said. Wendover, who was no French scholar, could see on the maid’s features a dawning hopefulness as Goron urged something.

  “She will tell her story,” the Abbé said, at last.

  “There’s no pressure,” Sir Clinton said formally. “It must be an entirely voluntary statement, remember.”

  The Abbé’s slight inclination of the head confirmed this.

  “Then tell us, if you wish, exactly what happened between yourself and the dead woman,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Or, better, begin at the time when you left the house after dinner.”

  All the maid’s assurance had fallen from her now. She looked like a caged animal which thinks it sees a door of escape falling slightly ajar and which gathers itself for a supreme effort to attain freedom, cost what it may. Quite evidently there would be no reticences, once she began her tale. She leaned forward, her hands clasped between her knees, and in a shaky voice she gave her story.

  “This is the truth about it, as Monsieur L’Abbé well knows,” she commenced. “On that night, my fiancé and I, we left the house about half-past eight, just as I told you before. We walked up through the woods to the side of the lake. As we passed the boathouse, my fiancé left me for a moment on some slight excuse. Then we went on and we sat down there. The time passed, I do not know how long but perhaps an hour.”

  “Did you see any lights in the boathouse?” Severn demanded.

  Louise nodded.

  “Yes, certainly. I saw the lights switched on in that dreadful place, perhaps half an hour, perhaps longer than that, after we left this house. Longer, perhaps. I cannot say precisely—you understand?—for I did not look at my watch.”

  “And they stayed on for a while?”

  “They stayed on all the time we were there, I think. Yes, I think I remember that they were lit up all the time. Then all at once, they began to vacillate—go on and off once or twice; and I wondered if the fuse . . . well, I did not quite know what to make of it, but it looked as though something had failed for a few moments and had come right again. You understand what I mean? Now very soon after that—just a minute or two�
��my fiancé got up and said it was half-past ten and time we went home again. I was looking tired, he said, and I ought to go to bed. I was not tired, but he seemed anxious about it, so I consented and we walked back into the woods towards this house. All that is very clear in my mind, I can assure you. I make no mistakes.”

  She glanced at the Abbé Goron, as though for confirmation. Wendover suddenly appreciated Sir Clinton’s motive in bringing the Abbé there. It was not merely that he might have an interpreter; it was because the woman had probably made her confession and the priest’s presence would keep her to the path of accuracy when she told her tale. The Abbé Goron was not the sort of man to play tricks with, if you happened to be one of his flock.

  “My fiancé”—she gulped as though she began to find some difficulty here—“my fiancé did not go all the way home with me. He made an excuse, said he wanted to smoke a pipe before coming in. He did not say it very well, but I let it pass. He turned back and I went on. But as I walked, I felt sure that there was something, something I did not like. It was not his usual way, when we went out together. I grew mistrustful. And at last I turned back towards the boathouse, for I had begun to wonder about those lights and how just after they flickered he had wanted me to go home. I did not understand and I wanted to have no misunderstandings of that sort. If he was playing double with me, I am not the sort of girl who would stand that for a moment. So I went up through the wood till I came to the boathouse, and there, among the trees, I watched. For a time I saw nothing except the blank windows with the drawn blinds and the lights behind them. Then one shadow crossed the blind, and then I recognised my fiancé’s figure. And then a second shadow appeared for a moment—a woman’s shadow. So then I was angry—oh, so angry. That he should dismiss me and go off at the very instant to meet this woman; I was furious and what girl would not feel the same?

  “I thought of going up and confronting them together; but I could not bring myself to do it. Two to one is too many. I would wait till they parted. I would find out who this woman was that he had left me for. I was determined to find out that, at least. By and by, my fiancé comes out of the boathouse. From among the trees I watch him as he goes past, his hands in his pockets, whistling softly to himself as though well pleased. I let him go. I can deal with him any time. I wait for a few moments, so that he may be well away. The church clock in Talgarth strikes eleven. He has been with her for nearly half an hour, it seems. When I am sure he is quite gone, I come out from the trees and go up to the door of the boathouse, where the lights are still burning. No one has come out; the woman is still there. The door is open when I arrive at it.”

  “Had you ever been in the boathouse before?” Sir Clinton demanded.

  “Yes, I had. Quite often. On rainy nights it was not pleasant to sit in the open air, you understand? My fiancé had procured a key of the boathouse—that was a secret of our own—and when it rained we could go up there and sit comfortably. We did not need the lights; no one knew we went there; and no one ever came to the boathouse after dark, so it was quite safe.”

  Sir Clinton’s eye sought Wendover’s at this naive confession. The Squire evidently was annoyed by learning the use to which his boathouse had been put by his neighbours’ staff. Quite visibly he stiffened with disapproval as the revelation came home to him.

  “I entered the boathouse,” Louise continued. “The door of the lounge was wide open, and within the room I saw this woman standing with her back to me, as though she were thinking. She was dressed—it struck me at once, naturally—in old-fashioned clothes. But it was not her clothes I looked at, as I came forward; it was her neck. For around her neck she was wearing a pearl necklace and I had handled that necklace too often not to know it. The clasp is of a peculiar form, one which could not be mistaken by me. It was the necklace of Madame Keith-Westerton, beyond the possibility of a doubt.”

  She paused and glanced from face to face, as though fearing that she might not be believed; but her revelation missed fire, to her obvious surprise.

  “I did not know what I should think,” she continued. “At first I believed that this woman had seduced my fiancé into stealing that necklace. What else could I suppose? But then I remembered that Madame Keith-Westerton had worn the necklace at dinner that very night. It could not have been stolen from her unless she herself had been assaulted and the necklace taken by force. I did not know what to think. All this—you see?—passed like a flash through my mind almost as I caught sight of the necklace.

  “The woman heard my step and turned round. It was this woman whose portrait has been in the papers, this Cincinnati Jean. I forget exactly what I said, and what she replied; but then I cried ‘What are you doing with that necklace? It belongs to Madame Keith-Westerton!’ And at that she seemed to know who I was. ‘Oh, you’re the French maid?’ she said, with scorn. ‘You’re Danny Ferrers’ fancy.’ And then she said some things about me which I would wish not to repeat.”

  “You needn’t,” Sir Clinton assured her. “But I suppose they made you angry?”

  “They made me rage,” Louise admitted frankly. “I was in a fury with what she said. I stepped up to her and called her ‘Thief!’ and I demanded that she give me the necklace, to which she had no right. And she struck me with her open hand across the cheek. I am not patient. I caught her and struggled with her and I put my hand on the necklace at her throat. And then, suddenly—imagine my surprise!—she seemed to slip and fall backward into a chair; the necklace broke in my hand; the pearls scattered; and I stood over her, ready, you understand? But when I looked at her, I saw something was wrong—You know how they look? I have seen death once or twice. . . .

  “Imagine what it was like, to be alone there with this woman who had died there—flick!—as though one killed her by an electric shock! I was dazed. I did not know what to do. I had at first a hope that I might be mistaken, and I tried to feel her wrist and then I listened for her heart. Nothing! Dead! I had killed her, it would seem, though I had no wish to do so. I was almost beside myself. I knew not what I should do. Then I remembered my fiancé. I could get him, if I ran fast after him before he reached here. I ran through the wood in terror; and I caught him before he reached home.

  “I was all quivering and I could tell him nothing clear. ‘I have killed that woman in the boathouse! She’s dead!’ That, over and over again, was all I could find to say. He asked questions, but I was in so nervous a state that I could give him no clear replies. I repeated again and again that I had killed her, as we hurried back to the boathouse.

  “When we reached there and he saw she was dead, he looked very dark. He is so fond of me, and he seemed to think that it was going to be a bad affair, very bad for me. He said very little, but I could see what he thought from his face. And I was in a crisis of nerves, you understand? I had no control over myself to explain what had happened. But he is very cool. He said, half to himself: ‘We’ve got to get rid of this somehow.’ And he began to search about for the fallen pearls which had scattered themselves on the floor. While he was picking them up and putting them in his pocket, he was thinking, I could see; and when he had finished, he had his plan.

  “He worked very swiftly. First he looked about for some weight to tie to the woman’s body. But that was difficult, as he explained to me afterwards. Mr. Wendover, it seems, is very methodical, and he would have noticed if any heavy weight, like one of the anchors or the chains, had been missing; and he would have made inquiry. My fiancé went into the little workshop and got a screwdriver with which he dismantled the gramophone, taking out the motor and the horn, both of which were heavy. These he tied to the woman’s body; and together we carried it down to the boat. He planned to sink it in the lake. It was the best hiding place he could think of, on the spur of the moment, you understand? He threw the screwdriver in with it.

  “I did not understand, at the moment, what he meant. He told me, later, that the woman was not from the neighbourhood, that she would not be missed, if once we could
rid ourselves of the body. No one knew her here. No one would look for her. It was the best plan, he said. We should hear no more about it and I would be safe. We took the body out on the water and sent it overboard.”

  “He wore gloves, all this while?” Sir Clinton asked.

  “Yes, he put on a pair as we came up through the wood. And he gave them to me to wear when I was bringing the boat back . . .”

  “Stop! “ Sir Clinton ordered sharply. “I don’t want to hear any more, just now.”

  “But . . .”

  Sir Clinton seemed determined not to listen to any further revelations.

  “That’s enough for the present,” he said firmly, though with no unkindness in his tone. “Now I want you to listen carefully. I’m quite sure you’re telling the truth this time, for I can check your story. And if your tale is true, there’s no ground for a charge against you. The surgeon who examined Cincinnati Jean’s body found something which accounts for her death while she was struggling with you. No jury would convict you of even manslaughter, in the circumstances. You can make your mind quite easy—so far as the death of the woman is concerned.”

  For an instant, relief shone in the girl’s eyes. Then, as Sir Clinton’s reservation penetrated her mind, she broke into reproaches.

  “Ah! Now I see,” she cried, in a tone of despair. “You are just torturing me, holding out a little hope while you are getting ready to accuse me. You are playing with me, cat and mouse. It is the Horncastle. . . .”

  “Stop!” Sir Clinton advised her. “I’m not trying to trap you, as you ought to see from this. The less you say, the better, at this moment. But whether you’re cleared or not will depend on your accomplice. If he tells the whole truth, we’ll know where we stand. If not . . .” He shrugged his shoulders as though suggesting worse possibilities. “And now, would you go across and sit beside Monsieur L’Abbé? It will be more convenient.”

  As she did so, Sir Clinton turned to the Inspector.