“What’ll we do now?” he said, glancing at the older man.
“If you would stay here,” said the Duke, “and endeavour to bring that woman round, I will explore.”
Van Ryn nodded. “Go right ahead,” he agreed briefly. “I’ll handle her.”
He crossed to a large silver tantalus, evidently a presentation piece, since it bore an inscription which the American did not stop to read, and mixed a stiff brandy and soda. Returning to the woman, he put his arm under her and forced her to swallow a little, then he set it down, and taking up a white cardboard folder that lay upon the nearby desk, he began to fan her.
After a moment the woman opened her eyes and gave one look at Van Ryn, then closing them again tightly she began to beat a sharp tattoo with her heels on the sofa.
“Now, that’ll be enough of that,” said the American quickly. “Just take a sip of this and tell us all about it.”
As he spoke he tilted the glass towards her mouth again. She spluttered and sat up.
“Oh, sir,” she moaned, “I don’t rightly know. Miss Winifred— the mistress’ sister that is—called me out of the kitchen just as cook and me was having a cup of tea before going off to bed, and there was the poor mistress lying in her bath—and I had been with her these twenty years!”
At this she burst into a loud fit of sobbing.
Van Ryn coaxed her to her feet, and out into the passage. “Now, don’t you worry,” he advised kindly. “Just put me on to where this bathroom is.” She pointed dumbly to a door a little farther down the passage on the opposite side, and then broke down again. “I can’t go in,” she wailed, “I can’t go in!”
“All right, now, all right.” He patted her on the shoulder. “You step back to the kitchen with cook, and just don’t move from there. We’ll look after things, don’t worry.”
He opened the door which she had pointed out. It proved to be a large and comfortable, almost luxurious, bathroom, with its tiled walls, neat white-painted cupboards, and glass shelves lined with rows of bottles. But his eyes went immediately to the porcelain bath.
In it lay a woman, quite still and half-submerged beneath the water, from which faint wisps of steam still rose.
At once glance he saw that there was nothing to be done.
She gave the impression of being some fifty years of age, and had, when younger, most certainly been good-looking.
On a chair beside the bath sat a small, grey-haired woman, dry-eyed, but clasping and unclasping her hands in a state of the highest agitation.
When Van Ryn entered she was staring at De Richleau, who had evidently just come into the room by another door, with wide, frightened eyes.
Suddenly she made a movement to fling a bath towel over the nude body, but with a gentle gesture Rex stopped her.
“Excuse me,” he said, “don’t worry about that, you will be Miss Winifred, I expect, the dead lady’s sister? You must be just terribly upset.”
The Duke came forward. “I am your neighbour,” he said kindly. “I hope that you will forgive our intrusion, but my friend and I found your maid on the landing. Is there anything we can do?”
Miss Winifred continued to wring her frail little hands. “Oh, yes,” she said vaguely, “very kind I’m sure—I can’t realize it—it’s too awful—poor Elinor—what an awful thing—”
Van Ryn sat down on the edge of the bath, with his back to the body, shielding it with his broad shoulders from the gaze of the elderly little lady, and reaching out one of his large hands, took one of hers in his.
“There, there,” he murmured soothingly, “don’t take on so, just you try and tell us what happened, and how we can help. Is there anyone you’d like us to call on the ’phone?”
She looked at him pitifully. “Oh, it’s all so confused—I don’t quite know—Elinor was going out to supper tonight with her husband, Gideon—Sir Gideon Shoesmith, you know— he should be here at any minute, and I always help Elinor dress when she is going out late, because she doesn’t like the maids kept up—I came along only a few minutes ago and was putting her dress out in the bedroom—she seemed rather a long time in here, and I couldn’t hear her moving about, so I knocked —and there was no reply—no reply at all, but Elinor never locks the door and so I came in—and this—this is what I found—I can’t realize it.”
“Wouldn’t it be better,” the Duke suggested, “if we went into another room? Van Ryn, perhaps you would take Miss —er—Winifred, and might I prescribe a small brandy and soda?”
“But I couldn’t drink brandy—I never touch anything at all,” protested the faded little woman nervously.
“Maybe,” said Van Ryn, taking her gently by the arm, “but just this one time it wouldn’t do you any harm at all, you come right along with me.” And he led. her from the room.
De Richleau remained behind. He regarded the dead woman critically. “A heart attack—I wonder?” he mused. “I don’t think so, more probably the poor lady slipped, struck her head upon the edge of the bath, and became unconscious—let us see.”
Carefully avoiding wetting his cuffs he dipped his hand into the water, but drew it back sharply. “Dear me, how very hot, I should hardly have thought it possible for anyone to take so hot a bath in comfort.” He stooped again, and this time inserted his hand below the dead woman’s neck. Lifting her head and steadying it with his free hand, he carefully felt in the thick, greying hair at the base of the skull. As he lifted the head the water showed a very slight discoloration, and he nodded to himself.
“Yes, she slipped and fell, a definite abrasion.” But as his sensitive fingers moved softly under the dead woman’s hair an expression of deep thought overspread his features.
“Now, I wonder,” he mused, “yes I wonder.” Then he gently let the head slip back into its original position.
He continued to stare with his bright searching eyes as he slowly dried his wet hand upon his cambric handkerchief, then he took the thermometer from its hook on the wall and held it for a moment under the water.
“One hundred and twelve degrees,” he said softly to himself. “Enervating—terribly enervating, quite unusually hot.”
He then returned the thermometer to its place on the wall and slipped out into the passage, closing the bathroom door quietly behind him. He next went along to the telephone in the hall, dialled a number, held a short conversation, and replacing the receiver, rejoined Van Ryn and Miss Winifred in the drawing-room.
Rex rose to meet him. “I understand Sir Gideon Shoesmith is out at some big dinner—some show at the Park Lane Hotel, that’s only round the corner in Piccadilly, and he’s due back any time now. It is hardly worth trying to call him up.
De Richleau nodded thoughtfully. “I fear it will be a great shock for him to learn that Lady Shoesmith has died so suddenly, but we shall have no choice other than to inform him, besides”— he returned to the little grey-haired woman—”there is the official side of it.”
“You mean the police,” exclaimed Miss Winifred, in sudden horror. “But this has nothing to do with them.”
The Duke shrugged his slim shoulders very slightly. “Unfortunately, failure to inform the police of any death in such tragic circumstances would be a serious breach of the law, but I assure you there’s no cause for alarm. In order that you should not be troubled by the importunities of subordinates I have myself telephoned Scotland Yard.”
CHAPTER III - HOW THE LETTER “S” MAY MEAN MURDER INSTEAD OF ACCIDENTAL DEATH
It was the Duke who received the police when they arrived some twelve minutes later.
“I’m Superintendent Marrofat,” the big, bluff-looking individual introduced himself; “I understand that you telephoned to the Assistant Commissioner at the Yard, and he asked me to step round”—he jerked his big round head with its shock of curly ginger hair towards the tall man in plain clothes beside him—”but Inspector Gartside here will take charge officially. What’s the trouble, sir?”
The Duke spoke slowly:
“I’m not certain that there is any trouble, at least, trouble which would call for the attention of an officer of your seniority, Superintendent. Lady Shoesmith, who lives in this flat, died suddenly this evening, about half an hour ago, perhaps—and I thought it right in such a case that the police should be informed—you had better see the unfortunate lady—then you will be able to judge better than I, if your presence is required.”
As he spoke he led the way to the bathroom. Superintendent Marrofat and Inspector Gartside followed him, the latter having posted a uniformed constable on the door, with instructions to let anyone in, but nobody out, and to report all arrivals; the fourth member of the police party, a seedy-looking little man, who carried a large tin box, was left in the hall.
De Richleau threw open the bathroom door, and the Superintendent paused on the threshold, his great bulk almost filling the doorway. For a moment he stood, his heavy overcoat thrust back and his hands buried deep in his trousers pockets, as his sharp blue eyes travelled carefully over every inch of the walls, ceiling and floor.
He seemed to be registering the room in his mind, the doorways, the window, the shelves and cupboards, and it was not until he had completed this careful survey that he allowed his eyes to rest on the woman in the bath.
“Who found her?” he asked at length.
“Her sister who, I think, lives here,” replied the Duke. “Miss Winifred—I don’t know her full name.”
“How did you come into this, sir?”
“I live in the flat opposite, and I was saying good night to a young friend of mine on the landing, when one of the maidservants here came running out—quite hysterical, poor girl— and fainted; naturally we came in to render any assistance which we could—my friend is with Miss—er Winifred now.”
“I see, nothing has been touched, I hope?”
“Nothing as far as I know, with one exception. I took the liberty of examining the dead woman’s head.”
“What?” Marrofat swung round. “That was very wrong, sir, as a gentleman like you should know—a body should never be touched until the police doctor’s seen it.”
“Very wrong, Superintendent,” agreed the Duke blandly, “I perfectly agree, unfortunately, like the Elephant’s Child, I suffer from an Insatiable Curiosity—but I assure you I was most careful not to disturb the position of the body.”
“Very wrong all the same, sir—still what’s done is done, perhaps you’ll tell us why you did it?”
“As I have said, Insatiable Curiosity—I know enough of death to feel quite certain that this was not heart or apoplexy; it occurred to me therefore that she had slipped and struck her head. I’m afraid I was far too impatient to find out if my idea was correct to wait for the police surgeon.”
The big detective regarded De Richleau with not too kind a look.
“And did you?”
“I found there were contusions at the back of the head.”
“That’ll be about the size of it,” the Superintendent nodded, “she slipped and struck her head, then slipped under water— death by misadventure—eh? There’s nothing to indicate otherwise—the doctor will be here shortly—he’ll verify what you say, of course. I thought from what the Assistant Commissioner said that there might be some special trouble—as it is the Inspector will take any notes that are necessary, and I’ll get back to the Yard. I may be wanted this evening on a job down Houndsditch way.” He turned on his heel with an air of finality.
“I see,” said M. de Richleau quietly—so quietly that the Superintendent swung round on him quickly and gave him a long stare.
After a moment, he said, cocking his head on one side: “Look here, sir, what do you mean by saying that—in just that way?”
“Perhaps you did not hear exactly what I said before?”
“Perhaps not—so, if you don’t mind I’ll trouble to say it again.”
“I said ‘contusions’,” murmured the Duke, very quietly and distinctly.
Superintendent Marrofat regarded the slim, delicate-looking man thoughtfully for a minute, then his blue eyes suddenly brightened, and he nodded his big round head.
“So that’s what’s at the back of your mind, eh?” He smiled broadly. “Very good of your Grace to give us that pointer— mind you,” he added quickly, “I should have seen the doctor’s report later, and even if I had let that pass, Gartside would have spotted it. But since we’ve got so far let’s go a bit further— what’s the deduction? as the detective novels say.”
“My friend,” said De Richleau amiably, “if you have not already made the deduction my words would have been meaningless to you—One slip—one contusion—a fatal accident perhaps; but two contusions—three contusions. No—one does not keep on having fatal accidents, and getting up each time to fall once more in the same way—striking very nearly the same place. With two or more contusions at the base of the skull we are inclined to say—Is this a fatal accident? No—I believe it is murder.”
“The gentleman’s not far wrong, sir,” nodded Inspector Gartside, who had been listening to the conversation of the other two with the greatest interest.
“Right,” said the Superintendent briskly. “Now we know what we’re up against, and all thanks to you, sir. A bit irregular —moving the body before the doctor’s seen it, but it will save us a lot of time—good thing we brought Sammy. Gartside—get him in.”
As he spoke, the big man began to examine the two doors and the window, carefully refraining from touching them with his hands; there was no trace of any force having been used upon these. The window was a little open at the top, but there were strong bars outside, and after a short survey, Marrofat turned to the seedy little man who had been called in from the hall.
“Case of murder, Sammy,” he said briefly. “See if you can get us a few prints—doors and windows—usual thing—take the handle of the back-brush, too, looks innocent enough, but it’s just possible that this job might have been done with that— We’ll have a little talk with the people of the house.” And he led the way from the bathroom.
Inspector Gartside followed, and the Duke brought up the rear. As he left the room he spoke casually to the fingerprint expert. “I should be grateful if you would do the taps. It would be interesting to know who prepared the bath—don’t you think?” And he followed the others down the passage.
CHAPTER IV - THE POLITE YOUNG MAN WHO WORE WHITE KID GLOVES
In the sitting-room Miss Winifred was seated by the fire, still clasping and unclasping her hands. Rex van Ryn stood near her.
“Now, Madam,” Superintendent Marrofat addressed the frail little, grey-haired woman in as soft a key as his big, booming voice could command. “Sorry I have got to trouble you, this is a sad business, but I’m from the Yard, and I’ve got to make a report. Of course, you needn’t answer me if you don’t wish, but I’d like to ask you a few questions, and I shan’t keep you long.”
“Yes, I understand, Inspector,” she answered quietly.
“Thank you, Miss—now, what’s your full name?”
“Winifred Lucy Eaton.”
“Good—now you’re the dead lady’s sister, I understand.”
“Oh no, sister-in-law.”
“I see—and who are the other occupants of this flat?”
“There’s Sir Gideon and Lady Shoesmith, myself and a cook, a house-parlourmaid and a between-maid—but she’s not here, she had an accident last week and went to hospital, so there are only the two servants at present.”
“Right. Sir Gideon Shoesmith, now. I know his name, of course, but what exactly is Sir Gideon?”
“Oh, he’s an accountant, you know—his real business is in Sheffield, but he’s lived in London since he married, though he goes up there now and then.”
The Superintendent nodded. “Exactly. Has Sir Gideon been married long?”
She shook her head, and took out a minute pocket-handkerchief with which she dabbed at the corner of one eye. “Only last April—it’s too terrible,” she sigh
ed.
“And there are no menservants living in the flat?” Marrofat inquired.
“No, there is the chauffeur, but he lives out.”
“Now when did you see Lady Shoesmith last? Now— now—” he encouraged as Miss Eaton showed signs of breaking down.
“Well, I must think,” she replied slowly. “It must have been about a quarter past nine; I left her with Richard.”
“Who’s he?”
“Oh! Richard is Lady Shoesmith’s son by her first marriage— Mr. Richard Eaton.”
“I see; and when did he go?”
“Well, I don’t quite know, but I think I heard the front door shut about a quarter to ten.”
“Where was Lady Shoesmith, then?”
“She was in her bedroom, just starting to dress to go out to supper.”
“Right. Now Sir Gideon—what about him?”
“He’s out at a dinner tonight—he left here just after seven o’clock.”
“And not been in since, eh?”
“No, he should be in very soon now; he was to take Elinor— Lady Shoesmith—out to supper.”
“And you’ve been in all the evening?”
“Yes.”
“Whereabouts have you been sitting?”
“I don’t sit here, I sit in the sewing-room which is next door to my bedroom, down in the servants’ end of the flat.”
“Now, would you hear anyone who came in, from your room, do you think?”
“Well,” she looked at him vaguely, “I might, but on the other hand I might not; I don’t think I should because I was doing some sewing on the machine.”
“And you were there from the time Mr. Eaton came till when?”
“Until about twenty minutes ago when I went along to Lady Shoesmith’s room to help her dress.”
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