The Witness on the Roof

by Annie Haynes

  Mrs. Spencer bent forward curiously; then she gave a short laugh.

  “Why, of course! I wonder where they had it took! There is no mistaking him. It is Jim Gregory.”

  “Gregory?” repeated the detective questioningly. “Was he engaged to Miss Spencer?’’

  Mrs. Spencer laughed again.

  “No, bless you! There was a bit of sweethearting between them maybe, and I believe he went to see her once or twice after she left us. If her father had ever heard of it he would have given her what for; he was angry enough when he found that she had worked Gregory a tobacco-pouch.”

  “Tobacco-pouch!” repeated Hewlett.

  “Yes, she worked one for him! Girls are that silly!” Mrs. Spencer went on. “And her father gave her a good talking to for it. Jim Gregory came here with us you know, sir. If so be as I can keep on the Bell, he will stay on and manage like.”

  “Will he?” The detective’s voice sounded absent. He gazed vacantly into the bar, where Amy had now taken her mother’s place. His mind was lost in a maze of bewilderment and conjecture. He was thinking of the soiled tobacco-pouch found by the dead girl’s body. Gregory had been Evelyn Spencer’s first sweetheart—there could be little doubt of that, but even though the acquaintance had been kept up longer Hewlett was unable to connect him with the unhappy girl’s death. Yet Grove Street was very near the Mews, and, as he knew, jealousy was the mainspring of half the tragedies he attempted to trace.

  In any case, one thread of the tangled web which fate had woven round the death of Evelyn Spencer was thus placed in his hands, and he was resolved to follow it up.

  “Would it be possible for me to speak to Gregory this morning, ma’am?” he inquired.

  “Oh, yes!” Mrs. Spender answered cordially enough. “I expect he is somewhere about. Amy”—raising her voice—“send Tim down the yard and tell Jim he is wanted, will you? I haven’t been pleased with Jim of late,” she went on. “After that Mr. Cowham of yours had been here the other day I was that upset, just when I thought my troubles were over to have them all reaped up again, that I gave way a bit, and let out what he had said and what I had told him. Jim Gregory he was in and out of the bar and heard it all, and he went away and wrote a letter without saying a word and took it to the post himself. Tim walked up with him, and he saw it addressed to Miss Evelyn Davenant.”

  Mr. Hewlett looked puzzled for a minute, then his face cleared.

  “Ah, he thought it was the real Evelyn at Davenant Hall, I expect! You tell me he was a friend of hers.”

  “Oh, no, he didn’t!” Mrs. Spencer contradicted belligerently. “’Twas him as first put it into my head that it wasn’t the real Evie at Davenant Hall. When Polly came over here to her father’s funeral she told us Evie were at the Hall, and I never doubted it was Evie. Why should I? I should have given Polly credit for sense enough to know her own sister. Jim Gregory it was as first set me thinking. ‘Evie is never there,’ he says. ‘’Tis somebody pretending to be her, belike; but it isn’t never Evie.’ The fool I was to listen to him! But you see, sir, he knowed, and he must take it upon him to warn that nasty madam. And she gets off scot-free, while me, as had nothing to do with her going to Davenant, never knew a word about it till afterwards, gets all the blame, and has police officers coming to question me.” She relapsed into noisy sobs once more. “I shan’t forgive Jim Gregory in a hurry, that I shan’t.”

  At this juncture, the sound of heavy steps along the passage was heard. Mrs. Spencer looked up.

  “Ah, here he is to speak for himself, sir! Jim”— raising her voice—“here is this gentleman, a detective, wants to speak to you about Evie. He has got a photograph.”

  Hewlett got up and advanced to the half-open door. He would scarcely have identified the original of the photograph taken fifteen years earlier but for Mrs. Spencer’s assistance; time and hard living had altered Jim Gregory considerably. But the heavy jaw was there, and the closely-set eyes were regarding the detective with suspicion; then the man touched his forehead.

  Hewlett held out the photograph.

  “Perhaps you can tell me where this was taken?”

  Gregory’s expression changed as he looked; he drew, a deep breath of relief, it seemed to Hewlett.

  “Oh, that! ’Twas taken years ago, soon after Evie left home, at a little place off the Mile End Road. I forget the name. Yes, there it is, on the back of the card —‘William Wile, 10 Merton Street, off Mile End Road.’”

  “Yes, there it is,” assented the detective, who had already paid a visit to Mr. Wile’s establishment without any satisfactory result. “When did you last see Miss Evelyn Spencer, Mr. Gregory?”

  Gregory hesitated a moment; he passed his hand through his long hair.

  “It would, maybe, be six months after she left home. She was at the Melpomene then.”

  “Oh!” The detective nursed his chin in his hand reflectively.

  “Jim!” Mrs. Spencer broke in. She had controlled herself with difficulty all this time. “And what do you think this gentleman has been telling me, Jim? That that young lady that was killed in Grove Street when the master was at Sir Robert Brunton’s was our Evie!”

  Gregory’s face suddenly grew older, greyer.

  “’Tain’t possible!” he said roughly. “Why, that young lady’s photo was in all the papers! Do you think some of us wouldn’t ha’ recognized it?”

  “Ah, but it was a newspaper photograph!” The detective spoke slightingly. “Taken after death too! I don’t think there can be any doubt of her identity, Mr. Gregory. I wonder now what made you so sure that the real Evelyn Spencer was not at Davenant Hall?”

  Gregory cast a quick glance from his small eyes at Mrs. Spencer, who was still emitting a convulsive sob occasionally.

  “When we heard she wouldn’t come to her father’s funeral I began to have my suspicions, sir; she always thought a deal of her father, did Evie.”

  “Still, as she had not written him for fifteen years I don’t see anything very astonishing in her not coming to the funeral,” the detective said. “You must have had more than that to go on, Mr. Gregory.”

  Gregory twirled his cap about between his big, red hands.

  “I didn’t think as what Polly—her ladyship told us about her sister sounded like Evie,” he answered slowly. “That is how I come to pass the remark to the missis as I didn’t believe it really was Evie at all. But of course I wasn’t thinking she would let it go any further, least of all that she would go down to Davenant Hall.”

  “That is enough, Jim Gregory!” Mrs. Spencer interrupted him sharply. “You can let my doings alone, if you please. Mr. Hewlett wants to know why you wrote to that hussy so as to let her get off before the police come.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Gregory roughly. “You told me it was Evie, and I believed you, like a fool! When the policeman come here making inquiries it did seem to me as somebody ought to tell her, me taking it as it was Evie, as I had been told, sir”—addressing himself to the detective—“for I didn’t hear what the missis told the police.”

  “If you can’t keep my name out of it, Jim Gregory—”

  In Mrs. Spencer’s wrath she threatened to become apoplectic.

  “You shouldn’t ha’ poked your nose into it, then!” Gregory growled.

  “Well, well, it is a matter that interests all of us,” the detective interposed pacifically. “It won’t be easy for any person who knew Miss Evelyn Spencer to keep out of it, I am afraid. And you must have been a particular friend of hers, to judge by the photo, Mr. Gregory.”

  The man looked down sheepishly.

  “I was good enough for her till she got in with grander folk,” he muttered sulkily. “Then she give me the go-by quick enough. Is there anything more you want to ask me, sir, because I have my horses to see to?”

  “Can you tell me the name of the man Miss Spencer married?” Hewlett asked.

  Gregory shook his head.

  “I know nothing of Ev
ie after she left the Melpomene. There was a lot of young fellows always after her, but I don’t know as I can remember one of them. I never knew she was married.”

  Mr. Hewlett smiled politely.

  “Then I don’t think I need trouble you further to-day, Mr. Gregory. I should not say no to a cup of tea if you were to offer me one before I started, ma’am,” turning to Mrs. Spencer.

  That good lady looked much gratified.

  “I’m sure I shall be honoured, sir! Tell Amy to put the kettle on as you go out, Jim!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “GROVE Street Mystery. It is rumoured that with the identification of the victim of this long-past tragedy some startling developments have taken place. Some valuable clues are in the hands of the police, and it is confidently expected that a sensational arrest will be made in the course of the next few days.”

  “What does it mean, Cynthia?” Joan laid the newspaper on the table and gazed anxiously at her cousin.

  Mrs. Trewhistle frowned as she scanned the foregoing paragraph.

  “Mean? Nothing!” she exclaimed scornfully. “If you worry yourself over every silly report that appears in the papers you will be in your grave before long.”

  Joan caught her breath.

  “If Evelyn were your sister, Cynthia—”

  “If I had never spoken to her since I was five years old, and she had been dead over ten years I should not worry about her,” Mrs. Trewhistle interrupted philosophically. “I can’t help it, Joan; it does seem to me that you are exciting yourself unnecessarily. After all, it does not rest with you to track the murderer down. If your sister left home, and wandered round the world getting herself mixed up with all sorts of undesirable companions, one of whom finished by shooting her, the responsibility does not rest with you. Now you promised to come with me. I must go to my milliner’s; she is doing me the sweetest little toque—all shades of lilac and natural foliage, with a jet aigrette on one side to show I am still in mourning.”

  Joan was twisting her hands together nervously; two red spots burned hotly on her cheeks.

  “I don’t think I can come to-day, Cynthia. I must see Uncle Septimus. You don’t mind, do you, dear?”

  “Oh, no, of course I don’t! It is a delight to go alone!” retorted Mrs. Trewhistle with fine irony. “I—I never liked Granny at her best!” with sudden fire. “I always thought her an old beast, but I never imagined that even she would bring this upon us!”

  Joan stared at her cousin in surprise.

  “Granny—bring this upon us! What do you mean, Cynthia?”

  “Why, if she had behaved like a Christian and left her money to you instead of making that idiotic will,” Cynthia explained, “we should never have known about Evelyn; we should have avoided all this worry; and she would have been just as well off, poor thing!”

  Joan made no reply; she crossed to the window and looked out over the Square garden. The two had come up to London the previous day ostensibly for a week’s shopping. In reality, since her fancied recognition of Warchester had become a certainty, Joan had found life at the Towers unendurable. It was unbearable for her to live in daily, hourly contact with Warchester, to know that between them lay that terrible barrier of doubt and suspicion, to meet the look in Warchester’s eyes, and remember that it was he who had placed the pistol in her murdered sister’s hand. Nor had there been signs wanting that the strain of the situation was telling upon Warchester also; he was distinctly thinner; his dark face had a worn, haggard look. It had been impossible, of course, with the uncertainty hanging over them as to what turn the police investigations might take next, to hold their projected house-party for the autumn shooting. Fortunately, the invitations had not been issued, and Joan caught eagerly at Cynthia’s suggestion that they two should go up to town together to see about winter gowns. Warchester had made no objection; nay, Joan fancied that the very notion was a relief to him. He had contented himself with insisting that the two should make his town house their headquarters instead of staying at an hotel.

  Joan, however, was finding now that even London failed to afford any distraction from that terrible anxiety that was worrying her. Constantly wondering what was going on at the Towers in her absence, she could not spend her days as Cynthia did, in driving from one shop to another.

  This morning she had constrained herself to accompany her cousin, but now that luncheon was over, with all her fears revived by that paragraph in the midday papers, she felt that another such round would be an impossibility. At all hazards she must see Septimus Lockyer, she must ascertain how the inquiries were progressing.

  So, despite Cynthia’s air of ill-usage, she insisted on seeing that lady off to her milliner alone in the motor, while she directed the man to call a taxi for herself.

  Luckily, Septimus Lockyer was at home and disengaged. His face was unusually grave as he rose to greet his niece.

  “You are the very person I was thinking of, Joan! I was just wondering whether I should be likely to find you at home if I called. So Warchester is coming up to-night?”

  “Warchester!” Joan faltered as she took the chair he drew up for her. “No, he is too busy with the improvements to leave just now. I do not expect to stay more than a few days.”

  For answer her uncle showed her a telegram he had just received.

  “Can you make it convenient to give me an hour any time this evening—Warchester.”

  “I have telegraphed to him to dine with me at eight,” the K.C. went on. “So I expect he is on his way now: And what can I do for you, child?”

  “Oh—I—nothing!” with a guilty flush. “Cynthia has some shopping to do, and I—I wanted to know how you were, Uncle Septimus, that was all.”

  “That was very sweet of you.” Unseen by her, the K.C. permitted himself a faint, incredulous smile. “You don’t ask why I wanted to see you, child.”

  “N—o.” Joan felt herself begin to tremble. “It—was it about the paper?”

  “Paper—what paper?” Septimus Lockyer stared at her.

  Joan threw back her furs.

  “I saw just now that they have an important clue—that an arrest may be expected in a day or two,” she faltered.

  Her uncle frowned.

  “Now that public interest has been aroused by learning that the victim of the Grove Street Mystery has been identified as Miss Marie De Lavelle, a former music-hall artist, they will put that sort of thing in every day for a week,” he said sceptically. “No, what I wanted to say was this—Hewlett has been talking to your stepmother. Why didn’t you tell me the other day that you saw something of this murder, Joan?”

  Joan sat suddenly motionless, her eyes fixed in a horrified stare upon her uncle. “What do you mean?”

  Septimus Lockyer’s keen gaze was upon her.

  “I think you know, Joan. Your stepmother says that you were scrambling about upon the roofs, and that you saw something through the window of No. 18. Be quite frank, please, child, for that is the only thing now.”

  “Uncle Septimus!” Joan’s exclamation was almost inaudible; she felt unnerved. Strangely enough, this contingency had never occurred to her. The night of terrors which had followed upon her expedition along the Grove Street roofs, and in which she had been unable to keep from her stepmother the fearful sight she had witnessed had almost faded from her memory. She recalled it now, all the more vividly perhaps for that past forgetfulness. How, much had she told? she asked herself helplessly. How much had Mrs. Spencer remembered and repeated?

  She glanced up desperately into Septimus Lockyer’s face.

  “How—how can I remember? It is so long ago.”

  “Don’t you remember?” the lawyer asked pointedly.

  Joan shivered; warm though the room was, she had grown suddenly cold. She drew her furs around her again. How much did Septimus Lockyer know?

  “I—I was very little, Uncle Septimus—only ten years old. It is impossible that I can recall things clearly after all this time.”<
br />
  Septimus Lockyer’s gaze did not alter. With his vast experience of cross-examination he gathered almost by instinct when a witness was hostile, when there was something being kept back, something that it was material he should elicit.

  “Will you just tell me all that you can remember?” he said very quietly.

  It could not be that he was seeking her testimony to inculpate the man she loved.

  Mechanically she fastened her sables round her neck.

  “I had been longing to get on the roof—that was the first time I had been able to manage it,” she said, in an expressionless, unemotional voice which, as Septimus Lockyer well knew, was very different from her usual clear, ringing tones, “but I think I was disappointed. It was not so amusing as I had imagined, playing there by myself. At last I came to a window—it may have been No. 18—I do not know. My head was just level with the window-ledge, and I peeped in. A woman lay dead on the hearth-rug; a man was stooping over her, placing a pistol in her hand.”

  “Yes?” Septimus Lockyer prompted as she paused, his eyes still watching her keenly.

  Joan taught her breath.

  “I was frightened, terrified—and there was a door at the right hand; it was opening slowly, I thought there was some one on the other side. I cried out—I fell back. Someone would shoot me too, I thought, as I picked myself up and ran back along the roof to the Mews. Then—then I told my stepmother about it, as you know. The next day Mr. Hurst came to fetch me to Davenant Hall, and after that, though for a long time I used to lie awake, too frightened to sleep when I thought of the dead woman I had seen, it gradually faded from my memory until—until I heard someone speak of the Grove Street Murder. I could not help thinking that it must have been the woman who was murdered that I had seen. But it was so long before, it did not seem to me it was any use my speaking then. I never dreamt that it was Evelyn—how could I, when I had a letter from her that very morning? Yet since—since you have told me I have thought that the hair was the same colour. But oh, Uncle Septimus, isn’t there some mistake?” her voice breaking suddenly in a quiver. “It couldn’t have been my own sister I saw lying there!”