by John Rhode
‘Towards the garden at the back of the house, sir, the same way as the consulting-room window.’
‘You saw Mr Fransham’s car drive into the garage and Coates the chauffeur get out of it. What exactly did he do then?’
‘He walked right round the car, sir, looking over it. I saw him lift the bonnet, one side after another. I dare say that took him a couple of minutes, certainly not more. Then he took out a cigarette, lighted it and leant against one of the doorposts of the garage.’
‘Now, Linton, I want you to think very carefully. Did you keep your eyes fixed on Coates the whole time until the doctor came home?’
‘Well, sir, I can’t say that I did that exactly. I wasn’t looking out of the window the whole time.’
‘Then Coates might have walked up the carriage-way to the cloakroom window and back again?’
Linton shook his head.
‘No, sir, I’m perfectly certain he didn’t do that,’ he replied. ‘I won’t say that I had my eyes on him all the time, for I hadn’t. But if he’d walked up the carriage-way I should have noticed it. And if I hadn’t actually seen him, I should have heard his footsteps on the hard concrete. Of course, I couldn’t swear to it, but I’m quite certain in my own mind that he didn’t move from the doorpost until the doctor’s car came in.’
‘When did you first hear the doctor’s car?’
‘When it turned in at the gateway, sir. There’s some loose grit there, and tyres make a queer sort of swishing noise. I noticed it before, when Mr Fransham’s car turned into the carriage-way from the front door.’
‘Would you have known by the sound if the doctor’s car had stopped outside the cloakroom window?’
Linton hesitated. ‘It’s very difficult to say, sir. It might have stopped for a moment, but no longer, for it was only a few seconds after I’d heard it turn in that I saw it through the window.’
‘Was it before or after you heard something falling that you heard the car turn in?’
‘Some minutes after, sir. That was when I looked at my watch for the second time and found that it was twelve minutes past one.’
‘You heard the conversation between Dr and Mrs Thornborough outside the consulting-room door. Did Mrs Thornborough seem upset?’
‘Yes, she did, sir. She seemed to think that it was the doctor’s fault that Mr Fransham had turned up unexpectedly like that.’
‘And was the doctor surprised?’
‘Well, it sounded to me as if he was, sir. But then he wasn’t so surprised as he might have been, for he’d already spoken to Coates and knew what had happened.’
‘What exactly happened after you’d broken down the door? Who entered the cloakroom first?’
‘I did, sir. The door flew open easier than I’d expected, and I went in with it. The doctor came in just behind me.’
‘Then the doctor had no opportunity whatever of picking anything up without your seeing him?’
‘He couldn’t have done that, sir. As soon as I recovered myself, I stood aside to let him pass. We both stood still for a second or two, just as Lucy sounded the gong. Then the doctor went straight to the body and knelt down beside it. I was watching him all the time he was there, and he couldn’t possibly have picked anything up.’
‘You are absolutely certain that the body was not moved until you and the superintendent did so?’
‘I’m positive about that, sir. I only left the cloakroom once to use the telephone in the hall, and I was watching the cloakroom door all the time. And when I got back, the body was lying exactly as I had left it.’
‘Does the doctor see many patients at his house?’
‘A good few, I fancy, sir. He has his regular hours at the surgery in the town, but if people want to see him out of surgery hours they go to his house.’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Thanks, Linton, that’s all for the present, I think,’ he said, and when the policeman had left the room, he picked up his pencil and stabbed the table in front of him thoughtfully. ‘If only I could make out how the crime was committed, I might form some theory of who did it,’ he muttered.
CHAPTER V
That afternoon, shortly after six o’clock, Jimmy was informed that a visitor wished to see him. ‘The gentleman says that his name is Mr Redbourne, and that he is Mr Fransham’s solicitor,’ said Cload.
‘I’ll see him with pleasure,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Bring him in, will you, sergeant.’
Mr Redbourne was introduced. He was a short, excitable little man of sixty or thereabouts. He was nearly bald and wore a pair of pince-nez with powerful lenses. The way he looked at Jimmy suggested that he was a trifle disconcerted at the inspector’s youth. ‘Are you the man from Scotland Yard?’ he inquired sharply.
‘Inspector Waghorn, at your service, Mr Redbourne,’ Jimmy replied politely. ‘Do sit down, sir. I’m delighted at the opportunity of making your acquaintance.’
Mr Redbourne complied with the invitation. ‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ he asked belligerently.
‘About what, Mr Redbourne?’
‘Why, about the murder of my old friend and client, Robert Fransham, of course. What else? That’s why you’re here, I suppose, isn’t it?’
‘I propose to continue my investigations,’ Jimmy replied quietly. ‘Dr Thornborough has informed you of the circumstances, no doubt?’
‘He has,’ said Mr Redbourne grimly. ‘And highly suspicious circumstances they are, even by his own account. When I had heard what he had to say, I refused to remain under his roof another instant. And I have informed him that though Robert Fransham had appointed me one of his executors, I shall refuse to act in that capacity.’
‘I’m naturally interested in Mr Fransham’s will. Are you disposed to enlighten me as to its terms, Mr Redbourne?’
‘Under the circumstances, I am prepared to give the police all the information in my power. One of my oldest friends has been brutally murdered, and no reasonable person can entertain the slightest doubt who did it. You will admit that, I suppose?’
Jimmy smiled. ‘I’d rather not admit anything until after the inquest tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You were going to tell me about Mr Fransham’s will, I think?’
Mr Redbourne looked at Jimmy over the top of his glasses. ‘You appear to be a very discreet young man,’ he said. ‘I trust, however, that you will not allow discretion to overrule your common sense. Robert Fransham’s will is in my safe at the office. In it, Dr Thornborough and myself are named as joint executors. Apart from legacies to Fransham’s dependents, his niece Mrs Thornborough is the sole legatee.’
‘Mr Fransham had no children of his own?’
‘He had never married, and he had no nephews or nieces but Betty, whom I have known since she was a little girl. Under the existing will, she inherits his estate absolutely.’
‘Can you give me any idea of the extent of the estate?’
‘I imagine that it will prove to be in the neighbourhood of a couple of hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Mrs Thornborough will become a wealthy woman,’ Jimmy remarked. ‘Does her mother benefit by the will directly in any way?’
‘No, she does not. Robert Fransham has always disliked his brother’s wife. That was one of the reasons which led him to instruct me to draw up a fresh will, which he was to have signed one day this week.’
‘Did this fresh will disinherit Mrs Thornborough?’ Jimmy asked quickly.
‘No. Robert Fransham always intended that Betty should inherit his property. The existing will to that effect was drawn up in 1917, after his brother Thomas had been killed in the war.
‘Latterly, however, Robert Fransham began to have doubts of the wisdom of leaving the estate to his niece absolutely. Knowing her generous and possibly unbusinesslike nature, he was afraid that her mother and her husband might make demands upon her which she would find it difficult to refuse. It has always been a grievance with Mrs Thomas Fransham that her brother-in-law did not make her an allowance after her husband’s
death. There was really no reason why he should have done so, since she always enjoyed an income of nearly five hundred a year.’
‘And Dr Thornborough’s habits are inclined to be extravagant?’ Jimmy suggested.
‘Oh, so you’ve found that out, have you?’ Mr Redbourne replied rather grudgingly. ‘I happen to know that on more than one occasion Betty has approached her uncle for sums of money on her husband’s account. Naturally, this made Robert Fransham rather anxious. He became afraid that after his death Dr Thornborough would gradually appropriate all his niece’s money until she became destitute. And in any case he always set his face resolutely against needless extravagance. He had therefore resolved to make a new will, leaving his estate to Betty in trust. The effect of this would have been that while she would enjoy the interest, she would not have power to dispose of the capital. This will had already been drawn up and only awaited Robert Fransham’s signature.’
‘Were Dr or Mrs Thornborough aware of Mr Fransham’s intentions?’
‘That I cannot tell you. Robert Fransham may have told his niece what he intended to do. The fact of his murder strongly suggests to me, at least, that he had done so.’
‘Who are the other beneficiaries under the existing will?’
‘Stowell and his wife, the married couple who had been with him for years, to the extent of an annuity of one hundred pounds. Coates, his chauffeur, who had not been with him so long, to the extent of a lump sum of two hundred pounds. These legacies were provided in codicils to the original will.’
‘Do you know of anybody else who benefits financially by Mr Fransham’s death?’
‘There is nobody else,’ replied Mr Redbourne emphatically. ‘But I think I have made it quite clear that there are two persons whose prospects are greatly improved by Robert Fransham’s death having occurred when it did.’
‘I am bound to consider every possibility, Mr Redbourne,’ said Jimmy quietly. ‘Mr Fransham was an old friend of yours, you tell me. I’m bound to ask the usual question, realising how difficult it is to answer. To your knowledge, had Mr Fransham any personal enemies?’
‘None!’ Mr Redbourne replied, taking off his glasses and waving them at Jimmy to emphasise his words. ‘None whatever. Robert Fransham was not the sort of man who arouses feelings of enmity. We were at school together, and I have known him pretty intimately ever since. He may not have contracted many sincere friendships. He was too apt to keep himself aloof from other people for that. I have always thought that the reason he never married was to be found in his innate dislike of sharing his feelings with anybody else. He was, I think, fond of me in his curiously detached way, and he was, I am sure, genuinely devoted to Betty Thornborough. But I don’t know that he would have called anybody else in the world a personal friend. The fact that Dr Thornborough is an executor of the existing will is a proof of that.’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t exactly follow your reasoning, Mr Redbourne,’ Jimmy remarked.
‘It’s easy enough to understand. When Robert Fransham made his original will, another very old friend of his was alive. He and I were named as executors. And when this man died shortly after Betty’s marriage, I suggested to Robert Fransham that he had better appoint another executor in his place. He said at first that he knew of nobody whom he could ask to undertake the duty, but later he decided that Betty’s husband would be a suitable person.’
‘I see,’ said Jimmy. ‘In your opinion, Mr Fransham, having few friends, had even fewer enemies?’
‘He had none whatever, you may set your mind at rest upon that point. Since his retirement from business sixteen or seventeen years ago, he had led a very quiet life, spending the greater part of his time at his club or visiting his acquaintances. He very rarely entertained anybody at home—in fact, I am one of the two or three who ever visited him at No. 4 Cheveley Street. He would give occasional small dinner parties at a restaurant, and used to say that if he wished to entertain people, he liked to do so without disturbing his own household. A very sensible attitude, especially on the part of a bachelor.’
‘Was his house in Cheveley Street his own property?’
‘No, it was not. Nos. 3 and 4 belong to Sir Godfrey Branstock, who himself lives in No. 3. In 1920, Mr Fransham took over the remainder of a lease of No. 4. And that lease, as it happens, expires at Christmas this year.’
‘Did Mr Fransham intend to renew it?’
‘When I last spoke to him, less than a week ago, he had not made up his mind on the subject. He told me that Betty had been trying to persuade him to buy a house somewhere in this neighbourhood. But he didn’t seem particularly taken with the idea. He would never have been happy out of London, away from his club and his little group of acquaintances. He told me that he had spoken to Branstock, who was quite ready to grant him a fresh lease, but he hadn’t done anything definite about it, because he didn’t like disappointing Betty. His final decision would, I feel pretty certain, have been to remain in Cheveley Street. Had he asked my advice it would certainly have been to this effect. I am quite sure that, had he left London, he would in a very short time have regretted doing so.’
‘What sort of establishment did Mr Fransham maintain?’
‘A very simple one. His household consisted of the Stowels, the married couple who ran the house for him, and his chauffeur, who lived in the house. Actually, No. 4 Cheveley Street was far too big for him. Half the rooms were rarely, if ever, used.’
‘Did he ever have people staying in the house?’
‘To the best of my belief, the only person who has ever stayed there is his niece. Robert Fransham hated anything that upset the regular routine of his existence, and he considered visitors in the light of an unnecessary inconvenience.’
‘Had he any hobbies?’
‘None whatever, unless the reading of light fiction may be described as a hobby. He was a constant frequenter of his club, and when he was at home he occupied most of his time reading. Since his retirement he has taken no part whatever in any public or social activities. I have often thought that his undoubted abilities were wasted.’
‘Mr Fransham cannot have been very old when he retired?’
‘He was only forty-one. Many men of that age would have found some fresh occupation for their energy. But Robert Fransham didn’t, perhaps because energy of any kind had always been distasteful to him.’
‘And yet he contrived to amass a fairly respectable fortune?’ Jimmy suggested.
‘That wasn’t his fault,’ Mr Redbourne replied. ‘I’ll give you a sketch of his life’s history, if you like. As I told you before, he was at school with me, and I remember him very well there, though he was a couple of years younger than I am. His chief characteristic then was a complete indolence both of mind and body. To any suggestion involving the slightest activity he always replied, in the language of those days, that it was too much fag. He absorbed a certain amount of knowledge, passively, as a sponge absorbs water. He played games, because he had to, with a sort of contemptuous obedience to convention.
‘His father was the senior partner of Fransham & Innes, a firm of brass-founders of Birmingham. Robert, the eldest son, entered the business when he left school. His brother Thomas, who had military ambitions, was put into the army. I have always understood that Thomas became a conscientious if not very intelligent soldier. He was killed in the attack on Messines Ridge in 1917.
‘The business of Fransham & Innes when Robert Fransham joined it, was not in a very flourishing condition. It rather more than paid its way, and that was the best that could be said of it. In due course, Robert succeeded his father, who died shortly before the outbreak of the war. His character had altered very little in the meanwhile. He was a man who always sought the easiest path through life. Not at all the type who was capable of converting a moribund concern into a flourishing and profit-earning business.
‘Then the war came, and the firm of Fransham & Innes was caught in the whirlpool of production. As it happened, its
workshops were suitably equipped for the manufacture of a certain type of fuse which was in urgent demand. Government orders poured in, to be executed at fantastic profits. Robert Fransham simply couldn’t help making money. All he had to do was to sit in his office and endorse the cheques as they poured in. A really energetic man might perhaps have reaped an even more bountiful harvest. I don’t know. I can only tell you that by the time the war ended, Mr Robert Fransham found himself a rich man.
‘Then, in 1920, one of the big armament firms made a very advantageous offer for the purchase of the business. Robert Fransham asked my advice about its acceptance, but I could see that his mind was already made up. Business, even profitable business, bored him, for it demanded a certain amount of mental effort. And here was an opportunity of release from all responsibility. If he sold the business he could sleep in such luxurious comfort as he cared to surround himself with for the rest of his life. And that is just exactly what he did. He came to London, saw No. 4 Cheveley Street, took a fancy to it and has lived there ever since.’
‘I am very grateful to you for this information, Mr Redbourne,’ said Jimmy. ‘Can you tell me anything about Mrs Thomas Fransham and her daughter?’
‘Have you met Mrs Thomas Fransham?’ Mr Redbourne inquired.
‘Not yet,’ Jimmy replied.
‘Well, you’re not likely to be very favourably impressed when you do. She’s one of those narrow-minded women who live in the unalterable conviction that nobody can do anything right but themselves. And she’s as stubborn as a mule, too. With a little goodwill she could easily have got over Robert Fransham’s dislike of her. I don’t know that she would have profited financially by that, but at all events it would have made things easier between them. As it was, they were on the worst of terms and did their best to avoid one another.’
Jimmy smiled. ‘I thought you told me that Mr Fransham had no enemies,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m not suggesting that she was his active enemy. She disliked him and disapproved of him wholeheartedly, that’s all. I dare say she thought that his bachelor establishment was the scene of saternalia revolting to her middle-class respectability. It wasn’t, by the way. Robert Fransham rather avoided women than otherwise. I dare say that he thought that the pursuit of them would involve an unnecessary expenditure of energy.