by John Rhode
‘What else could he hope to do?’ Jimmy asked.
‘He has a plan for starting a little business of his own, sir. From what he tells me, his brother has got a small holding on a main road in the country somewhere. Coates has always said that if he could get hold of a little capital, say a couple of hundred pounds or so, he would put up a filling station in the corner of his brother’s land and make a lot of money selling petrol and so forth to passing cars. He went so far as to speak to Mr Fransham about it not more than a week or so ago.’
‘What did he say to Mr Fransham?’
‘He asked him to advance him the money by way of a loan, sir.’
‘And Mr Fransham didn’t see his way to doing that?’
‘No, sir, he didn’t. It wasn’t likely that he would. From what Coates said to me, Mr Fransham told him not to be a fool. He’d got a sure and comfortable job where he was, and the best thing he could do was to stick to it.’
Jimmy did not think it wise just then to pursue the subject of Coates any further. ‘Had Mr Fransham many visitors?’ he asked.
‘Very few, sir, and they were all gentlemen except Miss Betty. Now and then one or two of his friends might drop in to see him of an evening, but there weren’t more than a dozen altogether that came here. And if Mr Fransham wanted to ask anybody to lunch or dinner, he always invited them to a club or to a restaurant. It has always seemed to me that he didn’t like people about the house more than he could help, sir.’
‘How was that? He had nothing to hide, I suppose?’
‘Oh, no, sir, it wasn’t that. He liked to feel that he could do what he liked without having to consider other people. For instance, in the hot weather he liked to come down to dinner in a dressing-gown and a pair of bedroom slippers. And he couldn’t very well have done that if he’d had guests in the house.’
Jimmy smiled. ‘No, I suppose he couldn’t,’ he replied. ‘Do you know all Mr Fransham’s friends by name?’
‘I ought to, sir, after all the years I’ve been with him.’
‘Then I’ll get you to write out a list of them before I go. Meanwhile, have you ever heard the name of Willingdon—in connection with Mr Fransham, I mean?’
‘I’m quite sure I haven’t, sir. Mr Fransham didn’t know anybody of that name. Could you tell me anything more about the gentleman, sir?’
‘There appear to be two of them. Mr Ernest Willingdon is a manufacturer in Leeds, and his son Francis has been knocking round London lately. It’s the son I’m particularly interested in. He’s a tall, languid youth, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty.’
Stowell shook his head. ‘Mr Ernest Willingdon may have been a friend of Mr Fransham’s at one time, sir,’ he said. ‘Though I’ve never heard his name mentioned. But I’m quite sure that Mr Fransham didn’t know Mr Francis Willingdon. All his friends were about of his own age, and the only young people he ever spoke to were Dr and Mrs Thornborough.’
‘You have spoken of Sir Godfrey Branstock? He and Mr Fransham were on friendly terms, I gather?’
‘Oh, yes, quite friendly, though their tastes were altogether different. Mr Fransham liked peace and quiet, but Sir Godfrey’s all the other way. He lives next door, at No. 3, and the house is always full of people. Both Nos. 3 and 4 belong to him, sir.’
‘Sir Godfrey has a large family, perhaps?’ Jimmy suggested.
‘Oh, no, sir, he’s a widower with only one son. At least Mr Mayland isn’t really his son, but his stepson. He’s an architect, and I believe he’s got rooms of his own somewhere. At all events he isn’t often at home. I used to see him some three or four years back when he was modernising No. 3 for Sir Godfrey. But I don’t believe I’ve set eyes on him since.’
‘He doesn’t get on with his stepfather?’ Jimmy suggested.
‘I don’t think it’s that, sir. We hear a lot of what goes on at No. 3, for my wife is very friendly with Mrs Quinton, Sir Godfrey’s cook—and you know what women are. I’ve always understood that Mr Mayland’s father died when he was so young that he hardly remembered him, and he always looked upon Sir Godfrey as his father. But his profession keeps him so busy that latterly he hadn’t had much time to spend at home.’
‘What sort of company does Sir Godfrey keep?’
Stowell looked down his nose. ‘Not quite the sort that you’d expect of a gentleman of his standing, sir,’ he replied. ‘But it’s not for me to criticise, though often I’ve been kept awake until after midnight by their goings on.’
‘Does Sir Godfrey share Mr Fransham’s dislike of having ladies in the house?’
Stowell permitted himself a respectful smile. ‘I can’t say that he does, sir. From what I’ve seen, as many ladies as gentlemen come to Sir Godfrey’s parties. Artists and writers, and people like that they are, for the most part, I’ve been told.’ He dropped his voice. ‘And that’s why Mr Mayland doesn’t come to the house more,’ he added confidentially. ‘He’s got his business to attend to and doesn’t want to get mixed up with people of that sort.’
‘He wouldn’t be likely to get commissions from them, I suppose?’ said Jimmy. ‘But so long as they keep Sir Godfrey amused, there’s no particular harm done.’
‘I’m not so sure about that, sir,’ replied Stowell darkly.
‘What do you mean? You’re not suggesting that anything wrong goes on at No. 3, are you?’
‘Oh, no, sir, I shouldn’t think of such a thing!’ Stowell exclaimed. ‘Mrs Quinton told my wife that she’d got an idea that Sir Godfrey’s going to get married again. And if it’s to be the lady she thinks it is, she says she won’t stay in the house a week after the engagement’s announced.’
Jimmy laughed. Sir Godfrey Branstock’s matrimonial affairs were no concern of his, but the company which frequented No. 3 was a different matter. Its members might not appeal to the industrious Mayland, but they were just the kind of people with whom Francis Willingdon consorted. Was it possible that he had been among Sir Godfrey’s visitors?
Having secured from Stowell a list of Mr Fransham’s friends, Jimmy called next door and asked to see Sir Godfrey. A smart and rather supercilious parlourmaid showed him into the dining-room, where a few minutes later Sir Godfrey joined him. He was a big, heavy man somewhere on the wrong side of fifty, with a jovial, florid face and a hearty manner.
‘Well, inspector, this is the first time I’ve had the police in my house,’ he boomed. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I have called in connection with the death of your neighbour, Mr Fransham,’ Jimmy replied quietly.
‘Why, you don’t suppose I know anything about it, do you?’ Branstock replied. ‘I didn’t know he was dead until I saw the report of the inquest in the paper this morning. Bad business, eh?’
‘It’s a very bad business indeed, Sir Godfrey. May I ask when you last saw Mr Fransham?’
‘When I last saw him? Why, on Saturday morning. I happened to be passing his door when he was getting into that new car of his. I asked him if he was going off for the weekend, and he told me that he was going down to Adderminster to lunch with his niece. And it was there that he was done in, according to the papers.’
‘He was found with a fractured skull in Dr Thornborough’s cloakroom,’ said Jimmy. ‘Do you happen to know the doctor, Sir Godfrey?’
‘I can’t say that I do. I don’t remember that I’ve ever met him. But I knew his wife well enough at one time—Betty Fransham that used to be. Namby-pamby sort of a girl I always thought, with no sense of fun in her. Just like her uncle that way. I don’t believe Fransham ever let himself go in his life. He was the quietest old stick you’d meet in a day’s march through London.’
‘Not the sort of person to make enemies?’ Jimmy suggested.
‘Enemies? No, nor friends either. He was one of those bloodless sort of people who just jog on from day to day without trying to get anything out of life.’
‘You knew him pretty intimately, I suppose, Sir Godfrey?’
‘No, that I didn�
�t. Although he was my tenant, and we’d been next-door neighbours for seventeen years, I don’t suppose I’ve exchanged half a dozen words a week with him on the average. I don’t believe anyone could claim to know him at all intimately unless perhaps that niece of his.’
‘His lease of No. 4 expired at Christmas, did it not?’
‘That’s so. He talked to me about renewing it for another twenty-one years, but he hadn’t come to any definite decision. I told him that I was quite ready to renew the lease, and he said he’d let me know later on. I have an idea that he had an alternative scheme in his head, but what it was I can’t tell you.’
‘You know his chauffeur Coates, don’t you, Sir Godfrey?’
‘Oh, yes, I know the fellow. At one time he was second chauffeur to my cousin, who’s got a place in Norfolk. My cousin, who thought quite a lot of him, told me that he wanted to get a better place in London, and asked me to put in a word for him if I happened to hear of anybody who wanted a chauffeur. It wasn’t long after that, that Fransham happened to say that he thought of buying a car. I told him that he’d want a chauffeur, and that I happened to know of a chap who might suit him. Coates came along, Fransham interviewed him, and that was that.’
‘You don’t know anything about Coates personally?’
‘Only what my cousin told me at the time. He said he was a steady enough chap and a safe and reliable driver. But he thought he was a fool for wanting to go to London.’
‘Most ambitious young men are anxious to get to London.’
‘Yes, I know. But my cousin used to say that Coates was cut out for a job in the country. As well as being second chauffeur, he was by way of being a sort of handy man about my cousin’s place. He’d turn to and help any of the chaps on the estate. The gamekeeper especially, for I’ve heard that he was a very fine shot.’
‘Well, Sir Godfrey, I mustn’t take up any more of your time,’ said Jimmy. ‘There’s just one more question I’d like to ask you. Do you happen to know a young man of the name of Francis Willingdon, whose father is a manufacturer in Leeds?’
Branstock shook his head. ‘Never heard of him,’ he replied. ‘Quite a lot of young folk come to this house one way and the other, and I’m the first to encourage them. But your friend Willingdon isn’t among the number.’
Jimmy left Cheveley Street and, knowing that Mr Redbourne had come back to London after the inquest, he made his way to the lawyer’s office in Bedford Row. Mr Redbourne received him at once. ‘Well, inspector, you have something definite to tell me, I hope,’ he said.
‘Not yet, I’m afraid, sir,’ Jimmy replied. ‘You’ll understand my position. I’m bound to examine all the possibilities before I come to a final decision.’
‘Of course, of course!’ said Mr Redbourne a trifle impatiently. ‘That’s the sort of phrase we lawyers use when we want to gain time. So you haven’t made up your mind that only one possibility exists?’
‘I have been trying to compile a list of people who had anything to gain by Mr Fransham’s death.’
The lawyer’s lips curled slightly. ‘I thought I’d compiled that list for you already,’ he replied. ‘Have you discovered any names to add to it?’
‘Only one, sir. It seems that Coates the chauffeur will now be able to realise a private ambition of his own.’
‘Then you suspect Coates of having murdered his employer for the sake of his paltry legacy? I don’t think there are many juries who would swallow that story, if you will forgive my saying so, inspector. Besides, I understand that the evidence of a member of the police is to the effect that Coates was standing at the door of the garage when Mr Robert Fransham was murdered. Perhaps you are able to explain how, in that case, he can have been the criminal.’
‘Part of my trouble is, sir, that I can’t explain how anybody can have been the criminal. There is nothing whatever to show how Mr Fransham was killed.’
‘Except the shocking and not inconspicuous wound on the top of his head,’ Mr Redbourne remarked acidly.
‘Yes, I know, sir. But I’ve got to prove exactly how that wound was inflicted. And so far I am utterly unable to do so.’
‘I should have thought it was obvious enough, even to a policeman. While Robert Fransham was washing at the basin, Thornborough hit him through the cloakroom window.’
Jimmy smiled at the ease with which he had led the lawyer into the trap. ‘Just now, sir, you drew my attention to the fact that Coates was standing at the garage door at the time,’ he said respectfully.
Mr Redbourne stared at him for a moment and then laughed shortly. ‘Got me there,’ he said a trifle ruefully. ‘But that doesn’t let Thornborough out, you know. Coates may have seen more than he cares to repeat to the police.’
‘I’ve thought of that, sir. I’m going to interview Coates again and see if I can get an admission from him. Meanwhile I’d like you to look at this list. I saw Stowell this morning, and at my request he wrote down the names of all Mr Fransham’s friends that he knew. I wonder if you could add to it?’
Mr Redbourne took the list and read it through carefully. ‘No, I don’t think that I can,’ he said. ‘Stowell seems to have put down everyone who knew Robert Fransham at all well. What are you going to do with these names? I see that my own is included.’
Jimmy smiled. ‘I’m going to find out where each of these people were when Mr Fransham was killed,’ he replied. ‘It’s merely a matter of routine, of course.’
‘Is it indeed? Well, you’d better begin with me. I was lunching at my club, the Inns of Court, in Pall Mall. Dozens of people must have seen me there. And it was there that I got Thornborough’s telephone message.’
‘Thank you, Mr Redbourne. Did you ever hear Mr Fransham mention the name of Willingdon?’
‘Not that I can remember. He certainly had no personal friend of that name, or I should have heard it. Is there anything else you want to know?’
‘Not at the moment, thank you, Mr Redbourne,’ Jimmy replied.
He left the lawyer’s office and returned to Scotland Yard, where he found the answer to a message which he had sent the previous evening. The Leeds Police confirmed the fact that Mr Ernest Willingdon lived at The Howdahs, Prospect Road. Mr Willingdon was a well-known and highly-respected manufacturer. His family consisted of his wife, one son and two daughters. The son Francis was employed in his father’s business, and had been absent from Leeds for about three months, but had now returned. Mr Willingdon had told people that his son’s absence was connected with the affairs of the firm. But local rumour had it that a young lady was in some way involved in the matter.
Jimmy handed over the list which Stowell had given him to one of his colleagues and then caught the next train to Adderminster. His first concern on reaching the police station was to ask for news of Alfie Prince.
Alfie had appeared before the Bench and had been remanded for a medical opinion. Dr Dorrington had seen him and had reported that he had been subject to temporary derangements during which he could hardly be held responsible for his actions. This had been on the previous day— Monday. On Tuesday morning Alfie had woken up in full possession of his senses. He had no recollection whatever of anything that had happened since the previous Friday evening. He remembered coming home from work and having his tea. He also remembered that after his meal he had felt suddenly oppressed indoors and had gone out to take the air. But of where he went or of what had happened to him since then, he had not the slightest idea. Dr Dorrington, upon being consulted a second time, had said that this lapse of memory was typical of the form of mental derangement to which Alfie was liable.
Jimmy next secured the services of Linton and sent him to fetch Coates, who was still at the Red Lion. The three of them then drove up to Epidaurus in Mr Fransham’s Armstrong-Siddeley. They found that Dr Thornborough was out on his afternoon round and that the garage was therefore empty. Jimmy told Coates to drive the car into the garage and stationed Linton at the garden door of the house.
‘Now, then, Coates, I want you to carry on exactly as you did on Saturday,’ he said.
Coates got out of the car and walked slowly all round it, examining the tyres and lifting each side of the bonnet in turn. This process took him three minutes by Jimmy’s watch. When he had finished he took up his position in the doorway of the garage leaning against the post nearest the brick wall. Here he took out a cigarette and lighted it.
‘How long did you stand like that, Coates?’ Jimmy asked.
‘About ten minutes or so, I should think, sir,’ Coates replied. ‘Until I saw the doctor’s car turn in at the gate. Then I threw away the fag and stood up ready to meet him.’
‘All right, that’ll do for the present. Take the car back, then wait for me at the police station. I shall want a word with you later on.’
Coates drove off and Jimmy beckoned to Linton. ‘Well, was that all right?’ he asked.
‘It was just what I saw him do on Saturday, sir,’ Linton replied.
‘Very well, come with me and I’ll show you something.’ Jimmy led the way to the road, then through the gap in the hedge into the grass field, and so to the back of the brick wall. He found the loose brick and pointed it out to Linton. ‘Someone has contrived a very neat little peephole for himself,’ he said. ‘Now, this is what I want you to do. Give me two or three minutes to get back to the garage. Then take out this brick as gently and quietly as you can, wait a few seconds and put it back again. When you’ve done that come back and join me.’
Jimmy went back to the garage and leant against the gatepost. In this position his head was within six inches of the wall and his line of vision ran straight along its surface. It was impossible for him to distinguish separate bricks at more than five yards distance. He waited, straining his eyes and ears, but neither saw nor heard anything. A minute or two later Linton appeared, walked down the carriage-way and saluted. ‘I did what you told me, sir,’ he said.