Thirteen Guests

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  Bultin did not answer for a few moments. He understood perfectly. The question was whether he should admit it. Altruism, humanity, the common good, ideals beyond Self—these were his early companions, when his feet had stumbled over shifting sand. He had scrapped them years ago so that he could plant himself on hard ground.

  “I can make up my mind about most things,” said Bultin. “But I can’t make up my mind whether I like you, Kendall.”

  “I’m quite ready to like you,” responded Kendall. “You’ve helped me a lot.”

  “I can only repeat, you are not helping me.”

  “My job’s to help justice, not journalism.”

  “A good alliteration? Do they conflict?”

  “Not necessarily. Otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you. I’m not doing it to supply you with titbits for your column.”

  “Are there any titbits?”

  “Maybe. Is your word to be trusted?”

  “That is why I so rarely give it.”

  “Would you give it to me, in exchange for the first rights of a story, blue-pencilled by me? I wouldn’t blue-pencil the fact that Lionel Bultin made me look for a black bag I’ve found.”

  “Ah!”

  “It has given me the identity of, to use your phrase, Body Number One.”

  “Really?”

  “And I’ve found the bicycle—also first mentioned by Lionel Bultin. And I’ve found Mrs. Chater beside it—stone dead.”

  Bultin stared. Kendall deduced that Sir James Earnshaw had not passed any news on.

  “But I haven’t found how, when or where Mr. Chater was poisoned, or by whom.”

  “You know there is a Chinese cook?” said Bultin.

  “Who had no possible reason to poison Chater,” answered Kendall. “The sergeant has been into the food question, and has put a few questions to him, and is quite satisfied on that point. We are a bit too quick to suspect the Orient! Any more suggestions?”

  “No, not at the moment,” replied Bultin slowly. “But I might have later, if I were free to roam again.”

  “That’s what I wanted!” exclaimed Kendall. “You’ve got the type of mind I need. If I give you your freedom—even to go in the studio, if you like—will you give me my blue pencil?”

  Bultin nodded. The inspector promptly took one from his pocket.

  “Then here’s for a start,” he said, and wrote on a card. “Show that if any of my men challenge you—and don’t boast to the other guests about your special privileges. You can boast when it’s all over and you’ve shown the police how to do their own work!”

  “I shall make a point of it,” replied Bultin, pocketing the card.

  Chapter XXVIII

  John’s Turn

  “I hoped I was going to be let off,” said John, as the inspector entered the ante-room.

  “I don’t let anybody off, sir, if I think they can tell me anything,” answered Kendall.

  “What makes you think I can tell you anything?” asked John.

  “Well, for one thing, you haven’t denied it,” replied Kendall. “For another, a good deal has happened yesterday and to-day not far from your door and window. For another, some one has suggested I won’t waste my time with you.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll keep that to myself, if you don’t mind.”

  But John guessed rightly that it was Pratt.

  “I can understand your hesitation,” continued Kendall, as John did not respond immediately. “You feel in a difficult position. You’ve been shown hospitality, and you don’t like the idea of casting any reflections on anybody. That’s a natural and a right sentiment. I’d feel the same in your place. But—well, we’ve got beyond that stage. If you’ve anything to tell, you may help to prevent me from arresting the wrong person.”

  “Do you suspect any one particular, then?” asked John.

  “I know at least two people who had strong motives for murder.”

  “Guests?”

  “I’m asking the questions, sir.”

  “Sorry,” said John, “but I’m not used to this sort of thing.”

  He would have given much to be out of the business. He had decided that he would say nothing unless circumstances forced him to. The circumstances were now all too evident. If the inspector was already forming suspicions, how could he withhold what he knew? “Well, I’ll start the ball rolling,” he thought, “and see where it leads.”

  “There was a fuss outside this room late last night,” he began. “Quite a bad one.”

  “What time?”

  “I can’t say exactly. Soon after one.”

  “It woke you up?”

  “Yes. No, it was the dog that woke me up. That time.”

  “Oh, then there was another time? Well, we’ll have that later. Please go on.”

  “I also heard glass breaking. Then the barking stopped—”

  “For good?”

  “I believe so. I was a bit muzzy. I don’t remember hearing it any more. Then, shortly after that, the row in the hall started. It was between two men. One was Chater, the other was a butler named Thomas.” Kendall’s eye lighted. “They seemed to have bumped into each other by accident and were trying to find out why the other was there. I gathered in the middle that Chater had some sort of a hold over the butler—”

  “Yes, but wait a moment!” interrupted Kendall. “This won’t do! Can’t you remember the actual conversation?”

  John repeated it as far as he could recall, and the inspector listened intently. When he had finished, Kendall went into the hall and returned immediately. Then he walked to the window, raised the blind, looked out, and lowered it.

  “And the butler, you believe, went back to his room?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied John.

  “And Chater went out?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did he return?”

  “Just after half-past one.”

  “You heard a clock strike?”

  “There’s one in the hall. Strikes the half-hours.”

  “Then this might have been one, and not half-past?”

  “I looked at my watch immediately after Chater had come back and gone upstairs. It was twenty-five minutes to two.”

  “Let me see your watch now.”

  John showed it to him. Kendall went into the hall again, and again returned at once.

  “You’re half a minute fast by the hall clock,” he said. “Have you altered it to-day?”

  “No.”

  “Good time-keeper?”

  “It gains a minute a week.”

  “What time did Chater go out after the row? Any idea?”

  “Only a rough one. About ten past one. Don’t take that as accurate, though—just a guess. Might be a minute or two earlier.”

  “You think he was outside twenty minutes?”

  “That was my idea.”

  “But he took four or five minutes to go upstairs, after returning?”

  “Yes, and I don’t know where he went then, or what he did.”

  “Can you remember this, Mr. Foss? Get your mind back to the last time you heard the dog bark. Was it before or after you heard the breaking of the glass?”

  “After,” answered John. “As a matter of fact, the breaking of the glass came into a dream, and I only realised the sound was actual just after I woke up.”

  “I see. And it was about one. How do you know that?”

  “Only another guess. Working backwards.”

  “Well, if it’s a good guess, we may say that the glass broke at about one a.m., the dog’s last bark was at—a minute past—?”

  “Say two minutes past, if you want to be particular,” interrupted John. “It barked three or four times.”

  “Then we’ll put the last bark at two minut
es past one. And the row at four or five past, till ten past.”

  “That won’t be far out.”

  “Of course, the barking came from across the lawn?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the last bark like?”

  “I’ve an impression it wasn’t particularly nice, but that may just be retrospective exaggeration. You see, I know now what happened.”

  “Quite so. Do you remember whether the final bark was as close as the previous barking?”

  “No, it was farther away.”

  “As though the dog was barking while it ran?”

  “Definitely.”

  “That fits. Well, now, let’s get to the other time you woke up. No, wait a moment, though. Was there anything else you can recall between one and one-thirty? Even if it seems trivial, it may be important.”

  “I believe I heard a gasp,” answered John, with hesitation.

  “When?”

  “Just before the row.”

  “That might have been Thomas when he heard Chater coming down the stairs?”

  “It might.”

  “Only you know it wasn’t!” commented Kendall, with a smile. “How do you know it wasn’t? Wrong gender?”

  “You can’t always tell the gender of a gasp,” fenced John.

  “Not always, but you could this one,” replied Kendall, “and you are now ready to lie to save a lady’s honour. But we know, from the conversation between Chater and Thomas, that Thomas is rather fond of Bessie?”

  “I never thought of that,” murmured John.

  “And we know that Chater had some hold over Thomas. Was he threatening to expose a love affair? Well, I’ll find that out when I interview Thomas. Meanwhile, let’s talk about the other time you woke up, and what woke you.”

  John wrenched his mind to the occasion. He was growing a little dizzy. He was convinced it was not Bessie who had gasped, yet he had no desire to express his doubt.…

  “You know, I’m getting muddled,” he confessed. “It was the dog that woke me both times.”

  “Was this other time before or after one o’clock?”

  “Before.”

  “Do you know how long before?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “You heard the hall clock strike?”

  “Yes, and thought it was one or half-past. But my watch corrected me.”

  “Anything happen?”

  “Nothing of importance. I just heard Lord Aveling going upstairs.”

  “Was he talking to himself?” inquired Kendall.

  “No,” answered John. “Why?”

  “Did his boots have a particular squeak?”

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” said John, trying not to flush. “How did I know it was Lord Aveling? I didn’t say he was alone!”

  “But your chivalry was quite ready to imply it. I’m sorry I’m so annoying. Am I right in thinking that Lord Aveling did not go upstairs last night at 12.30 with Lady Aveling?”

  “Of course, that sounds perfectly horrible, and I agree you are annoying!” retorted John. “I heard him saying good-night to Miss Wilding, who had been reading a play to him. You know she is an actress?”

  “I have seen her act.”

  “Well, so that’s in order. Lady Aveling knew she was reading the play to him.”

  “If that is true, her knowledge must have been a matter of regret to Mr. Chater,” remarked Kendall dryly. “But you are making a mountain of this, not I. Did anything else occur?”

  “Nothing else.”

  Kendall removed his eyes from John and fixed them on the opposite wall.

  “I am sure you are keeping nothing you think vital from me,” he said. “But unless, like nearly everybody else here, you have some personal axe to grind, there is no need to. Outside my job, I’m not interested in scandal. I have even mentioned this fact to our friend Mr. Bultin. Now, is it your private opinion that Lord Aveling and Miss Wilding are having an affair?”

  “Is my private opinion of any value?” demanded John.

  “On this point it is.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to. You should trust my sight. But I’ll tell you, Mr. Foss. Do you know the sort of man Chater was?”

  “He didn’t appeal to me.”

  “Do you know he was a professional blackmailer?”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “And that if Lord Aveling and Miss Wilding were having an affair, and he got to know of it, they would both have motives for wanting him to be out of the way?”

  “Look here!” exclaimed John. “You’re surely not suggesting—?”

  “I am not suggesting anything. I am just giving you some elementary reasoning.”

  “Very well, then. Here’s my private opinion. Lord Aveling may or may not be interested in Miss Wilding, but I am convinced she is not having an affair with him. Will that do?”

  “I expect it will have to, unless I bring the question up again,” replied Kendall, “which I shall do if necessary. Did you hear anybody else in the hall between twelve-thirty and one?”

  “Nobody. I went to sleep very soon afterwards.”

  “And woke up at one.”

  “Yes, as I’ve told you.”

  “And kept awake till one-thirty-five. And then?”

  “I slept.”

  “At once?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “And didn’t wake any more?”

  “There was no dog to wake me.”

  “That’s hardly an answer.”

  “No, I didn’t wake any more.” To himself he thought, “There, now I’ve done it! Perjury! Well, if I’m hauled up for it, I’ll take what’s coming!”

  Kendall looked thoughtful, then suddenly rose.

  “Well, that’s that,” he said. “And now for our friend Thomas.”

  Chapter XXIX

  The Troubles of Thomas

  When Thomas heard that the inspector wanted him, he did a very foolish thing. He ran. All that trying day his nerves had been getting worse and worse. He dropped plates, jumped at shadows, and endured spasms of violent heart-beating. Even Bessie’s attempts to sooth him had been unavailing, and now he was crowning his chaotic condition by flight.

  But the inspector ran faster and caught him up by the stables. For a few moments he hung limply in Kendall’s grip. Then Kendall’s words sent his limp form rigid.

  “Now, then, let’s have it,” barked the inspector. “Where did you get that poison?”

  “Poison?” gasped Thomas.

  “Never heard the word?” asked Kendall.

  “I didn’t take it—I swear I didn’t—I was going to, but I didn’t.”

  Kendall rejoiced secretly, while his stern features gave no sign of the rejoicing. He was getting somewhere at last. The truth was emerging out of panic.

  “Well, tell your story,” he ordered, “and remember while you’re telling it that I know most of it already. You didn’t know that some one was awake in the ante-room last night at one o’clock, did you, and heard your little business with Mr. Chater?”

  Thomas’s heart beat wildly. What had been said during those wretched minutes? He could hardly remember. It had all been too quick, and too confusing, and too painful. In his hopeless bewilderment he was driven now to the right course, and decided to tell the facts.

  “It—it was only an idea, sir—I swear it was,” he blurted out. “I meant to get it because—because I was off my head, sir, that’s a fact! But I didn’t mean it for anybody—at least—no, I meant it for myself. And then I changed my mind—well, you can prove that!”

  “We’ll do the proving in a minute, my man,” retorted Kendall, “but first I want to know who you did mean that poison for?”

  “I told you, myself
—”

  “And you told me a lie.” Kendall had not missed those self-condemning words, “at least.” “Perhaps you did change your mind. Perhaps you did think that, if matters went too wrong, you’d end them with a dose. But you had some one else in your thoughts first, and as I know already who it is, you’d better not try to hide it. There’s only one thing that can save you, and that’s the truth—every little letter of it. One slip may hang you.”

  “Oh, my God!” muttered Thomas, and nearly crumpled again.

  “Take your time, if you need it,” said Kendall.

  But Thomas merely swallowed, and then his words came with a rush. He wanted to get it over.

  “It was about one of the maids,” he gulped. “She and I, we’re engaged, and—well, you know how certain people look at a pretty girl. And when Mr. Pratt wanted her to be a model—she told me once, and I heard it myself the next time—well, you know what happens—”

  His voice trailed off, and he suddenly took out his handkerchief and wiped his streaming forehead.

  “Jealousy-phobia,” reflected Kendall, while he asked, “Did Bessie agree?”

  “Bessie? Oh, of course, you know who it is. No, not then. But he was pestering her—she said he wasn’t, but one’s got eyes—and—well—”

  “And so you thought you’d get a bit of your own back by ruining Mr. Pratt’s picture?”

  Thomas was silent.

  “Go on!” ordered Kendall sharply. “Everything. What happened after you ruined the picture?”

  “I was sorry I’d done it afterwards,” mumbled Thomas. “I’d happened to find the door unlocked. The key was in it. And then, a bit later, I went back to see if I could do anything about the picture—make it a bit better—and it was then that—”

  He stopped dead.

  “Yes?” said Kendall.

  “Somebody caught me,” muttered Thomas.

  “Well, go on! Who?”

  “The—the man that was found in the quarry, sir,” answered Thomas tremulously. “I don’t know who he is. I’d never seen him before. But he came running into the studio—I didn’t know if he was running after me, or to get away from anybody else—anyhow, he got in, and, well, saw what I’d done.”