Thirteen Guests

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  “Half a moment,” interrupted Kendall. “What time was that?”

  “Time, sir?”

  “Yes. Pull yourself together. Let’s have all this clear. When did you go into the studio first and spoil the picture?”

  “It was during tea, sir. I’d seen Mr. Pratt leave the studio with Mr. Rowe, and on his way to his room he asked Bessie again about being a model. You may think there’s nothing in it, but I know what happens—”

  “Yes, so you said before. Don’t get excited. And the second time in the studio? The time you were caught?”

  Thomas pressed his hand to his forehead and thought.

  “I should say about an hour later. No, more. An hour and a half.”

  “Get your mind on it, my man! Five? Half-past five? Six? Half-past six? Seven—?”

  “Half-past six,” interposed Thomas. “Yes, it must have been. A bit after.”

  “That’ll do. The first time, round about five, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. It struck five almost as soon as I got back.”

  “Then we can say a bit before five for the first visit, and a bit after half-past six for the second. Right. Go on. How did the man find out that you had ruined the picture?”

  “Well, you see, sir, at first I thought it was Mr. Pratt, and I said quickly that I hadn’t done it. I’m telling you everything—”

  “You’ll be a fool if you don’t!”

  “And when I turned and found it was this man, I’d given myself away. I expect he saw I was upset. Anyhow, he said he’d tell on me if I didn’t do something for him.”

  “What was that?”

  “Take a note.”

  “Who to?” As Thomas hesitated, he repeated sharply: “Who to? Don’t hide anything!”

  “Miss Wilding, sir,” answered the butler miserably. “He wrote it there, in the studio, while I waited. Then I left, but he stayed inside, because people were about. I hid behind a bush. One of the people was Mr. Pratt. That was the time he went in and—and found what I’d done.”

  “Why did you wait?”

  “Well, sir, I wanted to see what would happen. You see, this man was inside…and then I thought there was somebody by the back door, but I might have been wrong about that. It was dark.”

  “Was Mr. Pratt inside the studio long?”

  “No, sir. Only a few minutes. I listened for a row, but there was nothing. The man must have hidden somewhere, because Mr. Pratt came out again alone and locked the studio, and then he nearly caught me. I just managed to get away in the dark.”

  “Without his seeing who you were?”

  “He couldn’t have, sir, or I’d have heard of it.”

  “Nobody saw you?”

  “I—I think Mr. Chater did.”

  “He’d have a shot,” commented Kendall grimly. “What makes you think he did?”

  “He came to the stairs when I was giving the note to Miss Wilding. I thought there was nobody about—I’d been told to give it only when there wasn’t anybody looking—but Mr. Chater suddenly came, out of nowhere, like, and made her drop the envelope. He picked it up for her, and then she went off with it.”

  “I suppose Chater had a good look at the writing on the envelope before he gave it back?”

  “I expect so, sir.”

  “Well? Did you have any trouble with Mr. Chater?”

  “Not then, sir. But—it was funny—he seemed to be everywhere. Even when—”

  He stopped again, and terror re-entered his eye.

  “Even when—?” prompted Kendall. “If you’re innocent, you won’t hang.”

  “I am innocent, sir,” replied Thomas earnestly. “I mean, about everything but the picture. I did that. I’m admitting it. It’ll get me the sack. But what’s the good? Only I didn’t do anything else. Except—well—think about it.”

  “You’re talking now about the poison?”

  “Yes, sir.” Thomas’s voice was very low.

  “Where was the poison?”

  “Where it still is, sir—in the cook’s bedroom.”

  “In the cook’s bedroom,” repeated Kendall slowly, as though he were checking the information and not receiving it. “Go on.”

  “That’s where I was going to get it from.”

  “When?”

  “In the night. The time I had the fuss with Mr. Chater.”

  “How did you know it was there?”

  “Like this, sir: The chef is Chinese. He’s all right, though, only you never know what’s going on in his head. I got talking to him. I was nearly off my own head—that’s a fact. I’m not making excuses. I’m just telling you. I wondered whether to finish it—not only about the picture, but Bessie—thinking I might lose her; we’d had a quarrel, you see—and so I said to the cook, ‘How would you finish yourself if you decided to?’ We talk about things.”

  “That’s all right. Go on.”

  “He said, ‘This way,’ and he made as if he was putting something into his mouth. ‘Velly quick,’ he said—that’s how they talk—‘velly quick, no pain, all over.’ ‘Yes, but where would you get it?’ I asked him, and told him you couldn’t get it, not in this country, without signing things. So then he said—these were the words—‘I no need to get it; I got it, in little cupboard over my bed, all ready,’ he said, ‘if I ever get big pain I can’t stand.’ ‘Aren’t you afraid some one’ll steal it?’ I said. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Keep cupboard locked and key always in pocket.’ ”

  “Well?”

  “It was then, sir,” went on the butler, twisting his head round as though searching for ghosts, “that I wondered if—if Mr. Chater had been listening.”

  “Why did you wonder that?”

  “I thought I heard somebody, but when I looked round they’d gone.”

  “Only thought?”

  “No, sir, I’m sure.”

  “What made you think it was Chater?”

  “I’d felt he was watching me, ever since he saw me give that letter to Miss Wilding.”

  “Where was this? Where did you have your talk with the chef?”

  “In a passage.”

  “What passage?”

  “Near his bedroom. It’s between the hall and the servants’ quarters.”

  “Then his bedroom is near the hall?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go to that passage. No, wait a moment. What time did this conversation occur?”

  “It was soon after dinner started, sir. As a matter of fact, I was bringing away a tray.”

  “Why wasn’t the cook in the kitchen?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He pops about.”

  “Yes, perhaps that’s not important. But this is: If the conversation occurred during dinner, how could Mr. Chater have heard it?”

  “Well, sir,” answered Thomas, “I found out something that made me all the more sure it was him. I found out he was late for dinner.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Kendall. “You’re certain of that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How are you certain?”

  “Bessie told me, sir. You see, thinking it had been him, I asked her, and she’d seen him snooping about—I mean, she’d seen him—”

  “Snooping was right. Yes?”

  “Eh? It was on the first floor, outside Miss Wilding’s bedroom.”

  “And Miss Wilding was down in the dining-room?”

  “Yes, sir. All the guests were seated, I found out when the meal started. All but Mr. Chater, I mean.”

  “But didn’t you notice his empty chair yourself?” demanded Kendall. “Why did you have to ask Bessie?”

  “I wasn’t in the dining-room till after the soup—the time I came away with the tray.”

  “I see. And had your chat with the cook in the passage. I suppose it was then you de
cided to get the poison?”

  “Yes, sir,” muttered Thomas.

  “When did you change your mind?”

  “Well, I don’t know that I’d ever made up my mind, really. When I met Mr. Chater in the night—well, even then I was only thinking about it, as you might say, but of course that ended it. I guessed then that he’d heard—”

  “But he made other suggestions, according to what I have been told about your conversation.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “About you and Bessie. Was Bessie there? In the night?”

  “No, sir!” replied Thomas, with sudden emphasis.

  “Is that the truth or gallantry?”

  “The truth, sir. It was when Mr. Chater spoke about that—about me and Bessie, who’s a good girl—that I tried to hit him. I don’t know if you heard about that?”

  “I did. And, though one isn’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, it’s a pity you missed him. But some one was there before you and Chater. Some one was in the hall, Thomas. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Well, sir, I did think I heard a sound, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  “What sound?”

  “A sort of gasp, sir.”

  “Male or female?”

  “More like a woman, sir. No, I don’t know. I wasn’t in a condition.”

  Kendall looked at the butler hard.

  “There’s something in your mind, Thomas,” he said, “and I want it. If a woman gasped, and if that woman wasn’t Bessie—”

  “It wasn’t, I’ve told you!” interrupted the butler.

  Kendall’s method was to ride over everything that interfered with justice, but he always sympathised with men who defended womenfolk, truthfully or otherwise. His attitude to the butler had softened since the beginning of the interview, and he spoke now quite kindly.

  “I am accepting your word that it wasn’t Bessie. I’m sure you are telling me the truth. But I want you to go on telling me the truth. Who do you think that person was?”

  Thomas hesitated, despite the inspector’s encouraging tone.

  “I may be wrong, sir,” he muttered after a silence.

  “Let me judge that,” replied Kendall.

  “Well, sir, I thought it might be Miss Wilding—you see, I’d given her that letter. And, then, the back door being open. But, of course, that’s only what I thought.”

  “It may be quite a useful thought,” answered Kendall. “Now, then, we’ll go back to the house and you’ll show me that passage, and the cook’s room. If the poison is still in his little cupboard—well, we’ll see.”

  Chapter XXX

  Origins of Evil

  The Chinese cook was interested, but showed no emotion when he received an order to meet the inspector in his bedroom. He entered blandly, glanced at Thomas, and waited. Kendall did not keep him waiting long.

  “I understand you keep some poison in that cupboard over your bed,” said Kendall, driving straight to the point.

  “You tell him that?” asked the cook, glancing again at Thomas.

  “Yes, he told me,” replied Kendall. “I made him. Is it true?”

  The Chinaman gave a little shrug, then nodded.

  “You know it is wrong?”

  “To you, not to me,” answered the Chinaman.

  “Are you ill?”

  “Once I had velly bad pain.”

  “I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I must see that poison.”

  “You take it away?” inquired the Chinaman.

  “I’m asking to see it.”

  For a few moments the Chinaman did not move. Perhaps he was summoning philosophy to combat a grief his placid features did not reveal. Then, with another little shrug, he moved quietly to the head of the bed and took a key from his pocket.

  “Don’t touch the front of the cupboard!” exclaimed Kendall suddenly.

  The Chinaman obeyed, carefully inserted the key, turned it, and opened the small door.

  After that, something did happen to his face. Kendall was watching it in preference to the cupboard. Amazement shot momentarily into the usually inscrutable eyes. But the moment passed. The smooth features became quiet again.

  “Do you sleep heavily?” inquired Kendall.

  There was an alarm clock by the bed.

  The Chinaman did not reply; he turned towards Thomas, whose mouth was gaping.

  “Well?” said Kendall.

  “I never took it—I swear I didn’t!” muttered the butler, his forehead wet.

  “Some one did,” answered Kendall. He addressed the Chinaman again. “Have you any idea who?”

  The Chinaman remained silent, his eyes still on Thomas.

  “Was he the only one you told?” Kendall demanded sharply.

  “Nobody else,” replied the Chinaman.

  “Do you read in bed?”

  “Velly bad habit.”

  “What time did you go to bed last night?”

  “Eleven.”

  “And went to sleep at once?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you disturbed in the night?”

  “No.”

  “Did you wake up at all?”

  “Not till the clock sound.”

  “And that was?”

  “Six.”

  “This poison. What was it?”

  “I bring it from China. You do not know it. Velly quick. No pain. Velly sensible to stop pain.”

  “What was it in? Box? Bottle?”

  “Little glass tube.”

  “Fluid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Easily poured into something?”

  “Velly easy.”

  “Such as a flask.”

  “Yes.”

  “Or you could drink it straight from the tube?”

  “Velly easy.”

  “Thank you. That will do. Leave the cupboard open and the key where it is. You may have to find a bed somewhere else to-night. I want this room, and it will be locked. Out of it, the pair of you—and no talking!”

  He followed them out and locked the door. The Chinaman faded away into the shadows, but in response to a word Thomas followed the inspector along the passage.

  “I didn’t take it,” repeated Thomas dully.

  “I haven’t said you did,” answered Kendall. “Have you anything more to tell me?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Think again. About Miss Wilding?”

  “No, sir.”

  “About Chater?”

  “No, sir. At least—”

  “Go on!”

  “It’s not important, but I don’t want to keep anything back. This morning there was another little scene. He had me in his room and told me I’d got to be ready to do anything he wanted. It was shortly before they all went to the Meet. Then Bessie happened to come along the passage with a tray, and after he’d sent me out he called her in. She didn’t want to go, and she was only there for a few moments. I took it that he did it to spite me, knowing how I felt.”

  “Very likely. Of course, it didn’t make you love him any more?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But that was after the poison had been stolen, so it wouldn’t affect what happened last night.”

  “Of course—that’s right, sir!” exclaimed Thomas, brightening. “I’d forgotten that.”

  His relief was almost pathetic.

  “Then here’s something to remember, Thomas,” replied Kendall, as he beckoned to the approaching sergeant. “Many people who never dreamed they could commit murder have done so through jealousy. Watch yours. It’s no good. Not to anybody.”

  He moved away from the butler and went to meet the sergeant.

  “More fingerprint work for you, Price,” he said. “Cook’s room this t
ime. See if you can find anything on the cupboard over the bed. Also on the key to it. But I’m afraid I’m going to be disappointed—people are too wise nowadays to leave obvious clues about, and I was too late with the key anyway. Bad slip, that. Anyway, have a shot. Here’s the key to the bedroom door, and see nobody else gets hold of it.”

  “What was in the cupboard?” asked the sergeant.

  “A child could guess,” answered Kendall. “Poison. Details later. I’ve got to see Miss Wilding.”

  But as he reached the top of the stairs to the first floor he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and found Bultin’s face looming at him languidly.

  “Would a small glass tube, empty, be of any interest to you?” inquired Bultin in a bored voice.

  “Where the devil did you find that?” exclaimed Kendall.

  “It’s in the studio,” answered Bultin, “inside the leather turn-up of Chater’s hat. Oh, and you needn’t trouble to interview Miss Wilding. I’ve had a little heart-to-heart with her, and Body No. One was her husband.”

  “Oh, was he?” retorted Kendall. “Well, you can go and have another little heart-to-heart with her, and tell her that he wasn’t! He had one wife already!”

  Chapter XXXI

  Almost the Truth

  “Before reconstructing the events at Bragley Court which I was called upon to investigate,” wrote Detective-Inspector Kendall in the final pages of his packed note-book, “I will briefly set down certain salient facts connected with the principal dramatis personae, as revealed by the various interviews and conversations already described, or as deduced from other information or discoveries.

  “Henry Chater. Professional blackmailer. (Already known.) Original name, Rawlings. Dismissed from his father’s business. Served term of imprisonment under name of Green. Swore would never repeat experience. (Refer current records.) But repeated the offences. Married under name of Chater. Situation at time of visit to Bragley Court: Had Sir James Earnshaw (q.v.) under his thumb, and received invitation through him. Object of visit, to keep his eye on Zena Wilding (q.v.) in order to increase pressure on Mark Turner (q.v.). Also to find fresh possible victims. Affairs getting in a tangle. Short of cash. (Refer letter to Mark Turner.) Probably feared Turner behind cool demeanour. Probably feared Earnshaw also. May have feared others. Previous observations indicate that fear was dominant, though usually well hidden, in his character, and that his criminal habits were developed through original weakness—that ‘first slip’ that leads to others—rather than through a natural bold callousness. Health not good. Fond of drink, but had been warned against strong drink. Safe deduction—unhappy with his wife.