‘I beg you to pardon this intrusion, madame,’ he said, ‘but my business is both serious and urgent.’
Without speaking, the actress sank gracefully into a luxurious arm-chair, indicating with a careless wave of her arm a seat for the Inspector in front of her. He obeyed her gesture and continued:
‘I have been ordered, madame, to make an investigation into the death of the late Sir William Ponson of Luce Manor, not far from Luton. I understand that you are acquainted with his nephew, Mr Cosgrove Ponson?’ His hostess nodded, still without speaking. Tanner thought her manner unnecessarily ungracious, and determined to give a hint of the iron which lurked beneath his velvet exterior.
‘I deeply regret to have to inform you that there is reason to believe Sir William was murdered, and that grave suspicion rests on Mr Cosgrove.’
This time the mask of indifference was pierced.
‘But how perfectly outrageous,’ the lady cried, a flicker of anger passing over her expressive face, ‘and stupid and cruel as well. How dare you come here and tell me such a thing?’
‘Because I think you may help me to clear him. Please consider the facts. The medical evidence shows Sir William was murdered some time after 8.30 on the evening of Wednesday week. We know that Mr Cosgrove Ponson was financially in low water—in fact, was in debt for a very large sum, and under threat of exposure and ruin unless he paid up. We know also he benefited to a considerable extent under Sir William’s will. Further, in the boathouse from which Sir William’s body was set adrift, a cigarette end was found—one of a peculiar brand, but little smoked in England, but which Mr Ponson continually uses, and lastly, and this is what brings me to you today, Mr Ponson has been unable to account satisfactorily for his time on the evening in question. He says he was with you from 8.30 till 9.00, and what I want to ask you is, Can we get proof of that? I think you will appreciate that proof of that means proof of his innocence.’
Tanner had been unobtrusively watching his companion while he spoke, and her demeanour interested him keenly. While he was recounting the medical evidence and Cosgrove’s financial position she had listened perfunctorily, as if bored by such trifles being brought to her notice. But when he mentioned the cigarette she started and a look first of fear and then of anger showed momentarily in her eyes. It seemed to Tanner she might have so acted if she knew Cosgrove was guilty—as if she was aware of and prepared for all he had to say except this about the cigarette, and that her anger was against Cosgrove for having smoked under such circumstances. She did not speak for some moments, and Tanner felt instinctively she had seen his little trap, and was considering a way out. At last she appeared to come to a conclusion, and replied in a quiet voice:
‘What Mr Ponson has told you is quite true, or at least almost. He was at my room at the Follies for about half an hour that evening, but not quite at the hour you have mentioned. He came about half-past nine, and left at ten. I know the time because it is the only period in that play during which I am off the stage.’
She had avoided his trap anyway, and her answer confirmed Cosgrove’s story. But Tanner recognised he was dealing with a very clever woman, and he was by no means so convinced of the truth of her statement as he was of that of the butler. He went on:
‘Obviously, madame, if we have to go before a jury the more corroborative evidence we can get the better. Now, are there any other persons who might have seen Mr Ponson at the theatre, and who could be called to add their testimonies?’
‘I don’t know if anyone else actually saw Mr Ponson,’ she answered, ‘but I should think it likely. Probably the door-keeper did, or one of the other men. Have you made inquiries?’
‘No, madame. Not yet.’
‘Well, you had better do so,’ and she got up to indicate that the interview was at an end.
Tanner found himself in the street with a baffled feeling of having handled the interview badly. But it was at least obvious that the lady’s advice was good, and somewhat ruefully he drove back to the Follies.
Here he made exhaustive inquiries, but without any very satisfactory result. The stage door-keeper knew Cosgrove, and said he was a frequent visitor to Miss Belcher. He remembered he had come two or three evenings in the week in question at about 9.30, and stayed with the actress for about half an hour. But he could not be sure whether or not Wednesday was one of these evenings. Three or four other attendants had also seen him, but in no case had there been anything to attract their attention to him, and none of them could say on what nights he had been there. But Tanner had to admit to himself that he could hardly expect such information from persons who were not interested in Cosgrove’s visit.
But on another point he got positive information. His inquiries established the fact that on the Wednesday night of the murder Miss Belcher had been on the stage at 9.15. She therefore could not have been masquerading as Mrs Franklyn’s servant at the Old Ferry.
On the whole the Inspector felt that, in spite of his momentary suspicion of Miss Belcher’s manner, he must fully accept the alibi. The evidence of Cosgrove’s missing the 7.15 p.m. train, and travelling by the 10.30 was overwhelming. The butler’s corroboration of his master’s return to Knightsbridge was convincing. Though Tanner was not so sure of Miss Belcher’s statement, it at least agreed with Cosgrove’s. Further, the lady had not fallen into Tanner’s little trap about the hour of the call and had disagreed with what he told her Cosgrove had said.
Then another point struck him. Cosgrove was at Knightsbridge between 7.45 and 8.00, and at King’s Cross at 10.30. Was this evidence alone not sufficient? Would it have been possible for him to have visited Luce Manor in the interval? Suppose he had used a fast motor and gone by road?
Tanner did not think it could have been done. From London to Halford was thirty-five miles, and there and back made seventy. What speed could he reckon on? Considering how much of London would have to be traversed, and the amount of traffic to be expected on so important a road, Tanner felt sure not more than an average of thirty miles an hour at the outside. This would take two hours and twenty minutes at least, leaving from ten to twenty minutes. The motor never would have risked going up to Luce Manor, as it would have been heard—in fact, no motor did so. That meant that ten minutes must have been spent in going from the road to the boathouse, and another ten in returning. This even if it could be done at all, would leave no time in which to commit the murder, get out the boat and set the body and the oars adrift. Tanner considered it carefully, and at last came to the conclusion the thing would be utterly impossible. Indeed, he did not believe that an average of thirty miles an hour could be maintained. No, the alibi was complete. He felt he must unhesitatingly accept it.
Inspector Tanner was a depressed man as he walked slowly back to New Scotland Yard. Up to the present he saw that he had been on the wrong track—that all his time and trouble had been lost. He was now as far off solving the mystery, as when he started the inquiry, indeed further, for the real scent must now be cooler.
And Sergeant Longwell had been almost equally unsuccessful in his endeavour to trace the man who had made the fifth line of footprints on the river bank. With occasional assistance from Tanner the sergeant had made exhaustive inquiries in all the surrounding country, but without result. The only thing he had learnt which might have had a bearing on the matter was that a small, elderly man with a white goatee beard had taken the 5.47 a.m. train from St Albans to London, on the morning of the discovery of the crime. From Halford to St Albans was about fifteen miles, and Longwell’s theory was that this man—if he were the suspect—had walked during the night to St Albans, thinking that at a large station a considerable distance from Luce Manor he would be more likely to escape observation. But there was no real reason to connect this early traveller with the visitor to the boathouse. His boots had not been observed. But even if it had been proved that he was indeed the wanted man, the detectives were no further on. For the traveller had vanished into thin air at St Albans, and no trace of him could be f
ound either in London or anywhere else.
That day a note was received at the Yard from the Chief Constable at Halford, urging that, unless there was some strong reason for its further adjournment, the inquest should be completed. The delay, it was pointed out, was objectionable for several reasons, as well as being needlessly trying to the family. Rather bitterly Tanner wired his consent to the proposal, and later in the afternoon there was a message that the adjourned inquiry would take place at 12.00 noon next day, Saturday.
CHAPTER VIII
TANNER FINDS HIMSELF DUPED
TWELVE o’clock next day saw almost the same company assembled at the adjourned inquest in the long narrow room at Luce Manor, as had sat there on the morning following the discovery of the tragedy. But on this occasion a few additional persons were present. Some members of the outside public had gained admission on one pretext or another, while, as Tanner noted, both Austin and Cosgrove Ponson were now legally represented.
The proceedings were formal and uninteresting until the doctors were called, but the medical evidence produced a veritable sensation. In the face of it only one verdict was possible, and without leaving their seats the jury returned that of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.
Both Austin and Cosgrove were evidently anxious and upset, and both showed relief when the proceedings were over. But, considering his interviews with them, and the inquiries he had made, Tanner did not think these emotions unnatural or suspicious.
Though the Inspector had hardly hoped to learn additional facts at the inquest, he was yet disappointed to find that not one single item of information had come out of which he was not already aware. Nor had any promising line of inquiry been suggested.
He was now of the opinion that the real clue to the tragedy must lie in the letter Sir William had received a week before his death, but as he could see no way of learning its contents, his thoughts had passed on to the deceased’s visits to London. About these visits one or two points were rather intriguing.
Firstly, they had occurred almost immediately after the receipt of the letter, and it was at least possible that they were a result of it. Secondly, Sir William had travelled to town two days running, or at least two weekdays running. This was not in accordance with his habit and pointed to some special and unusual business. The third point Tanner thought most suggestive of all. Though it was Sir William’s custom and preference to go to town by car, and his motor was available on these two occasions, yet he had travelled in each case by train. Why? Surely, thought Tanner, to enable him to make his calls in private—to avoid letting the chauffeur know where he went.
At all events, whether or not these conclusions were sound, Tanner decided the most promising clue left him was the following up of Sir William’s movements in the city on these two days.
Accordingly, when the business of the inquest was over and he was once more free, he returned to the railway station at Halford. Here he was able after careful inquiries to confirm the statement made by Innes, the valet, as to the trains Sir William had travelled by on the two days. He went himself to town by the 4.32, determined that on Monday morning he would try to pick up the trail at St Pancras.
But before Monday morning his thoughts were running in an entirely different channel.
He had gone home on Sunday determined to enjoy a holiday. But Fate ruled otherwise. The grilling afternoon had hardly drawn to a close when a note was sent him from the Yard. It read:
‘Re Ponson Case.—Halford sergeant phones important information come to hand. You are wanted to return immediately.’
Tanner caught the 7.30 train, and before nine was seated in the Halford Police Station, hearing the news. The sergeant was bubbling over with importance and excitement, and told his story with an air of thrilled impressiveness which considerably irritated his hearer.
‘About four o’clock this afternoon a young woman came to the station and asked for me,’ he began. ‘She was a good-looking girl of about five-and-twenty. She gave her name as Lucy Penrose, and said she was typist and bookkeeper in Smithson’s, the grocer’s in Abbey Street. I didn’t know her, and she explained that she lived three miles out in the country, and had only got this job since the beginning of the month. Then she said she had just read about the inquest in the evening paper, and that she knew something she thought she ought to tell.’
The sergeant paused, evidently delighted with the attention the London officer was giving him.
‘She said,’ he went on after a moment, ‘that about half-past nine on the Wednesday evening of the murder, she and a young man called Herbert Potts were walking in the spinney belonging to Dr Graham, on the left bank of the river, and just opposite the Luce Manor boathouse. They saw a boat coming down the river with a man in it. He stopped at the boathouse, and seemed to try the water gate, but apparently couldn’t get in, for after a moment he pulled on to the steps and went ashore, making the boat fast. In a couple of minutes he came back with another man and got in the boat again, and then went in through the water gate. The other man stood on the steps and watched him, and then he went round seemingly to the door of the boathouse. That was all they saw, but, sir, they knew the men.’
Again the sergeant paused to heighten his effect.
‘Get on, man. Don’t be so darned dramatic,’ growled Tanner irritably. ‘Who were they?’
‘Mr Austin Ponson and Sir William!’ The sergeant reached his climax with an air of triumph.
Tanner was genuinely surprised.
‘Couldn’t have been,’ he said after a moment. ‘I went into all that. Mr Austin was half-way to the Abbey ruins at that time.’
‘She was quite certain, and she said the man Potts was certain too.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘No, sir. He is a bookseller’s assistant in London—to Evans & Hope, in Paternoster Row. His people live here, and he was down on a couple of days’ holidays.’
Tanner noted the address.
‘How was Mr Austin supposed to be dressed?’
‘In bluish grey clothes that looked like flannel, and a white straw hat.’
‘And Sir William?’
‘In a black cape and felt hat.’
‘They didn’t see either of them leave the boathouse?’
‘No, sir. They were passing on down the river towards the girl’s home.’
Tanner was silent. If this news were true, though he could hardly credit it, the alibi must be a fake after all, and Austin must have duped him. And yet, how could it be a fake? He had tested it thoroughly, and he had been satisfied about it. He did not know what to think.
‘Why did this girl not come forward before?’ he asked.
‘She didn’t know till she read the account of the inquest that there was any question of foul play.’
Inspector Tanner was considerably perplexed. The more he thought over what he had just heard, the more disposed to believe it he became, and at the same time more puzzled about the alibi. But one fact at all events appeared to stand out clearly. If Austin had really been to the boathouse that night, it surely followed that he must be guilty of the murder? His presence there would not of course prove it, but would not the alibi? If he had merely omitted to mention the visit it would have been suggestive, but if he had invented an elaborate story to prove he was not there, it undoubtedly pointed to something serious.
But, as had always happened up to the present, his own next step was clear. He must see the girl and hear her statement himself, and afterwards visit Potts, the bookseller’s assistant. If he was satisfied with their story he must once again tackle Austin’s alibi and not drop it till he either found the flaw or was so convinced of its soundness as to conclude the new witnesses were lying.
Next morning he was early at the grocery establishment of Mr Thomas Smithson, in close conversation with a tall and rather pretty girl in a cream-coloured blouse and blue skirt. She repeated the sergeant’s statement almost word for word, and all Tanner’s efforts co
uld neither shake her evidence nor add to it. She was quite sure the man in the boat was Austin; she had seen him scores of times; he was a well-known Halford figure. So was Sir William; she had seen him scores of times also. No, it was not too dark to see at that distance; her sight was excellent, and she was quite certain she had made no mistake.
She was very shamefaced about the cause of her presence on the river bank, and begged Tanner to respect her confidence. He promised readily, saying that unless absolutely unavoidable, her name would not be brought forward.
He returned to town by the next train, and drove to Paternoster Row. Here he had no difficulty in finding Herbert Potts. He was a man on the right side of thirty, with a dependable face, and a quiet, rather forceful manner. He seemed considerably annoyed that his excursion with Miss Penrose should have become known, fearing, as he said, that the girl would get talked about, and perhaps have to give evidence in court. But about the events on the night in question he corroborated her entirely. He also was positive the man in the boat was Austin. Though now employed in London, he was a Halford man and knew Austin’s appearance beyond possibility of mistake. The Inspector left him, feeling that in the face of these two witnesses he could no longer doubt Austin had been at the boathouse, and therefore had faked his alibi.
But how? That was the question he must now set himself to solve.
It seemed clear that Austin’s statement up to the time of his leaving the boat club pavilion, and after his arrival back there, was true. The testimony of the boatman Brocklehurst, Miss Drew, and Austin’s butler was overwhelming. The flaw therefore must lie in the evidence of what took place between those hours. Tanner went over this once again.
It hinged, as he had recognised before, on the shoes. And firstly, had the prints at the Abbey been made by those shoes? He had thought so at the time, and on reconsidering the matter he felt more certain than ever that he was right. A very trifling dint in the edge of one of the soles, evidently caused by striking a sharp-edged stone, was reproduced exactly in the clay. It was unthinkable that another pair of precisely similar shoes should have a precisely similar dint in the exact same place. No, when or by whom worn, Austin’s shoes had made the tracks. So much was beyond question.
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