Crystal Beads Murder

by Annie Haynes

  Stoddart and Harbord sat just behind the lawyers engaged in the case, quite near the witness-box, flanked by a bevy of reporters.

  The coroner glanced curiously at them as the proceedings began. The fact had leaked out that the great London detectives who had been at Holford to inquire into the murder of Robert Saunderson had come down again, and had indeed been with the Holford men who found Superintendent Mayer dying.

  A solicitor from Empton, Mr. Robert Willet, appeared for Mrs. Mayer and the family of the deceased, and Mr. Belton Carter watched the case, for Lord Medchester.

  The medical evidence was taken first. Dr. Middleton told them that the wound could not have been self-inflicted, and said that the superintendent had been shot by some one standing in front of him and at tolerably close quarters. He and Dr. Glover, who conducted the post mortem, gave the result of their investigation, and told how certain organs had been taken from the body and sent up to London to the Home Office pathologist for further examination. The result, he said, might be expected in about a fortnight.

  At the end of Dr. Middleton’s evidence, Lord Medchester was called, and in answer to the coroner’s deferential questions told his story of the superintendent’s visit to the Hall on the morning of his death. He gave due importance to the fact that some news had reached the superintendent which he thought might give a clue to the assassin of Robert Saunderson, and described how he allowed Mayer to use the telephone to summon Inspector Stoddart. The last he saw of the superintendent the deceased was hurrying down the drive for all he was worth, and had just reached the bridge over the ravine. No one was more astonished than he was when he heard from Inspector Stoddart the same evening that the superintendent was missing. He could scarcely imagine it possible that any harm could have happened to Mayer between the point at which he lost sight of him and the lodge – although there was a good step between them. Asked if he knew what could have induced the superintendent to leave the drive and go across to the belt of trees, he shrugged his shoulders and said he had no idea. The superintendent appeared to be in a hurry to get off to Empton, and he, Lord Medchester, watched him start almost running down the drive.

  There was a distance of three-quarters of a mile between the house and lodge, unless you went by the short cut. He himself had gone out into the garden, where he found Mr. Stainer and talked to him for ten minutes or so on racing prospects.

  There was nothing more to be got out of Lord Medchester, and he stepped back to his seat near the coroner.

  Mrs. Yates from the lodge was the next witness. The old woman was shaking, and apparently on the verge of tears, as she took her place in the box and repeated the oath. In reply to the coroner’s questions she repeated what she had told Inspector Stoddart. Then there was a pause. The coroner glanced at his notes. Presently he looked up.

  “Was there any third person present when you had this conversation with the superintendent, Mrs. Yates?”

  Mrs. Yates’s ruddy cheeks turned curiously white. She fumbled with the edge of her long cloak.

  “I don’t understand, your worship!”

  The coroner leaned forward.

  “Were you alone with the superintendent when you talked with him? Was anyone else there?”

  “I – I came out, when I saw the superintendent, to open the lodge gate,” she faltered.

  “I quite understand that,” the coroner said patiently. “But when the superintendent was telling you of the discovery he had made was there anyone else there?”

  Mrs. Yates burst into tears. “There – there was my girl, sir – Mary Ann – Mirandy, she likes to call herself; she just came out to pass the time of day with the superintendent for the sake of old times.”

  “Did this daughter of yours hear all the superintendent said?”

  Mrs. Yates produced a voluminous handkerchief, and wept copiously into it.

  “She might ha’ done,” she sobbed. “She wasn’t there at first but she came running down the steps when she saw the superintendent, she having known him from a child, like.”

  “Why haven’t you told us about this daughter before?” the coroner inquired severely.

  After one glance at his face Mrs. Yates’s sobs redoubled.

  “I didn’t know as it mattered, sir. Mary Ann, she just thought she’d like to have a word with the superintendent. There – there wasn’t any harm in it.”

  “No harm at all,” the coroner assented. “The curious thing about it is that you have not thought fit to mention the fact that your daughter was at the lodge to anyone.”

  Mrs. Yates chokingly reiterated that she didn’t know it mattered to anybody, and the spectators, scenting a mystery, leaned forward to get a look at her.

  “Was this the daughter that had lived at Empton?” the coroner asked.

  “No, sir. That’s my youngest.”

  Mrs. Yates rolled her handkerchief into a damp little ball and rubbed her eyes. “Mary Ann is my eldest, and a good girl she has been to me in the way of sending me money.”

  “Well, when you and your daughter had had this conversation with the superintendent, what did you do?” pursued the coroner.

  “I went on with my jobs about the house, sir, keeping my eye on the gate all the time to see the superintendent when he came back.”

  “And your daughter, was she helping you with your work?”

  “No, sir; she don’t know much about house-work, don’t Mary Ann,” Mary Ann’s mother went on with misplaced pride. “She was always one for the theayter. She was tired, too, that morning and she went and lay down.”

  “What time did she get up?” the coroner inquired sharply.

  “Oh, she came down to dinner about one o’clock.” Mrs. Yates put away her handkerchief with an air of resolution and waited.

  Inspector Stoddart sent up a small folded note to the coroner, who read it and then consulted his notes again. At last he said to the usher:

  “Call Mary Ann Yates.”

  There was quite a sensation in the court as in answer to the usher’s call Tottie Delauney made her way to the witness-box. She had evidently got herself up for the occasion. Her pink and white skin, her scarlet lips, and her pencilled eyebrows, making of her face something like a mask, were quite unlike anything Holford was accustomed to. Even her ladyship and the visitors at the Hall did not go as far as this.

  Miss Delauney’s garments were all black. Her heavy coat of cloth with wide collar and cuffs of black fur was opened to display what seemed like a black satin shift, so short and skimpy was it. Her plump neck was encircled by two rows of pearls, and her fat legs were encased in black silk stockings.

  The coroner stared at her. She was indeed an astonishing vision, considered as the daughter of old Mrs. Yates.

  “Your name is Mary Ann Yates?” he said at last.

  “It used to be,” Miss Delauney replied with what was meant to be a bewitching smile. “But now I generally answer to ‘Tottie Delauney’.”

  “Tottie – what?” asked the coroner who was no frequenter of theatres or music-halls, and to whom the name meant nothing.

  “Tottie Delauney,” the witness replied, raising her voice under the impression that the coroner must be deaf. “Of the Frivolity,” she added in explanation.

  “Oh, an actress! Mrs. or Miss Delauney?” The coroner paused.

  The witness looked embarrassed. “Well – Miss – we’re all supposed to be single on the stage.” There was a faint titter from the spectators, instantly suppressed by the ushers. “But, as a matter of fact, I married years ago.”

  The coroner was getting tired of the lady. “Your real name, please?” he rapped out.

  “Well, it is Mary Ann Saunderson,” witness replied, her eyes dropping before the coroner’s.

  As the last word left her lips there was a sensation in court; even the officials turned and stared at her. Only the coroner and Inspector Stoddart remained unmoved.

  “Any connexion of the Mr. Saunderson who was shot in Holford gardens a m
onth ago?” the coroner inquired.

  “His wife,” the witness assented. “Leastways his widow, I should say now.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward at the time of his death?”

  Mrs. Saunderson did not look quite comfortable.

  “Well, I was laid up just then with flu, and I’m not one for reading the papers at the best of times, and when I did hear – well, I hadn’t known much of Bob Saunderson for years, and the papers said they had a clue and the murderer would be arrested in no time, so I didn’t think it was my business.”

  The coroner looked at her. “What made you change your mind?”

  Mrs. Saunderson fidgeted beneath his scrutiny. “Well, if you must know, I suspected that Bob had left a lot of money and, if there wasn’t any Will, I should come in for some of it. So I thought I’d better see about things.”

  “When did you come to your mother’s?”

  “Three days ago. Last Sunday morning,” Mrs. Saunderson went on glibly. “I was resting, you understand. There’ll be a new revue on soon at the Frivolity and I am taking the principal part. We shall start rehearsing next week, but I had nothing on for a day or two. And, after all, he had his faults, had Bob Saunderson, but he was my husband, and I don’t see why he should be done in and nobody punished.”

  A faint inclination to applaud this sentiment was instantly quelled by the coroner.

  “Well, you came down to your mother’s and, you were there last Monday –”

  The coroner paused and, after a short conference with Inspector Stoddart, continued:

  “Did you see the superintendent go in through the lodge gates?”

  Mrs. Saunderson nodded sullenly. “Mother called me out to speak to him. I didn’t want to particularly. I used to know Bill Mayer when I was a kid and lived next door to the Mayers. But I hadn’t seen him for years and I wasn’t anxious. But Mother, she would have me down.”

  “You heard the superintendent say he was going up to the Hall?”

  “Yes, he said he wanted to phone and that it would be quicker than going back to the police station.”

  “You gathered his errand had to do with Saunderson’s murder?”

  “He said it had,” Mrs. Saunderson admitted. “He said he should get promotion over it.”

  “Did he know you were Saunderson’s wife?”

  “No; of course he didn’t!” Mrs. Saunderson said with a sudden accession of energy. “There was nobody at Holford knew, not even my mother.”

  “And you didn’t tell him?”

  “Not much!” Mrs. Saunderson shook her head vigorously. “I believe in keeping a still tongue, anyhow until I see how the land lies.”

  “What was the last you saw of the superintendent?”

  “The last I saw of him that morning he was going up the drive towards the Hall. I watched him round the corner where the shrubs stick out in a point and you can’t see the road any further. He said he would call in again on his way back – as Mother told you.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “I went back into the house and went upstairs and lay down. You’ve got to use your legs in this world whether you like it or not, so give ’em a bit of a rest when you can. That’s what I say. Mother was in the house all the time. I could hear her messing about round the rooms.”

  “And you saw no more of Superintendent Mayer?” the coroner asked.

  “Never a glimpse! But if you want my opinion as to who murdered Bob Saunderson –” she began.

  “I do not,” the coroner intervened sharply, “and if you take my advice you’ll hold your tongue. There’s such a thing as the law of libel!” And he ordered the witness to stand down.

  CHAPTER 16

  After a brief interrogation of Inspector Stoddart with regard to Mayer’s final halting words at the hospital, the inquest had been adjourned pending further inquiries. The most important point to be solved seemed to be what was the nature of the evidence that had come to the superintendent’s knowledge between the police station and his arrival at Holford lodge and, equally important, through what sort of channel did he receive it? What connexion had it with his murder which so speedily followed?

  That there was some connexion between the two murders seemed pretty obvious; so Stoddart and his subordinate decided over a supper of cold beef and ale at the “Medchester Arms.”

  “Same hand did both, in my opinion,” the inspector remarked. “If we find the one we find the other. Considering all the circumstances, it’s difficult to leave Lord Medchester out of it entirely; he was on the spot when Mayer, poor chap, sent his telephone message, and heard him mention he’d got an important clue of some sort. And yet he was talking to Stainer when the murder was taking place – that’s true enough, for I’ve verified it all right. Then, again, the arguments I used with regard to Lady Medchester hold good with him; Mayer would never have been so pleased with the line he’d got if it implicated either Lord or Lady Medchester. He’d have been embarrassed, if you know what I mean. It’s a puzzling case, Harbord, so many ‘might-bes’ and ‘couldn’t-have-beens’.” The inspector took a final pull at his tankard and rose. “First thing to-morrow morning I am going to pay a visit to Mrs. Michael Burford, and you can come with me. I have an idea she may know more than she lets on, though Miss Tottie Delauney – heavens above, what a woman! – is probably overshooting the mark. Mrs. Burford doesn’t strike me as the type that would do anything desperate. But it wants looking into.”

  Anne Burford was sitting down to answer her morning’s letters when the sound of well-drilled footsteps on the gravel outside drew her eyes to the open window.

  Her brother Harold had dined with her and her husband at East Molton overnight, and related at some length, subject to the corrections of his brother-in-law, what had passed at the inquest on the previous day. His story was rather confused – a faculty for piecing together a concise relation of events was apparently not his, but as the evidence had led to nowhere in the coroner’s court it was not to be expected that it would lead to anywhere in particular in Lord Gorth’s less practised hands.

  The only noticeable point about it had been that never once during the whole story did Harold meet his sister’s eyes.

  Both of them had changed. From Anne’s delicate, finely-drawn features something of the joy of life, the sparkle of youth had faded; but in its place there was a great peace and a tranquillity very different from the unrest, the anxious, troubled expression that had haunted the depths of her eyes since Saunderson had been found dead in the summer-house. Michael Burford, although to discover the solution of the mystery might well be beyond him, had proved a tower of strength to lean upon in trouble.

  Her brother had more definitely altered, suddenly transformed from boy to man. His features, set in firmer, sterner lines, might almost have reassured Anne’s doubting heart as to a lesson learned that would last him his life had it not been for this culminating act of folly in his projected marriage with Sybil Stainer, whom his sister abhorred with her whole heart. How much and how little did Sybil Stainer know? What was it that seemed to have placed them all in the hollow of her hand?

  At dinner the previous evening, whenever Anne had mentioned his engagement to Miss Stainer, Harold had shied away from the subject, glancing at her with miserable eyes. It puzzled her. If this marriage was as distasteful to him as she believed it to be, why did he go through with it? In this unexpected heritage of his surely lay salvation? With the chief actor removed he had only to meet the bill, forged though the signature on it might be; without the principal witness it would be difficult to prove the name a forgery even if the question were raised.

  There was an alternative explanation, but she turned from that with a shudder, resolutely shutting out the shadow that had mouthed at her ever since that terrible evening when Saunderson, with all Harold’s future in the hollow of his hand, had been found dead in the summer-house.

  “You’ve married the right man, Anne,” her brother said to her th
at evening as she stood on the doorstep watching him start off into the night.

  “Funny though – how Fate turns things upside-down sometimes. You can count on me – all the way.” With which enigmatical remark he shot away into the darkness.

  Anne was on her guard when the well-drilled footsteps resolved themselves into the sturdy figures of Stoddart and his companion, though her heart sank at the prospect of a further and perhaps more rigid interrogation. She instantly made up her mind that no pressure on their part should make her swerve from her original statement. It was not the danger to herself that lay behind what Stoddart subsequently described as her obstinate attitude. Least said soonest mended is never more apposite than when attempting to fence with Scotland Yard.

  “You are certain,” the inspector urged with the steely glint in his eyes that had struck terror into more than one guilty soul, “that you neither saw nor heard anything that night in the garden that might throw any light on the crime?”

  “Nothing,” Anne rejoined firmly, though shrinking instinctively from meeting his eyes. “I took a turn in the garden and went back to my bedroom.”

  After all, that was true enough as far as it went, and not all the ingenuity of the inspector could succeed in pushing it farther.

  “And what about your brother – Lord Gorth that is?” Stoddart questioned, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.

  “How do you mean? I don’t understand,” she replied uneasily.

  “What was he doing that evening – while you were out in the garden?”

  Anne’s eyes dropped a little more perceptibly.

  “How should I know?” she said steadily. “Playing billiards or bridge or something in the house, I suppose. I thought you found out what he was doing when the first investigation took place.”

  “Do you know anything of his relations with Saunderson?” the inspector pressed. “Had he business dealings with him?”

  Anne shook her head. “I don’t think he liked him very much, but then I don’t think anybody did. They had a mutual interest in racing. But wouldn’t it be better to ask Lord Gorth himself?” she added distantly. “He can tell you a great deal more about it than I can.”