The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks

by James Anderson

  Julie was now clearly enjoying telling her story, and had her audience riveted. She paused to light a cigarette and then continued.

  'I went straight to London, got myself a room, and started job-hunting. London Fashion Weekly was the second paper I applied to. Luckily, the woman who interviewed me there had subscribed to Stella's old New York magazine for years and was familiar with her work. She offered me a job straight away.

  'As soon as I got settled in, I went to see Great Aunt Florrie. She accepted me without question and was really thrilled to see me. I visited her regularly after that. I was nervous at first in case I slipped up over anything, but it was OK. I knew a fair bit about the family from listening to Stella. And Florrie, like me, had read all there was to read about the Alderley murders, as well as hearing about them from Gerry, and she loved to talk about them. In addition, of course, having supposedly been out of the country for nearly eleven years, I could legitimately ask about all the other members of the family, so I was soon pretty well primed for when I did meet any of them. Most of the time, though, I just talked to her about New York. She really loved hearing about it. I'll never feel guilty about deceiving her in that way. I gave her a lot of pleasure during those last six months or so of her life, and she never knew that Stella was dead, which would have upset her terribly. I grew really fond of her. She was a great old girl, and I shed a few tears when she died.'

  She stubbed out her cigarette. 'That's about it, Mr Wilkins. I want to apologise to everybody - especially to you, Tommy. It's rotten for you to have to learn about Stella's death in this way. You were the one person I was really nervous about meeting, which is why I never contacted you after I arrived in England. I was sure relieved after the funeral when you said you would have recognised me anywhere. That really sealed my credentials.'

  Tommy gave a wry grin. 'I hadn't seen Stella since I was about thirteen, and you do look awfully like I remember her.'

  'Anyway, thanks for not snitching on me - until you had to. Well, Detective, am I under arrest?'

  'No, Miss Osborne. Not yet.'

  'That sounds ominous.'

  'Well, you've committed a number of crimes, miss, both here and in the United States. It'll obviously be necessary for us to notify the authorities there.'

  'I don't think they're likely to seek my extradition. After all, what did I do? I gave a false name to the cops, told them I didn't know the name of the dead woman, and - quote - "stole" some money and jewellery of Stella's, which would have all come to me under her will, anyway.'

  'That's as may be. But there is the little matter of attempting to obtain money by false pretences in this country.'

  'Oh, you mean my inheritance. Well, actually, I think not.' She picked up her handbag from the floor, reached into it and took out a folded sheet of paper, which she handed to Wilkins. 'That's a copy of a letter I sent to Mr Bradley, immediately I got his wire notifying me that I was a legatee under Florrie's will - he has the original, of course.'

  Wilkins took it and read it. Stella looked round the room. 'In it, I tell him in confidence that I will not accept anything that I am bequeathed in Florrie's will. I add that I want, nonetheless, to attend the funeral and the reading.'

  Wilkins handed the letter back to her. 'Yes, that's roughly what it says. However, as I understand, you said nothing at the reading about refusing the bequest.'

  'No, why should I have? I didn't figure it was anybody else's business. But I said nothing about accepting it, either. I never mentioned anything about having plans for the money. And I think Mr Bradley will confirm that I asked him what fifteen hundred pounds would be in dollars - not how much it was or will be, which points to it being of just academic interest.'

  'Very subtle, Miss Osborne. But then again, there's nothing legally binding in that letter. You could have easily changed your mind - if you hadn't been found out.'

  Timothy spoke. 'What Miss Osborne may or may not have done or intended to do in a hypothetical situation is itself hypothetical and therefore irrelevant. It is my opinion that the existence of that letter would make it virtually impossible to succeed in a charge of attempting to obtain money by false pretences. If such a charge were brought, I would positively relish the chance to defend her against it.'

  Julie's face lit up. 'Why, thank you, Timothy. I really appreciate that.'

  'Well, it won't be my decision,' Wilkins said. 'And I'm not really concerned. I should warn you, though, miss, that there is no getting away from the fact that you did enter the country under a false name, using somebody else's passport. Even if no other charges are brought, you are very likely to be deported.'

  'We would fight such a move most vigorously,' Timothy said, and, except perhaps the Earl, who clearly was not really taking in the proceedings, nobody present missed the use of the plural pronoun. 'But even if we should lose,' Timothy continued, 'Stella — er, Julie - er, Miss Osborne could always marry a British subject and so obtain British citizenship, meaning she could not be deported. I feel it quite probable that that could be arranged, in fact, I can guarantee it, if she so wishes it.' He went very red, took out his handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously.

  Penny was gazing at him in amazement. She gave his hand a squeeze. He gave hers a hurried and somewhat awkward pat.

  'Timothy, I don't know what to say.' Julie spoke dazedly.

  'Good,' said Wilkins, 'and I suggest you don't try to think of anything. I am investigating a murder and I would like to get on with that.'

  'OK,' Julie said. 'Just one thing: I am in the clear, as regards the murder, I take it?'

  Wilkins regarded her coolly. 'Whatever gave you that idea, Miss Osborne?'

  She went white. 'But, but after what Tommy said about my being asleep . . .'

  'Why should I believe Mr Lambert? He's lied from the start. You could have cooked the whole story up between you.'

  'Oh, I say!' said Tommy.

  Wilkins ignored this. 'Anyway, we've cleared up the business of the stolen toothpaste. I now want to turn to the matter of the 'Dora Lethbridge' card, or I should say the 'Miss Dora Lethbridge' card, because that 'Miss' is important.'

  He turned to the two sisters. 'Miss Agatha, Miss Dorothy, perhaps you wondered why I asked for you to be present this morning, as I realise it must all be painful for you. The reason was that I am going to divulge something that cannot be kept secret, concerning your stepmother, something which I don't believe you know. I had meant to talk to you privately before convening this little gathering, but the attack on Lady Geraldine disrupted my plans, and I decided the best thing I could do was make sure that at least you did not hear it after everybody else.'

  Agatha answered. 'Very considerate of you, Mr Wilkins. I'm intrigued, must admit.'

  Wilkins addressed the room at large again. 'The reason for that card, with its use of the word 'Miss,' was to indicate the writer's knowledge that Dora Lethbridge, Clara Saunders' mother, had always been 'Miss' Lethbridge, to the end of her life. In other words, she had never married. That, of course, means that Clara Saunders was illegitimate.'

  'I don't believe it!' Agatha exclaimed. Dorothy gave a little gasp.

  'I'm sorry, but I can assure you it's true,' Wilkins said. 'Sergeant Leather visited Somerset House in London yesterday and saw her birth certificate. The space for the father's name is blank. I'm quite certain no copy of that birth certificate will be found among Mrs Saunders' papers, that she destroyed it many years ago. The story of her mother marrying a cousin of the same surname as herself was obviously invented by Mrs Saunders to account for the fact that her mother's maiden name, which she might have to give on occasions and which might appear on various documents that other people would see, was the same as her own maiden name.'

  'She would have been absolutely horrified at the thought of that coming out,' Agatha said.

  'Precisely,' Wilkins said. 'It made her extremely vulnerable. When she saw that card, I'm sure she would have realised its significance: that somebody else
in the house knew of her shameful - as she would have thought it - secret and that it was a coded warning not to reveal somebody else's secret or the same thing could happen to her.

  'I asked myself who of those present could conceivably know the secret. I felt sure her step-daughters didn't, as I could not imagine her being able to exercise such control over their lives — particularly over Miss Dorothy's life — if she had known they were in a position to make it known more widely.'

  'She certainly couldn't,' Agatha said. 'Golly, I wish I had known. I wouldn't have let on, of course, but she wasn't to know that. And I could certainly have put a stop to her money- making enterprises.'

  'So,' Wilkins said, 'who could have known? Perhaps his lordship, but that was unlikely and even if he had, I feel sure he would have kept it absolutely confidential. I considered each of the other beneficiaries, but could think of no way in which any of them could have found out about it. With one exception.' He looked at Timothy.

  'Mr Saunders, your late father was Mr John Saunders' solicitor and executor. No doubt he had access to many family papers and was privy to many family secrets. Some things he may have discovered perfectly properly but inadvertently and, while not divulging them, thought it necessary, as a lawyer, to keep a written record of them. Illegitimacy, with all the legal ramifications that has, would certainly be such a thing. You, I take it, would have been responsible for going through your father's papers after his death and would certainly have come across any such record. All of which means that you are the only person here who could have known that Mrs Clara Saunders was illegitimate - and so written that card. I should warn you that, although it is written in block capitals, we have obtained a photostat copy of a passport application you filled out a few years ago, also in block letters, and the lettering is identical, as I'm sure a graphologist would confirm.'

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Timothy's eyelid twitched twice, but he did not hesitate before answering. 'Very well, Chief Inspector. Your deduction is quite correct. I found out about Clara's illegitimacy in precisely the way you assumed. And I did write that card. It was, as you say, a warning to Clara about what might happen if she was to reveal other people's secrets. You may consider it to have been a cowardly act, and it is true, I could have spoken to her face to face. But that would have been less effective; she could be virtually certain that I would be honour bound not to reveal anything learnt in the course of my professional duties, or by my father in his. So it wouldn't matter too much to her that I knew. However, there are others here about whom she could feel no such confidence. So I considered it wiser to leave her uncertain about the identity of the writer of the card, thus hoping to ensure she would keep quiet about any secrets she might have.'

  'And that was just a gesture of goodwill, was it, sir: a wish to save your fellow beneficiaries any possible embarrassment?'

  This time Timothy did hesitate for a moment before saying: 'No, not entirely. I did have occasion to believe it possible - well, it was no more than a suspicion, really - that Clara possessed something which I did not wish seen by anybody else. It concerned no crime, and the exact nature of it is irrelevant, so I am not prepared to say what it was.'

  'You don't need to, sir.'

  'Thank—' Timothy began.

  'It was this, I imagine,' Wilkins said. He reached into his pocket, brought out what was clearly a six by four inch photograph and, very carefully, so that no one else, not even Penny, could glimpse it, held it out for him to see.

  Timothy positively blanched. 'May - may I ask where you obtained that?'

  'It was in Mrs Saunders' handbag,' Wilkins said, putting the photo back in his pocket. 'So in fact your suspicion of her was quite correct. I suggest it was far more than mere suspicion. You knew she possessed this photograph and presented a real threat to you.'

  'No, she did not possess that photograph, at least, not for any length of time.'

  'I beg your pardon, sir?'

  'I believe that to be a photo which was locked in my briefcase, in my bedroom here. There is a slight mark in the top left-hand corner. If I am correct, the date I received it, 10th July, is written in pencil on the back.'

  'Yes, that's correct, sir. May I ask why you were carrying it with you?'

  'Because I feel happier when I know where it is. But I hadn't checked on it since I arrived here at Alderley.'

  'So what you are suggesting, Mr Saunders, is that some time on the day of the funeral, after her outburst at the will- reading, probably while you were having dinner, Mrs Saunders — oh, I can't go on using the name 'Saunders' all the time, it's too confusing. I'll use first names from now on. Where was I? Oh yes: you say Mrs Clara went into your room, searched it, found some means of picking the lock on your briefcase and abstracted the picture.'

  Timothy nodded. And if that is what happened, she must have lighted upon it purely by chance; there was no way she could have known it was there. The fact, then, that she took it, means that she did not previously have a copy - she would not have needed another. Which in turn means that she could not have used it to ruin my reputation and that when she made her threat at the will-reading she was not threatening me, after all.'

  'But you believed she was, sir, that's the important point. And when you went up to your room that night, you discovered the photo was missing. Perhaps the briefcase had been moved or left open. You knew Mrs Clara had had the run of the first floor for several hours that evening, while the rest of you were downstairs, and that she was virtually the only person who could have taken it. You decided to confront her. You went to her room and demanded it back. She refused, you lost your temper and killed her. Then you panicked. You didn't dare stay long enough to search for the picture among her things and you hurried back to your room. That's what happened, isn't it?'

  'No! Nothing like that.' Timothy shook his head vigorously. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. He cleared his throat. 'I'll tell you what did happen. I went upstairs at about 11 p.m. and straight to my bedroom. I undressed and then went to the bathroom next door. As I was leaving it, I saw someone coming out of Clara's room. I was surprised, but at that moment not unduly so. They didn't see me, just turned away and went round the corner into the east corridor.'

  'And that would have been around ten or fifteen minutes past eleven, sir?'

  'Yes.'

  'Please carry on.'

  'When I returned to my room, I found that somehow what I had seen had unsettled me. It seemed to me in retrospect that there had been something hasty and rather furtive about that person's movements. I wondered if the purpose of the visit could be something to do with Clara's threat. That caused me to start worrying whether she had had me in mind when she made it. I tried to read but I couldn't concentrate. I wasn't able to get Clara's words out of my mind. It was then I thought of a warning message. I always carry a little writing case with me and I keep a few postcards in it, as well as writing paper and envelopes. I spent some minutes composing a suitable form of words and then made my way to her room.'

  'What time was this, sir?'

  'I cannot be precisely sure. Probably between eleven forty- five and eleven fifty.'

  'Carry on.'

  'I meant just to push the card under her door. But the door fits very tightly and it wouldn't go under. There was no light coming through the keyhole, so I decided to risk going in. I left the door open behind me an inch or two, which gave me just enough light to see the position of the bed and not to bump into anything. I crept across to the bed and put the card on the bedside table. Everything was absolutely silent. I suddenly realised it was too silent. I have exceptionally sharp hearing and I should have been able to hear her breathing, but I couldn't. I became alarmed. I took a chance and switched the bedside lamp on. I saw Clara, just as you saw her later, Chief Inspector: lying across the bed, plainly dead, almost certainly murdered, and obviously by the person I had seen leaving the room. It was a frightful shock and I have to admit I did panic. I s
hould, of course, have raised the alarm immediately, but my only thought was that I might be suspected. After all, what reason could I give for having gone to her room, after she was asleep? So I decided to return to my own room to try and think what I should do. I opened the door very cautiously - and actually saw the same person as before going down the stairs. I waited until the coast was clear, and hurried to my room. Then I remembered the card, which in my confusion I had left on the bedside table. It would serve no purpose now Clara was dead, might mislead the police, and — most important from my point of view — would almost certainly have my fingerprints on it.'

  'There were no prints on it,' Wilkins said.

  'No, later I remembered that before I went into Clara's room I noticed that the card had got quite dusty and dirty from my efforts to force it under the door. So I gave it a wipe all over with my handkerchief. Thereafter, I must have only held it by the edges, though I wasn't conscious of doing that. I knew I had to get it back, and I was also trying desperately to think of some way of directing suspicion onto the person to whom it belonged. But I had absolutely no proof of what I had seen earlier and if I mentioned it to you, it could easily seem that I was simply attempting to divert suspicion from myself. Moreover, I would have to explain why I was up. It occurred to me that if I could put something belonging to that person in Clara's bedroom, that might point the police in the right direction. George's talk about cufflinks at dinner gave me the idea. If, while that person was still downstairs, I could obtain one of his cufflinks and leave it by the body, that might do the trick. This person—'