“Depends on your standards,” said Mr. Crook, simply.
“Wealthy by John Sherren’s standards?”
“Could be,” acknowledged Crook.
“And was Mr. Sherren the heir?”
“As it turned out—no. The faithful lackey scooped the kitty.”
“A shock to the nephew?”
“As to that I didn’t ask him, but it could be there was a little disappointment.”
“And the verdict?”
“Death by misadventure.”
Miss Pettigrew permitted herself a small wintry smile. “And there are those who question the dictum that history repeats itself.”
“Now you spill the beans,” Crook invited her. “This Miss I. Bond—she a relation?”
“On his mother’s side, one of the only two remaining. The survivor is her sister. Miss Clara Bond, on whose account both Mr. Sherren and myself are here at the present time. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows, does it not?”
“And—let’s get this straight” (Crook was nothing if not direct) “you think there may be a third inquest on the horizon?”
“It would be a strange coincidence, would it not, Mr… .”
“Crook’s the name. Arthur Crook. Business address 123 Blooms-bury Street. If you should feel inclined to conk John Sherren on the head with fatal results and come to me, I can show you were at Newcastle-on-Tyne on the day in question.”
“A disciple of Mr. Maskelyne, Mr. Crook?”
“A bit more expensive. What was the verdict on Miss I. Bond?”
“Death by misadventure. She fell off a balcony that he apparently had warned her was defective.”
“A lady of means?” hinted Crook.
“So long as she remained a spinster her means were very limited. Had she married at any time she would have inherited half her father’s fortune, which I believe was a quite considerable one.”
“And Sister protected her from fortune-hunters? I get you. And now Sister’s all by herself in the house?”
“Oh, they gave up the house. For one thing, the old servant left, and for anodier Miss Bond thought it would be too large for a single lady.”
“No girl friends?”
“She would tell you that her life was devoted to her sister.”
“Who was the chap who said you can always tell the woman who lives for others by the faces of the others? Whoever he was he knew his onions.”
“She lives in a hotel now. The house—you can see it from here —^was put up for sale. Of course, it found a purchaser even at the inflated price Miss Bond put on it. I see it’s just been repainted. That’s quite new, A month ago it was practically indistinguishable from the landscape and looked very well. Now it has been picked out in that staring buff color it will be a cynosure for all enemy aircraft in the unfortunate event of a third war. But there is a re-forminsf influence at work all over Brakemouth; cinemas are re-opening, all the hotels have been repainted during the past six months. Shortly, no doubt, it will be indistinguishable from Blackpool.”
“You tell that to the Blackpuddleians,” Crook advised her. “How long’s Little Johnny-head-In-Air staying down here?”
“He has not yet confided his plans to us. I feel—assuming we are not merely the victims of coincidence—that Miss Bond is perfectly safe so long as he is on the spot. In both previous cases the tragedy occurred immediately after his return to town.”
“We’re staying at the same dump,” said Crook. “I might be able to find out his plans. You’ve made up your mind he came down to bump off the last of the three ancients?”
“As I assured him on our journey down, I am a logical person. I look for cause for the effects I see around me.”
“Hark to the Civil Service Queen,” thought Crook disrespect-Sully. “When the old lady kicks the bucket does little John come into the cash?”
“He is the last remaining relative, but Miss Bond has full control over her fortune. There is nothing, so far as I can see, to prevent her selling out all her investments and living like a millionaire for the remainder of her life; though, knowing her, I consider that improbable.”
“And you think that’s enough motive for our little gentleman to risk his neck? Nothing else to go on?”
“The fact that there have been two previous inquests. I hardly think I shall be the only person to think it curious, to say the least …”
Crook interrupted her without ceremony. “Ah, but you’re forgetting about British justice. They won’t allow that evidence before the court. The judge’U fix it in the minds of the jury by telling ‘em to forget anything they may have heard of a suspicious nature. Any clues?”
“Mr. Sherren has not discussed his financial affairs with me. But—there have been a number of anonymous letters, clearly written by someone with an inside knowledge of Miss Bond and her affairs. It is highly suggestive.”
“No sense rushin’ on the enemy’s spear,” Crook warned her. “I mean, because a chap writes novels it don’t mean he has to write anonymous letters, too. What’s the idea, by the way? Cash?”
“That is the extraordinary thing about it. There is no mention of blackmail. I believe the first intent is to terrify Miss Bond, and if that is the case the writer has certainly achieved a measure of success. Her defenses have definitely been undermined.”
Crook brooded. “If that chap writes books he must have a brain of sorts. Don’t it tell him that if all three of his relations die within a year, all just after he’s paid ‘em a flyin’ visit, somebody might think it a bit of a strain, ^ven for coincidence? Any one else got a motive?”
“I suppose it’s possible Clara has a number of enemies; though, as she herself points out, a sense of grievance has to be very strong to go as far as murder. However, if we absolve Mr. Sherren, and I
admit that there is so far no concrete evidence against him, then I stick to my original contention that the main idea of these letters is to give Miss Bond a taste of her own medicine.”
“Meanin’ she made Isabel Bond’s life a misery?”
“Someone fond of Isabel might think so,”
“Who were her special friends?”
“Myself, and Locket, my hostess’ ex-housekeeper. And there were others, mostly acquaintances, who may have been incensed by Miss Bond’s jealous treatment of her sister.”
“Said jealousy bein’ due to affection for the sister or the cash that went with her?”
“Shall we say to the power her position gave her? You do appreciate that if her sister married she would be worse off both materially and—can I say morally?”
“I get you,” said the obliging Mr. Crook. “You know, there’s one thing foxes me. Where do you come in?”
“I have known Miss Bond for a good many years. I was very much attached to her sister. When these letters began to arrive Miss Bond sent for me. I came, not knowing exactly what was happening. She simply wrote: ‘I need your assistance as soon as you can come.’ That of itself proves to me that she is badly scared.”
“If you’re on the right track and someone’s got murder in mind, that ‘ud explain the letters. Lady gets panic-stricken and takes the only sure way out.”
“In that case the death must be made to look like suicide.”
“It has been done,” said Crook.
Miss Pettigrew knitted her angular brows. “There is a flaw there. No one who knew Miss Bond would ever credit her taking her own life. Only the other day she assured me that her principles alone would prevent such a course.”
“Ah, but you ain’t goin’ to be on the jury,” Crook assured her earnestly. “They won’t know that. Now if I can find out how long our Mr. Sherren’s stayin’ here, that might give us a time limit.”
As it happened, however, for once Mr. Crook’s judgment was at fault, for John Sherren’s last remaining relative died while he himself was still actually in Brakemouth.
11
THE following afternoon, when Miss Bond came into the hotel after a short
brisk walk taken without her faithful companion, Miss Pettigrew, she saw someone bending over the reception desk, apparently trying to persuade the clerk to change his mind about something. For a moment she thought it was her nephew, John, and her heart gave a queer leap; but then she saw that this man was both taller and older than that aspiring novelist. It was simply the similarity of their overcoats that had momentarily deceived her. How different were men and women, she reflected, beginning to cross the hall to the lift. You could tell an individual woman anywhere both by her clothes and by the way she wore them, whereas it was easy to be wrong about a man until he turned and you saw his face. No doubt, she decided, it was proof of that sheeplike quality in men which makes it possible for them to band together in huge industrial organizations, while women remain obstinately individual.
She had almost reached the lift when someone called her name in a pleased, surprised sort of way, and she turned abruptly from sheer astonishment. The men she had known, dead for the most part these many years, and in any event long since dead to her, did not call a lady’s name across a hotel lobby. When she saw the identity of the newcomer she wished her first impression had been right and it had been John haggling for a favor. For of all the men on earth this was the one she least wanted to encounter.
But his attitude was the antithesis of hers. He was plainly delighted at their meeting.
“Why, Miss Bond,” said he, and out came the welcoming hand she could scarcely refuse to take, “this is a delightful surprise. So this is where you are staying. I saw your house was occupied by new people—naturally in the circumstances I understand only too well the feelings that prompted you to leave it …”
He had taken her hand and was holding it as affectionately as if they had known one another in the schoolroom. Clara indignantly pulled her fingers free.
“What brings you back to Brakemouth, Mr. Marlowe?” she inquired. “I should have thought you would wish to avoid a place thathas such sad associations for you.”
He saw then that it was war to the knife, and that suited him, too. But he was wiser than she, and he knew that the man who keeps his powder dry is liable to win the day.
“Business,” he murmured airly. “I’m not here for long. In fact, it looks as though I shall spend the night in the waiting room at the station. I was hoping I might get a room here, but the clerk says they’re full up. Unless you’ll put in a good word for me …”
He had charm, all right. Even Crook, who was quite unmoved by such a quality in man or woman, would have understood how it was that he’d done as well for himself as he had to date. Even the women he’d betrayed kept a tender spot for him in their hearts: he was the one moment of romance in those gray lives, and to do him justice, he gave them full value for their money during their short time together.
“I am afraid you overestimate my influence,” said Miss Bond, her long inflexible upper lip as stiff as even Mr. Kipling could have wished for his best-beloved hero. The clerk, however, made a quick movement.
“Of course, if the gentleman is a friend of yours. Miss Bond, Mr. Hammond might be ready to stretch a point. The difficulty is that the only room we have vacant at the moment is booked for tomorrow night.”
“That will suit me excellently,” cried Marlowe in buoyant tones. “I have to be in town by then. I’m just here to conduct a matter of business. If you can accommodate me for this one evening I shall be very much obliged.”
“No. 18,” said the receptionist. “Your luggage, sir?”
“I left it at the station. No sense dragging that all over town. I’ll fetch it along now.”
He swaggered out, with a final grateful remark to Miss Bond. “This is a great piece of good fortune. Perhaps I shall see you later.”
Clara went up to her room, where she remained for a considerable time. What does he want here? she asked herself. That he had come to this hotel for the express purpose of seeing her, she had no doubt at all. She strove to reassure herself.
“He is a rascal,” she told herself fiercely. “I always knew it. I did perfectly right to prevent that fatal marriage. But what insolence to come back here.” When she came downstairs she was relieved to see no trace of him. Her respite lasted until six o’clock, when she was sitting alone in the small drawing room. Most of the residents were either in their own rooms, ears glued to private wireless sets, drinking in the general tale of woe that passed as the six o’clock news, or (more wisely) in the bar having a short one. Marlowe came in with easy composure, closed the door and crossed to where she sat
“I’m delighted to find you alone,” he said. “I never wrote about poor dear Isabel …”
“We will not speak of my sister, Mr. Marlowe.” Her voice was stiff with loathing. “What is it you want with me?”
“If that’s the way you want it,” murmured he. “It’s quite simple. I need money.”
“That is hardly a development,” snapped the old gorgon.
“I need it very badly. In fact, Mr. Hammond will be out of pocket unless I can engineer a loan before midday tomorrow.”
“I assure you, Mr. Marlowe, you are wasting your time so far as I am concerned.”
“You are sure you are wise, Miss Bond?”
“If you have nothing else to say to me …”
“Come,” he urged her. “Be reasonable. You’re quite a person here, I can see that. At your age your position is probably the most important thing in your life. If I were to speak of all I know you might find that position seriously jeopardized.”
“If you suppose any one would listen to you …”
“Come, Miss Bond, you cannot have lived such a sheltered existence that you really believe what you say. You know perfectly well that if I give my version of what led up to poor Isabel’s death …”
“My sister was accidentally killed by falling from a balcony. The coroner found it was death by misadventure.”
“Ah, but it isn’t what coroners say that really matters, but what you can persuade people to believe. Suppose it came out that your sister and I were going to be married, and you intervened to prevent that marriage and that same night she had her fatal fall—
don’t you think there’d be a good deal of arithmetic being done all over Brakemouth?”
“No one who knows anything of your record could have anything but approbation for any action of mine that prevented such a step. Why, I have not even any proof that you were free to marry at the time.”
“That wasn’t the line you took then,” Marlowe reminded her. “And what if it came out that when your sister married, your income was halved? Mightn’t people begin to think it was cause and effect?”
She began to lose a little ground. “What is this, Mr. Marlowe? Blackmail? Or, rather, I should say, an attempt at blackmail?”
“There’s no need to use such terms,” he remonstrated. “I simply need a little financial assistance.”
“And if I refuse, as I certainly shall?”
“Then I’m afraid it will be very unpleasant for you. You might as well follow Isabel’s example and fall off a balcony. You see, your sister had a very confiding nature; she needed sympathy and affection, and if she couldn’t get these qualities at home, then she must search farther afield. I was very much in her confidence, so much so that she not only told me a great deal about her early life, she actually committed those facts to paper.” He drew a bundle of documents from his breastpocket, “These are only a few of the letters,” he said, “but they should be sufficient to convince you that you might be wise to accede to my original request.”
“And if I tell you I am not interested in the letters, Mr. Marlowe?”
“I’m afraid I shouldn’t believe you. Tell me, Miss Bond, do you ever see the Sunday Record?”
“I believe I have seen it lying about,” she acknowledged perfunctorily.
“Next time you see it just take a glance at it. That might help you to change your mind.”
“Even the Sunday Record can hardly be s
o impoverished for scandal that it will pay you for letters from a woman who has been dead nearly twelve months.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Marlowe cheerfully. “They’d eat ‘em. Can’t you see the headlines? Echo of Seaside Mystery. Dead Woman’s Letters Reveal Spinster’s Secret Life.”
“You are very melodramatic,” said Miss Bond, scornfully. “Isabel had no secret life.”
“No one who reads these letters will believe that. She is very outspoken, and she desperately needed a confidante. She paints a haunting picture of her early days at home, of the lover you would not let her have, the truth about her father and that woman …”
Up came Clara Bond’s head with a jerk. “Isabel knew nothing. As to that, I mean …”
“He meant to marry her,” said Marlowe in a peculiar tone. He could have sworn the old woman’s face turned a shade paler. “You stopped that, too, didn’t you?” ‘
She said in a choked tone: “It was out of the question. It would have been indecent …”
“Anyhow, you stopped it. I fancy Isabel was more in the old gentleman’s confidence than you realized. Oh, don’t make any mistake about it. There’s a big public waiting for a story like this.”
Still she rallied. She hadn’t fought Bertha Williams and young Thomas and Isabel and Locket all these years without acquiring a stiff line of defense. I’ve fought before, she reminded herself, I can fight again.
Marlowe, in whom experience had bred a cruel knowledge of the weaknesses of women, was watching her intently. Now he perceived the first crack in her armor of resistance. She might put up a bold front, but she was afraid. This was the moment to push his advantage.
“Don’t you think perhaps you would be wiser to live on a rather smaller income and keep the good opinion of your neighbors?” he suggested. “You won’t be able to stay in Brakemouth once these letters have appeared. It won’t be nice, you know, being pointed at in the street, knowing people are nudging one anotlier when you pass, whispering, ‘That’s Miss Bond. You know. Her sister had that funny accident.’ From there it won’t be far from their wondering if perhaps it wasn’t an accident after all.”
Death Knocks Three Times Page 9