Black Widow

by S. Fowler Wright

  CHAPTER II.

  Inspector Pinkey laid down the report. He had read that the bullet had entered under, and a little behind, the left ear, and had penetrated the brain in an upward and somewhat forward position. Sir Lionel Tipshift advised that it was possible—barely possible—for the wound to have been self-inflicted, if the weapon had been held in the right hand, passed under the left arm, and pointed upward. Possible—but absurd. He expressed a decided opinion that the shot had been fired by someone who had stood at the side of, but slightly behind, the murdered man. He thought it probable that this person had been considerably shorter than Sir Daniel. The muzzle of the weapon had not been less than two feet away from the spot where the bullet had entered. Probably rather more. Death must have been instantaneous.

  “Was Sir Daniel,” he asked, “a tall man?”

  “Yes, unusually so. Lady Denton is rather the other way.”

  He knew that it was no more than he had expected to hear, and had to remind himself again of his resolution to remain unprejudiced until he had seen with his own eyes rather than through those of another man. Yet the inferences were obvious, and all pointed a single way. Someone known to Sir Daniel, who could approach him without suspicion. Who might stand beside him without causing him to turn. Who knew where the pistol was kept. Lady Denton fulfilled all these conditions. She might be the only one who would be admitted on that footing to her husband’s study. And she was first on the scene, was there within a moment of the shot being fired, with only her own word of denial that she had not been there all the time. Yes, he was fair-minded enough to recognize that there had been justification for the decision to arrest her on the capital charge. But he would not say that as yet. He would see her first.

  “There’s one question,” he said, “we haven’t discussed yet. I mean motive. Motive isn’t proof, and it’s always dangerous to build on it alone. But it often saves a lot of trouble in pointing the right way for a second look. Anyone else round here with a grudge against the dead man?”

  “It’s not easy to answer that. He wasn’t popular. There must be a score of neighbours who weren’t sorry to hear the news. But there’s a wide gap between that and a motive strong enough to lead to a crime of this kind. And there’s some negative evidence on the other side. He doesn’t seem to have been living any kind of a double life, nor even had any correspondence that he kept to himself. He was very careless about locking his drawers. He doesn’t seem to have been blackmailed in any way. His wife can explain every payment his pass book shows.”

  “And negatively, as you say, that all seems to narrow it down to herself, even apart from the fact that you can’t see how anyone else could have left the room without being seen by her or the boy. What about a motive for her?”

  “It’s much the same inside the house as out. He wasn’t much loved, and I don’t suppose anyone’s really sorry he’s dead. But the motives don’t seem strong enough.

  “As to Lady Denton, everyone knows he used to bully her, and, as a rule, she’d give way. Now and then she stood out, and they had a real row. They’d had one a few days before. She was quite frank about that. But on the whole they got on about as well as most couples do. He doesn’t seem to have given her any occasion for jealousy, nor she him.”

  “What was the row about? Did she say that?”

  “Yes. It illustrates the kind of man that he was. She says he went into the kitchen to countermand some instructions she had given, and said something that annoyed the cook, who appears to be the sort of woman who thinks the kitchen belongs to her. Anyway, she used her tongue at him, and he lost her temper with her, and in the end she told him to clear out of the kitchen, or she’d lay a broomstick across his back.

  “After that, he told his wife to dismiss the woman, which isn’t surprising; but for once Lady Denton stood up to him and declined. She told him that good cooks weren’t easy to get, and he should leave the servants to her. They had a row over that, in which she got a bruised arm. She told me all this herself, and I had the cook’s version as well. She doesn’t profess to have much grief for his death, but she says, if he didn’t shoot himself, she knows nothing about it, and can’t suggest who did.”

  “Does she benefit by his death?”

  “She gets control of some money which was in his hands before. Nothing beyond that.”

  “Is she in debt?”

  “No. She tells me she has more money of her own than she has occasion to spend.”

  “How about the half-brother? Any motive there?”

  “Yes, but again, it seems weak. Sir Daniel was sole executor under their father’s will. He had control of funds which have been left for his brother’s benefit, but so while he lived, he doled them out as he would. It is said that he used this power in vexatious ways, and Mr. Gerard must be very glad that it’s ended now.

  “But as a motive for murder—and one that appears to have been treacherously done, rather than in any excitement of quarrel—it seems a bit thin. And Gerald isn’t the sort, to my mind, to take the risk of hanging without far more motive than that. He’s too fond of his own comfort. He wouldn’t risk being taken anywhere where he couldn’t have breakfast in bed.”

  “Well, I expect you’re right. You know the people, and I don’t. But it comes to this—that you’ve discovered a certain amount of possible motive, and there may be more behind with one or other of them that we mayn’t even guess yet. But I can see that I’m going to the right place. Which reminds me that, if I’m to be there within an hour of when you rang up, it must be about time to move. By the way, aren’t there any finger marks on the gun?”

  “Yes, Lady Denton’s. There’s an explanation of that, as she says she lifted it off the floor where it had fallen, and laid it on the desk. The constable who was called first confirms that it was lying there when he arrived. But if there are any marks besides hers, and one that’s certainly Sir Daniel’s, they’re too blurred to recognize. So it’s against her as far as it goes.”

  “Yes, rather heavily. There must have been ample time for her or the half-brother to wipe it clean, but she wouldn’t wipe anyone else’s marks off and then handle it again herself.”

  “No. If the murderer had escaped before she entered the room, he might have done so in theory, but that wouldn’t have taken time, which, by her tale, he couldn’t have had.”

  “So, unless it was suicide, it points straight to her.”

  Inspector Pinkey rose as he spoke, and was soon in the Superintendent’s car again, on the way to Bywater Grange.

  CHAPTER III.

  Inspector Pinkey had shown already that he was a tactful man. He was given a fresh opportunity of demonstrating this when he was met by Mr. Gerard Denton with the news that Lady Denton had retired early, being unwell. Mr. Gerard was, perhaps, rather more apologetic than the occasion required. He alluded vaguely to yesterday’s funeral. He said that Lady Denton had had rather a worrying time, which cannot be considered an over-emphatic description of the experience through which she had passed. He said that she hoped to meet the Inspector at breakfast on the following morning.

  Having said this, he introduced his guest to a well-stocked library, and excused himself rather hastily, saying that dinner would be at seven-thirty. Inspector Pinkey decided that he was not eager to talk.

  He had resolved to ask Lady Denton’s permission before questioning the household staff, whether in or out. He had not anticipated that this would cause any delay, and it would be a courtesy which would cost him nothing, as it could not be refused. He now decided that another day would make no difference, in view of the time which had passed already, and he would leave everything (except, perhaps, Mr. Gerard) till the next day.

  Gerard sat opposite to him at dinner, with Lady Denton’s empty place at the table-head between them. The difference between brothers is sometimes very wide, and it is reasonable that that which separates half-brothers may be wider still. Sir Daniel had been a man of height and substance and an overbeari
ng manner. Gerard was undersized, furtive, ingratiating. There is a type of woman who would have called him handsome, and he had the veneer of a gentleman.

  He maintained a sufficient conversation on indifferent topics until Pauline, the pleasant, soft-voiced parlour maid who waited upon them, had withdrawn from the room; and then, somewhat to the Inspector’s surprise, he brought up the subject of his brother’s death, and discussed, with an apparent frankness, the problem which it presented.

  He gave an account of his own experience which agreed substantially with that which the Inspector had heard already. He had been reading in the library and had not heard the shot, or, at least, not sufficiently distinctly to guess what it was. The doors of Bywater Grange were thick and well fitted. He doubted whether he would have been sufficiently disturbed or curious to enquire the cause, but that he had been roused the next moment by an agonized scream from Lady Denton—“Gerard! Gerard!”—and had run at once to her aid.

  He told this tale clearly enough, though with some agitation of manner, and perhaps a little over-assertion, which might be natural under the circumstances. Supported as it was by Lady Denton’s account, it seemed to remove suspicion from him, and concentrated it the more surely upon herself. He was evidently conscious of this, and showed some anxiety to assert her innocence. He dwelt on the note of surprise and horror which he had heard in her first scream. He admitted that he did not see how anyone could have escaped by the study door along the passage after the shot was fired without being seen either by her or him.

  That being so, he inclined to the opinion that his brother had taken his own life. For what other explanation could there be?

  He put forward the ingenious theory that Sir Daniel might have deliberately endeavoured to shoot himself in such a way that it would not appear to be his own act.

  The Inspector agreed as to the possibility; but asked, why should he do that?

  Gerard suggested spite against some individual (unspecified), or the household generally. No one who knew his brother would consider it an unlikely action.

  The Inspector was not impressed by this argument. He could see no reason, at present, why Sir Daniel should commit suicide at all. But he observed that Gerard did not exhibit any regret at his brother’s death, or anxiety that the murderer (if any) should be secured. If he were giving a true account, the evidence in his mind against his sister-in-law must be almost conclusively strong, for what was no more than unproved assertion to the Inspector must be certain knowledge to him. Yet it did not appear to have influenced him against her, whether because his appreciation of her character was sufficient to assert her innocence against any weight of adverse evidence, or that his feeling toward his brother were such that he did not care whether she had shot him or not.

  The Inspector led the conversation in the direction of the ex-secretary, and learned that, in Gerard’s opinion, there was little, if anything, too base or criminal for Mr. Redwin to attempt, no fate too dreadful to be deserved. It was evident that responsibility for Sir Daniel’s death would be very gladly laid at his door. But he appeared to recognize, with whatever reluctance, that it would be difficult to establish the charge against a man who was playing billiards two miles away.

  Dinner being over, Inspector Pinkey excused himself and went early to bed. He was a busy man, and accustomed to take sleep when he could get it. He had leisure to give some quiet consideration to Mr. Gerard Denton, who was of a type for which he had an instinc­tive antipathy, but he recognized that that was no evidence that he was responsible for Sir Daniel’s end.

  At present, on his own evidence, and that of Lady Denton, he was in an impregnable position; and this was supported by that of the gardener’s boy, which eliminated the possibility that he might have left by the window, and returned to the library round the outside of the house. But could the Inspector accept this as final, and dismiss him from consideration? He was less inclined to do this owing to an idea which had come to him in explanation of the marks on the pistol, during the conversation at the police station, but which he had kept to his own mind. Suppose that Gerard Denton had used the weapon with a handkerchief or a gloved hand; or suppose, during the first moments of Lady Denton’s agitation, that he had found an opportunity to wipe it, unseen by her; and had then suggested that it should be picked up, so that her finger marks should show upon it?

  It was an improbable, but not impossible, explanation, and eliminated any question of the time necessary to clean it before the very hurried escape which he must have made.

  It suggested that he was willing to throw the blame upon her, which his conversation did not confirm; but that might be no more than evidence of his own cunning. He might see that suspicion must ultimately settle upon her without any support from him, and the evidence that he would be prepared to give would be more damning if it seemed to come from reluctant lips. Or he might wish her no evil at all, providing only that there were enough suspicion against her to divert the lightning from his own head.

  Ruminating over these possibilities, he was led to observe that it did not logically follow that, if Lady Denton had picked up the revolver, her brother-in-law had suggested the act; nor that, if it had been previously used in a covered hand, it was he who had worn the glove. He reminded himself of what an older officer had once said to him when he was busy with his first important case, and he had made report of various ingenious theories which he had constructed to explain a somewhat mysterious crime. “Son,” he had said, “I can see you’re a smart lad; but what I want to know is who killed Ben Jacobson, and one fact’s worth a hundred theories for that.”

  One fact, as he had often observed since, was worth a hundred theories. And if facts should seem inconsistent or incomplete, the only remedy was to go on searching for more. So far, they all pointed one way.

  But there remained the question of Gerard’s character. That was not theory but fact, though it might be a fact which he did not completely know. Now he had seen the man, could he definitely eliminate him from the list of possible suspects?

  He remembered Superintendent Trackfield’s judgment that he was not a man who would risk his own life or liberty—and particularly not in a crime which must, if he committed it, have been deliberately and coldly planned—without a far more urgent motive than could be suggested against him.

  “Well,” he thought, “I should say that Trackfield was right about that.” He even went further, to doubt whether any stress of difficulty would stimulate him to such a crime. He was rather, he thought, of the type of those who, in the extremity of disaster, will find courage to destroy themselves rather than to commit violence against those they may hate or fear. “And that,” he thought, “would be his way out now, if he had done it, and thought discovery near.”

  All of which might be true, but it did not appear to approach the facts he already had. There was no evidence that Gerard had been threatened by any extremity of disaster, or had any reason to hate or fear his half-brother, adequate to stir him to the commission of such a crime.

  “Well,” he thought at last, “I must see Lady Denton. There may be no more in it than the reluctance which we frequently find among the local police of country districts to arrest those of good social position, unless they’ve got about ten times as much evidence as they’d think necessary to convict a shopman. I dare say, when I’ve talk to her for five minutes, I shan’t need to look further away.”

  And with this thought in his mind he succumbed to the oblivion of a particularly comfortable bed.

  CHAPTER IV.

  Inspector Pinkey sat at breakfast with Lady Denton. They were alone. Mr. Gerard was understood to be having his breakfast in bed.

  Lady Denton, after some preliminary courtesies, referred at once to the subject of her husband’s death. “It is not,” she said, “as you will suppose, a pleasant subject for me. It is one I would very gladly forget. But I understand why you are here, and if there’s anything you would like to ask me, I hope you won’t hesit
ate, whatever it is, if you think it might help to clear up the mystery.”

  “May I ask your own opinion, if you have formed one, Lady Denton?”

  She paused before she replied, and then said: “I can’t say that I’ve got one definitely. I didn’t think he’d have done such a thing, and then I heard Sir Lionel’s evidence that it wouldn’t have been easy to do; and yet it seems the only solution.”

  She looked straightly at the Inspector as she said this. She had very beautiful eyes. She was a woman of fragile appearance, but with small firm lips and a rounded but resolute chin. Not one, he thought, who would have been bullied very easily, even by such as the dead man was said to have been. She added: “I know everyone’s discussing whether I did it myself, and I half thought Inspector Trackfield meant to have me arrested before I heard you were coming. But you see, I happen to know that I didn’t. So in that way I’m in a better position to judge than anyone else, and if I’m more inclined to think it was suicide, it may be a natural consequence.”

  Inspector Pinkey felt an awkwardness to which he was unaccustomed as his hostess expressed so plainly the suspicion which she knew to be directed upon her. He said: “Well, you see, in these cases we have to begin by suspecting everybody. You can’t really blame him for that. There was one other question I thought I should like to ask you. Did you know—I mean, was it generally known that the revolver was kept in the desk drawer?”

  “Yes, I knew that. Others may have done. I can’t say for sure. I expect Mr. Redwin did, as he had charge of Sir Daniel’s correspondence, and kept his drawers straight.”

  “Mr. Gerard?”

  “Yes. I expect he would. You see, they both had revolvers of the same pattern, but of course you know that. I mean, he knew that Sir Daniel had it, but I can’t say whether he knew where it was kept.”