by Q. Patrick
“We’ll lock everything up all right,” said Dr. Hoskins grimly as he placed the tea-pot, milk jug, sugar bowl, bread and butter in a small china cupboard.
“And, Cockett, I wonder if you could tell me who used which cup—?”
The village carpenter scratched his head thoughtfully. “Well, that there’s Mrs. Lubbock’s,” he said, pointing to the cup at the end of the table, “and this was mine, and that’s Miss Lucy’s. Now I reckon that there one must a’ been Bella’s—” He pointed to a cup that stood near the edge of the table where Isabel had been sitting. A single glance was sufficient to show the two doctors that, whereas all the others had traces of tea in the bottom, this one was absolutely empty and showed unmistakable signs of having recently been rinsed out!
III
The Archdeacon had to run the full length of the Paddington platform to catch the noon train for Bristol. His speed was quite remarkable for a man of his build, and his movements, though hurried, were dignified and altogether remote from any suggestion of unseemly haste. He ran as though he were running between the wickets in a quiet game of cricket among his parishioners—like a veteran cricketer who has just achieved a hard off-drive past cover which will probably reach the boundary any minute. The Archdeacon couldn’t play cricket, but he could catch trains—and other things too—and he managed to get himself and his handbag aboard the 12:15 just as it was steaming out of the station.
After a good deal of wandering through corridors crowded with holiday baggage and midsummer trippers, he finally discovered a first-class carriage with only one other occupant. He sat down with a sigh of relief, removed his black hat and wiped the shining expanse of dome-like forehead to which he owed his sobriquet at the Yard. His air of bewildered benevolence, his kindly, rather humorous eyes, prim mouth and decidedly archidiaconal nose all bespoke an ecclesiastical affinity. In fact, the mousey little woman in the corner seat of his carriage, stealing a glance at him over her Punch, never suspected for a moment that he was anything more exciting than a perspiring prelate.
And no one could have blamed the mousey little woman for reaching just that conclusion, since Archibald Inge looked exactly like everything that his name implied. By a strange anomaly this relentless hunter of men was always being mistaken for an inoffensive hunter of souls—the efficient, unimaginative and very earthly sleuth bore a strange superficial resemblance to a Hound of Heaven.
Incidentally, Inspector Inge was the least spiritual of persons. He cordially disliked being called “the Archdeacon” and far preferred another nickname—the mathematical detective—with which his more dignified confreres greeted him when he had been successful on a particularly complicated case. Precision, exactitude, certainty—those were his professional watchwords, with kindness, dignity and humor his second line of entrenchments. For an ambitious and conscientious man this was a perfect combination, but one that left little or no room for spirituality. And yet, such is the power of the human physiognomy, to the rank and file of his friends on the police force, and to his numerous enemies of the criminal persuasion, he was always known, thought and spoken of as the Archdeacon”—with the accent on the antepenultimate syllable.
By any name, however, the Archdeacon’s reputation for efficiency smelt just as sweet. He left nothing to chance and took nothing for granted. That was why the Old Man always gave him the most difficult assignments. He was an expert at psychological crimes because he never used his imagination—an adept in motiveless murder because he firmly believed that there was no such thing. If a rich club man was discovered dead in his mistress’ flat or an internationally known crook found murdered in his motor car, the job went to Norris, Mallory, Stork—any one of the boys. But if a poor old lady in Twickenham with no money and no relatives suddenly died for no reason at all, the Archdeacon was called for. If the headless body of an unidentified man happened to get caught in a fisherman’s net, or a baby’s left foot be discovered at a Lost Property Office, that was a job for Archibald Inge. Archibald—arch solver of mysteries because he did not believe that anything could be really mysterious!
And so, the Old Man had sent for the Archdeacon this morning, and after giving him the few salient details had left him a bare hour in which to collect his belongings, say goodbye to his wife and make a dash for the noon train. The case had sounded interesting enough as the Old Man had outlined the available facts.
“Yes, Inge, just the case for you. Don’t know a great deal about it as the call came in from Taunton this morning and that Somersetshire dialect is too much for an old cockney like me. Sounds like a pretty pointless and apparently motiveless affair—if it really is a case of murder. That’s for you to find out. These small-town jobs do need someone with a sympathetic and—er—rather dignified approach. Scotland Yard wouldn’t have butted in at all in the ordinary way, but Archer—he’s County Constable down there—is laid up with the gout, and the local inspector happens to be a new man without any experience to speak of. Incidentally, Sir Howard Crosby got me on the long distance wire this morning, too. He’s an old friend of mine, and he seemed to take it as a personal affront that two of his tenants should have come to a violent end. He’s a pretty influential fellow, and particularly asked for our best man—” The Archdeacon smiled benignly as if he were pronouncing the blessing at the end of an inspiring service in the Cathedral. “Now a young termagant like Norris would probably set the whole village by the ears and get nothing out of it except a pack of enemies. I’m putting him on the London end of the case and want you two to keep in close touch with each other. The two young women had jobs up in town, you know, and it is quite possible that the real solution lies here, right under our own noses. But it is in their own village that you can find out the facts about their actual deaths. It may be quite simple—or—it may not….” The Old Man was notorious for not being willing to commit himself.
“It may be quite simple—or—it may not! It may be quite simple, jog—jog—jog” the train seemed to be repeating the Old Man’s words as it sped forward over the flat countryside of Middlesex and Bucks. It was now passing through Slough, and the Archdeacon stared thoughtfully out of the window at the stately prospect of Windsor Castle. Like most unimaginative people he had a decided weakness for the homes of the great, and nourished a secret hankering in his heart that one day some case would bring him into direct contact with the real aristocracy. His work, as in the present instance, usually took him among humble folk and he probably would not have recognized a member of the “upper ten” if he had seen one. He vaguely imagined that they were all like the pictures he occasionally saw in his wife’s second-hand edition of The Tatler—always smiling, always well dressed, idle and insouciant. To him, they were beings apart who did not follow the rules of conduct laid down for ordinary, humdrum individuals—gossamer creatures who lived an enchanted life which brought them, only at rarest intervals, into a nodding acquaintance with crime and sordidness. All this uotwithstanding the Sunday papers which he despised appropriately. But the aristocracy were not for the likes of him—and yet, hope sprang eternal in the archidiaconal breast, hope that one day—if he worked hard and made a name for himself—he might perhaps add the name of “The Society Detective” to his already considerable list of sobriquets.
Stirred to action by this thought, he pulled from his pocket the hurried notes he had taken down after his interview with the Old Man. They were on the squared paper he always used in the hopes that he would one day be able to solve a crime by graphs without the necessity for laborious investigation and tiresome details of routine. A graph, he reflected, or even an algebraic equation would be more helpful than these fragmentary jottings. None the less, he studied them with care.
Case 1. Female, aged about 30. Died Sunday night. Presumably poisoned. No autopsy report but no reason to suspect poison self-administered. Has worked as lady’s maid for four years at Lady Barchester’s, 14, Kilgore Road, Mayfair. Good character and quiet, sober habits.
Cas
e 2. Female, sister of above, aged about 32. Died Monday (yesterday) evening. Worked for six years at Hon. Mrs. Ribson’s, 17, Portbury Place, Mayfair. In opinion of local doctor symptoms point to rather obscure and difficult to obtain drug. Mentioned name of Myra Brown shortly before death. Norris investigating London end and identity of Myra Brown.
H’m—well, that didn’t help much, he reflected. Wonder whether it’s got into the papers yet. Hastily he picked up the latest edition of the Courier which lay on the seat beside him. A small notice in the Stop Press ran:
MYSTERY IN CROSBY-STOURTON
“Profound mystery surrounds the sudden death of two sisters, Amy and Isabel Lubbock, who have died within twenty-four hours of each other in their quiet country home in Crosby-Stourton, Som. Both were in excellent spirits and perfect health when they left London last Sunday, and yet they now lie dead under strange circumstances. At the earnest request of Sir Howard Crosby, Scotland Yard has taken the case in hand in conjunction with the County Medical authorities.”
The Archdeacon read, marked, learned and inwardly digested these facts in the well-ordered store-house of his brain, and by the time the train had reached Swindon he realized that, for the time being, he knew all that there was to know. He was not the man to waste precious moments in idle speculation until he was in possession of more facts. He would have to wait now until he got to Crosby-Stourton, wherever that might be—he had never even heard of it before—and in the meantime he’d see if he couldn’t get the plump little lady in the corner to lend him her copy of Punch which she had now discarded in favor of a more highbrow and less entertaining publication.
If he had been traveling in an ordinary third-class carriage he would have asked her for it outright but—somehow—it was different when he was going first, at the Yard’s expense. He studied his companion with a certain amount of professional interest. She looked intelligent, he thought, and had rather a nice twinkle in her eyes. Wife of some country vicar, probably. No, country vicars didn’t run to first-class carriages and promiscuous copies of Punch. More likely to be some rich man’s housekeeper or one of those ubiquitous Americans—obviously no one of any great importance. Her rough tweeds, carelessly worn, seemed to indicate that she was at least going to the country. Her ruddy complexion, untouched by powder, gave evidence that the out-of-doors was her natural element. Must have brains too, otherwise she would not have been reading a deep magazine like The Annalist. That decided it, she must be an American—all American women were highbrow and one could talk to them with far more propriety than one could to English women who traveled in first-class carriages. And then, she was several years older than the Archdeacon—she must be fifty at least—so she couldn’t think he had sinister intentions.
“Have you any objections to smoking, madam?” he asked, in the voice of one intoning the General Confession.
She looked up at him quickly with a bright smile.
“I was rather hoping you’d say that because I’ve been dying for a cigarette myself, and there’s no SMOKING sign on the window. Would you be. dreadfully shocked if I joined you? Then we couldn’t tell on each other! You see, I thought that, being a clergy….”
The Archdeacon shook his head, smiling, and passed his cigarette case across to her gallantly.
“Indeed, no, madam, you overestimate my calling. I’m afraid I am nothing so alarming.” They laughed together. “In fact I am only a policeman with a pope’s nose!”
“Policeman!” she recoiled slightly, but he was quite accustomed to see astonishment when he announced his métier.
“Well, detective, if you like it better,” he added benignly. She smiled again as though she were apologising for having betrayed an instinctive dislike of his calling.
“How thrilling! I saw you staring at me suspiciously when you first got into the carriage. I suppose you’ve been making all kinds of deductions like—er—Sherlock Holmes. What fun it must be!” She was smoking in a very business-like fashion. “Do tell me all you’ve gathered from the outer woman.” She made a slight grimace as she looked down at her plump, tweed-clad figure.
The Archdeacon smiled deprecatingly and raised his hands as if he were pronouncing the Absolution.
“I’m afraid I have no parlor tricks, ma’am, not even train parlor ones, I’m….”
“Oh, but I insist”—she threw down her magazine with the energetic gesture of a young girl—“it will fill in the time till we get to Bristol. All women, even if they are old and plain, are insatiably curious about themselves and want to know exactly how they appear to the outside world.”
“But, my dear lady, a detective is not a palmist or a conjurer. Appearances are deceptive—always—that is the first thing we have to learn at the Yard. The science of detection of crime is an exact science and has nothing to do with the outer man or woman. I could, of course, indulge in personalities the same as any other man, but that is not detection. I could say you looked like the Principal of a Young Ladies’ College and you might be an opera singer. I could say….”
She cut him short. “Yes, but you have impressions and they are probably more acute than those of the ordinary man.
Now, I thought that you were a clergyman despite the fact that you are wearing a grey tie. Wrong. Probably you didn’t think about me at all, but if you did, I imagine you said to yourself, ‘If she weren’t in a first-class carriage I’d think she was a vicar’s wife, a school teacher or a governess. If she hadn’t got on a wedding ring under her gloves I’d think she was a typical spinster—a blue stocking—a dowdy intellectual female.’ You might even have gone so far as to think, ‘She’s probably an American because no Englishwoman would talk so indiscriminately to a stranger in a train.’”
The Archdeacon looked positively nonplussed as he heard his half-formulated thoughts voiced in such a downright manner. Incidentally, his intention had been to get possession of the lady’s Punch and not to open the flood-gates of her garrulity. He was beginning to wonder if he liked his disconcerting companion as much as he thought he did. As a general rule, he preferred placid, bovine women, but he had to admit that this one had a certain charm even if she was too nervous, too talkative and too highly strung to suit his simple tastes.
She fished another cigarette out of her bag. Though he didn’t really approve of women’s smoking in public places, the Archdeacon rose to give her a light. As he did so his large bulk swept the Daily Courier to the floor at his companion’s feet. She glanced instinctively down at the paper as the Archdeacon stood by her side holding the match close to her face. She paid no attention to him but bent down closer to read something in the paper—a strange, strained look in her eyes. The match had burned itself out before she looked up, but not before it had shown the Archdeacon that her face was quite pale.
Good Gracious! that can’t be true,” she murmured, her cigarette completely forgotten, “it just simply…. can’t!…. be true!”
She picked the paper from the floor and started to read it eagerly. The Archdeacon noticed that her hands were shaking slightly. He was still standing by her side with a look of benevolent sympathy on his face.
“No bad news, I hope?”
“Excuse me, please,” she said with a weary gesture, “I just happened to notice something in your paper about my home—Crosby-Stourton.” The archidiaconal ears were pricked up. “Two girls I know there have been—er—murdered, apparently, and I feel rather upset about it.” Her voice sounded faint and distraught.
This was just the kind of situation that pleased the Archdeacon and brought out all his best qualities. A young bounder like Norris would have dashed in with questions and note book at once, and got—precisely nothing. He, thank goodness, had learnt to control himself and restrain his eagerness, knowing in his wisdom that a certain amount of metaphorical hand-patting—especially with this particular type of middle-aged lady—paid better dividends in the long run.
“Too bad, too bad,” he murmured sympathetically, “I’m very sorry
indeed for you, madam. As a matter of fact, it may be a comfort to you when I tell you that no stone will be left unturned to punish the—er—perpetrators of these amazing crimes—if crimes indeed they be! Sir Howard Crosby—you have probably heard of him since he is a big land owner in your neighborhood—has himself requested the co-operation of Scotland Yard in the matter, and in me you see her unworthy, yet willing representative.” The Archdeacon smiled ponderously. “These matters are usually left to the local authorities, but Sir Howard was very insistent, and it seems to me that it is a singular piece of good fortune that we should have met each other in this way since we may be able to help one another to solve the mystery of your friends’ deaths.”
There was a faint condescension in his tone which his companion was quick to notice. At any rate there was a subtle difference in her voice when she said, not without a certain amount of hauteur: “Yes, there is no earthly reason why I should not do all I can to help you and tell you all I know about those two poor creatures.”
Now, when the Archdeacon had first seen her he had thought that his carriage companion was “just anybody.” When she had spoken two words he had realized that she was what is conventionally known as a lady, but not one of those prim, fussy ladies with whom a fellow couldn’t chat a bit, cooped up as they were in a train for two hours. Now he was beginning to entertain the suspicion that, despite her old tweeds and insignificant stature, she was a personage of some little importance.
She lit a cigarette and looked at him quizzically. “If you want to know the truth of the matter, Isabel and Amy Lubbock were the daughters of an old servant of my mother’s. You see, my name is Crosby—I’ve known the Lubbock girls since they were babies. I got them their positions in London—Lady Barchester is an old friend of mine—I didn’t even know they were down in Crosby-Stourton, and I just can’t believe that they are dead. Dear me, dear me, it’s all wrong—I’m quite upset!”