by Q. Patrick
He looked at the Morris Cowley in a dazed manner, then came towards it, saying in a strained, hoarse voice,
“Mr. Christopher—Mr. Inspector—Lady Crosby has been murdered up at the Hall. Sir Howard sent me to tell you that we’ve just found her layin’ on ’er bed—dead!”
VIII
Ten minutes later the Morris Cowley drew up in front of Crosby Hall, followed by the Daimler.
“Hoskins is here before us,” muttered Christopher to Lucy, breaking the silence for the first time as he noticed the doctor’s Austin standing empty at a little distance. And, indeed, it was Hoskins who met them at the door—an agitated, bewildered Hoskins who welcomed them with evident relief. Behind him, at the foot of the stair-case, came Sir Howard. Apparently they had come downstairs together on hearing the sound of the Morris Cowley in the driveway below.
The Eleventh Baronet was now a very altered man from the imposing landowner who had blustered and fumed to the Archdeacon only the day before. To-day his manner was shaken—almost furtive—and the great red setter who generally gambolled and strutted ahead now seemed to reflect his master’s mood by slinking down the stairs behind him in an ecstasy of apprehension.
Sir Howard held out his hand to Christopher with an oddly tentative little gesture.
“My boy—glad you’re here—” He turned to the Archdeacon with an attempt to be business-like.
“Lucky you’re on the spot, Inspector. Perhaps you’d better come up …” He broke off and turned sharply on his heel. Lucy he did not seem to notice at all, though she stood close to Christopher, stealing anxious glances first at him and then at Sir Howard.
“How was the discovery made?” asked the Archdeacon, realizing at once that any attempt at condolence would be out of place. “Hoskins, were you here?”
“No,” said the doctor in a strained voice. “Sir Howard telephoned for me after he’d—found out. And luckily I was at my home and came right over. I’ve been here about fifteen minutes, and made a brief examination.”
“You’ve—looked at her then?” said Christopher tensely. “Is it—the same thing?”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted the Archdeacon. “Sir Howard, would you please tell me who made the discovery and how it was made?”
“I did,” said Sir Howard in a dull voice, as he turned again to face the others. “And you’d better come up and have a look.”
As the sombre little party made its way up the stairs, followed by the foreboding setter, Sir Howard continued in an even monotone:
“I went to my wife’s room a little over half an hour ago. There was something” (here for the first time he appeared to notice Lucy) “that I wanted to talk over with her. I found her door locked and no answer to my knock, but her maid had told me she was in her room, resting. Growing anxious, I tried to force the door. I couldn’t do it alone, so I went for Briggs, the chauffeur. Together we got it open. We found—but you’ll see for yourself.”
“And the key?” said the Archdeacon quickly. “Was it on the inside?”
“No,” said Sir Howard, “there was no key. Some one must have locked the door and taken the key away.”
“Are you sure it’s nowhere in the room?”
“I haven’t seen it.”
He pushed open a door whose lock showed signs of recent violence, and led the way into Lady Crosby’s room. Once inside, the little group broke up. The Archdeacon stood by the door, his rapid glance taking in all the details of the room—the littered desk, the great bookcase, the miscellaneous magazines and pamphlets, the comfortable chairs, and finally the bed itself with its gruesome burden over which a sheet had been hastily thrown. Sir Howard walked at once to the window and stood looking out, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders hunched. Hoskins sat down at the desk with his head leaning on his hand. Lucy shrank back against the wall, her gaze divided between the shrouded figure on the bed and Christopher’s set face as he drew near to it. Christopher slowly turned back the sheet and stood for a full minute looking down, in stricken silence, at the now serene countenance that had been his mother’s. Lady Crosby lay quiet enough now beneath her son’s gaze, a quiet from which no cry of his would ever rouse her; a quiet which she could hardly have imagined during her fevered lifetime; a quiet which fastened coldly on the hearts of the living intruders into that chamber of death. It was the setter who broke the tension, raising his voice from the passage outside in a long, unearthly howl.
“Curse that dog!” exclaimed Sir Howard, turning quickly and crossing the room to shut the door.
“What’s that other door in the corner?” said the Archdeacon. “The clothes-cupboard, I suppose?”
“No,” Sir Howard answered. “That’s the boudoir. It has no connection with the rest of the house except through this room.”
The Archdeacon, notebook in hand, walked to the opposite corner and flung open the door. A brief survey showed him the outstanding details of the little room beyond—the untidy, rather Spartan dressing table, the comfortable sofa, the small writing table by the window, and the clothes-cupboard with its one or two severe frocks and coats and its rows upon rows of hats—these last a mute, pathetic indication that, in spite of every mirror’s tale, hope had sprung eternal….
Returning to the big room he advanced to the side of the bed, while Christopher stepped back with averted face. The Archdeacon noted the position of the body—natural, as if preparing for sleep, and then gently replaced the sheet. In the meantime Hoskins, aware that Christopher had moved away, approached the bed from the other side.
“Looks like the same drug,” he said, “and evident signs of a heavy dosage. I could tell that from the appearance of the body when I first saw it. She looked quite peaceful, you know, just as if she were sleeping. That shows she must have gone right into a state of coma without any of the preliminary disturbances. I should judge that death took place about an hour and a half ago—perhaps a little more. That would make it” (he glanced at his watch) “at four-thirty or thereabouts. Without a further examination we can’t, of course, be certain that the same—poison was used, but I think it’s fair to assume that it was. All the outward symptoms are the same.”
The Archdeacon nodded and turned to Sir Howard:
“Now, about this key …”
“Good God, man,” said Sir Howard, “she can’t have swallowed it. I tell you it wasn’t in the door—either side. And search the room if you like, but I doubt if you’ll find it. No, some one poisoned her, and then went away and locked the door, and it’s up to you to find out who it was.” There was a flash of the old Sir Howard in the testiness of these words.
“All the same,” put in the doctor swiftly, “it could have been suicide.”
“Rubbish!” said Sir Howard. “Why, my wife never used that key anyway. It was always on the outside, and was used only when she was away and this whole wing of the house was shut up. No, when she wanted to lock her door she used the bolt on the inside, and this afternoon the bolt hadn’t been shot. You can see for yourself. Besides what in heaven’s name would she want to commit suicide for?”
The Archdeacon turned and examined the door. The lock, of course, had been broken when the door was forced open, but the bolt on the inside, as Sir Howard had pointed out, could not have been fastened at the time because it was now in no way injured.
“Well,” said the Archdeacon to the room in general, “assuming that Sir Howard is right, who was the last person who saw Lady Crosby alive?”
There was a dead silence for half a minute. Then Lucy spoke, in a low, tremulous voice.
“I may have been the last. I saw her at about four o’clock.”
Christopher and Sir Howard showed no surprise at the girl’s words, but the doctor started and the Archdeacon wheeled round on her with a menacing gleam in his eye.
“Where? Here?”
“No, in her boudoir.”
“What were you doing in Lady Crosby’s boudoir at four o’clock?”
“S
he’d sent for me earlier. She’d wanted to talk to me—and to my mother too. We’d both been there. At four o’clock I was just leaving.”
“Were you and your mother there together?”
“No, separately. I was the last. I’d been the first, too; and then Mother; and afterwards Lady Crosby called me back.”
“Why did she send for you and your mother?”
Christopher shot Lucy a warning glance which did not escape the Archdeacon, as the girl hurried on.
“Oh, just to tell us how sorry she was. About my sisters, you know. She was always so kind …” There was a catch in her voice as she spoke the last words.
“Look here,” Christopher broke in hotly. “Miss Lubbock admits to having seen my mother at four o’clock, but according to Hoskins death didn’t occur till four-thirty. Any number of people may have seen her between four and four-thirty, and hyoscine, if it is that, is generally pretty quick in its action, you know.”
The Archdeacon, still decently mournful, smiled a tolerant smile:
“Right, Dr. Crosby. We’ll investigate. I think you’ll find, though …” He broke off and turned to Sir Howard. “Would Lady Crosby’s maid be aware of any visitors between four and four-thirty?”
Sir Howard moved reluctantly to the side of the bed and touched a bell. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose so.”
In a few minutes a knock at the door revealed Carrie, her eyes red with weeping, her hair more gloriously untidy than ever.
“My wife’s maid,” said Sir Howard, with the faintly contemptuous inflection which was habitual with him in speaking of his wife. A sudden realization of the tone of his own voice seemed to overwhelm him, and he walked away again to the window.
The Archdeacon turned to Carrie, who stood trembling in the doorway, both repelled and fascinated by her first glimpse of the great bed.
“Could you tell us, my good woman, who was the last person who saw your mistress alive?”
“Oh sir, yes sir, I think so. It was Miss Lucy, sir, bless her dear heart, and don’t you go believing anything evil about Miss Lucy, who’s a kind sweet child that I love as if she were my own in spite of her being nearly a young lady so I suppose I shouldn’t.”
“You didn’t come into the room yourself after Miss Lucy had left the Hall?” asked the Archdeacon, disregarding this enthusiastic testimonial.
“No, sir. Of course not. Miss Lucy told me not to.”
“Miss Lucy told you not to!”
“Well, leastwise she brought me a message when she came down with the tea things. She said Lady Crosby had a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed until time for dinner. That’s what I told Sir Howard about her ladyship. Oh, sir, I didn’t even know there was anything wrong till Briggs came running into the servants’ hall with the news, and now she’s dead!”
Carrie dissolved into a paroxysm of tears, but both her tears and her last remarks went unheeded, for the attention of all was riveted on Lucy.
“The tea things!” ejaculated Hoskins and Sir Howard in one breath.
“The tea things! Oh, Lucy!” murmured Christopher.
“The tea things!” said the Archdeacon, and there was a note of professional satisfaction in his voice. ‘‘What tea things?”
Lucy drew herself up with the desperate expression of a trapped animal.
“Lady Crosby was having tea when she called me back just before four o’clock. When I left her she asked me to take the tray and to tell Carrie that she didn’t want to be disturbed till dinner time because she had a headache.”
“That’s so,” said Carrie, punctuating her words with sobs. “I’d taken the tray in just a little time before four because Lady Crosby usually took her cup of tea early. When I got there this afternoon Mrs. Lubbock was just leaving and Lady Crosby asked to see Miss Lucy again, so I left the tray and went for Miss Lucy, and when Miss Lucy came away after seeing her ladyship, she brought me the tray and the message like I told you. And that’s the whole truth and a kinder lady never lived….”
But Carrie’s lament was cut short by the Archdeacon’s curt question:
“Have those tea things been washed yet?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’d have to ask the pantry maid.”
“Please go and see, and bring them here at once if they haven’t been.”
“Yes, sir.” Carrie bobbed and was gone.
“It may have been important for some one,” said the Archdeacon ponderously, “to get those dishes washed up as soon as possible so that they wouldn’t be found standing in this room.”
With uncertain steps Lucy sought the chair at the desk where Hoskins had been sitting a few minutes earlier. Christopher stationed himself behind her, but said no word in her defense, though his tired eyes blazed as the Archdeacon proceeded:
“Perhaps you remember, Miss Lubbock, since your memory seems open to stimulation, whether the key was in the door when you left Lady Crosby’s room at four o’clock?”
Lucy thought for a moment, then raised her eyes with a look of weary candor.
“I really couldn’t say,” she said. “All I can say is that it’s usually there, and that this afternoon I didn’t notice anything unusual. But it might have been gone and I never have noticed it….”
“Most helpful,” said the Archdeacon with weighty irony. “And now, Miss Lubbock, there’s another matter I’d like to have cleared up. I still don’t understand why Lady Crosby called you back. Surely if her sole purpose was to offer sympathy about the death of your sisters she could have done so during your earlier interview. What was your final subject of discussion? And was it, I wonder, one on which you found yourselves in complete agreement?”
“We talk about so many things,” said Lucy evasively. “Lady Crosby has been very kind to me, you know, and I see her often.”
“But what about today? Were you as good friends as ever when you parted?”
“Yes,” said Lucy after a slight hesitation, “we were, though she seemed to me to be a little nervous and upset.”
“But, I say, that’s impossible,” broke in Sir Howard. “Look here, Inspector, I suppose you ought to know. The reason my wife sent for Lucy Lubbock today was to tell her that she was no fit match for my son Christopher. That’s why I was seeking her out half an hour ago—to find out whether or not the girl had behaved decently. It hardly stands to reason that it could have been much of a love-feast, you know. And now my wife lies murdered and there’s the girl still ogling my son in the very presence of the dead….”
Lucy flushed with anger, and Christopher turned on his father with a muttered exclamation which died on his lips as Sir Howard’s tone changed.
“I’m sorry. I forgot myself. It’s all happened so quickly…. If you’ll excuse me I think I’ll go to my study for a while.”
He crossed the room and paused in the doorway, obviously steadying himself by a concentration on practical details.
“Hoskins, I leave you to make the necessary arrangements. Inspector, I’ll have Philip Beeston, my lawyer, here tomorrow afternoon for the reading of the will. He’ll answer any questions you care to put about my wife’s estate and the disposition of her property. Otherwise I can’t think of any way in which I can be of further use to you. However, if there’s anything you want I shall be in my study.”
With a firm step, and with never a backward glance of farewell at the figure on the bed, Sir Howard strode away down the passage as if he hoped, by mere firmness, to stride out of his very memories as easily as he could stride out of that room with its sorrows and its atrocious secret of sudden death.
The Archdeacon closed the door softly behind him.
“Do you deny this,” he said to Lucy, “that Sir Howard has told us about your interview with Lady Crosby?”
“No,” she answered, “I don’t. That’s what we talked about. But it’s still true what I said. We parted friends.”
Every vestige of color had drained out of her face, and Christopher could keep silence no longer.<
br />
“Look here—” he said.
But the Archdeacon stilled him impatiently with “keep out of this, Crosby.”
At that moment Carrie appeared, breathless and important on her errand from below stairs.
“Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Christopher, they’ve been washed up—those dishes, and the pantry maid says please to don’t arrest her because she has an aged ma who is entirely dependent, and she says however should she have known about the dishes anyway?”
“Now, now,” said the Archdeacon. “That’s all right. You tell her not to worry.”
“Oh, thank you, sir. May I go now?”
“Yes, thank you, that’ll be all.”
As soon as Carrie had disappeared the Archdeacon sat down at the desk and began to make a few notes. Christopher, who had been grimly silent since the Archdeacon had snubbed him, walked to the window and looked out, mechanically noting the drift of the clouds and the perpendicular course of a lark which was climbing the late afternoon air between Crosby Hall and the tranquil west.
Suddenly he turned about and faced the Archdeacon.
“You’re on the wrong track. I’m sure of that,” he said in a strange voice. “But all the same I’ve been wrong, too. Not that I had any definite ideas, you know, but just one or two little theories. Anyway, they’ve all gone to pot now. I don’t know what this is all about, but for God’s sake go slowly before you accuse anyone.”
“I suppose,” said the Archdeacon with a superior shake of his head, “that the theory you’re referring to is one you’ve already mentioned once or twice—the responsibility of your grandmother who has been dead for two years?” (Christopher shrugged impatiently) “Well, I’m sorry to upset your most imaginative case against a dead woman, but it looks as though mine, against a live one, would soon be made water-tight. As for going slowly,” his voice became suddenly serious, “there’s been too much of that. I reproach myself bitterly with what my slackness has already allowed to happen,” (he nodded towards the bed as he spoke) “and there must be no more. Do you understand me? And no one is to leave the village tonight.”