The Layton Court Mystery

by Anthony Berkeley

‘Of course if you put it like that, I should be only too pleased,’ Jefferson replied, though not without a certain reluctance. ‘H’m! I was just wondering what would be the best job for you to tackle.’

  ‘Oh, anything that comes along, you know.’

  ‘Well, look here, I tell you what you might do,’ Jefferson said suddenly. ‘I want a statement made out showing his holdings in the various companies of which he was a director, with the approximate value of the shares, their yield for the last financial year, his director’s fees, and all the rest of it. Manage that, could you?’

  ‘Like a shot,’ said Roger with great cheerfulness, concealing his disappointment at the comparative un-importance of the task allotted to him. Such details as these could be obtained from any work of reference on the subject; he had hoped for a little insight into something that was rather less public property.

  Still, half a bun was better than no cake, and he settled down at the opposite side of the table and set to work willingly enough on the data with which Jefferson supplied him. From time to time he tried to peep surreptitiously at some of the documents in which the latter was immersed, but Jefferson was guarding them too jealously and Roger could obtain no clear idea of their contents.

  An hour later he sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

  ‘There you are! And a very charming and comprehensive statement, too.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Jefferson said, taking the statement which Roger was holding out to him. ‘Damned good of you, Sheringham. Saved me a lot of trouble. And you’ve done it in about a quarter of the time I should have taken. Not my sort of line, this game.’

  ‘So I should imagine,’ Roger observed with studied carelessness. ‘In fact, it’s always surprised me that you should have taken a job like this secretaryship on at all. I should have put you down as a typical open-air man, if you’ll allow me to say so. The type of Englishman that won our colonies for us, you know.’

  ‘No option,’ Jefferson said, with a return to his usual curt manner. ‘Not my choice, I assure you. Had to take what I could jolly well get.’

  ‘Rotten, I know,’ Roger replied sympathetically, watching the other curiously. In spite of himself and what he felt he knew he could not help a mild liking for this abrupt, taciturn person; a typical soldier of the wordless, unsocial school. It struck Roger at that moment that Jefferson, whom he had been inclined to regard at first as something of a sinister figure, was in reality nothing of the sort. The man was shy, exceedingly shy, and he endeavoured to hide this shyness behind a brusque, almost rude manner; and as always in such a case, this had produced an entirely mistaken first impression of the man himself behind the manner. Jefferson was downright; but it was the downrightness of honesty, Roger felt, not of villainy.

  Roger began, half unconsciously, to rearrange some of his ideas. If Jefferson was concerned in Stanworth’s death, then it would be because there was a very excellent reason for that death. All the more reason to probe into Stanworth’s affairs.

  ‘Going to stay down here long, Jefferson?’ he asked, with an obvious yawn.

  ‘Not very. Just got to finish off this job I’m on now. You turn in. Must be getting pretty late.’

  Roger glanced at his watch. ‘Close on twelve. Right, I think I will, if you’re sure there’s nothing else I can do?’

  ‘Nothing, thanks. I shall have a go at it before breakfast myself. Got to get cleared up in here by eleven. Well, good night, Sheringham, and many thanks.’

  Roger sought his room in a state of some perplexity. This new conclusion of his with regard to Jefferson was going to make things very much more complicated instead of more simple. He felt a strong sympathy with Jefferson all of a sudden. He was not a clever man; certainly he was not the brains of the conspiracy. What must his feelings be when he knew, as indeed he must know, that Roger was tracking out things that would, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred and with only very ordinary luck, have remained undiscovered for ever? How must he regard the net which he could see spread to catch him, and with him – whom?

  Roger dragged a chair up to the open window, and sat down with his feet on the sill. He felt he was getting maudlin. This had every appearance of a thoroughly cold-blooded crime, and here he was feeling sorry already for one of its chief participants. Yet it was because Jefferson, as he saw now that the scales had suddenly fallen from his eyes, was such a fine type of man – the tall, thin, small-headed type that is the real pioneer of our race – and because he himself genuinely liked all three members of that suspicious trio, that Roger, without necessarily giving way to maudlin sentiment, was yet unable to stifle his very real regret that everything should point so decisively to their guilt.

  Still, it was too late to back out now. He owed it to himself, if not even to them, to see the thing through. Roger could sympathise more fully now with Alec’s feelings on the matter. Curious that he should after all have come round in the end to that much-derided point of view of Alec’s!

  He began to review the personal element in the light of this new revelation. How did it help? If Jefferson was an honest man and would only kill because nothing short of killing would meet some unknown case, then what was most likely to have produced such a state of affairs? What is the mainspring that actuates three quarters of such drastic deeds? Well, the answer to that was obvious enough. A woman.

  How did that apply in this case? Could Jefferson be in love with some woman, whose happiness or peace had been threatened in some mysterious way by Stanworth himself, and if so, who was the woman? Lady Stanworth? Mrs Plant? Roger uttered an involuntary exclamation. Mrs Plant!

  That, at any rate, would fit in with some of the puzzling facts. The powder on the arm of the couch, for instance, and the wet handkerchief.

  Roger’s imagination began to ride free. Mrs Plant was in the library with Stanworth; he was bullying her, or something. Perhaps he was trying to force some course of action upon her which was repugnant to her. In any case, she weeps and implores him. He is adamant. She hides her face against the arm of the couch and goes on weeping. Jefferson enters, sees at a glance what is happening and kills Stanworth in the madness of his passion with as little compunction as one would feel towards a rat. Mrs Plant looks on in horror; tries to interfere, perhaps, but without effect. As soon as the thing is done she becomes as cool as ice and sets the stage for suicide.

  Roger jumped to his feet and leaned out over the sill.

  ‘It fits!’ he murmured excitedly. ‘It all fits in!’ Glancing downwards, he noticed that the morning-room light had been extinguished and made a note of the time. It was past one. He sank back in his chair and began to consider whether the other pieces of the puzzle would slip as neatly into this general scene – the safe incident, the change of attitude, Lady Stanworth, and so on. No, this was not going to be quite so easy.

  At the end of the hour he was still uncertain. The main outline still seemed convincing enough, but all the details appeared hardly so glib.

  ‘I’m getting addled,’ he murmured aloud, as he rose from the chair. ‘Better give this side of it a rest for a little.’

  He made his way softly out of the room and crept along the passage to Alec’s bedroom.

  Alec sat abruptly up in bed as the door opened.

  ‘That you, Roger?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, this is Jefferson,’ Roger said, hastily shutting the door behind him. ‘And very nicely you’d have given things away if it had been, Alexander Watson. And you might try and moderate your voice a bit. The sound of a foghorn in the middle of the night is bound to make people wonder. Ready?’

  Alec got out of bed and put on his dressing gown.

  ‘Right-ho.’

  As quietly as possible they stole downstairs and into the morning room. Roger drew the thick curtains together carefully before switching on the light.

  ‘Now for it!’ he breathed excitedly, eyeing the crowded table with eagerness. ‘That little pile there I’ve already been through, so you
needn’t bother about those.’

  ‘Already?’ Alec asked in surprise.

  ‘Yes, in company with my excellent friend, Major Jefferson,’ Roger grinned, and proceeded to explain what he had been doing.

  ‘You’ve got some cheek,’ Alec commented with a smile.

  ‘Yes, and I’ve got something more than that,’ Roger retorted. ‘I’ve got a thoroughly sound working idea as to who killed Stanworth and under what circumstances. I can tell you, friend Alec, I’ve been uncommonly busy these last two hours or so.’

  ‘You have?’ said Alec eagerly. ‘Tell me.’

  Roger shook his head. ‘Not at the moment,’ he said, sitting down in Jefferson’s chair. ‘Let’s get this little job safely done first. Now look here, you go through these miscellaneous documents, will you? I want to study the passbooks first of all. And I’ll tell you one thing I’ve discovered. The income from those various businesses of his didn’t amount to a quarter of what he must have been spending. He cleared just over two thousand out of all five of them last year, and I should say that he’s been living at the rate of at least ten thousand a year. And besides all that, he’s been investing heavily as well. Where does all the extra cash come from? That’s what I want to find out.’

  Alec began to wade obediently through the sheaf of papers that Roger had indicated, while the latter picked out the passbooks and glanced at them.

  ‘Hullo!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘Two of these accounts are in his own name, and the other three appear to be in three different names. Jefferson never said anything about that. Now I wonder what the devil that means?’

  He began to pore over them methodically, and for some time there was silence in the room. Then Roger looked up with a frown.

  ‘I don’t understand these at all,’ he said slowly. ‘The dividends are all shown in his own two passbooks, and various checks and so on; but the other three seem to be made up entirely of cash payments, on the credit side at any rate. Listen to this: Feb. 9th, £100; Feb. 17th, £500; Mar. 12th, £200; Mar. 28th, £350; and then April 9th, £1,000. What on earth do you make of that? All in cash, and such nice round sums. Why a thousand pounds in cash?’

  ‘Seems funny, certainly,’ Alec agreed.

  Roger picked up another of the books, and flicked the pages through carefully.

  ‘This is just the same sort of thing. Hullo, here’s an entry of £5,000 paid in cash. £5,000 in cash! Now why? What does it mean? Does your pile throw any light on it?’

  ‘No, these are only business letters. There doesn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary here at all.’

  Roger still held the book mechanically in his hand, but he was staring blankly at the wall.

  ‘Nothing but cash,’ he murmured softly; ‘all sorts of sums between £10 and £5,000; each sum a multiple of ten, or some other round figure; no shillings or pence; and cash! That’s what worries me. Why cash? I can’t find a single check marked on the credit side of these three books. And where in the name of goodness did all this cash come from? There’s absolutely nothing to account for it, as far as I can make out. It’s not the proceeds of any sort of business, apparently. Besides, the debit side shows nothing but checks drawn to self. He paid it in as cash and he drew it out himself. Now what on earth does all this mean?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Alec helplessly.

  Roger stared at the wall in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly, his mouth opened, and he whistled softly.

  ‘By – Jove!’ he exclaimed, transferring his gaze to Alec. ‘I believe I’ve got it. And doesn’t it simplify things, too? Yes, it must be right. It makes everything as clear as daylight. Good lord! Well, I’m damned!’

  ‘Out with it, then!’

  Roger paused impressively. This was the most dramatic moment he had yet encountered, and he was not going to spoil it by any undue precipitation.

  He smote the table softly with his fist by way of preparation. Then:

  ‘Old Stanworth was a professional blackmailer!’ he said in vibrant tones.

  chapter twenty – two

  Mr Sheringham Solves the Mystery

  It was past ten o’clock on the following morning, and Roger and Alec were engaged in taking a constitutional in the rose garden after breakfast before the inquest proceedings opened. Roger had refused to say anything further on the previous evening – or, rather, in the small hours of the same morning. All he had done was to remark that it was quite time they were in bed, and that he wanted a clear head before discussing the affair in the light of this new revelation of Stanworth’s character. He remarked this not once, but many times; and Alec had perforce to be contented with it.

  Now, with pipes in full blast, they were preparing to go further into the matter.

  Roger himself was complacently triumphant.

  ‘Mystery?’ he repeated, in answer to a question of Alec’s. ‘There isn’t any mystery now. I’ve solved it.’

  ‘Oh, I know the mystery about Stanworth is cleared up,’ said Alec impatiently; to tell the truth, Roger in this mood irritated him not a little. ‘That is, if your explanation is the right one, which I’m not disputing at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘But what about the mystery of his death? You can’t have solved that.’

  ‘On the contrary, Alexander,’ Roger rejoined, with a satisfied smile; ‘that is exactly what I have done.’

  ‘Oh? Then who killed him?’

  ‘If you want it in a single word,’ Roger said, not without a certain reluctance, ‘Jefferson.’

  ‘Jefferson?’ Alec exclaimed. ‘Oh, rot!’

  Roger glanced at him curiously. ‘Now that’s interesting,’ he commented. ‘Why do you say “rot” like that?’

  ‘Because – ’ Alec hesitated. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It seems such rot to think of Jefferson committing a murder, I suppose. Why?’

  ‘You mean, you don’t think it’s the sort of thing he would do?’

  ‘I certainly don’t!’ Alec returned with emphasis.

  ‘Do you know, Alec, I’m beginning to think you’re a better judge of character than I am. It’s a humiliating confession, but there you are. Tell me, have you always thought that about Jefferson, or only just recently?’

  Alec considered. ‘Ever since this business cropped up, I think. It always seemed fantastic to me that Jefferson could be mixed up with it. And the two women as well, for that matter. No, Roger, if you’re trying to fix it on Jefferson, I’m quite sure you’re making a bad mistake.’

  Roger’s complacency was unshaken.

  ‘If the case were an ordinary one, no doubt,’ he replied. ‘But you’ve got to remember that this isn’t. Stanworth was a blackmailer, and that alters everything. You may murder an ordinary man, but you execute a blackmailer. That is, if you don’t kill him on the spur of the moment, carried away by madness or exasperation. You’d do that sort of thing on your own account, wouldn’t you? Well, how much more so are you going to do it on behalf of a woman, and that a woman with whom you’re in love? I tell you, Alec, the whole thing is as plain as a pikestaff.’

  ‘Meaning that Jefferson is in love?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Mrs Plant.’

  Alec gasped. ‘Good Lord, how on earth do you know that?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘I don’t,’ Roger replied with a pleased air. ‘But he must be. It’s the only explanation. I deduced it.’

  ‘The devil you did!’

  ‘Yes, I’d arrived at that conclusion even before we discovered the secret of Stanworth’s hidden life. That clears up absolutely everything.’

  ‘Does it? I admit it seems to make some of the things more understandable, but I’m dashed if I can see how it makes you so sure that Jefferson killed him.’

  ‘I’ll explain,’ Roger said kindly. ‘Jefferson was secretly in love with Mrs Plant. For some reason or other Mrs Plant was being blackmailed by Stanworth unknown to Jefferson. He has a
midnight interview with her in the library and demands money. She weeps and implores him (hence the dampness of the handkerchief) and lays a face on the arm of the couch as women do (hence the powder in that particular place). Stanworth is adamant; he must have money. She says she hasn’t got any money. All right, says Stanworth, hand your jewels over then. She goes and gets her jewels and gives them to him. Stanworth opens the safe and tells her that is where he keeps his evidence against her. Then he locks the jewels up and tells her she can go. Enter Jefferson unexpectedly, takes in the situation at a glance, and goes for Stanworth bald-headed. Stanworth fires at him and misses, hitting the vase. Jefferson grabs his wrist, forces the revolver round and pulls the trigger, thus shooting Stanworth with his own revolver without relaxing the other’s grip on it. Mrs Plant is horror-struck; but, seeing that the thing is done, she takes command of the situation and arranges the rest. And that,’ Roger concluded, with a metaphorical pat on his own back, ‘is the solution of the peculiar events at Layton Court.’

  ‘Is it?’ Alec said, with less certainty. ‘It’s a very pretty little story, no doubt, and does great credit to your imagination. But as to being the solution – well, I’m not so sure about that.’

  ‘It seems to me to account for pretty well everything,’ Roger retorted. ‘But you always were difficult to please, Alec. Think. The broken vase and the second bullet; how the murder was committed; the fact that the murderer went back into the house again; the agitation about the safe being opened; Mrs Plant’s behaviour in the morning, her reluctance to give evidence (in case she let out anything of what really happened, you see), and her fright when I sprang on her the fact that I knew she’d been in the library, after all; the disappearance of the footprints; the presence of the powder and the dampness of the handkerchief; Lady Stanworth’s indifference to her brother-in-law’s death (I expect he had some hold over her, too, if the truth were known); the employment of a prize-fighter as a butler, obviously a measure of self-protection; the fact that I heard people moving about late that night; everything! All cleared up and explained.’