Seven Dead

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  “No, but something else has happened there.”

  “Well?”

  “Some people have been found dead in your house—”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Seven of them.”

  Mr. Fenner’s eyebrows went up. Then he smiled.

  “And now, please, explain the joke,” he suggested.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t a joke,” answered Hazeldean.

  “I see. Someone I have never seen tells me that seven people I do not know—at least, I presume I do not know them—have died in my house, and I am expected to believe it. Seven is a somewhat large number, sir! And they must have taken possession of my house and died in it exceedingly quickly! I was in the house myself yesterday at a quarter to one, and it was certainly empty when I left it. Perhaps—after this—I may let you into the secret of why you were locked in this room. You alarmed Madame Paula, and she came to the conclusion—forgive me for mentioning it—that you were mad.”

  “I will certainly forgive you for mentioning it,” replied Hazeldean, “because, if you shared Madame Paula’s opinion, you obviously wouldn’t do so.”

  “I wonder if that is as clever as it sounds?” mused Mr. Fenner. His tone had become a little impersonal. “Would I not?”

  “Not unless—forgive me for suggesting it—you were also mad yourself.”

  Mr. Fenner frowned.

  “I am not sure that I appreciate this conversation,” he said.

  “I am quite sure I don’t,” retorted Hazeldean. “So what about ending it? I expect, after all, I should have left it to the police, who are in your house at this moment, and from whom, of course, you will hear. Meanwhile, if you’re not interested, that’s your affair, not mine. By the way, the police are particularly curious about an old cricket ball—and the drawing-room shutters. Good-afternoon.”

  He hoped, as he moved, that the bluff would succeed. It succeeded instantaneously. Mr. Fenner closed the door and stood before it.

  “What the devil’s all this?” he exclaimed.

  “I’m trying to tell you,” responded Hazeldean. “Do you know anything about a cricket ball?”

  “God above! I am told of seven dead people in my house, and then I’m expected to be interested in a cricket ball! Perhaps I do know something about a cricket ball! Perhaps I don’t! Why should I tell you? But—shutters? Drawing-room shutters?” He moved closer to Hazeldean and stared at him hard. “I retract any suggestion of your madness, sir. You look sane enough. Now tell your story. No, wait. What’s your name?”

  “Thomas Hazeldean.”

  “Thank you—Hazeldean. Are you connected with the police?”

  “No—I come into this by mere chance.”

  “I see. Let us hope it will prove a fortunate chance! Pray proceed. If there are truly seven dead people in my private residence, it is right—I admit—that I should hear about it!”

  He motioned Hazeldean to a chair and then sat down himself, breathing rather heavily.

  Hazeldean told his story.

  Chapter XI

  Sequel to a Cricket Ball

  Mr. Fenner did not speak for a full minute after Hazeldean had completed his narration. His grey eyebrows were lowered over his grey eyes, and his pupils, piercing the floor towards which they were directed, were almost hidden by stiff, wiry hairs. Hazeldean had no clue to what he was thinking. The listener had spoken no word, and revealed nothing by his expression.

  Suddenly the pupils contracted, their focus shortened, and Mr. Fenner exclaimed, “The thing’s incredible!”

  “But true,” added Hazeldean.

  “I must believe it. But—seven people committing suicide—”

  “That’s not so necessary to believe.”

  “What do you mean?” exclaimed Mr. Fenner sharply.

  “Just that the police aren’t banking on that theory,” answered Hazeldean. “But, of course, they’re not excluding it.”

  “They’d be fools if they did—with that written confession!”

  “There was something on the other side of the paper.”

  “Yes. Please repeat that—if you’re sure you’ve remembered it correctly.”

  “‘With apologies from the Suicide Club’ on one side,” repeated Hazeldean, “and—in what looked like a different scrawl—‘Particulars at address 59·16s 4·6e G,’ on the other.”

  “Odd sort of address!”

  “Very.”

  “What did the police make of it?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Nothing. What do you?”

  “No more than you do! Probably some message in cipher.”

  “But if the writer was trying to write a message,” asked Hazeldean, “why should he conceal his meaning?”

  Mr. Fenner threw up his hands.

  “Why should seven people walk into my house and kill themselves?” he retorted. “Why anything? Unless we are dealing with madness—which itself upsets all logic.” He paused, then added slowly, “Why the cricket ball?”

  “Yes, but you’ve got some theory about that,” answered Hazeldean, taking a chance shot.

  “What makes you think so?” demanded Mr. Fenner.

  “Just a guess,” admitted Hazeldean, “but I’m willing to wager it’s a good guess.”

  “Before I tell you whether it is a good guess or a bad guess,” said Mr. Fenner, “may I know a little more about that fellow you mentioned at the end of your story? The fellow you thought was shadowing you.”

  “Oh, the silk merchant,” replied Hazeldean. He had referred to him briefly.

  “Yes. I think I saw the man as I came in just now.”

  “You did.”

  “Eh? You know that?”

  Hazeldean smiled.

  “When you are locked in a room, you test all the possible exits.”

  He glanced at the skylight. Mr. Fenner’s eyes followed him.

  “I see,” he murmured. “Or, rather, you saw. So he’s shadowed you all the way from the quay?”

  “It seems like it.”

  “And you’ve no notion why?”

  “Not the remotest.”

  Mr. Fenner nodded, got up from his chair and walked slowly to the door and back. He was thinking hard.

  “I must go back at once,” he said; “but before I go I will tell you something that I shall also tell the police. The reason I did not mention it before, Mr. Hazeldean, was because—well, it was natural—you will agree, I think—because I wanted to hear all you had to say first. You were a stranger to me. I had no reason to confide in you. On the contrary I had some reason to doubt you—as you will understand in a moment. And, moreover, what I am about to tell you has so far been told to no one—not even my niece. It concerns—the cricket ball. You say, by the way, that it was on top of a silver vase?”

  “Yes,” replied Hazeldean.

  “I did not put it there. Some queer irony is behind all this. Among all the unanswered whys and wherefores we must include the position of this cricket ball. It symbolises something—but what?” He frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. “A little while ago I received an anonymous letter. It was in printed writing—similar, I take it, to the admission of suicide. It said, ‘One day you will receive a cricket ball. When that happens, be advised, and clear out.’ Just that. What would you have done?”

  “We never know what we would do till the occasion arises,” answered Hazeldean non-committally. “I might have taken it to the police.”

  “So might I,” responded Mr. Fenner dryly. “But I did not. The thing was too ridiculous. I threw it on the fire.”

  “That was a pity.”

  “I agree. At the time, however, I had no desire to risk ridicule. I am already regarded locally as something of an eccentric. That
is always, perhaps, the fate of a man who does not fraternise—who prefers thought to company. When a second communication came, I did the same thing. I burned it. I was annoyed and angry, and still assumed the whole thing was a silly practical joke. Yesterday morning, being tired and overworked, I suggested coming here. My niece was not—enthusiastic. But when the cricket ball arrived—it was my niece who found it—something snapped inside me, and—I admit—I was disturbed. My niece’s mood changed. I expect she realised that I needed the change. She said she was willing to come to Boulogne. So I accepted the situation—and that is all I can tell you… I see a question coming. Let me forestall it. The police—why did I still not go to them?”

  “Yes, I think I should have gone that time,” said Hazeldean.

  “And I intended to go that time,” answered Mr. Fenner. “I packed my niece off quickly, told her I would follow, and was glad to see her out of the house. I did not give her my real reason for telling her to go at once. I suggested she should do some shopping in London, and meant to visit the police station before joining her on the boat train. But when the time came for me to leave the house myself—well, somehow or other—tell me, Mr. Hazeldean, have you seen our local sergeant?”

  “I have.”

  “Does he strike you as a man burdened down by brains?”

  “I wouldn’t quite put it like that.”

  “I am sure you would not! And, having seen him, can you visualise his attitude—his face—when I informed him that I was leaving my house because a cricket ball had suddenly appeared there, and would he kindly keep an eye on the place till I returned? The two communications giving significance to the ball were burnt. Do you think—frankly—he would have been very helpful?”

  “You wouldn’t have had to depend on him,” replied Hazeldean. “The case is in the hands of a far smarter man—Inspector Kendall, if you know him.”

  “I do not know him.”

  “Well, he’s in charge.”

  “I am glad to hear it, if he is as smart as you suggest. But I had no knowledge of this at the time. I came away—leaving my premises empty, it appears, for the next meeting of a suicide club! But one member does not seem to have committed suicide.”

  “Who?”

  “Our silk merchant.”

  “Now you’re guessing!” said Hazeldean.

  “Of course I am,” retorted Mr. Fenner; “but maybe I can guess as well as you can! That fellow worries me. I am not going to take my niece back to Haven House till this matter has been cleared up; but I don’t like the idea of leaving her here alone if that fellow’s going to remain hanging around!… Would you, in my place?”

  He fixed Hazeldean quizzically with his eyes.

  “Not particularly,” admitted Hazeldean.

  “I suggest that is putting it mildly?”

  “Very mildly.”

  Mr. Fenner rubbed his nose thoughtfully, then went on:

  “You have been very good, Mr. Hazeldean. I will not pretend to understand why—whether it is your natural disposition to help people, or whether you have some—some special interest you have not explained.” He paused, and the quizzical eyes grew more quizzical, then suddenly seemed to dismiss the inquiry within them. “The fact remains. You have sailed from Essex to Boulogne in your boat—did you mention its name—?”

  “The Spray.”

  “Spray. Rather an apt name. Spray splashes where the wave takes it, and you—so to speak—have splashed here. Though, I confess, you do not look to me like a young man who merely obeys the tide. Otherwise I should not make the request I am about to make. Do you feel inclined to help us further?”

  “Certainly, if I can,” answered Hazeldean.

  “You can.”

  “How?”

  “I am very worried about Dora—my niece. I think you already understand my predicament.” Hazeldean nodded. “Would it be asking too much of you to remain with her here in this pension till I return—or, at any rate, till I have had time to learn the position at home first hand, and can make the wisest arrangements for her? You have already put yourself out for us more than it would have been reasonable to expect. You have prepared me for a most formidable ordeal. I have no right to ask you to put yourself out any more. But, if you stayed, it would greatly ease my mind—and you could, of course, take a room here. For that matter, you could have mine… Well?”

  Hazeldean was hesitating. His hesitation was not due to any unwillingness to stay; it was just because the idea appealed to him so strongly that he did not want to risk being blinded by his personal desires. He was already fighting certain uneasy self-doubts. The vision of Inspector Kendall’s solemn, responsible face was a little too insistent. He did not want to make it more solemn. Having developed the situation to its present point, he had to justify what he had done by avoiding errors.

  Still, he could not see anything against Mr. Fenner’s suggestion. On the contrary, the more he considered it, the more reasonable it appeared. The idea of leaving Dora Fenner here was as distasteful to him as to her uncle.

  “I see I have asked too much,” said Mr. Fenner with a little sigh. “Forgive me.”

  “No, you haven’t asked too much,” replied Hazeldean quickly. “I’m just wondering—”

  “Yes?”

  “Whether it’s the wisest plan.”

  “Have you a wiser?”

  “I could take you all back in my boat.”

  “I confess I had thought of that. But the problem of Dora remains when we get over. I positively refuse to take her into the middle of all this—ghastliness; or anywhere near it, for that matter. You know what it would be like. Even if she were not pestered by the police. The publicity! She’s in no condition for that sort of thing. I doubt whether she could stand it.”

  “Could I take her to friends?”

  But Mr. Fenner again shook his head.

  “This may surprise you, Mr. Hazeldean. We have no friends. None, at any rate, whom I could leave her with. You can believe me when I assure you that—provided she is safe, and has someone with her—she will be much better staying quietly here—at present. Still, I do not press my request, naturally. I should not have made it—that is, I might not have made it—if Madame Paula had been in a better condition to look after her. Unfortunately, now Madame Paula has a tragedy of her own.”

  “Yes, what about Madame Paula?” asked Hazeldean. “Wouldn’t she prefer it if we all left? Instead—just now—of having a new guest saddled on her?”

  “That is a point,” admitted Mr. Fenner, “although, of course, there is a staff here. There would be no need for her to be worried. Still—wait a moment.”

  He left the room abruptly. In three minutes he was back.

  “I have just seen Madame Paula,” he said. “We are old friends—yes, I made a mistake when I said we had no friends—I meant, of course, in England—and Madame Paula is quite agreeable. In fact, she agrees with me that it would be unwise for Dora to leave here just yet. She would like you to stay—if you can forgive her,” he added, with a faint smile, “for her original reception of you.”

  “Naturally—of course,” replied Hazeldean. “And, in that case—”

  “You consent?”

  Hazeldean nodded.

  “Mr. Hazeldean, you have taken a great load off my mind!” Mr. Fenner exclaimed. “I am more relieved than I can say! And now, since that is fixed, I must get busy. I have to take Madame Paula to the police station—she has to identify her husband—what remains of him—and she wishes to get that over as soon as possible. Naturally, I said I would go with her. From the police station I shall telephone through to Benwick, get the latest information, and tell them I am coming—”

  “How will you go?”

  “By the boat.”

  “What about an aeroplane?”

  “Thank you, no! I have a horror of the air—
and I am about to accompany a lady to see the remains of her husband who has crashed! I have never been up in the air, and I never intend to go. These days, the ground is quite unsafe enough for me!”

  “Well, there’s a boat at 7.20.”

  “Yes, I know. It gets into Victoria at eleven. The train, that is, not the boat. You will forgive me if I am a little distrait. Seven-twenty will just give me time to put a few things into my bag, to see to Madame Paula’s business and to get to the quay. If I go at once. But first I must have a talk with my niece, and let her know what has been arranged.” Suddenly he shot a question which seemed to come rather late in the day. “Does my niece know about all this?”

  “I was on the point of telling her when Madame Paula interrupted us,” answered Hazeldean.

  “Then I will tell her.” He looked at his watch. “I must hurry. Do you know where the dining-room is? I’ll send the maid to you. She will get you some tea, and afterwards my room will be free—No. 4—and perhaps you would see my niece.”

  “I’ll need a few things from my boat,” Hazeldean reminded him.

  “Of course—that’s a nuisance,” replied Mr. Fenner, frowning. “Is there any one in the boat?”

  “A man and a boy.”

  “Could one of them bring your things along, if I delivered a message for you?”

  “You won’t have time. You’re going to be busy!”

  “I could do it. And if you go to the boat yourself—well, it will take you some little while from here, and I’m afraid I should be gone before you came back. I dare say I am over-anxious. Of course, there’s the staff—but a half-witted maid and an old man falling to bits are not much protection for my niece if our silk merchant makes trouble after we all depart!”

  “But you don’t really think the fellow is menacing your niece, do you?” inquired Hazeldean.

  “My dear fellow, I do not know what I think!” exclaimed Mr. Fenner, throwing up his hands. “I did not think seven people would be found dead in my house! I did not think Madame Paula’s husband would choose the occasion to crash in his aeroplane! I did not think I should be talking to a stranger in an attic, and putting my only relative in his charge! All I do know, sir—though I am doing my best to control myself, and my best is not now quite as good as it was—is that I am distracted!”