‘No, do stay,’ I said, ‘though both the police and Dr McKenzie said I wasn’t to see anyone yet.’
She sat down nervously, and continued, in her normal voice.
‘I simply don’t know what to do. I’ve seen Dr McKenzie, and he told me about your finding Dr Green’s body. What’s bothering me is Leonard. He went out with Dr Green, you know, and he hasn’t come back yet. Do you think we shall have to tell the police that they went out together? Are you going to tell them?’
‘I shall have to, if they ask me. So will you. There’s no use concealing that kind of thing from them. They’d be sure to find it out. Besides, there’s nothing in it, of course.’
She played nervously with her handkerchief.
‘Of course not, only . . .’
‘If you’re worried about Leonard,’ I said, ‘the best thing you can do is to tell the police at once. Meanwhile, you and Sheila must have something to eat.’
‘Sheila’s having something. I’m not hungry.’
‘Then there’s Clarence,’ I said, unguardedly perhaps. ‘Has he come in yet?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Well, I saw him,’ I said gently but ambiguously, ‘just before I found the body.’
‘Oh Lord! Malcolm, you’re not suggesting that . . . ?’
‘No, no. But I think you’ve just as much cause to worry about him as about Leonard.’
‘I see.’
She seemed, on the whole, somewhat relieved by this thought.
‘Now what about your mother, Amabel? How is she, first?’
‘I heard she was better after tea. I haven’t been to see her since I saw Dr McKenzie.’
‘Then I think you ought to go and see her. Remember, she’s got to break the news to Mr Quisberg. It would be far better if she did than if Dr McKenzie did.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid Daddy will feel it dreadfully. It’ll break him up completely. Malcolm, you’ve been in a murder case before. Is it very awful? Do they ferret everything out?’
‘That’s the trouble,’ I said. ‘They do. And if you try to hide anything it’s all the worse when they get to know. I was made to look very small myself after Aunt Catherine died.’
‘Life isn’t going to be exactly gay, then, for the next few days.’
‘No, it isn’t – for any of us. Do you know, I’ve somehow felt this coming on – ever since Mrs Harley died!’
It was a piece of frankness on my part difficult to account for, but it seemed to win her sympathy.
‘Then I’ve been very blind,’ she said, ‘and so wrapped up in – my own affairs. I know what you mean, though. I wonder . . .’
At this point, I felt that the sharing of such conjectures was altogether too intimate. Besides, I heard steps in the passage.
‘Well, I really think you’d better go and see your mother. If the police hear we’ve been talking together, they may get some silly ideas in their heads. That’s the thing to avoid if we can.’
‘Good night, Malcolm. And thank you . . .’
She went out just as Edwins came in to take my tray away. Well, if he reported that we had been conferring together, it couldn’t be helped. There were worse secrets than that, probably, which would have to be revealed.
When Edwins had gone, I lay down and went over my old thoughts again, adding one new one to them – was Mrs Harley’s death an accident? I had no real grounds at all for thinking that it was not, except that the occurrence of two violent deaths, the second one being manifestly a murder, in the same household within forty-eight hours, was a startling coincidence. What really perplexed me, however, and had perplexed me the whole time, was the strained atmosphere at Beresford Lodge. This I had noticed almost as soon as I arrived on Christmas Eve. Had I not seen Quisberg and Dr Green talking together with more than ordinary intentness as my taxi turned into the drive? And the dinner party on Christmas Eve, even making full allowance for the incompatibility of the guests, had hardly been a normal meal. No, the whole time I had been aware of what I have called ‘undercurrents’, swirling round us and hiding heaven only knew what perilous rocks below. I had been ‘jumpy’ and ‘on edge’ during the visit, not only because I found the party, as a whole, uncongenial to me, but because – and here I was beginning laboriously to re-examine all the ‘sore places’ in my mind, when the door opened and Edwins announced Detective-Inspector Parris of Scotland Yard.
XIII. Question and Answer
Boxing Day – 9.15 p.m.
Inspector Parris was a tall and very good-looking man of about forty. Had he been a little thinner, he might have been a male film star. He had thick, rather greasy, light brown hair, large blue eyes, a strong though slightly snub nose, and a large but not unpleasant mouth and jaw. He came straight to my bed and held out his hand.
‘Mr Warren, I’m more than sorry to have to bother you at such a time. But no doubt you were expecting one of us. Of course, if you feel really too done up, I’ll put off my talk with you till to-morrow, though naturally—’
‘Not at all,’ I said, as he shrugged his shoulders elegantly. ‘I’m better now, though still a bit feeble, and shall be very glad to get this over to-night. I shall sleep better.’
‘I expect you will,’ he said sympathetically. ‘May I sit down?’
‘Of course, and won’t you have a drink?’
‘Not yet, thank you very much. Later, perhaps.’
He sat down in an armchair near the fire, drawing it up at an angle, as if to avoid confronting me too directly, and went on:
‘Well, Mr Warren, before I begin to ask you all my wearisome questions, I want to make a little speech myself. In the first place I know all about you. Oh, you needn’t blush. I mean, I know all about the sad experience you had when your aunt, Mrs Cartwright, died. As a matter of fact, the papers relating to that case were sent up to us for perusal, and I had to make a report on them. I want to tell you, too, how much I sympathise with you for being involved in another such affair – though, happily, this case cannot cause you the same personal distress.’
Looking up and seeing that I was smoking, he lit a cigarette, and continued.
‘What I’m getting at is this. (I’m saying things I shouldn’t, perhaps, but I rely on you.) In your poor aunt’s case, your relations with the police were a little unfortunate. You found yourself, through no fault of your own, on the other side. No doubt they antagonised you quite unnecessarily. Their handling of the trouble was not all it should have been. Of course, our provincial police are excellent fellows – it was in the Midlands, I think?’
‘Yes, at Macebury.’
‘Oh, yes, of course! As I was going to say, their methods are very rough and ready. They’re quite hopeless, many of them, when it comes to dealing with – shall we say? – men and women of the world. After all, poor fellows, they don’t get much experience of crime amongst the – er – well-to-do classes. So, you see, I’m going to ask you, if you can, to wash out all your preconceived notions of us, and to give me a fair chance. Don’t let my questions, when they come, upset you or prejudice you against me. I’m quite human – as a matter of fact, I was once a theological student, but circumstances made me give up the Church – and I’m doing this, often odious, task, for my living. You taxpayers are paying for me. We are not – I certainly am not – in any way vindictive. No doubt I shall unearth many secrets, but I will treat them with all respect. I may also – in my blundering way – offend many susceptibilities. For this I ask your forgiveness in advance. So do, please, try to think of me neither as an enemy nor a busybody, but as a friend. Give me, as far as you can, your full confidence, and, as far as I can, I on my side will give you mine, and, if it interests you, will let you in a little further ‘behind the scenes’ than is perhaps quite usual – to make amends for our gaucherie on a previous occasion.’
He put his head on one side and smiled at me.
‘You certainly are,’ I said, ‘a great improvement on Superintendent Glaize.’ (This was the officer who had investigated my au
nt’s death.)
‘Thank you. I rather thought I was. Well, now we’d better begin. Do we need this bright centre light? That’s better, isn’t it? Now you lie down comfortably and tell me all about things. Imagine you’re being psycho-analysed, if you like, and look the other way. I believe psycho-analysts usually talk to their patients in the dark so as to spare the blushes on both sides. I had a psycho-analytical case once – but I must tell you about that some other day. We’ll start first, please, with the chain of events immediately leading up to your discovery. You were taking a walk on the Heath, I gather? Were you alone?’
‘Yes. I had finished my walk and was sitting on a seat about fifty or sixty yards below the hilltop when I suddenly heard the sound of a wind instrument coming from the dark space below me.’
‘Why do you mention the wind instrument? Don’t be alarmed. I’m only trying clumsily to deduce how your mind works.’
‘I mention it,’ I said drily, ‘partly because it seems to me somehow to be a link in the chain of events you talked about just now, and partly because it made a great impression on me. The sound, in such a setting, really was most beautiful – and moving.’
‘I quite understand.’
‘When the music stopped, which it did quite suddenly, in the middle of a phrase, I had an impulse to look for the musician. By the way, a clock struck a quarter past five the moment the music had finished.’
‘I wonder why you noticed that.’
‘Partly through the contrast of sound, I suppose, and partly because I had dared to be late for tea here. I started to go down the slope by the extreme right-hand edge of that part of the Heath. Do you know it? There are a number of gardens backing directly on to the Heath. The houses are all called Heath Brow, Heath View, Heathlands, or Heath something. The entrances are, I suppose, in North End Road – a road which meets the Finchley Road at Golders Green.’
‘I know it.’
‘I followed the line of these gardens for a time, and then struck out to the left into the middle of the wooded patch. You know there is a big undulating stretch, covered with trees, mostly thorn and silver birch, and overgrown with clumps of gorse, brambles and bracken. I wandered in this thicket for some time, bearing on the whole to the left and still downhill, when all at once I heard footsteps – running steps – quite close to me. Then someone came running towards me, and I recognised Mrs Quisberg’s son, Clarence James.’
Inspector Parris drew a piece of paper from his pocket and studied it.
‘Clarence James. The son by her first husband?’
‘Yes. He seemed quite distracted and said: “You’ll find a friend of yours down there. Dr Green. Dead!” and pointed down a track between the bushes. I shouted to him, but he hurried off, and I thought I ought to disregard him and look for Dr Green, in case there was anything to be done.’
‘Most wise.’
‘Then I tied my silk muffler to a tree, in case I got lost, and began the search. You have probably heard the rest of my story from your superintendent. Would you like me to go on?’
‘I’ll take you through it with questions, if I may. How did you find the little clearing where the body lay? It was pitch dark, wasn’t it?’
‘The sun had set, of course, but the sky was extraordinarily clear and light. If it hadn’t been, I should never have recognised Clarence James. It was an intermittent darkness. Under some of those thick thorn trees, and among the bushes, one could see practically nothing, but whenever there was an opening in the vegetation, the darkness was by no means complete. As a matter of fact, I think there must have been a moon, though I don’t remember noticing it.’
‘Yes, there was.’
‘Before I found the body I saw something glittering on the ground, and finding that the glitter came from a wind instrument – I don’t know if I’m entitled to say the wind instrument, meaning the one I heard played . . .’
‘Nor do I, yet. But I think probably you are.’
‘. . . I wormed my way into the clearing and discovered the body. I searched it for a light and found a box of matches. Oh, I had quite forgotten! I also found a notecase and a gold cigarette-case, which I thought I had better remove.’
‘That was a little naughty. No, perhaps it wasn’t. Where are they?’
‘I’m ashamed to say they’re still in the pockets of my overcoat, which is hanging in the lobby downstairs. Would you like me to ring for it?’
‘I’ll get it myself now. No, it’s no trouble. I want in any case to have a word with one of my men. Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to pour me out a drink, will you – a weak one – and, I hope, one for yourself?’
He left the room and I did as he suggested. On the whole I was not dissatisfied with the interview as far as it had gone. The Inspector was a most agreeable man. Film star, shopwalker or clergyman – which became him best? I was beginning fatuously to compliment myself on the way I had played up to him, when he returned and handed me my coat.
‘Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to give me the two articles now,’ he said, ‘before we forget.’
Shopwalker, I thought, and, fumbling in the two outside pockets, produced from one of them the notecase and from the other the cigarette-case. He studied the latter for a few moments.
‘A fine piece of work. Feel the weight of it,’ he said. ‘Price – about eighty pounds, Bond Street, and would cost nearly thirty to make. And there’s an inscription, too. “M.G. from A.Q. Dec. 1922.” Is A.Q. Mr Quisberg, I wonder?’
‘Probably. His name is Axel.’
‘They’ve been friends for some years, evidently. Well, we must resume, as they say. (I don’t quite know where they say it, but no matter.) You searched the body and found a box of matches. Were you sure that you were dealing with a dead man, or did you just go by what Clarence James had told you?’
He put the cigarette-case and the notecase in his coat pocket, took his glass of whisky and sat down.
‘I felt for the heart underneath the shirt,’ I said, ‘and couldn’t feel any movement. And I saw the wound on the side of the head which had stopped bleeding. I gather from the detective stories I have read that bodies don’t bleed after death. I haven’t any medical knowledge, of course.’
‘Oh, detective stories have their uses. Most people rely on them for practical hints when they come into contact with crime – and crimes themselves tend to imitate the detective story. It’s another case of Nature imitating Art . . . And when you’d satisfied yourself that Dr Green was dead, what did you do?’
‘I set off for Beresford Lodge as quickly as I could, struck the ride at the end of the Heath and followed it till I came to West Heath Road. Then I found Dr McKenzie talking to the nurse by the front door, told him my news, and more or less collapsed.’
‘Yes . . . Suppose Dr McKenzie hadn’t been here, whom would you have told?’
‘That’s a hard question. I suppose I ought to have told Mr Quisberg, but as far as I knew he was in bed. I think I should have told Miss Thurston – that’s Mrs Quisberg’s eldest daughter by her second husband – and telephoned myself to the police station. Or if I’d been feeling too ill myself, I might have tried to get Dr McKenzie on the telephone.’
‘Thank you. Just let me think for a moment. Oh, there are three things connected with what we may call the scene of the crime that I should like to ask you about. First, the wind instrument that first caught your eye. Did you pick it up?’
‘Yes, but I put it down again almost exactly where I found it.’
‘How far was that from the body?’
‘Say six or seven feet.’
‘Was Dr Green a musician?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I never heard him play any instrument. I heard him whistling once.’
‘Any special air?’
‘No – a kind of coloratura passage not unlike flute-music. He was a man, I should say, of many varied accomplishments.’
‘Yes, we’ll return to him later. Second point – did you notice a cane �
� a kind of life-preserver – in the clearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you seen it, or one like it, before – I mean, since your visit here?’
‘Yes. There was one in the umbrella stand in the lobby here.’
‘Do you know whose it was?’
‘I think it was Leonard Dixon’s. He’s Miss Thurston’s friend, you know.’
The Inspector consulted his paper again.
‘Are they engaged?’
‘Not officially, but I think they would like to be.’
‘Did you ever see Dixon using such a stick?’
‘Yes. He took it with him when he drove away some youths who had climbed on to the wall separating this garden from Paragon House, the property behind. He even referred to the stick as his, before he went out to chase them.’
‘When you came back after finding the body and had your little scene with Dr McKenzie in the lobby, did you notice if the stick was in the umbrella stand?’
‘No. I was much too upset.’
‘Of course. Now the third point. Did you happen to notice a hole in the clearing, with a plank projecting from it?’
‘Yes. I tripped over the plank and fell into the bushes.’
‘Did you examine the hole at all?’
‘No. Was there anything odd about it?’
He looked at me for a moment and smiled.
‘It was a very big hole, and there was a spade inside it. The earth had evidently been newly dug. There, I’ve been most unprofessional. Let’s hurry to another subject. When did you last see Dr Green – before you found his body?’
‘I saw him from the window of this room shortly before three this afternoon. He was going for a walk.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘No. Dixon was with him.’
‘Was Dixon carrying his stick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was Dr Green carrying anything?’
‘No. He had, as far as I remember, his hands in his overcoat pockets.’
‘What was the relationship between Dr Green and Dixon?’
‘Do you mean blood relationship?’
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