Reflected Glory

by John Russell Fearn

  He put his hand in his jacket pocket and withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief in a transparent envelope. Placing it on the table he pointed to it.

  “Blood spots,” he explained. “Get them analyzed. I know they belong to Miss Farraday because they’re from some thorn stabs I—er—devised this morning. She hadn’t the least idea that it was a trick. If that proves to be group A-B as well, I think we can safely assume that the stains on the handbag and the belt are also hers. As to the hair, which is Hexley’s—I just don’t know.”

  “You certainly have an unorthodox way of getting results,” Calthorp commented, pushing the cellophane bag and handkerchief into his pocket. “I’ll have the stains analyzed the moment I get back to the Yard. How do I let you know the result?”

  “Come to my home. I’m returning to London this evening. I can’t stay at Tudor Cottage any longer because there’s no legiti­mate reason. Tell me something,” Castle added, “how did Miss Farraday react when you told her you were going to explore the basement?”

  “She raised no objections.”

  “I’ll wager one thing, Calthorp: she didn’t come with you.”

  “No, as a matter of fact she didn’t. I asked her to because I had the fear that she might slam the door on Dixon and me and screw it up. She didn’t though. She just stood looking out on to the back garden—”

  “Ah!” Castle interrupted, his blue eyes gleaming. “Her back was to you, was it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And whilst that basement door was open did she turn once and speak to you?”

  “Er—no,” Calthorp responded, thinking. “She only turned when Dixon had slammed the door shut.”

  “Exactly!” Castle rubbed his podgy hands in. delight. “Just a little more evidence, Calthorp, which shows her mental reaction to that basement—and indeed, to all places which are dark and suggest imprisonment. That is one reason why I had no qualms about disturbing that belt. I knew she would never come and look on the ‘torture’ chamber without some very compelling reason. It is simply a case of her not having the courage to look on the source of her childhood terrors. For the same reason she screwed up the big cupboard doors in the kitchen. There’s a touch of claustrophobia there, allied to her inferiority complex.”

  Calthorp nodded but he did not say anything. It was clear he was not altogether at home with the psychiatrist’s elucidation of mental foibles. Facts, understandable to the layman, were the only things that really interested the chief inspector. The realm of mental analysis had always seemed to him like so much mumbo-jumbo.

  “Usually,” Castle said, relighting his pipe, “people of Miss Farraday’s type keep a diary, record their voices, or otherwise make a history of their actions. Since they cannot reveal their activities openly to anybody else, they satisfy their ego by writ­ing about them. I had hoped whilst at Tudor Cottage to find a diary or some such thing, but I found something infinitely better—a manuscript of a novel in the process of being written by Miss Farraday. Shorn of its external trimmings it amounts to a somewhat exaggerated version of her own activities, her way of recording what she had done, and one particular extract is outstanding. I copied it down and here it is....”

  Calthorp took the slip of paper and frowned over it.

  “‘As a murderess she could achieve that which, as an innocent she could never have achieved’,” he repeated slowly. “I think I see what you mean, doc. It’s a reflection of herself—she trying to attract attention by seeming to be a murderess.”

  “Just so—which you spoilt for her by not arresting her.”

  “Nor shall I until I find the body; and between ourselves I haven’t much hope of doing that.” Calthorp looked at the note again and puzzled for a moment. “You slipping?” he inquired. “Why all these misspellings?”

  “That is exactly as Miss Farraday wrote the statement,” Castle responded calmly. “And I surely don’t have to tell you that words which have letters missed out are a sign of a peculiar twist in the writer’s mind?”

  “Says Hans Gross,” Calthorp smiled. “Got it all tied up, haven’t you?”

  “The writing itself is also that of a person of peculiar mental tendencies,” Castle added. “Tied up?” he repeated. “Well—partly. I’m worried as to how to prove Hexley’s blood-group. I find it an intolerable situation not to be able to find just that, and to be sure that it is his group. Once find the weak link in Miss Farraday’s confession, I know we’ll find out what really happened to Hexley.”

  “Just what do you think did happen to him?” Calthorp asked, putting the note in his wallet for future study. “I have thought of all the angles, including suicide, but I come right back to thinking of murder—not necessarily by Miss Farraday, for indeed I think less of her as the culprit than I ever did—but by somebody. Hargraves, maybe, or Terry Draycott, or—remotely—Miss Vane. But I’m well aware that I’ll have the hell of a time prov­ing it in regard to the last two, though I might be able to find something against Hargraves, since his alibi isn’t watertight in places. There are gaps in his activities where he could have got up to mischief.”

  “For myself,” Castle said slowly; “I have the feeling that murder cannot be laid specifically at the door of anybody. I have a vague theory forming as to what really might have happened to Hexley, and if I’m right it is the exact opposite of what has appeared to be the case so far. That I can only prove—I hope—as I go along.”

  He reflected further and then glanced at his watch. Immediately he struggled to his feet.

  “My word, Calthorp, I must be going! I’ve a car to hire yet and then get back to Midhampton for the wife and Brendy. Contact me in London and we’ll decide then what to do next.”

  Calthorp nodded, rose also, and accompanied him across the café. The man seated three tables away, who had mostly been hidden behind his newspaper as the two men had sat absorbed in conversation, watched them pause at the cash desk and then depart.

  “That’s odd,” Clem Hargraves murmured to himself. “That was Chief Inspector Calthorp—no doubt of it. Now I just wonder if he is going to start pestering Elsa again?”

  He considered a list he had pulled from his pocket, places whereat he was forced to call before they closed. It did not leave any time for a detour to Midhampton.

  “See her this evening,” he decided. “If that isn’t too late, I may be able to put her on her guard.”

  * * * * * * *

  After profuse thanks and insisting on paying up to date, Castle and his wife and daughter departed from Tudor Cottage about five-thirty and Elsa was once again left to herself. Though she would not admit it, even to herself, the place seemed unbearably dull after the trio’s departure. She thought of doing some writing and then shook her head irritably. She was not in the mood. Finally she threw herself into an armchair and sat brooding, until a strident ringing at the front door startled her. Surprised, and glad of the change, she hurried through the hall.

  Clem Hargraves was in the porch, his homely face looking unusually serious.

  “Oh, then you’re still here!” he exclaimed. “I was getting worried about you.”

  “Yes—still here,” Elsa acknowledged.

  “Car’s out front,” Clem said. “Feel like coming for a run? It’s a nice evening.”

  “All right,” Elsa assented. “I’ll be with you in a few mom­ents.”

  He relaxed against the front doorway and waited whilst the girl sped upstairs. She reflected as she made her outdoor preparations that Clem Hargraves could not have come at a better time to relieve the monotony. Before long she had joined him in the porch and they went down the pathway together to his car.

  “You’re looking unusually bothered, Clem,” she told him at length, as he drove slowly down the sunny lane. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I came really to warn you,” he explained. “You haven’t seen that Scotland Yard inspector again, I suppose?”

  “Not since the other evening when you saw him.”


  “Well I think you will be doing, and before long. He was in the Guildford district this afternoon. I had to be there too on business and I dropped in at a café. I’d just got seated when I noticed Calthorp a few tables away. I promptly put up my newspaper, not having any desire to be mixed up with the gent. He gave me a grilling the other day, you know.”

  “He did? And this is the first chance you’ve had to tell me about it?”

  “Afraid so; been extremely busy. Besides, I’ve not been at all sure just how you’d receive me. Since you turned down my proposal so flatly I can’t see really why we go on as we do. Not much point in it, is there?” he asked moodily.

  “I’ve been thinking things over a bit since then,” Elsa replied quietly. “At that time my nerves were pretty well in rags—what with Clive vanishing so mysteriously, and then the police coming after me. It was hardly the time to think about getting engaged. Now, though—”

  Clem brightened. “You mean there’s still a chance, after all? Gosh, Elsa, if only you would! You know I’ve never thought of anybody else but you in spite of the differences of opinion we’ve had. I still say that I could protect you against all comers if we were married.”

  “The trouble is,” Elsa sighed, “that I can’t feel free until I know what the law has decided concerning Clive. I couldn’t marry with the thought hanging over me that one day the police might find enough evidence to arrest me. It wouldn’t be fair to you—to either of us.”

  “I’d risk that, if you would. You’re alone too much, Elsa! There’s no earthly reason why you should wage this fight all by yourself.... Anyway, maybe you’ll soon know something one way or the other now Calthorp is in the vicinity.”

  “When he interviewed you, how much did he ask?” Elsa inquired, thinking.

  “Matter of fact he almost proved to his own satisfaction that I might have killed Clive Hexley, for reasons of jealousy. Then he asked me for a full statement of all my movements from the day Hexley had been seen in this district. I sent it to the Yard and have heard nothing since. Damned silly, I call it! As if I’d kill Hexley! I didn’t like the way he snatched you, of course, but I’m no killer.”

  “Did he ask you anything concerning me?”

  “Oh, one or two things.” Clem gave a shrug. “Just wanted to know the extent of your association with me, and so forth. I told him and he seemed satisfied. Anyway, you can see why I didn’t want to get involved with him again in the café. He’s got a nasty habit of making you admit things whether you want to or not.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t see you?”

  “Couldn’t have done or he’d surely have come over and said something. No, I’m sure he didn’t see me. He was too deep in conver­sation with a white-haired old buffer for that. Some pal of his, I suppose.”

  Elsa was silent for a moment or two as the car moved on slowly through the countryside, aiming at nowhere in particular. Then she gave a little start.

  “White-haired old buffer?” she repeated. “Do you mean silver-haired?”

  “Same thing, isn’t it? What about it?”

  “Just a moment—what did he look like, this man Calthorp was talking to?” There was a glint in Elsa’s grey eyes. “Was he big and fat, with about three chins and a round face?”

  “Yes—he was.” Clem glanced in surprise. “What’s the matter? Who cares, anyway?”

  “I do!” Elsa snapped. “Stop the car a moment. I’ve something I want to sort out.”

  Clem obeyed and then sat looking at the girl questioningly. The bitterness that had come into her expression startled him.

  “That man,” she said slowly, her mouth taut, “has been in my home with his wife and daughter since yesterday tea-time. They only left about half an hour before you turned up this evening.”

  “What on earth were they doing staying with you?” Clem asked blankly.

  Elsa gave him the facts and he whistled softly.

  “Whew! Sure it’s the same chap?”

  “It must have been! The description fits exactly, and I know he was out at the time, supposedly hiring a car in which to take home his wife and daughter. The fact that you saw him talking so earnestly to Calthorp settles it for me. He was a spy! Spying on me! And I thought he was a perfectly genuine lawyer.... Of all the rotten, low down tricks!”

  “The police,” Clem said grimly, “will attempt anything—but it can’t do them much good unless they get something out of it, and I imagine you were smart enough to make sure that this chap Ben­nington—or whatever his real name is—didn’t find out anything. In any case, you’ve nothing to hide, have you?”

  “That’s not the point! How dare he come probing and peeping into my home in that underhand fashion? I’ll go to Scotland Yard and demand an explanation! Yes, that’s what I’ll do!”

  “Now wait a minute,” Clem said, gripping her arm. “Don’t go off half-cocked, Elsa: think the thing out first. Just how much good do you suppose this detective did himself by being in your home? There couldn’t be anything worth his attention, could there?”

  “Well....” Elsa frowned worriedly. “Not as far as I know. You see, it depends what he was looking for. The police get up to such tricks when they want information. That man may have found something which, used in the right way, could perhaps form evidence to prove that I killed Clive, or something—and I’d perhaps have an awful job to talk myself out of it. As far as I know there was nothing he could have found, but just the same....”

  “Don’t you worry, he didn’t find anything,” Clem assured her. “It was a dirty plant, I agree with you—but it didn’t prove of any use. As for your dashing to the Yard to make a complaint I should go easy. If you do that, and make a row, it will make it look as though you may be guilty and afraid that something has been discovered. If you take my advice you’ll do nothing.”

  “Yes.... Perhaps you’re right.” Elsa sat reflecting. “Just the same,” she added, “I think there may be something I can do to find out how much that white-haired old liar did discover.”

  “And that is?”

  “Never mind. Just leave me to handle things in my own way, Clem. Drive me back home, will you? I want a chance to think this one out. I’ll show him whether he’ll creep into my home like that!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Towards ten o’clock the same evening Chief Inspector Calthorp called on Dr. Castle at his Hampstead hone and was shown into the lounge where the big psychiatrist, his wife, and Brenda were seated at their ease. Calthorp half motioned with his hand as Castle attempted to rise.

  “Don’t trouble, doc,” he said. “Heaving all that around isn’t too easy for you, I know.... Glad to see you back in your native haunt. Good evening, Mrs. Castle—”

  “And Brenda,” Castle murmured, wheezing, “whom you have not met before. Brendy, this is Chief Inspector Calthorp of Scotland Yard.”

  Brenda bobbed up, shook hands rather shyly, and then sat down again with her eyes rather wide.

  “You actually don’t wear your hat inside the house, inspector,” she exclaimed. “I thought all policemen did that.”

  “My daughter,” Castle explained sadly, “extracts her education from the movies. Heaven knows why I pay college fees.... Anyway, Calthorp, sit down. Have a drink?”

  “No, thanks all the same. Bit too late. I’m on my way home but I thought I’d drop in and tell you about—er—well, you know, the hanky.”

  “No need to keep it a secret,” Castle said, smiling. “My wife and Brendy know all the facts. Since we got back home I’ve given them the details up to date: they’re entitled to it since they’ve helped me so well. All right, what about the hanky?”

  “The blood group is A-B.”

  “Ah!” Castle’s blue eyes gleamed. “Then I think that ties up most satisfactorily with the blood on the belt and handbag. It is Miss Farraday’s.”

  “In that I agree with you—but it does also bring us to a dead stop without us knowing Hexley’s group. I’ve been racking my
brains to try and think where we might find some clue about that—without result. I’ve been through his studio, as I told you, seen the doctor who fixed him up. Done everything, I imagine.”

  “And you have been to his flat?” Castle asked, musing.

  “Yes, mainly to try and find some clues and also to get those hair combings. I found nothing there that would help us with the blood-group.”

  “It’s a confoundedly awkward problem,” Castle muttered. “Best thing I can do is have a look round for myself. I’m not doubting your thoroughness, Calthorp, but we work in different ways. Tomorrow we’ll take a look at that studio and his flat. If we get nothing out of those we’ll have to think further.”

  “Okay, doc; it’s up to you. At the same time maybe you can figure out how that hair on the handbag comes to be Hexley’s. It has me pretty well stumped, unless we accept the rather dubious conclusion that Miss Farraday had one or two of his hairs on her own clothes and used them. But I don’t see how she could know they were his. One picks up all manner of stray hairs, especially after a train journey.”

  “That,” Castle said, aiming a reproving glance, “is a distinct­ly poor theory for you, Calthorp. I’m convinced you need a drink.”

  In spite of Calthorp’s protests he heaved to his feet and went over to the sideboard...and whilst he was doing it Elsa Farraday was seated in a night train for London.

  Alone in the corner of her compartment her lips were tight and her eyes filled. with cold bitterness. The “invasion” of Benning­ton was, to her, both puzzling and alarming. Thinking back, she could not remember that she had said anything particularly in­criminating, but knowing the ways of the police she was not sure. Somewhere she might have made an unwitting admission of some kind. The exact reason for planting a detective in her home—for as yet she had no idea of Castle’s real profession—was something that baffled her.