by Annie Haynes
“H’m!” the inspector scratched the side of his nose reflectively, with the handle of his fountain pen. “May I see the receipt?”
“Certainly!” The manager unlocked his desk. “Here it is. Only the signature is in Lady Anne’s writing of course.”
“Of course,” assented the inspector. “Mr. Cardyn, what do you make of this? Is it Lady Anne’s writing? This gentleman was Lady’s Anne’s private secretary,” he added as Bruce bent over the paper.
Undoubtedly it was almost identical with the crabbed and shaking handwriting that had become very familiar to Bruce Cardyn of late. Almost—and yet, was it quite? Bruce could not answer the question to his own satisfaction. At last he looked up.
“If it is not Lady Anne Daventry’s signature it is a remarkably clever imitation. But—I am not sure—”
The inspector handed the receipt back to the manager.
“Take care of it, sir. We may want it later. And—one more question, and then I will not detain you longer. Did Lady Anne come in her own carriage?”
“I really couldn’t be certain,” the manager said, beginning to look uneasy. “It was a private car and there were two men on the box, so I took it for granted it was her own, but I can’t say any more.”
“Well, I am very grateful to you for allowing us to take up so much of your valuable time,” the inspector said, getting up. “And they say gratitude is a sense of favours to come—I am afraid we shall take up more of it yet. Good morning.”
When they were out of sight of Messrs. Spagnum and Thirgood’s, and their taxi was bowling as swiftly as the traffic would allow towards Bayswater Road, Bruce Cardyn looked at the inspector.
“Did it strike you that manager fellow looked a trifle pale at the end?”
“Afraid of losing his job if he let himself be taken in by an impostor, however clever, I expect,” the inspector explained blandly. “But”—throwing himself round and almost facing the young man—”this is a queer case, as queer a case as ever I came across. As a rule one is bothered to find a clue—here the clues seem to tumble out under one’s nose all the time. The difficulty is they all lead in different directions, and I’m blessed if I can make out the right one as yet. Now—”
He stopped and looked out at the traffic without speaking.
“Now—?” Bruce Cardyn repeated curiously.
The inspector gave an odd little laugh.
“I am wondering whether Lady Anne Daventry did not sell her jewels herself and simply wanted us to imagine that they were stolen. Such a case is not without a parallel in the annals of the British aristocracy.”
“I am quite sure there was nothing of that kind about the loss of Lady Anne’s jewels,” Bruce Cardyn said firmly. “Besides, surely her murder shows—”
“So you imagine Lady Anne was murdered by the person who stole the pearls?” The inspector questioned, fixing the young man with his gimletlike gaze. “And why?”
Bruce Cardyn felt as if the solid ground was melting away beneath his feet.
“So that the identity of the thief should not be discovered,” he said slowly.
“So that is your theory,” said the inspector with another of those queer little laughs. “But does it not strike you as odd, Mr. Cardyn, that, if the pearl thief were also the murderer, Lady Anne should have been killed just a week before the day fixed for the payment of the second half of the purchase money, and what about the secret poisoning? Ah, ah, Mr. Cardyn, is it possible that you private inquiry gentlemen still have something to learn from the real article?”
CHAPTER IX
It was a week to the day since the murder of Lady Anne Daventry.
Inspector Furnival was sitting in the library on the first floor, ostensibly looking over the notes in his pocket-book, with an occasional glance at the pile of the daily papers that lay on the table beside him, in reality keeping a keen watch on the door leading into the hall which he had left open.
Lady Anne’s funeral had taken place the previous day. Her will had directed that she should be buried in the nearest place of interment to the place in which she died, “having,” as that document stated, “an objection to having my body carted about the country.” So that instead of a stately funeral at Daventry there had been a very simple affair in a big London cemetery. The time of the service had been kept secret or there would have been the usual crowd of sightseers. But there was scarcely anyone about when Lady Anne’s coffin with its plain black handles, as directed in her will, was borne over the short grass to its last resting- place. John Daventry and the rector of North Coton had been the chief mourners and then there had been other Fyverts and Daventrys—conspicuous among them the present Lord Fyvert—the dead lady’s nephew. Bruce Cardyn walked with the inspector and behind them came the servants, Soames and Pirnie at the head of them. The service had been as brief as possible, and most of the mourners had dispersed without returning to Charlton Crescent.
The adjourned inquest was to be opened to-day at eleven o’clock. It was now nine, and the inspector who was an indefatigably early riser had been up for hours, and having breakfasted was now at liberty to read the papers, and to carry out a private plot of his own before going on to the inquiry.
Lady Anne Daventry’s murder had captured the public imagination in no ordinary degree. The rank and age of the victim, the mystery surrounding the crime and the fact that the newspapers just now had nothing particular on hand had combined to make the Charlton Crescent Mystery, as it was called, the principal topic of interest.
The inspector ran through the papers quickly. As he had expected, such headings as “Charlton Crescent Murder.” “Reported Clue.” “Who was the man at the window?” were conspicuous on the first page. But surprises for Inspector Furnival were hardly likely to come in the daily press. He soon turned back to his notes, and was knitting his brows together over some knotty problem when Soames came into the room. The man was looking white and shaken.
“I have been told, Mr. Furnival, that I shall be one of the first witnesses called to-day, because I was the first to see the man at the window.”
“Quite likely!” the inspector assented. “But it will only be a matter of form, you know, Mr. Soames. You will not find it at all alarming. Just say what you saw. That is all.”
“Thank you. But I have never come in contact with anything of the kind before, and can’t say like the prospect of speaking right out in court.”
“Oh, well, it will soon be over,” the inspector said genially. “You look cold. Stir the fire. I didn’t notice how hollow it was burning. But, there, I forgot. Don’t you high-class flunkeys get a footman to poke the fire for you?”
Soames gave a sickly smile as he paused, poker in hand.
“Oh, we are not all quite so bad as they make us out. My poor lady would have told you that I always liked to do everything in her room myself.”
“Ah, well, I am glad that her ladyship recognized your long years of devoted service,” the inspector went on.
Soames stirred the hot coals into a brisk flame.
“Yes, Mr. Furnival, her ladyship has left all us head servants, if we were with her at the time of her death, five hundred pounds each. That is, me and Miss Pirnie, and the chauffeur that used to be the coachman, and the head gardener—we all came with her from the Keep. The other ones have smaller sums according to their time of service.”
The inspector nodded. No one was better acquainted with the terms of the will than he.
“You were here when—” he was beginning when his quick ear caught the sound of a “click” in the hall. He got up leisurely.
“Somebody at the telephone—I will just explain—”
Soames would have stepped forward to open the door already standing ajar, but the inspector waved him aside and went into the hall.
“Ah, Miss Fyvert,” he said suavely. “I see you did not know the extensions had been cut off. The only phone left now is this one in the library.”
Dorothy Fyvert sta
red at him, receiver in hand.
“Who has done this? How stupid and inconvenient!” with an evident effort to speak naturally.
“Well, I am afraid I must plead guilty to having given the order. Detectives have to do all sorts of odd things, you know, Miss Fyvert. But I am very sorry if it has inconvenienced you,” the inspector went on politely. “Will you not come in to the library?”
“Well, I want to send a message to the dressmaker,” Dorothy hesitated. “It was rather important, but—”
“Shall I see if the line is clear for you?” the inspector inquired blandly as he held open the library door.
Miss Fyvert hesitated. She was not looking well to-day, as the inspector had noticed at once. Her face was very white; all her pretty colour had faded; her eyes had deep blue half-circles under them, and the eyes themselves glanced about nervously. She bit her lip now.
“No, thank you! After all I do not know that I will ring up Madame Benoit. I do not know that there is any real need.”
“Oh, but I have always been told that a lady’s appointment with her dressmaker was most important,” the inspector said. “Madame Benoit, you said.” He paused with the receiver in his hand. “The address, please.”
Miss Fyvert paused a minute, but the inspector’s gimlet-like eyes were filed upon her.
“17 Clonnell Street, off Wigmore Street,” she said with a little laugh. “Really, inspector, you are a very determined man. I don’t wonder the criminal classes are afraid of you.”
“I hope they are,” the inspector said grimly. “Here. Why, we have been lucky enough to get on at once. Now, Miss Fyvert.”
He handed her the receiver and waited while she gave her few directions about a dress that did not fit, and made an appointment for some alterations. Then she put down the receiver with a hand that visibly trembled.
“Thank you very much, Inspector Furnival. If I had known your telephone arrangements I would not have disturbed you.”
The inspector smiled faintly.
“It has been no trouble, Miss Fyvert. I am glad I happened to be here,” he said truthfully. “I have been looking for an opportunity of having a few words with you. Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes now?”
The girl’s white face turned scarlet, slowly, painfully.
“I do not think can stay this morning,” she faltered. “I have to go to this terrible inquest and then my little sister is not well. I am very anxious about her. I cannot think what is the matter with her.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” The inspector placed a chair for her and something about his gaze compelled her to take it. “But children are often up and down. I have six at home so ought to know. As for the inquest, I am anxious to have a few words with you before that.”
“The—the inquest?” Dorothy faltered. “But that is this morning. I really do not see—”
“Oh, there will be plenty of time before the inquest,” the inspector said easily. He had placed her chair so that she faced the window, and now he stood opposite so that he, though in the shadow himself, got the light full upon her. “There is sure to be a crowd there—at the inquest, I mean—and it would not be wondered at if a young lady like yourself lost her head a little. So I thought if you and I had a talk first it might make things easier for you.”
“But I can’t tell them anything!” the girl exclaimed wildly, clasping her hands closely together. “I was in the room when Aunt Anne was—when she died, but I did not see anything. I could not tell them anything.”
The inspector coughed.
“In a case like this, we have to look at the matter all round. And first and foremost there is the question of motive. There were five people in the room—”
“Five people!” Dorothy interrupted him. “Six, you mean, for you surely cannot omit the man at the window?”
The inspector accepted the correction.
“Six, then. Of course you saw this sixth—the man at the window—yourself, Miss Fyvert?”
“Well, I can’t say exactly,” Dorothy said honestly. “I was at the tea-table, and was so amazed to see Soames drop the cakes that I was looking at him, and only had the most casual glance at something moving at the window. Also, of course, everybody made a rush for the window, so that they got between.”
“And you saw and heard nothing else?” the inspector said sharply.
“Well, I have told myself since that it must have been a mistake,” Dorothy said doubtfully. “But I did fancy at the time that I heard a soft eerie laugh.”
“Ah! You did?” the inspector’s eyes grew keen. “Now where did it seem to come from, up or down, or one side?”
“Really, I couldn’t tell,” Dorothy said, a strange look compounded of fear and some subtler emotion coming over her face. “It just seemed to be in the air. I can’t tell you any more, Mr. Furnival.”
“Ah—um—well!” The inspector dismissed the subject. “Well, you went with the others to the window, I presume!” he proceeded.
“I went with them,” she acquiesced. “I think I was the last to reach the window. I remember Soames standing aside for me. And then it was all confusion till we heard that horrible groan and cry and I found out that poor Aunt Anne had been stabbed.”
“The last to reach the window,” mused the inspector. “H’m! Now, Miss Fyvert, can you tell me of any one of the others who was near you all the time right up to the moment when you heard that groan?”
Dorothy drew her delicate brows together, her blue eyes looked puzzled and worried. “I don’t know. I don’t think so,” she said slowly at last. “It seems to me that Mr. John Daventry was close to me a good deal of the time, but could not swear to the exact moment when we heard the groan.”
“I see. I wish you could,” the inspector said. “Now with regard to this question of motive, it is a curious thing that every person in the room would be better off at Lady Anne’s death. To you she bequeathed her pearls and her jewels.”
“Some of her other jewels,” Dorothy corrected. “Both my little sister and Miss Balmaine have legacies; Mr. Daventry also. But, Mr. Furnival” —her blue eyes growing wide with horror, her voice vibrating with indignation—”you cannot mean to suggest that I killed Aunt Anne in order to obtain her legacy. I did not even know that she had left the pearls to me. You cannot think—”
“I do not think—I do not suggest—anything,” the inspector interrupted gravely. “It is my duty to deal with facts as they are. Now, Miss Fyvert, I happen to know that a very short time ago you were in urgent need of a large sum of money. You wrote to Lady Anne and asked her to help you; and she refused—”
“How in the world do you know that?” Dorothy gasped, every vestige of colour fading from her cheeks, even her lips turning blue, the pupils of her eyes distending until the eyes themselves looked black.
For answer the inspector held her letter to Lady Anne out to her.
“Your handwriting, I think?”
The girl bent her head. She was biting her underlip, her fingers were turning and intertwining themselves together.
“Miss Fyvert,” the inspector went on, a kindlier note creeping into his voice as he noticed the girl’s agitation, “there is a saying that a man should have no secrets from his doctor or his lawyer. Believe me, in a case of this kind it is best to have no secrets from the police. Now will you tell me whether you obtained that money and how?”
“I—I can’t,” faltered the girl. “I do not think”—rallying all her courage—“that you have any right to ask me. You see that Aunt Anne refused me. The rest cannot concern you.”
“Everything concerns me that may bear upon the doings of any of you in the room that evening. Won’t you be frank with me, Miss Fyvert? A few words to me now may save you much unpleasantness later on. In a court of law you can be compelled to answer.”
“Nobody can compel me,” the girl said, raising her head proudly. “Besides, are not people who are accused warned not to speak because what they say may be used in e
vidence against them.”
“But you are not accused!” the inspector said quietly. “No one is accused yet. I said that any one of you four—Mr. Daventry, Miss Balmaine, yourself and Soames, the butler—might be accused, because you were known to be in the room.”
“No!” Dorothy contradicted in a defiant tone. “Once more you have forgotten the man at the window—the Cat Burglar as they call him in the papers—and—and Mr. Cardyn.”
The softening in her tone did not escape the inspector’s quick hearing.
“Ah! the Cat Burglar!” he repeated, an odd little inflection in his voice. “Well, I do not see how the Cat Burglar outside can have much to do with the murder of Lady Anne Daventry from the inside. As for Mr. Cardyn, I think we must put him out of court, because—I am speaking to you confidentially now, Miss Fyvert—he is a private detective engaged by Lady Anne herself, to prevent this very thing that happened—”
“What! Mr. Cardyn a detective! I do not believe it!” Dorothy caught her breath sharply. “I am certain he is not—could not be anything of the kind.”
The inspector raised his eyebrows. “I assure you he is. But now, Miss Fyvert, I tell you what I am going to do. I’m going to leave you here alone for a few minutes just to think things over before we start for the inquest. I think, on reflection, you will see that it is best to tell me everything.”
“I shall not, I will not,” Dorothy contradicted hotly.
The inspector paid no heed. He left the room with his usual catlike tread and Dorothy was alone.
Her first proceeding was to jump up and take a few steps up and down the room, her breath coming in quick strong gasps, her small brown hands gripping one another.
“I do not believe it—I know it is not true,” she said passionately to herself.
Then she threw herself back in her chair, her breast panting, her foot tapping the floor.
“What am I to do?” she cried to herself. “Heaven help me, I do not know what to do now.”
At this moment Bruce Cardyn opened the door and looked in.
“You sent for me, inspector? Miss Fyvert” —his tone changing to one of consternation—”you are in trouble. Can I help you?”