But the jealousy theme . . . Mr Todhunter could not disguise from himself that he had not played the part well. He did not look like a passionately jealous lover. He did not even know what a passionately jealous lover feels like. Passionate jealousy seemed to Mr Todhunter just silly. No, the choice had not been a good one.
But what, in any case, was he to do now?
Mr. Todhunter felt a sudden spasm of alarm. Suppose his aneurism burst before he had persuaded the police that Palmer was innocent? Suppose Palmer was incredibly convicted . . . hanged horribly for a crime that he had never committed or dreamed of committing! The supposition was too dreadful. At all costs Mr Todhunter must keep himself alive until the truth was established. And to keep himself alive, he must not worry. But how the blazes was he to keep from worrying?
He had a sudden inspiration. A trouble shared was a trouble halved. He would take a lay confidant since Benson had proved useless—enlist a helper. Whom? Instantly Mr Todhunter knew the only person. Furze! He would see Furze tomorrow and put the whole thing before him. Furze had influence too. Furze would settle the whole ridiculous hash.
Much comforted, Mr Todhunter crept up the stairs to bed, pausing on each one to keep himself alive on behalf of young Mr Palmer.
4
“And you say you really shot this woman?”
“I did,” averred Mr Todhunter solemnly.
Furze scratched his chin. “The devil you did! You know, I never for a moment dreamed you were serious.”
“Of course not. It—um—sounded preposterous, no doubt. In fact,” admitted Mr Todhunter, “I’m not sure that I really was serious then. The trouble was, I familiarised myself with the idea of committing murder. So when exactly the right case came along, I suppose I was already more than halfway over the stile.”
“Interesting,” nodded Furze, “There’s no doubt that planning a murder is being halfway towards committing it. Perhaps that’s why most of us stop short on the right side of the stile: we have the will, but we can’t bother to work out the way. Still, about your case I don’t know what’s to be done.”
“Something must be done,” pronounced Mr Todhunter positively. “That fool of a solicitor of mine—”
The two were sitting in Furze’s little office in Queen Anne’s Gate. Mr Todhunter had been waiting in the anteroom when Furze arrived at ten o’clock.
“I’m afraid I’m interrupting your work,” Mr Todhunter apologised now. “But the matter really is urgent, you know.”
“I see it is. Deuced urgent. But what do you want me to do?”
“I thought perhaps you might be able to persuade the police . . .”
Furze looked thoughtful. “That’s not so easy. The only thing that will persuade them is evidence. And that’s just what you haven’t got. I’ll have a word with MacGregor. He’s one of the assistant commissioners—belongs to my club. He might be useful. But otherwise . . . well, if we had that bracelet, we might be able to do something.”
“I simply can’t imagine what I can have done with that,” admitted Mr Todhunter ruefully. “I could have taken my oath I’d put it in that drawer with the revolver.”
“Well, you’d better concentrate your energies on finding that first of all. And it wouldn’t be a bad thing to try to get some connected set of proofs for your story of what you did that night. It’s plain that the police don’t believe a single word of it. If you could manage to prove without question that you were in the Norwood woman’s garden at all that evening, that would be a big point. Look here, why don’t you call on Chitterwick?”
“Chitterwick?” repeated Mr Todhunter vaguely.
“Yes, he’s done some good work in this line. Murder, you know.”
“Murder? Oh, you mean finding the guilty person. Yes, of course. Yes indeed, I believe I remember seeing something about it. Dear me, yes, of course, I consulted him on the matter myself. My memory’s becoming quite shocking.”
“Well, you ring up Chitterwick and see if you can get him on the trail, and I’ll sound Scotland Yard through MacGregor. I don’t see what more we can do at the moment, but I’m sure something will come of it. I’m assuming, of course, that you’re not suffering from a delusion of any kind. You really did shoot the woman?”
“There wasn’t much delusion about it,” returned Mr Todhunter with a little shiver, remembering that inert form and the red stain on that splendid white gown.
“Yes, well, knowing what I do, your story sounds more convincing to me than it probably did to the police and your solicitor,” said Furze with his habitual candour. “And of course, if the worst comes to the worst, I can testify that you were meditating murder three months ago. And so can Chitterwick, to a certain extent.”
“You don’t think,” asked Mr Todhunter anxiously, “that the worst will come to the worst?”
“You mean, that they’ll hang this chap Palmer? No,” said Furze cheerfully, “I don’t think so for a moment. With the doubt that your story will throw on the case against him I should say that an acquittal ought to be fairly certain.”
“Would you advise me to see Palmer’s solicitors first or get in touch with Chitterwick?” asked Mr Todhunter humbly.
“Ring up Chitterwick and take him with you. That may make them take you more seriously. Of course you’ll have to warn them that you can’t prove a word of what you’re saying, but that you’re doing your best to collect proof; tell them you’re ready to be called as a witness at the trial and ask them to cooperate with you in every possible way. They’ll be ready enough to use you, even if they do think you’re insane. Unless,” added Furze thoughtfully, “counsel advises against calling you at all. Your story sounds so fantastic, you see, that it might do more harm than good. But that all depends how confident they are without it.”
“Yes, I see; thank you very much,” said Mr Todhunter and took his leave.
5
He did not, however, go first of all to the solicitors. He took a taxi up to Maida Vale to keep an appointment he had made before leaving Richmond.
The appointment was with Mrs Farroway.
It was three months since Miss Norwood’s death, and as might have been imagined, Mrs Farroway had not allowed them to be wasted. Giving him a week or two to let over the worst of his trouble, she had firmly rejoined her husband, settled up his affairs and carried him back to the north; only to return immediately on the news of her son-in-law’s arrest. But this time Farroway was not with her. He was, in fact, in the middle of a nervous breakdown at home. It had come upon him almost at once after he had got back, and in the opinion of Mr Todhunter, when he heard about it over the telephone, it was about the best thing that could have happened to him. At any rate it kept him out of the way and would prevent him from being called as a witness at the trial and, as would be the inevitable consequence, from showing himself up as a bit of a cad and a consummate fool.
Mrs Farroway therefore received Mr Todhunter alone; though Felicity, it was understood, was still in bed in a neighbouring room. The companion with whom she had shared the flat had lately been got rid of, it seemed, and the second bedroom was now Mrs Farroway’s whenever she chose to occupy it.
Her first words to Mr Todhunter were not about the tragedy, but of gratitude for what he had done for her daughter.
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr Todhunter. “I’d completely forgotten. The play, yes! Er—is it still running, then?”
“Still running?” Mrs Farroway laughed. “Really, you’re a most unusual impresario. It’s a success. A tremendous success. And so is Felicity. She’s made for life, thanks to you. You really didn’t know?”
“I—it escaped my mind to look out for the notices,” apologised Mr Todhunter. “Besides, I was—um—in Borneo.”
“Well, then, all I can say is that we’re all very grateful to you, and Felicity will be coming in before you go to thank you herself. And I suppose you realise that you’re making a small fortune?”
“A small fortune?” cackled
Mr Todhunter. “Indeed, no, I didn’t. Am I truly? How exceedingly gratifying. Well, well. That man—what was his name?—Budd, has managed well, then?”
“Mr Budd has been marvellous. He took a lease of the Princess itself from the executors, and . . . oh, but Felicity will tell you all this herself. Now sit down, Mr Todhunter, and tell me what you wanted to see me about.”
Mr Todhunter disposed his uncouth length in a small chair and extended his legs. He put the tips of his fingers together and looked at Mrs Farroway over the top of them.
“You know, of course, that Vincent Palmer is innocent?” he began bluntly enough.
“Yes,” Mrs Farroway replied steadily. “I know that,”
“In fact you know,” Mr Todhunter said firmly, “that it was I who shot Miss Jean Norwood.”
As if to quash any polite protest on Mrs Farroway’s part, Mr Todhunter hurriedly waved for silence.
“The matter is too serious to beat about the bush, Mrs Farroway. We must speak openly. I killed Miss Norwood, for reasons which still appear to me excellent. I have never regretted it, nor shall I once this wretched trial has been successfully disposed of. But I want you to understand exactly how it came about that so unlikely a person as myself should have committed murder. It was this way.”
Mr Todhunter then explained in full detail his version of the whole affair, from the moment he learned that he could live for only a few months longer until he heard casually from a fellow traveller in Tokyo that Vincent Palmer had been arrested. He blamed himself for the muddle over the revolvers, added an account of his visit to Scotland Yard, mentioned his anxiety lest the aneurism should burst prematurely and forestall his efforts to establish the truth and explained the steps he proposed to take in the immediate future.
“I want you,” he concluded earnestly, “to tell your family what I have just told you; your daughters certainly, your husband, too, unless you think it advisable not to do so. It is only right that they should know; and not merely right but necessary—imperative. You understand?” And Mr Todhunter looked his hostess in the eye.
“I understand,” said Mrs Farroway quietly. “I—” Then, to Mr Todhunter’s inexpressible embarrassment, she burst into tears, jumped to her feet, seized Mr Todhunter’s hand and kissed it and rushed out of the room. For a normally unemotional woman it was a remarkable display. But then, it was a remarkable occasion.
Mr Todhunter, feeling that his interview with Felicity could well be postponed to another day, bit his nails for a moment in indecision and then grabbed his hat and shambled on tiptoe out of the room, out of the flat and out of the building altogether.
6
“Dear me!” clucked Mr Chitterwick on the telephone. “Oh dear . . . Well, well, well . . . Yes, of course . . . Anything I can do . . . Yes, naturally . . . Dear, dear, dear.”
“You’ll come round at once then?” asked Mr Todhunter.
“At once, yes. Dear me, this is dreadful—dreadful.” “Yes, isn’t it?” said Mr Todhunter drily and hung up the receiver.
CHAPTER XI
“Dear, dear!” said Mr Chitterwick, “Dear, dear, dear! Dear, dear!”
Mr Todhunter looked at him with exasperation. Mr Chitterwick had been saying little else for the last half-hour. It did not sound very helpful to Mr Todhunter.
“The bracelet,” repeated the latter now with scarcely hidden irritation.
“The bracelet, yes.” Mr Chitterwick seemed to pull himself together. His round, pink, cherubic face settled itself into firmer lines. His plump little body visibly tautened for action. “The bracelet. Yes, undoubtedly we must find the bracelet,” said Mr Chitterwick with great firmness.
The two were sitting in Mr Chitterwick’s own special room at Chiswick. Mr Chitterwick lived with an elderly aunt who had once ruled his life with unremitting severity; but since he had achieved a certain notoriety of his own Mr Chitterwick had been emboldened to throw off his shackles and had even succeeded in acquiring a sitting room for his own particular use. Grumbling fiercely and unceasingly, Mr Chitterwick’s ancient aunt had been cajoled or intimidated into allowing him, too, practically as much liberty as he wanted—which in any case was not very much.
Mr Chitterwick had called upon Mr Todhunter in Richmond and had heard the whole distressing story from its outset. He recalled of course Mr Todhunter’s unsuccessful attempts to extract from him the name of a possible victim and, like Furze, found the affair not altogether impossible to believe. He had readily undertaken to do what he could towards helping Mr Todhunter in his remarkable dilemma.
The two had then paid a solemn visit to Vincent Palmer’s solicitors, where they were received by a desiccated senior partner who seemed to take a great deal of convincing that Mr Todhunter was really in earnest. Having at last grasped that his visitor’s supreme wish was to get into a dock—any dock—and there plead guilty to the murder of Miss Norwood, Mr Felixstowe (for such was the desiccated gentleman’s name) had promised readily enough to do all he could to help Mr Todhunter attain this desire but had been depressingly pessimistic about his chances. Pointing out that in the absence of all evidence to the truth of a single word no jury would be likely to acept Mr Todhunter’s tale and counsel for the prosecution would laugh it right out of court, he considered that in view of the certain severity of the judge’s comments Mr Todhunter might well find himself faced with a prosecution for perjury. Mr Felixstowe had, however, promised to consult a number of people most carefully upon the advisability of calling such a possibly dangerous witness, had ventured a preliminary opinion of his own that it might possibly be better, all things considered, for Mr Todhunter before bursting his bombshell upon a sceptical world to await the verdict on Palmer which, without being optimistic, Mr Felixstowe opined might very well prove a favourable one, and, giving Mr Todhunter a hand like a piece of dried, cold fish, thanked him for coming. It had in fact been painfully plain that Mr Felixstowe had not believed a single word of Mr Todhunter’s story and considered him at least a fool and possibly insane. Mr Todhunter did not seem to have much luck with solicitors. He had been so angry that his aneurism had been once more endangered.
His temper now, after listening to Mr Chitterwick clucking all the way from Lincoln’s Inn to Chiswick, had scarcely improved.
“Er—lunch,” said Mr Chitterwick, not without relief, as a gong boomed in the hall outside.
It was not usually the custom for Mr Chitterwick’s aunt to take her meals in the dining room. She preferred a tray in the study where she passed most of her life, surrounded by her canaries and her collection of mosses; but on this occasion, supported by her companion, she made her appearance in the dining room just as Mr Chitterwick had been at some pains to arrange her tray exactly as she liked it.
“Huh! Begun already?” said Miss Chitterwick, sniffing the fragrant air. “Might have waited for me, I should think.” She took no notice of Mr Todhunter at all.
The companion arranged her in a chair, a process which entailed much fussing with rugs and voluminous skirts.
“Er—this is Mr Todhunter, Aunt,” said Mr Chitterwick when the arrangement had been completed.
“What’s he want?” demanded Miss Chitterwick in return, without so much as a glance at Mr Todhunter.
“He’s come to lunch. . . Aren’t you staying, Miss Bell?” added Mr Chitterwick as the faded little lady who had accompanied Miss Chitterwick was slipping unobtrusively out of the room.
“Don’t want her here,” pronounced Miss Chitterwick. “Spoil the conversation, she would. The gurl can take a tray into your room for her. Can’t trust her in mine. She’d have the place on fire before you knew where you were. Cut a bit off for her, Ambrose. Not too much. She don’t want much food at her age.”
With a sickly smile Miss Bell completed her exit. Mr Chitterwick began to carve.
“Committed a murder, have you?” suddenly said Miss Chitterwick, looking at Mr Todhunter for the first time.
“Er—yes,” agreed Mr Todhunter, feel
ing like a small boy on the mat.
“Now, how did you know that, Aunt?” clucked Mr Chitterwick.
“Listened at the door,” crowed Miss Chitterwick with relish. “Knew there was something up when you brought him here. Whom did you murder, Mr Snodbunting?”
“Really, Aunt!” deprecated Mr Chitterwick.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Ambrose. I asked Mr Snodbunting a question, but it seems he’s too high and mighty to answer it.”
“I—er—I murdered a lady called Jean Norwood, an actress,” hastily said Mr Todhunter.
“If she’s an actress, she ain’t a lady,” Miss Chitterwick corrected him.
“My aunt hasn’t—er—quite got used to modern ways,” Mr Chitterwick twittered.
“Don’t talk stuff and nonsense, Ambrose,” riposted Miss Chitterwick, incensed. “I say ‘gurl,’ don’t I? Not ‘gairl’ as my mother used to say. That’s modern, ain’t it? . . . Was she a lady, Mr Snodbunting?”
“No,” said Mr Todhunter.
“There you are, Ambrose! Next time p’raps you won’t try to be so sharp. Here, what’s this? Duck? You know I can’t eat duck.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt. I—”
Miss Chitterwick thrust her plate in two yellow claws under Mr Todhunter’s nose, shaking with rage. “Look what he’s given me! Two little bits not fit to feed a pigeon. Just so as he could have more for himself. That’s Ambrose all over. Mean!”
“I’m sorry, Aunt. I thought . . .” Hurriedly Mr Chitterwick laid another slice of breast on the outraged old lady’s plate.
Mollified, she began to eat.
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