Who Killed Charmian Karslake?

by Annie Haynes

  “I suppose you knew them very well, personally, I mean?” the inspector went on.

  “Then you make a great mistake,” Mrs. Walker said equably. “The Penn-Moretons were just the little tin gods of the town. I am sure people went to church more to see what Lady Penn-Moreton had on and how Sir Arthur was looking than to worship God. In return the Penn-Moretons were very good to us. They gave soup and other delicacies to the inhabitants. I remember when my mother was ill they sent grapes and pheasants. But as for calling upon us or knowing us, why, dear me, they would have thought us mad to expect such a thing. They would bow to us when they met us, but only as a king and queen bow to their subjects. Oh, I have no use for such a place as Hepton with its petty class restrictions.”

  Mrs. Walker was getting breathless and her cheeks were hot as she stopped. Evidently Hepton society and its restrictions were subjects that moved her deeply.

  The inspector gave her time to recover herself and apparently devoted his attention to the aspidistra in the window. When he did speak again it was very quietly:

  “Did you ever know a Peter Hailsham?”

  “Peter Hailsham!” Mrs. Walker started and stared at him, the flush in her cheeks faded slowly away. “What do you know of Peter Hailsham?”

  “Not so much as I should like,” the inspector said candidly. “Nor so much as you could tell us, I fancy.”

  “I – I can tell you nothing of Peter Hailsham,” Mrs. Walker said in a tone of indignation which somehow did not ring true to the detective’s ears. “At least nothing but what everybody else knew in the Hepton of my day,” she went on. “An old man named Peter Hailsham lived by the side of the Canal, a rag-and-bone picker. He sold mixed sweets and ginger-pop. But he must have died years ago.”

  “A Mr. Peter Hailsham was present at the Hepton ball,” the inspector said quietly.

  “What!” Mrs. Walker stared and laughed, glancing up at Stoddart in a curious, sidelong fashion. “Not the gentleman of the Canal bank, I presume?”

  “That seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?” The inspector’s tone had altered indefinably. “But do you know that Mr. Peter Hailsham – the one who was at the ball – Mrs. Walker?”

  “I? Certainly not! Haven’t I just told you that I do not – never did have anything to do with the Penn-Moretons or their friends?” Mrs. Walker retorted. “I can’t tell you any more, inspector, not if you question me for hours.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “You sent for me, inspector.” Harbord had just entered the inspector’s private room at Scotland Yard.

  “Yes, I want to consult with you as to our next step in the Charmian Karslake case. As far as I can see we are at a regular deadlock. Those damned newspapers are on to us too. Lists of undiscovered murders – police failures. Is our detective system inferior to that of France? I could tell them that, if they keep up an infernal outcry every time we question witnesses, there will be a good many more criminals going about unpunished.”

  By which Harbord understood that the inspector was more upset over the Hepton Abbey case than he wished to appear.

  “It is a difficult case,” he agreed; “whichever way one goes one finds oneself up against some nasty snag or another. How did you get on at the flat, sir?”

  The inspector shrugged his shoulders.

  “Not what I hoped for. Certainly Charmian Karslake was an adept at concealing her traces. How did you prosper at the Bank?”

  “Fairly well. The necessary permission has come through. The deed-box may be opened in the presence of the manager of the Bank; but nothing it contains is to be taken away.”

  The inspector got up. “That gives me the fillip I want this morning. We will go straight off and see what’s in it, Alfred. The Imperial and Overseas – our best way will be a taxi.”

  He picked up his notebook and the two men made their way outside.

  It was only five minutes’ run in the taxi to the Bank. They were taken to the manager’s room and that functionary joined them at once.

  “I hope the secret of the box may be some use to you, inspector,” he said, as he pressed an electric bell. “I have no idea what it contains, of course; but it struck me as very small and very light when Miss Karslake brought it in, which was only a couple of days before her death.”

  “Only two days before her death,” the inspector exclaimed, in obvious surprise. “How was that, I wonder?”

  “She told me that she was going into the country for a couple of days and did not want to leave it behind in the flat, as that would be empty,” the manager explained.

  In response to his summons a small lift had drawn up at one end of the room. He unlocked the gate and then drew back. On the floor of the lift there was a small deed-box, not one foot square. He picked it up and balanced it in his hands.

  “Not much here, inspector. You have the key, I think.”

  The inspector took it out of his pocket and fitted it into the lock, while the manager held the box. When the lid was thrown back both men uttered an exclamation of surprise.

  At first sight the box appeared to contain only a pile of newspaper cuttings fastened together by a clip at the corner. The inspector picked them up and separated them, looking through them quickly. Then he glanced at Harbord.

  “Every one of them refers to the Penn-Moretons in some way. That settles one part of the question anyhow.”

  A tiny, cardboard box lay underneath. Stoddart took the lid off. Inside on the cotton-wool lay a gold wedding-ring and underneath a carefully folded bit of tissue-paper. Very gingerly the inspector touched this and then held it on his outstretched palm to Harbord, who bent forward eagerly. He saw a tiny curl of soft yellow hair, and attached to it by a thread of yellow silk a little parchment label: “Little John Peter.”

  The inspector looked at Harbord.

  “Do you see the significance of the conjunction of names?”

  Harbord nodded, but there was a puzzled look in his eyes.

  The inspector sat down on the nearest chair and, after replacing the ring and the hair in the box, he turned back to the bundle of cuttings. A moment later he beckoned to Harbord.

  “Begin at the first of these blessed cuttings. ‘Death of Sir Arthur George Penn-Moreton,’ etc., etc. That is the present Sir Arthur’s father. Shows Miss Karslake’s interest in the Penn-Moretons was pretty deep-seated. See, it goes on from there. ‘Funeral of Sir Arthur Penn-Moreton. Heavy death duties. Hepton Abbey to be let. Death of Lady Penn-Moreton.’ That would be Dicky’s mother, I suppose. ‘Engagement of Sir Arthur Penn-Moreton. A marriage has been arranged,’ etc. And so it goes on. Ah! What have we here? ‘Anglo-American alliance. Mr. Richard Peter Penn-Moreton is betrothed to Chicago millionaire’s daughter.’ H’m, ‘Southern Mercury’ I dare swear. Ah, I thought so. The last cutting of all, dated just before Miss Karslake’s coming to England, refers to Mr. John Larpent’s engagement to the Hon. Mary Vivian Paula, daughter of the late Viscount Galbraith, and mentions the fact that Mr. Larpent is the cousin of Sir Arthur Penn-Moreton, while Miss Galbraith is related to Lady Penn-Moreton. It says the marriage will take place shortly. I wonder –”

  The manager looked at them.

  “Anything further you wish to see, gentlemen?” Stoddart took the hint and stood up.

  “I think not, thanks. We have seen Miss Karslake’s pass-book at the flat. There is a good deal of money lying to her name with you, I believe.”

  “Upwards of two thousand, I think,” the manager assented. “You must remember that Miss Karslake was drawing a huge salary and did not spend it recklessly like so many of her kind.”

  “Quite. I am obliged to you for your courtesy, sir. And now I think we must be off to pursue our investigations a little further.”

  “I am sure I hope they will be successful. It seems to have been a most brutal and unprovoked murder,” the manager concluded as he said good-morning.

  When they were outside the inspector hesitated a moment.

  “I think we will wa
lk back by the Embankment and just think over things.”

  Harbord glanced at his superior’s moody face two or three times before he spoke. At last he said slowly:

  “I cannot understand a woman of Charmian Karslake’s striking appearance and personality not being recognized at once if she had ever been at Hepton before or known the Moretons.”

  “No, I quite see that point,” the inspector said thoughtfully. “Possibly she was only a child at the time, though even then – However, we must just work straight on. Perhaps we shall get these darned tangles straightened out some day. What has become of John Peter, by the way, I wonder? Left behind in America, or gone the way of all flesh – which?”

  “The latter I should say.” Harbord was idly watching the ripples on the river’s surface. “Peter suggests Peter Hailsham – of course, but John –”

  “Can’t you see?” the inspector said quietly. “Larpent. That gentleman’s past needs some looking into.”

  “Larpent has a good face, the best of the lot at Hepton,” Harbord remarked somewhat irrelevantly.

  “Doesn’t make a ha’p’orth of difference. Physiologists and phrenologists may pretend to tell by the formation of a man’s head whether he is a criminal or not, but I wouldn’t give twopence for their conclusions. Some of the worst criminals I have known have been the best looking. Look at Mrs. Thompson – face like a flower, some ass said. But it was a flower that did not stick at murder when an unfortunate husband stood in the way. No! Mr. John Larpent’s looks won’t prevent me from bestowing a little attention to his past.” Inspector Stoddart spoke with considerable heat.

  Harbord glanced at him in surprise.

  “Why should Larpent murder Charmian Karslake? The motive seems to me quite inadequate even if he had anything to do with John Peter. It seems to me that there is nothing to connect him with the crime at all except the footprint, and that is a pretty negative sort of evidence, for as you said yourself the shoe is a very ordinary size.”

  “So it is,” the inspector assented. “But it does not happen to be that of any other man in the Abbey that night. And have you forgotten Myra Smith’s story? Charmian Karslake came down the conservatory and went into the little room at the end. ‘So we meet again, Mr. Peter Hailsham!’ Both the housemaids heard it quite clearly; and someone else heard it too. The lady in a gown of green jade colour who sat behind that bank of flowering plants, Miss Paula Galbraith. And why' doesn’t she come forward and tell us about it? She knows that every word, every movement of Charmian Karslake’s that night may be of enormous importance, and yet she is obstinately silent. Because she knows who was in the room. She knows or guesses who Peter Hailsham is. And he is someone she does not mean to give away. Still, she cannot help quarrelling with her lover, as we overheard. One of these days she will speak out, and then we shall know more than we do now.”

  “I don’t see that. If she has kept silence until now, why should she speak out – ever?” Harbord debated.

  Inspector Stoddart drew in his lips. “Because she is a woman. And no woman can keep a secret. Unless it is her own. That is my experience. Then she can be as close as wax.”

  “Well, of course you know best,” Harbord conceded. “I must confess I should like to make strict investigations in another quarter.”

  “Just so! You will have your way,” the inspector went on. “We shall have to make strict investigations in every quarter before we have finished with the Hepton case.”

  When they reached Scotland Yard, as Stoddart was turning to his private room a messenger met him.

  “There are a couple of telegrams for you, sir. And you have been wanted on the ’phone. A trunk call from Hepton. We were to ring them up directly you got back.”

  “Who was it who wanted me at Hepton?” the inspector asked.

  “Sir Arthur Penn-Moreton, sir. He said it was urgent.”

  “Very well. I will see to it at once. Bring me the telegrams. Come along, Alfred. This will interest us both.”

  The inspector went on to his room. Before he had reached the telephone, however, the man came back with the telegrams. The inspector tore them open at once. The first was from the Hepton superintendent of police:

  Wanted at the Abbey return immediately.

  The second was from Sir Arthur himself:

  You are needed here at once.

  “Umph!” The inspector went over to the telephone and rang up the Abbey.

  Sir Arthur answered with such celerity as to suggest that he had been waiting for the summons.

  “That you, Inspector Stoddart? Sir Arthur Moreton speaking. We have had a terrible occurrence here. Can you come down by the 4.15?”

  The inspector looked at his watch. “Yes – we can just about manage it. What is the occurrence, Sir Arthur? Is it connected with Miss Karslake’s murder?”

  “I don’t know how it can be.” It was quite obvious that Sir Arthur was in a state of great agitation. “My sister-in-law, Mrs. Richard Moreton, has been brutally assaulted. Knocked unconscious by a savage blow on the head... No, she is not dead, but the doctor gives very slight hope of her recovery or even of her return to consciousness. There must be some maniac in the neighbourhood. Come down and find him, Inspector Stoddart.”

  “It will not be my fault if I do not,” the inspector said grimly. “And I will be with you at the earliest possible moment.”

  He rang off.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Thank Heaven you are here at last, Inspector Stoddart.”

  Sir Arthur Moreton had driven down to the station to meet the detectives. He was waiting for them in a motor-car outside.

  “Make haste!” he said impatiently. “It will save time if I tell you as we go along.”

  The inspector got in beside Sir Arthur. Harbord took the seat by the chauffeur.

  “Superintendent Bower is most anxious to see you. He is up at the house making some inquiries of the household, but without any result as far as I can see,” Sir Arthur began as the car started. “I can’t make the affair out at all, inspector.”

  “I am sure I can’t,” the inspector said honestly. “But I am more sorry than I can tell you to have been away. Will you give me the particulars as soon as you can, Sir Arthur?”

  “The particulars are so very few – I mean those that are known to us,” Sir Arthur said. Two little vertical lines between his eyebrows were deeply graven as he looked straight in front of him. “Some friends of my sister-in-law’s, old school-fellows, came over yesterday afternoon. They were frightfully keen about the Abbey, and Lady Moreton took them over the inhabited part, but they ran about so much that she was pretty well done up. My brother and I were neither of us at home, I may say. Well, just as the visitors were about to leave, they remembered the old Monks’ Pool down near the West Gate, where tradition says the carp are those that were there in the monks’ days. Immediately they became mad to see it and begged my sister-in-law to show it to them on their way out. Their car went on to wait for them at the gate leading into the Bull Ring. When my brother came home and went in search of his wife, he discovered that she was not in the house. Then it came out that nobody had seen her return from the expedition to the pool. At first we naturally thought that she had gone on with her friends. But when dinner-time came and she had not returned we began to get anxious and my brother rang up the people her friends are staying with. Then we learned, to our consternation, that they had last seen her walking back to the house and turning round to wave her hand to them. Of course, then, we began to make a systematic search of the grounds, and in the belt of evergreens that lies between the drive and the Monks’ Pool two of us almost stumbled over my sister-in-law lying flat and unconscious on the ground. It was quite evident that she had had a terrific blow on the head, and as she had no hat on and her hair was shingled there was nothing to break the force. Dr. Spencer diagnosed concussion of the brain. Also there is some injury to the base of the skull and the spine is hurt.”

  “Any sign of the a
ssassin?” asked the inspector.

  Sir Arthur shook his head.

  “No. Nor even of a struggle. She lay on her face, rather on one side as if she had been struck down from behind.”

  “Anything missing?” the inspector queried sharply. “Was robbery the motive?”

  “Couldn’t have been,” Sir Arthur said as they turned in at the Abbey gates. “A valuable pearl necklace with a diamond clasp that she was wearing was left untouched, and she was wearing some very fine rings.”

  “Sounds like the work of a maniac,” said the inspector. “It was just about here it all took place, wasn’t it, Sir Arthur? I should just like a look at the actual spot.”

  “Certainly.” Sir Arthur spoke down the tube and then sprang out of the car as it stopped, and led the way to a little path that wound in and out of the shrubbery. Quite near the ruined walls of some of the old Abbey outbuildings was the Monks’ Pool, and it was but a short distance from this that Sir Arthur stopped.

  “It was just here that she was found,” he said. “You see, there are no signs of a struggle, no evidence of the undergrowth having been disturbed.”

  “No.” The inspector looked round thoughtfully. “You say Mrs. Richard Moreton left her friends at their car and that that was waiting at the gate. Have you any notion why she should come back here instead of going straight to the Abbey?”

  “Not the very faintest,” Sir Arthur said with a puzzled frown. “The only idea that we have been able to suggest, any of us, is that she had dropped something and, missing it, had come back to look for it. But that is the purest surmise. You see, inspector, some brute must have been in hiding, rushed out and attacked the poor girl from behind.”