The Act of Roger Murgatroyd

by Gilbert Adair

  ‘The more the merrier, you say?’ mused the Chief-Inspector. ‘Isn’t that rather an unfortunate turn of phrase to use while standing a few feet away from a corpse? And now we’re on the subject, Colonel, I have to tell you this. Though, on the one hand, I’ve certainly sensed the shock and horror any group of respectable citizens would experience on discovering that a brutal murder has been committed in their midst, it hasn’t escaped my notice, on the other hand, that none of you is what might be called prostrate with grief at the death of this young man.’

  To Trubshawe’s observation the Colonel seemed at first to have no adequate response.

  ‘Ah, well …’ he mumbled. ‘It’s just … just … Well, frankly, I’m at a loss to know what to say.’

  ‘After all, the poor chap was a guest of yours.’

  ‘That’s just it. He wasn’t.’

  ‘He wasn’t?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘Then what was he doing here?’

  ‘The fact is, Trubshawe, I never met Raymond Gentry in my life before. Not till he arrived on Christmas Eve. He came down with my daughter Selina – and Don here. He was Selina’s guest, not mine or my wife’s. It was one of those last-minute changes of plan young people find so appealing, I suppose because it makes them feel they’re being all very Bohemian and free-spirited.

  ‘I worship my daughter, you understand, but she’s like all her crowd these days. She means no harm, but at the same time she has no consideration of how inconvenient some “amusingly” spontaneous act of hers might turn out to be for the rest of us. When I was her age, I’d never have dreamt of foisting a stranger on my people at Christmas-time, some young man who hadn’t been invited and whom none of us knew from Adam.

  ‘But there you are, that’s the younger generation for you. The Chelsea set and all that. They’re a law unto themselves, are they not, just as stuck in their ways as we are in ours. And if you even so much as hint that it might have been nice if they’d thought to ask you first, they write you off as some kind of hopelessly hidebound old fusspot.’

  ‘She gave you no prior warning?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘And this Raymond Gentry, didn’t he feel discomfort at finding himself among people who were unable or unwilling to conceal their resentment at his presence?’

  The Colonel snorted.

  ‘Gentry? Huh! I tell you, Trubshawe, I shouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that the whole idea of his coming down here hadn’t been mooted by Gentry himself.’

  ‘Aha. I gather you don’t – didn’t – care overmuch for the young man?’

  ‘Didn’t care overmuch for him?’ spluttered the Colonel. ‘Gentry was as nasty a bit of goods as I’ve ever had the ill-fortune to encounter. Know what he did for a so-called living? He was, wait for it, a professional gossip columnist for that despicable rag, The Trombone. Now you can’t sink much lower than that!

  ‘Yes, yes, I realise the man is lying dead at our feet, but there were times I had half a mind to horsewhip him out of the house and frogmarch him down the front drive! And, when you think of it, if I’d had a whole mind to do it, the young whipper-snapper would be alive today!’

  ‘Why, then, didn’t you?’ asked Trubshawe quietly.

  ‘Why didn’t I what?’

  ‘Horsewhip him? Frogmarch him?’

  ‘In a word, Selina. As I said, it was she who invited him down and she did seem to have a pash on the fellow. Don’t ask me why. Selina’s always been something of a handful, and more so of late, but she’s our only child and Mary and I dote on her. So I decided I’d just have to grin and bear it – try to grin and try to bear it. Bite the bullet instead of firing it, ha ha ha!

  ‘That, incidentally, Chief-Inspector, in case you hadn’t understood, was my way of telling you that, sorely tempted as I often have been these past twenty-four hours, I did not kill Raymond Gentry.’

  On this declaration of innocence his interlocutor, whose crafty old eyes were already taking in the dingily sinister little room, made no comment.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said instead, ‘there’s any point in my asking you if there was a murder weapon left lying about?’

  ‘Nothing either of us could see, no.’

  Trubshawe stepped over to the table, pulled at its two drawers at once – he had to give one of them a violent jerk before it would consent to slide scratchily open – and found both to be empty.

  ‘Queer …’ he murmured.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Oh, just that if the murderer had wanted the thing to look like a suicide, then all he had to do was leave his revolver in Gentry’s hand – and given the infernal trouble he must have gone to over the locked door, barred window and all, that surely would have been an obvious ploy to distract us from the true nature of the crime. By removing the gun, he – or, of course, she – has actually succeeded in drawing our attention to the fact that it was murder.’

  He crossed to the window and ran a finger aslant its scabby wooden frame. Then, with that powerful grip of his, he endeavoured to prise apart its two iron bars. Neither so much as wobbled.

  Rubbing his now dust-covered palms together, he turned to the Colonel again.

  ‘Servants above suspicion, are they?’

  ‘Good heavens, yes. They’ve all been with us for years – or, in the case of the maids, months, which is about as much as you’ve any right to expect these days.’

  He reflected a moment.

  ‘There is Tomelty, of course.’

  ‘Tomelty?’

  ‘He’s my chauffeur-cum-gardener-cum-general-thingumabob. Irish. Bit too Irish for my liking. Fancies himself as a real devil, Tomelty does. But, to be honest, if he is a danger, it’s only to the village girls. Mary and I suspect he’s already responsible for having popped a bun or two into some local ovens, but no one was able to prove anything – all the mums kept mum, so to say – and I’m not the type of employer who’ll sack a man on the basis of rumour and tittle-tattle. Especially as, for all his occasional Irish insolence, he’s d**ned good at his job. He’s certainly no murderer.’

  ‘And Farrar?’ Trubshawe then asked him. ‘Do forgive my bluntness, Mr Farrar, but it’s a question that’s eventually got to be put to your employer and I might as well put it now.’

  The Colonel vehemently shook his head.

  ‘Nothing there for you to worry about. Farrar’s been with me – how long has it been? Three years? Four?’

  ‘Four, sir.’

  ‘Yes, four years managing the estate and never so much as a shadow of impropriety. In any event, Trubshawe, this whole line of questioning, if you don’t mind my saying so, is absurd. Not one of my employees could have had any motive for murdering Raymond Gentry, a man they barely met, let alone knew.’

  ‘Am I to assume, then,’ said the policeman, ‘you share Miss Mount’s view that the murderer must be a member of the house-party?’

  ‘Oh, and who told you I ever said such a thing?’ Evadne Mount brusquely asked.

  ‘Why, I think it must have been Mr Duckworth here. Yes, that’s who it was. He told me as Dr Rolfe was driving us back to the house.’

  Don’s face creased with embarrassment.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said to the novelist. ‘I did tell the Chief-Inspector everything I’d heard said in the drawing-room. I thought he oughta know.’

  ‘Young man, you have nothing to apologise for,’ she replied in a kindly tone. ‘I just like to keep tabs on who said what and to whom.’

  Whereupon, tightening her robe about her with a shiver, she wandered off into the room and started cursorily to inspect its few wretched items of furniture.

  For a moment or two Trubshawe observed her out of the corner of his eye before asking the Colonel:

  ‘Did you by any chance take a look’ – he pointed down at the body of Raymond Gentry – ‘inside the pockets of his robe?’

  ‘Certainly not. I already told you, Chief-Inspector, we tou
ched nothing.’

  Without further ado, Trubshawe bent down and inserted his hand first into the left, then the right pocket of Gentry’s blood-stained bathrobe.

  From the left pocket he came up empty-handed. But, from the right, he pulled out a single sheet of crumpled paper. He bent back up and, without addressing a word to anybody, impassively unfolded it.

  On one side of the paper four or five lines, mostly just strings of capital letters, had been typed out. These, he took a few seconds to peruse.

  ‘Nothing relevant to the case, I assume?’ said the Colonel, trying in vain to squint at the text.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Trubshawe. ‘Something extremely relevant to the case. A major discovery, if I’m not mistaken.’

  He folded the sheet up and slipped it into his own jacket pocket.

  ‘Tell me, Colonel, did all your guests share your distaste for Gentry?’

  ‘None of them could stand the horrible little tick. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, I have my reasons,’ the Chief-Inspector replied noncommittally.

  ‘You know, Trubshawe …’

  Once more it was Evadne Mount who had cut in.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Major discoveries are all very well,’ she cavalierly remarked, ‘but sometimes they turn out to be of less significance than minor oddities.’

  ‘Minor oddities?’

  Drawing the tip of her index finger along one of the attic’s floorboards, she held it up for his inspection.

  ‘Why,’ he said, peering at her fingertip, ‘I see nothing there.’

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is the minor oddity.’

  Chapter Three

  Downstairs in the drawing-room the ffolkeses’ house-guests were looking more dishevelled than ever. Stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, two of the womenfolk, Mary ffolkes and Cynthia Wattis, the Vicar’s wife, had nodded off, faded fashion magazines lying half-browsed on their laps, and even Chitty, who prided himself that his employers had never once had occasion to see him other than unbowed and upright, was starting to flag.

  When the Colonel entered, however, followed by the rest of the small investigative party, they all wearily roused themselves, the women adjusting their hair, the men re-knotting the cords of their dressing-gowns, and waited expectantly to hear what the man from Scotland Yard had to say.

  It was, however, Roger ffolkes who spoke first. Turning to the Chief-Inspector, he asked:

  ‘Perhaps now you’d like me to introduce my guests?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Trubshawe. ‘Be my guest. Or rather, be my host, what?’

  ‘Ha, very neat, yes,’ said the Colonel with a half-hearted smile. ‘Oh, and I trust you’ll excuse our varying states of undress. We’ve all been caught a bit off-guard, you know.’

  ‘Please, please … In my profession, ladies, gentlemen, I’m quite used to it. I remember once arresting a villain while he was taking his bath. Can you believe it, even though I’d begun to read him his rights – “You aren’t obliged to say anything, but anything you do say, etc., etc.” – he continued to sit there calmly soaping himself!

  ‘When I protested, you know what his answer was, the cheeky blighter? “You do want me to come clean, don’t you, Mr Trubshawe?”’

  There was more mild laughter at this witticism. But since no one was really in the mood for jocular wordplay, the Colonel at once proceeded to the round of presentations.

  ‘Well now, Trubshawe – cigarettes on the table beside you, by the way, so please do help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll stick to this if you don’t mind,’ answered the Chief-Inspector, waving his still-unlit pipe in the air.

  ‘As you wish,’ said the Colonel. ‘Now, let’s see. On the sofa near the fireplace, over there, that’s Clem Wattis, our Vicar, and his wife, Cynthia. Next to Cynthia is Cora Rutherford, the well-known actress, who I’m sure needs no introduction, as they say. Then there’s Madge Rolfe, the wife of Dr Rolfe, who’s the gentleman standing to her left.’

  ‘Colonel,’ interrupted Trubshawe, ‘Rolfe and I have met. You forget, it was he who drove over to my cottage with young Duckworth.’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes, yes, course it was. Foolish of me. Frightful thing, old age. Now who else haven’t you been introduced to yet? Oh yes, my wife Mary.’

  ‘How d’you do, Mrs ffolkes?’

  ‘How d’you do, Inspector Trubshawe?’

  ‘Snap!’ said the policeman, and they both smiled, as one does.

  ‘And, of course, Chitty, my butler.’

  ‘Chitty.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘As for my daughter Selina,’ the Colonel went on, ‘I’m afraid …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She really was awfully attached to Gentry, so his murder has come as a tremendous shock to her. She’s gone up to her room to rest. Naturally, if you insist on her being here, I can always –’

  ‘That won’t be necessary for the moment. Later – when she’s better able to tell me what she knows. I think, too, it might be wise if your butler is excused.’

  On hearing these words, Chitty gave the policeman a respectful nod and may even have said something equally respectful, except that, if he did, he said it so butlerishly sotto voce the Chief-Inspector was unlikely to have heard what it was. Then, without waiting to be requested to do so by the Colonel, he left the room.

  After watching him go, Trubshawe turned to face the whole company.

  ‘Well now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘as you don’t need to be told, this is a most terrible and mysterious crime you’ve got yourselves entangled in. I literally couldn’t believe my ears when I was first told what had happened but, having been up to the attic and seen for myself, I have to believe them now. In effect, the murderer contrived to get in, kill Raymond Gentry, then get out again, apparently without opening either a door or a window. I don’t mind admitting I’m dumbfounded.

  ‘What I require, though, is for one of you to fill me in on the events that led up to the murder itself. Coming over here in the car, Dr Rolfe and Mr Duckworth did give me a sketchy account, but, what with stopping and starting and getting out to push and getting back in again, well – you’ll excuse me, gents, I’m sure you understand what I’m saying – but what I need now is a more coherent version, one with a beginning, a middle and an end in that order. Would any of you,’ he said, glancing at everybody in turn, ‘care to volunteer? Just one, mind.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Mary ffolkes began to say:

  ‘Well, it does seem to me that …’

  ‘Yes, Mrs ffolkes?’

  ‘I was going to suggest Evie. She’s the writer Evadne Mount, you know. And, well, it is her job to tell stories – indeed, just this sort of a story. So I thought …’

  ‘Uh huh,’ murmured Trubshawe, his fingers drumming a restless tattoo on the mantelpiece. ‘Ye-es, I suppose she would be the obvious choice.’

  You could see, however, that he was less than ecstatic at the prospect of even temporarily surrendering the reins to his redoubtable rival in matters of criminality.

  Evadne Mount could see it too.

  ‘Now look, Trubshawe,’ she said pettishly, ‘I’ll be happy to oblige but, if you’d rather it weren’t me, then all you have to do is say so. I don’t easily take offence, you know,’ she added with less conviction.

  ‘Oh, but you’re wrong, Miss Mount,’ he tactfully replied. ‘I’d be pleased, very pleased, if you were to give me a rundown of what occurred here yesterday. All I’d say – but I’m sure I really don’t need to – is, well, just stick to the facts. Keep your imagination for your whodunits.’

  ‘Now that is a remark I might be offended by,’ said the novelist, ‘if I were so minded. But because it’s you, Trubshawe, and I’ve already taken a shine to you, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear it. So, yes, I’d be happy to give you an account of everything leading up to Gentry’s murder. When would you like it?’

  ‘No time like the present.�
��

  Stepping away from the fireside, Trubshawe indicated that place on the sofa next to where the Reverend Wattis was seated.

  ‘Mind if I park myself here? Beside you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ answered the Vicar, shifting sideways to make room for the detective’s generous frame.

  ‘Now,’ said the Chief-Inspector to Evadne Mount, ‘if you would …’

  Our party (she began) got going under the most promising of auspices. We all arrived fairly early on Christmas Eve – less, of course, Selina, Don and Raymond, who, as you’ve already been informed, Chief-Inspector, turned up a few hours after the rest of us. The Rolfes and the Wattises are locals, so they motored over from the village, while Cora and I, who’ve been close chums and near-neighbours for absolute yonks, travelled down from Town together, catching the 1.25 from Paddington.

  Now Roger and Mary are, I’ve got to tell you, quite the perfect hosts. The house, we discovered, was stocked with every delicacy appropriate to the season, from oyster soup to roast turkey, from succulent Brussels sprouts to the pièce de résistance, a gigantic Christmas pud steeped in the finest French brandy. Naturally, given the time of year, our rooms were a trifle nippy – like so many in this part of the country, ffolkes Manor is an impossible house to heat properly – but we all had lovely warming pans slipped between our bed-sheets an hour or so before we retired. As for this very drawing-room, when we arrived – just in time for a glass of mulled claret or else, for those of us in need of a more powerful stimulant, a whisky-and-polly – it was glowing from a huge open fire that had already been regularly replenished during the day.

  It’s true, the weather had deteriorated badly and what had amounted at first to not much more than a few feathery flurries of snow was already half-way to degenerating into a full-blown storm – except that my own feeling, Chief-Inspector, is that such a storm, however awkward it makes life for the poor traveller, can only intensify the snugness of a cosy little gathering like ours. The way, you know, a frosting of snow on a window-pane has the same magical appeal for us Britishers as the sound of rain pelting down on the roof of a lamplit bedroom. I do feel, don’t you, that freezing weather actually reinforces that sense of security, of comfort, of ‘indoorness’, that’s so indispensable to the spirit and success of an old-fashioned British Christmas.