Ask For Ronald Standish

by Sapper

  “What am I to say to ’em? What proof can I give them now that David was dead before the chandelier fell on him? Exhumation won’t supply it; this isn’t a poison case. I merely lay myself open to thundering damages for libel. Why, if I knew it, didn’t I speak at the time?”

  “How I wish you had!”

  “Robinson would still have got off. Even if the chandelier hadn’t killed David, it had fallen accidentally, and he knew nothing about the other thing.”

  “I suppose it isn’t possible that it did fall accidentally, and that Sir John did know nothing about the other thing?”

  Ronald gave a short laugh.

  “Perfectly possible, if you will answer me one question. Who replaced the weight in position?”

  9: The End Justifies…

  Ronald Standish threw the paper across the table at me.

  “You’d better get the outline into your head, Bob,” he remarked. “We’ll be hearing the details shortly.”

  I glanced at the open page: there was no doubt as to what he referred:

  “TERRIBLE TRAGEDY IN MIDLANDS.

  “WELL-KNOWN HUNTING BARONET

  MURDERED.

  “A shocking outrage occurred last night at Horsham Grange, near Melton Mowbray. Sir Peter Denne, a well-known figure in the hunting field, was brutally murdered in his study after dinner.

  “It appears that the baronet, who was sixty-five years of age, retired to his study, according to his invariable custom, at nine o’clock, leaving his niece, Miss Muriel Padston, in the drawing-room at the other end of the house. At ten o’clock the butler, William Sinton, took the whisky tantalus and a siphon to his master as usual. On opening the door of the study he at first thought Sir Peter had gone out, as the french windows were wide open, and there was no sign of him in the room. But on going to the desk he was horrified to see the body of the unfortunate baronet lying on the carpet. A glance was sufficient to show that he was dead, and that the cause of death was a terrible wound in the head, which lay in a welter of blood.

  “He rang up the police, and within a short time Inspector Drury and Dr Deacon were on the scene. And it was at once apparent that a brutal crime had been committed. No trace of any weapon could be found, and it was therefore obvious that it was a case of murder and not suicide or accident. Sir Peter had been shot in the head at close range, by some form of sporting gun, probably, according to the doctor, a twelve-bore. The pellets had scattered very little, but there were no traces of scorching on the face. It is therefore estimated that the shot was fired at a range of some five or six feet.

  “Inquiries amongst the staff, and of Miss Padston, elicited the fact that no shot had been heard by anyone. But since the study is at the far end of the house, and a considerable wind was blowing at the time, this is not surprising. The matter is a complete mystery, since Sir Peter was one of the most popular men in the district; but further developments may be expected shortly.”

  I put down the paper.

  “Seems clear enough so far as it goes,” I remarked, “but it doesn’t go very far. Who are you going to hear the details from?”

  “Miss Muriel Padston herself,” he answered. “She telephoned me this morning. I met her two or three years ago at a shooting party.”

  “Good looker?”

  “Quite, so far as I remember. And a very good sort. I wonder what she can want with me.”

  “Presumably to consult you over this affair.”

  “My dear Bob,” he grinned. “I didn’t imagine she was coming up to London to ask me to choose her a hat. But as you so succinctly observed, the case does not seem a very difficult one, and it rather surprises me that she should come so post-haste. Anyway – nous verrons.”

  “Have you ever heard of Sir Peter before?”

  “Never. But I’ve looked him up in ‘Who’s Who.’ Thirteenth baronet, JP, and all the usual dope. His son – the only child – was killed in the War. His wife died seven years ago.”

  “Who is the heir?”

  “A nephew, Charles Denne.”

  “And the Padston girl is presumably his wife’s niece.”

  Ronald nodded.

  “Yes. Sir Peter married a Miss Mary Padston in 1895. So now you know as much of the family history as I do myself.”

  The bell rang as he spoke, and a moment or two later Parker announced Miss Padston. She was a tall, pretty girl of about twenty-five, though her eyes looked a bit swollen from weeping. But her voice was quite normal when Ronald introduced me.

  “A shocking tragedy, Miss Padston,” he said. “You have my deepest sympathy.”

  “A worse one may take place, Mr Standish,” was her somewhat surprising answer. “That’s why I rushed up by car to see you.”

  “Take your time,” said Ronald quietly.

  “And please begin right at the beginning.”

  He pushed over a box of cigarettes, but she shook her head.

  “You’ve seen the account of it in the papers, of course?” she asked.

  “I have seen that your uncle, Sir Peter Denne, was killed by being shot through the head. I have seen that the police consider it was murder, and that the weapon reputed to have been used was a twelve-bore. I have seen that the crime took place between nine and ten last night, and that nobody heard a shot. Now let’s hear the rest, and as I said, take your time.”

  “Five years ago,” she began, “I went to live at Horsham Grange with my uncle. It suited me down to the ground as I’m mad on hunting, and it suited him to have someone to run the house. Besides, we’ve always got on most awfully well together. He was such a dear…”

  She paused for a moment and her lips quivered.

  “Last night,” she continued steadily, “we had dinner together as usual. But it was obvious that something had upset him. There is no good disguising the fact because I am sure Sinton, the butler, noticed it too.”

  “But why should you disguise the fact, Miss Padston?” asked Ronald. “It may have an extremely important bearing on the whole case.”

  “That’s what the police think; but I know they’re wrong,” she cried. “You see, Mr Standish, there has been one big bone of contention between my uncle and me for the past few months – my cousin; Charles Denne. In reality he isn’t a cousin at all; at least, there is no blood relationship. At any rate, last December he came home from abroad, and being just as keen on hunting as the rest of the family, he took a small house about a mile from Horsham Grange.

  “Unfortunately from the first Uncle Peter took a dislike to him. Why, I don’t know; the whole thing was too unreasonable for words. Charles goes magnificently; he’s very good looking, and he’s the best of company. It’s true he threw one or two parties where they played pretty high, but that would never have affected Uncle Peter in normal circumstances. Moreover, Charles went out of his way to break down this curious dislike, but without any success. It just was there–inexplicable, unreasoning.

  “Sometimes I’ve thought it was because Charles was his heir. His son was killed on the Somme, and he may have subconsciously resented Charles as an interloper. He idolised his boy Harry, and he saw Charles coming into all that was rightfully his son’s. But as Charles said to me, it wasn’t his fault. It was nothing to do with him that he’d been born Sir Peter’s nephew: it was nothing to do with him that Harry had been killed. And after a while Charles began to get fed up himself. And since the two men were continually meeting on the hunting field the situation grew more and more awkward.

  “Then came the culminating blow.” She gave a sudden very delightful smile. “I fear I don’t quite know how to cast down my eyes modestly.”

  “But you and Charles fixed matters up,” laughed Ronald.

  “Exactly. And Uncle Peter was not amused. In fact, there was the most unholy row. Both men lost their tempers and abused one another like bargees, until I walked into the room and sent Charles home. Then I had a talk with Uncle Peter.

  “Mr Standish, one might as well have argued with a
mule. He was adamant. He pulled out all the old stuff about being my guardian: said that Charles was a damned fortune-hunter – that, mark you, about his own heir…”

  “One moment, Miss Padston,” interrupted Ronald. “Is your money your own, or was it controlled by your uncle?”

  “My own.”

  “Thank you. Go on.”

  “And finally wound up by informing me that never under any circumstances would he give his consent. Well, that was a bit too much, and I told him so. I pointed out that as I was over age he had no means of stopping me marrying whoever I liked, and that I proposed to do so. And with that the party broke up.”

  “How long ago was this?” asked Ronald.

  “About two months. Now, as you will understand, Mr Standish, I was awfully upset over the whole thing. Save for this one amazing bee in his bonnet over Charles, Uncle Peter was just the same old dear as ever. And I hated the thought of hurting his feelings. Charles was all for telling him to go to blazes, and getting married with or without his consent. But I talked it over with him and, after a while he agreed, rather reluctantly, to let me try and get round him.”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “It’s been quite useless. Honestly I believe the poor darling was literally insane on that one point. The mere mention of Charles’ name was enough to send him into a fit of ungovernable fury. And he would give no reason; that was the infuriating part of it all. If only he had mentioned some specific cause for his dislike I might have been able to cope with it, but he wouldn’t. And so at last I realised it was useless going on, besides being unfair to Charles. So we decided we’d get married a month from now.

  “I wanted to tell Uncle Peter myself, but Charles preferred to do it so that there should be no question of his appearing to funk it. And two days ago he did so. Apparently it was an accidental meeting in the village, and George told me about it.”

  “George? Who is George?” asked Ronald.

  “Charles’ cousin. He lives in London, and had stayed the previous night with Charles. And on his way back to Town he called in and saw me. Evidently there had been a hideous scene which ended in Uncle Peter actually going for Charles with his walking-stick. And the trouble is that it was witnessed by several people.”

  “Let’s get these dates clear,” said Ronald. “Today is Thursday, so that it was on Tuesday that that happened.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did Charles come and see you that day?”

  “No. I rang him up when George had gone, but he was out.”

  “When did you next see Charles?”

  “Last night – after the tragedy. I was out myself all yesterday till dinner-time.”

  “But I think you said, Miss Padston, that it was yesterday evening that your uncle seemed upset at dinner. What had caused that?”

  “Apparently they’d had another row yesterday afternoon.”

  “They certainly do not seem to have liked one another,” remarked Ronald. “Where did this one take place?”

  “In the park.”

  “And did anyone witness it?”

  “Charles doesn’t know. You see, when Sinton told me that Uncle Peter was dead I rang up Charles at once.”

  “That would be just after ten o’clock last night. Was he in?”

  She hesitated for a second.

  “No. There was no answer at all.”

  “What about the servants?”

  “A man and his wife look after him. And they go out every Wednesday.”

  “So you rang him up again later?”

  “Yes. About twenty past ten. He answered, and I told him what had happened. He came over at once. And it was then he told me about the row yesterday afternoon. Oh! Mr Standish, I know he didn’t do it.”

  “My dear Miss Padston,” said Ronald reassuringly, “I think you’re alarming yourself most unnecessarily. On what you’ve told me there is no earthly reason to suppose that he did. Because two men have a quarrel – even a very bad quarrel – there is no reason for thinking that one of them is going to shoot the other hours afterwards in cold blood. Had he killed him in the heat of the moment the thing is understandable. But to walk a mile, as I say hours after, is a different matter. What object had he in killing your uncle? You and he were going to get married anyway.”

  The girl bit her lip.

  “I haven’t told you everything yet,” she said. “While I was talking to Charles, Inspector Drury came into the room.

  “‘Have you been here long, Mr Denne?’ he said.

  “Charles told him he’d only just arrived.

  “‘Have you been round to the study?’

  “‘No,’ said Charles.

  “‘Nor outside the window?’

  “‘I came straight in here to Miss Padston,’ Charles said a little irritably. ‘What are you driving at, Inspector?’

  “‘Mr Denne, are your initials CTD?’

  “‘They are,’ answered Charles.

  “‘Then how comes a handkerchief bearing those initials to be in a rhododendron bush just by the study window?’

  “He held it out, and Charles took it.

  “‘It’s my handkerchief right enough, Inspector,’ he said. ‘But how it came there I know no more than you.’

  “And then it suddenly dawned on him what the inspector was driving at.

  “‘Good God! man,’ he cried, ‘you don’t suppose I murdered my uncle, do you?’

  “‘I suppose nothing, Mr Denne,’ said the inspector. ‘But a terrible crime has been committed, and it is my duty to investigate it. Can you tell me your movements since eight o’clock?’

  “‘Most certainly,’ answered Charles. ‘I fed at home at eight o’clock, and at about half-past nine I went for a walk, returning to my house at a quarter past ten. For that you will have to take my word since my servants always go out on Wednesday nights. Miss Padston rang me up five minutes later, telling me what had happened, and I came up here post-haste in my car.’

  “‘Merely as a formality, Mr Denne,’ said the inspector, ‘may I ask if you met anyone during your walk?’

  “‘Several people,’ said Charles quietly. ‘But since the implication in your question is obvious, I may as well say at once that I spoke to no one who can confirm my story. And since it was dark there is nobody who could have recognised me.’

  “With that the inspector left us, and Charles turned to me. Naturally he was most frightfully upset; it was evident that Drury suspected him. And that’s why I’ve come straight to you, Mr Standish.”

  “Did anything more happen last night?” asked Ronald.

  “Nothing of any importance. We rang up George in London, but found that he had caught the eight o’clock train from King’s Cross to York. His man didn’t know where he was staying there, but he’d gone up on business.”

  “And nothing more this morning?”

  “Not before I left. You will help Charles, won’t you, Mr Standish? You see, it’s not enough, as he said to me, for them not to be able to prove that he did it. He’s got to be able to prove that he didn’t.”

  “That is so,” agreed Ronald gravely. “Otherwise on the facts as you’ve told them to me suspicion will stick to him for the rest of his life.”

  “But you don’t think – you can’t think – he did it,” she cried indignantly.

  “Does it very much matter what I think, or don’t think?” said Ronald. “Though if it’s any comfort to you, I don’t think he did it. But what we’ve got to do – if we can – is to prove that to the satisfaction of other people. And that may not be very easy. Have you any ideas yourself?”

  “I believe it was a poacher,” she said. “Or someone Uncle Peter had had before him on the Bench, and sentenced. But probably a poacher, because he’d be more likely to have a sporting gun. But you’ll come down, Mr Standish, won’t you? You will help him?”

  “I will. I’ll come down this afternoon. And then we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Well, Bob,�
�� he said after he had shown our visitor out, “what do you make of it?

  “Much the same as you,” I answered. “I can hardly believe that any sane man would have done such an insane action just after two violent quarrels.”

  “He gets the title. He gets Horsham Grange and a lot more money. It is arguable both ways, you know. Supposing Charles Denne said to himself exactly what you’ve just said. Supposing he reasoned it out that the thing would appear so insensate, so obvious, that that in itself would be a proof that he couldn’t have done it.”

  “Yes,” I said doubtfully. “I suppose it is possible.”

  “It’s certainly possible. Whether it’s likely is a different matter. And in that case the episode of the handkerchief loses any significance. He dropped it accidentally and it blew away. But if it isn’t the case then the matter of the handkerchief becomes of supreme importance.”

  “In what way?”

  “Because it narrows our field down to someone who wished not only to murder the old man, but also to foist the crime on to Charles Denne. And that rather precludes a stray poacher, who is not as a rule a man of high mentality. Would the average vagrant go to the length of planting a handkerchief? How would he get the handkerchief in the first place? Still, there may be some further developments when we get down there.”

  His prophecy was destined to be fulfilled: further developments there were indeed. Charles Denne had already been arrested and charged with the murder of his uncle. And I must confess that the new fact that had come to light and had caused the issue of the warrant seemed pretty damning to me. For it proved conclusively, if it was true, that Charles Denne had lied over at least one point.

  The evidence had been volunteered by a man called John Dillon, a very respectable farmer in a small way, who was a pillar of the local church and a man whose integrity was above suspicion. He stated that at about nine-forty the previous evening Charles Denne had passed him in the road carrying a gun under his arm, and had spoken to him. He had been standing just outside his own gate at the time, and the remark which Denne had made to him was, “Good evening, Dillon. Mr George and I will be having another whack at your rabbits soon.”