Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

  “A fine thing to do, Mr. Bonnington,” said Harrison, “and may I say, definitely mid-Victorian?”

  The solicitor smiled. “And that, I think, is the whole sad story,” he said. “You, Mr. Harrison, seemed as well acquainted with the facts as myself.”

  “Only one thing more,” said Harrison. “May I have Mrs. Cant’s address?”

  “You are continually springing surprises on me, Mr. Harrison,” said Bonnington. “Surely you don’t want to torture the girl by raking it all over again?”

  “I promise you, Mr. Bonnington, I will be extremely tactful. I wish I could explain, but I’m afraid I can’t, but I can assure you that nothing in any inquiries I make is likely to cause any embarrassment to you or your firm’s good name.”

  “Very well,” said the solicitor, ringing his bell and explaining to Mr. Sleet, who was at his elbow almost before the bell had finished sounding in the outer room.

  The clerk looked inquiringly at Harrison and then at his master.

  “Write down Mrs. Cant’s address for Mr. Harrison, will you, Mr. Sleet?” said Bonnington.

  The clerk looked still more inquiringly, and, to Harrison, it seemed that he was hardly able to keep himself from asking his master the reason of such a strange request.

  “That is all, Mr. Harrison?” asked the solicitor.

  “If you have in your records the address of this girl, Dorice Locket, I should like that, too,” was the reply.

  The clerk seemed even more surprised, but departed without comment, his training helping him to make such a superhuman effort.

  “I really thought Cant would turn out to be another Sleet,” said Bonnington. sadly. “A valuable servant, Mr. Harrison; I might almost say an invaluable one. I cannot think what I should do without him. He is so thorough. Knows a case backwards and can be entirely relied on. And steady, too. Home every evening. Never seems to want to go gadding about.”

  “Cant was like that, too,” said Harrison, drily.

  “Ah, but Mr. Sleet is quite different. He lives at home with his parents. They are now getting on in years and I know that he is a model son, thoughtful to a fault. If only there were more like him.”

  The paragon had now returned to the room, and handed to Harrison a slip of paper on which was typed one address.

  “We have no trace of the girl Locket’s address,” he explained.

  “That’s a pity,” said Harrison.

  “Hardly, sir,” said the clerk, gently. “Mr. Bonnington was so distressed at the time and his opinion of the young person was such that I seem to recall that we destroyed most of the papers connected with her.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Harrison,” said Bonnington. “I recall it myself now. Too painful a memory altogether, you understand.”

  Harrison nodded his sympathetic agreement and was shown out with exquisite politeness by Mr. Sleet, at the same time guessing that, directly the door was closed upon him, that gentleman would lose not a second in learning the details of the interview from the worthy Mr. Bonnington.

  At the chambers, he found Henry and Eric in a state of unnatural excitement, and inquired the reason.

  “We’ve had an actor here, sir,” explained Henry, handing Harrison a visiting card.

  “Ben Castor,” Harrison read. “He used to play leads with Sybil Norton.”

  “He’s been playing a lead here, too, sir,” answered Henry, in an aggrieved tone. “He marched in soon after you had gone out and demanded to see you. I told him you were not in, and he told me not to prevaricate. Me, sir. Then he suddenly rolled his eyes and shouted ‘Sybil, my poor tragic Sybil.’ I thought, he was mad. He turned on me again and said I was to take him to you at once. I told him you had gone out and, as he was making so much noise, I thought it better to open your door to convince him.”

  “Very wise,” said Harrison.

  “He then gave us a long declamation on the calamity to the stage, the rivers of tears of the players, and a lot more, sir. I was certain someone would come in from the staircase to see what all the noise was, but luckily they didn’t. When he stopped for breath I asked him for his card. He glared at me and shouted, ‘What is a card?’ Still he had the sense to find one. Then I suggested he should call later, and he said something about eternity being a long time. He glared at us again and then marched out.”

  “He was a great romantic actor,” said Harrison, “and I often heard how temperamental he was. Still, I hope he comes back. He may have something important to tell us.”

  He went into his own room, and, lighting a cigar, summoned Henry. The latter settled down with his notebook and pencil and duly recorded a summary of Harrison’s interview with Bonnington.

  “Well, Henry?” he asked, when he had finished dictating.

  “It doesn’t get us any farther,” was the reply.

  “Maybe,” said Harrison. “But doesn’t it all strike you as rather queer? Don’t think I’m being psychic, or anything like that, but the more time I spent at Bonnington’s the stranger the whole place seemed to be.”

  “The clerk’s suicide is certainly strange, sir.”

  “The more I talked about it to Bonnington, Henry, the more surprising it seemed to be. That’s why I pressed him. It may have nothing whatever to do with Sybil Norton’s case. I can’t see any earthly reason why it should and I can understand the old man being surprised at my harping on it. But I felt I couldn’t stop. Young Cant was such a complete monster. Quite frankly, Henry, it doesn’t seem to me to ring true.”

  “They seemed to take it quite for granted, sir,” said Henry.

  “That’s the puzzle, Henry. And then the business about the other girl’s address. I feel in my bones it was in that office all the time, and when the precious Mr. Sleet went out to get it he thought it better that I shouldn’t have it. My dear Henry, that was a solicitor’s office, and yet they destroy an address because of some sentimental feeling about this young clerk of theirs. Does that ring true either?”

  “A bit far-fetched, sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say so, Henry,” said Harrison. “Now what’s the logic of it all? The only fact we have is the telephone talk with Bonnington’s. Nothing much to go on, but still all we have. We call on Bonnington’s and that leads us to a remarkably unusual story of the suicide of Lewis Cant. So what’s the next stage?”

  “As this might be called, if you will excuse me, sir, Clay Harrison logic,” said Henry, “I’m afraid I don’t see it.”

  “Mrs. Cant is the next stage, Henry.”

  “And then she leads us somewhere?” asked Henry, innocently.

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Henry.”

  “Well, sir, I’d rather put my money on the actor fellow, even if he does shout. He may settle the whole business in a moment.”

  “Well done, Henry,” said Harrison, “I deserved the rebuke. You may be right. But all the same—you won’t be too annoyed if I call on Mrs. Cant?”

  Chapter V

  A Night Of Queer Events

  The evening meal was drawing to its placid close at “The Bank” that same night where a small party were staying at the bidding of Sir Thomas Craig Fennel and Lady Fennel. “The Bank” was a well-built country house on the Hampshire coast overlooking the sea, and Sir Thomas one of a long line of baronets to occupy it. He and his wife were popular members of society and an invitation to stay with them was always received with pleasure. Everything, from the guest’s point of view, was exactly right, and the pair were acclaimed as perfect host and hostess.

  It was therefore with some alarm that Sir Thomas looked at his wife this particular evening. All day she had been as charming as ever, but in the late afternoon she had received a telephone call. She had not told him from whom it had come. In fact she said it was unimportant, some tradesman or other, but that was difficult to believe, for since that time, she had been quite a different person. It was not his habit to press her with questions if he knew she did not wish to answer them. She had said firmly th
at there was nothing wrong with her health and certainly her appearance was as usual, although her manner was so changed.

  She seemed to be listening for something all the time and, by the start she would give when suddenly spoken to, it was obviously something unpleasant. Her bright remarks, for which she was well-known and which were the life of any gathering she attended, were few and far between. One of the men had characterised it as a tragedy of drought. During the course of dinner matters had moved more and more heavily. She hardly heard any remark addressed to her; and if she did answer, it was in such uninspiring tone and phrases that the speaker almost felt he had been rebuked by her.

  Valiantly did Sir Thomas do his best to keep things going. He worked like a slave at his end of the table and the others seconded his efforts as manfully as they could. It was all, however, very artificial, and they knew it. The Fennels were a perfect combination and this striving monotone was really dreadful.

  In the drawing-room the ladies questioned Lady Fennel but could gain no explanation from her. She was quite all right. There was nothing for them to worry about. And then, when they had decided to abandon their efforts, she suddenly turned on them with great violence and demanded why she should be expected to be witty and amusing all the time. She was not on the music halls, and if, once in a while, she did not feel equal to it, what earthly right had they to complain. This came as a great shock, for it was unusual for her to burst forth in this manner, and resulted in making the atmosphere even more constrained.

  In the billiard room where the men were smoking, one or two of them tried to bring themselves to say a sympathetic word to Sir Thomas, but he was a man who had never shown much feeling and did not expect it of others. A look at him convinced them that it was better left alone, but behind every one of their minds and colouring their thoughts was the unaccountable conduct of Lady Fennel.

  So the men joined the ladies in an uneasy frame of mind and the close of such a regrettable evening was hailed with the greatest relief. The vaguest possible excuse was snatched for an early retirement to bed and was readily accepted. Married couples in the fastnesses of their rooms discussed every detail of the strange event and agreed that they had never enjoyed a day less. Those who were on their first visit to the Park vowed that it would be their last, while those who had been before argued uncharitably that they knew it could not last, that the Fennels could not keep up their reputation for ever, and that it would be a long time before they accepted another invitation.

  Left alone with his wife in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas said, bluntly, “Now then, Helen, you must tell me what’s the matter with you.”

  “Nothing’s the matter, Tom,” was the reply.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” he said. “It’s been a dreadful evening. I can’t remember ever having felt more miserable.”

  “Oh yes, I know it’s my fault.”

  “I don’t mean that, Helen, but you’re so different. You’re worried about something. Tell me what it is.”

  “I’m not worried,” was the definite reply.

  “I think you might trust your husband, Helen,” said Sir Thomas, somewhat sharply.

  “Why can’t you leave me alone?” cried the woman. “Why should you go on questioning and questioning? I won’t stand it, not even from you, Tom. There’s nothing wrong, I tell you.”

  “But I want to help you, Helen,” he answered gently, alarmed at this unusually hysterical outburst.

  “You’ll help me by not asking questions,” she snapped.

  “But this is so unlike you, Helen,” he insisted.

  “Unlike me,” she said, bitterly. “Why must I always be like myself? I’m a bit off colour, that’s all. For heaven’s sake, let’s get to bed. I shall be all right again in the morning.”

  “I certainly trust you will be,” he replied, and the pair went silently to their rooms. With a perfunctory “good night” she disappeared, and her husband undressed and got into bed with great perturbation. Was she going to have a nervous breakdown? She seemed to be showing all the symptoms of it, and yet what on earth could be the cause? There was nothing to account for it. They had both been leading the same regular life, healthy, placid and undisturbed. If she were no better in the morning he would certainly have to send for the doctor. He turned out the light and, for a long time, lay in bed with his eyes on the narrow streak of light shining unwaveringly under the door which connected their two rooms. Obviously his wife was not inclined to sleep.

  Dozing, he must have woken up with a start at about two in the morning. There was still the streak of light under the door. He felt abnormally awake and was certain that he had been roused by a call from his wife for help. Yet now all was amazingly still. Jumping out of bed he went across to the connecting door and turned the handle to open it. It was locked on his wife’s side. “Helen,” he called, “is there anything wrong?”

  “Of course not,” came the answer, very quickly, but in a muffled tone which struck Fennel as unusual.

  “Open the door, Helen,” he said, “I’m worried about you.”

  “Go back to bed, Tom,” came the reply, in the same queer tone, “And don’t be silly.”

  At that moment Fennel thought he heard a movement outside the house, and going to the window seemed to see a form moving in the shrubbery at the side of the garden. Quickly putting on his dressing-gown and slippers, he dashed down the stairs and out on to the lawn. There was no one to be seen. What a fool he was, he was getting nearly as nervy as Helen. He looked up at her window and, to his astonishment, saw a dark figure standing on the sill and pressed up against the side, as if hoping that, being thus in the shadow, it would escape observation from below.

  “Come down from there,” shouted Sir Thomas, who was endowed with a high degree of physical courage. He ran across the lawn to wait for the intruder, who had now left the window-sill and was starting to make his way down the ivy. To Fennel’s eyes, whether it was a trick of the moonlight or no he could not tell, the figure seemed to grow larger as it descended and was more that of a giant than a man.

  When still a fair height from the ground, the figure jumped away from Fennel, who leaped forward to grapple with it. Up to that moment he had not seen its face, but as now it was turned full towards him he stood still with a gasp of horror. It was a shockingly unhuman sight, repulsively streaked with bright colours like some African chieftain. There was no doubt of the size of the figure now, whether it was man or animal. It must have been nearly seven feet in height and broad and ungainly in proportion. But Fennel mastered his fear and again went towards the figure, which was now preparing to run across the lawn.

  Even, however, as he drew close, Fennel felt a sickening blow on the head evidently dealt him from behind and, with a cry, fell unconscious. By this time the commotion had been heard by a light-sleeping guest, and lights were to be seen in different windows where other sleepers were being roused. Fennel came back to life to find himself supported in his wife’s arms and a number of human beings, in the oddest variety of garments, standing around him.

  The light-sleeping guest explained that he had looked out of his window on hearing a cry, and had seen a man lying on the lawn, while two others were running away into the shrubbery. By the time he had been able to arouse others, the two had disappeared and a car had been heard driving off at top speed. There were marks of motor tyres on the road by the wall behind the shrubbery and that might help the police.

  At the mention of the police Lady Fennel, who now seemed the most calm and collected of them all, said that there would be time enough to think of them in the morning, and when an importunate guest asked Sir Thomas what had happened to him, she was ready with a sharp rebuke and said that the first thing to do was to get him into the house and bathe his head.

  The result was that no curiosity was satisfied that night nor, for that matter, even in the morning. Sir Thomas did not appear. Lady Fennel said that it was her husband’s express wish that no further action should be ta
ken in the matter and, as no real harm had been done, the house itself not having been entered, he would be grateful if his guests would not talk about the incident. He had not been at all seriously hurt and would speedily be about again.

  Whereupon the house party, with few regrets, gradually drifted away. The guests did not care particularly whether they mentioned the episode or not. They were all tired through lack of sleep, and resentful that they had been given such a thoroughly unenjoyable time. The light-sleeping guest was the only one to be so bad-mannered as to be vocally critical, but he took it as a personal slight that no use would be made by the police of his amateur detective effort in discovering the marks of motor tyres.

  Chapter VI

  Lewis Cant’s Last Walk

  Next morning Clay Harrison made his way to a housing estate in one of the outer suburbs of London to the address given him as being that of Mrs. Lewis Cant. It was an unpretentious little house, the windows giving the impression of spotless cleanliness. The door was opened by a young woman, neatly dressed and of obviously energetic nature. Her face had a bright, eager look, but the eyes betrayed a weariness and a sense of tragedy which ill-contrasted with the rest of her appearance. He gave his name and asked if she was Mrs. Lewis Cant.

  “Thank God you’ve come,” she answered, simply, as she showed him into a bright sitting-room.

  “You don’t know how thankful I am to see you, Mr. Harrison,” she went on. “It’s almost like an answer to a prayer. I’ve so wanted someone like you to come and help me.”

  “You think I can help you, then?” he asked.

  “I am certain,” she answered, in the warmest tones of conviction.

  “But you don’t even know why I have come to see you.”

  “Yes, I do. You have come to see me about Lewis. I knew you would come some time. That’s why I waited here.”

  “But you couldn’t know that it would be I myself?”

  “Of course not. But somebody had to come, I tell you. I have been so certain. It is wonderful of you, Mr. Harrison. I have heard of you and I know what you can do.”