“But I thought—” began Dorice.
“There’s no need for you to think,” interrupted Manners. “And mind what you say to this Mr. Clay Harrison. Stick to the old story, every word of it. And if you’ve forgotten anything, don’t try and invent something in its place. Goliath’s waiting and anxious.”
With this parting shot he went out of the room and, a few moments later, Rose was showing Harrison and Henry into the heavy atmosphere of the Oriental-seeming room.
Dorice had collected her scattered wits with remarkable speed and, sitting gracefully on the divan, negligently exhibiting a very shapely leg, she apologised for keeping them waiting in such a rude manner, but she had been resting after her lunch.
Harrison was also profuse in his apologies, and then the proceedings came to a standstill until Harrison broke the silence by saying, “If you do not mind, Miss Locket, I should prefer to talk to you alone. I realise how much one puts confidence in one’s maid, but my mission is of rather a delicate nature.”
“Of course, of course,” answered Dorice, looking towards Rose, who immediately took the hint and disappeared.
“I know you will understand,” said Harrison; “but there might be something in connection with Lewis Cant that you would hardly like to discuss in front of your maid even. I would like to explain that I personally am rather interested in this sad case and have not been entirely satisfied with what I have read about it.” He proceeded to explain that he knew all the facts that had come out at the inquest, and that he felt there must be a lot more of them still untold. She might be able to help him and she might not, but she would agree, he hoped, that there was no harm in trying.
“It is hardly likely I can help you, Mr. Harrison,” she said, in a business tone, a marvellous contrast with the melodious sugariness with which she had addressed her Francie so recently. “I told them all I knew at the time. It was a great shock to me as well, you know. I was very fond of Lewis. I had no idea he was married.”
“No idea? That is interesting.”
“I don’t see why?”
“Well, Miss Locket, if I may put it rather bluntly, there was no need for him to hide you away like this and only visit you in the middle of the day if he had not been married.”
“I did not think of that, at the time. As far as I remember he had some explanation.”
“Which satisfied you?”
“One doesn’t always go into all the whys and wherefores when one is in love, Mr. Harrison,” answered Dorice, looking sadly at the tip of one of her feet.
“Of course not,” said Harrison sympathetically. “I am sorry, Miss Locket.”
“I’ve been able to get over the worst of it,” she said, with a bravely strong ring in her voice.
“I’m glad,” said Harrison. “I suppose he paid for most of this?”
“Quite a lot of it,” was her reply. “He was very generous.”
“Not over clothes.”
The girl looked quickly at him and then answered, “There was no need. I hardly ever went out. He didn’t like me to. And, of course, I never went out with him.”
“If I might put it somewhat coarsely, you ‘picked him up’ in the first place?”
“Well, we met in the street.”
“I see,” said Harrison, “and it was not long before he began to visit you regularly?”
“Not very long. We found we suited each other so exactly.”
“And did he ever suggest marriage?”
“I don’t think he did.”
“And did you?”
“I may have done. I often thought about it and hoped he would. I told you it was a terrible shock when I found that he was married already.”
“Yes,” said Harrison. “Another thing. I should like to know from you what particular points about him impressed you.”
“Nothing particular,” said the girl, “I just liked him as he was.”
“Had he any special habits?”
“I don’t remember any.”
“But if he came here every day there must have been some little peculiarities you noticed about him,” urged Harrison.
“When one’s in love—” she started again.
“I see,” said Harrison. “So there was really nothing?”
The girl seemed to give a desperate glance round her as if for the support of the vanished Rose, and then said, tamely, “I suppose not, really.”
“Then really you can’t help me very much?” said Harrison, gently.
“I’m afraid not,” was the girl’s reply. “I wish I could,” she added, as if frightened by the possibility of a threat in the way he had spoken to her.
“Very well,” said Harrison. “It is good of you to have seen me at all and I won’t take up any more of your time.”
He took her hand and pressed it firmly. Then, speaking in a gentle, almost fatherly tone, he said, “Miss Locket, one thing more. I realise that a girl who has to fend for herself as you do is likely to find herself in a situation where she urgently needs advice or even help. I trust you will believe me when I say that if there is anything I can do for you in the future at any time you have only to let me know. Good-bye.”
They were shown out by the trim maid and went silently down the stairs.
“Let’s walk back to the chambers through Lincoln’s Inn fields, Henry,” said Harrison, “and talk things over.”
Nothing was said for a time and then Henry burst forth with, “A champion lot of talkers in that place, I must say, sir.”
“We certainly didn’t get much out of the caretaker,” said Harrison. “Must be extremely well-paid to keep so quiet. A most suspicious woman. She admitted that the girl had been there for over a year and that was about all.”
“Quite,” was Henry’s comment. “And you couldn’t say the girl herself was exactly confidential.”
“By the way, Henry,” asked Harrison, “what did you yourself make of my new girl friend?”
“She’s certainly a—”
“We both know that, Henry,” said Harrison, reprovingly. “I’m not taking stock of her morals. What of her character?”
“A regular Cockney, sir, quick in the uptake. No flies on her.”
“True enough, Henry, her answer about clothes was pretty good, I thought.”
“Especially as she was so frightened,” added Henry.
“Good,” said Harrison. “You noticed that, too? Do you think it was entirely due to our unexpected visit?”
“Not with a girl like that, sir,” was the reply. “I think she was frightened about something else altogether.”
“Good again, Henry,” said Harrison. “Genuine fear, almost terror, you think?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“But she didn’t say much.”
“Precious little.”
“And we learned a great deal?”
“Did we, sir?” asked Henry.
“First of all, what about her sister?”
“Sister, sir?”
“Yes, the maid. Sister or cousin. Some near relation, I’m certain of that. I plump for sister. The same nose and the identical long upper lip. Surely you noticed that?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“That’s why I got her out of the room, Henry; I thought you would have spotted that. The two women might have told a better story if they could have helped one another.”
“Sisters, sir? One the mistress and one the maid. That’s funny, isn’t it?”
“Very funny, Henry,” said Harrison. “But we’re inquiring into a very funny business. It all fits in quite well. And what about the man of the house?”
Henry’s face lit up with legitimate self-approbation. “I did notice the cigar end, sir, if that’s what you mean.”
“Partly, Henry. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t you hear the click of the front door closing?”
“When, sir?”
“We had been talking some time and I dist
inctly heard it.”
“I didn’t, sir,” said Henry, in a tone of extreme disappointment.
“I suggest, Henry, we are entitled to assume that, at that moment, the gentleman of the house was making a quiet retreat.”
Henry waited for the explanation which he knew Harrison was ready to give.
“Suppose, Henry,” Harrison went on, “we assume that this Dorice Locket knew nothing whatever about Lewis Cant. Her conversation was not very impressive so I think we are entitled to, don’t you?”
“Absolutely, sir,” said Henry, with a broad smile.
“Suppose, also, that the gentleman who has been keeping her in this profusion for a year at least had a special reason for throwing mud at the name of Lewis Cant. Suppose he coached our little Dorice in her part, even to dressing her for it, do you think he would accuse Cant of behaving in exactly the same way as he was, and is, doing himself?”
“Splendid, sir,” cried Henry, his raised voice surprising some of the passers-by. “You mean that we disturbed the unknown gentleman spending a pleasant hour with the lady and that he makes a habit of it?”
“It sounds pretty obvious, Henry, and he’s a very remarkable unknown gentleman, too. The place itself is a pretty strong indication.”
“Fuggy sort of shop.”
“I agree, Henry, but what a sidelight on the man’s character. Vain and sensual, to start with. Wants to create the illusion he’s a sultan in his spare time. Did you notice the girl’s dress?”
“Couldn’t miss it, sir,” said Henry, gravely.
“His very middle-class idea of the tenant of a harem, Henry, that’s how it struck me. The place reeked of scent, too. A very curious fellow, Henry, because he isn’t entirely without taste. Those little tables were exquisite, and I liked his coffee cups.”
“Fancy drawing all the curtains and living in that atmosphere in broad daylight,” said Henry.
“It’s the only time he has to do it,” was Harrison’s answer. “That seems certain by the suggestions made of Cant’s behaviour. At all other times of the day he must be a very respectable citizen, esteemed by all who know him. And he’s no fool either. He arranged the Cant business pretty neatly.”
“You haven’t said what you make of it, sir?” said Henry.
“Nothing, at the moment, Henry, except that we’ve struck a very interesting problem. I’m rather sorry we called on Miss Locket, all the same.”
“What on earth for, sir?”
“Because this queer person knows I’ve been.”
“But if the place were watched, sir, we should soon know who he was.”
“That’s the trouble, Henry. We might have done that before but you can bet your last halfpenny he’s not going to be seen visiting his little nest for some time to come now. I said he wasn’t a fool.”
“It’s a pity,” said Henry, sadly. “Do you connect him with Sybil Norton, sir?”
“That’s a goodish jump, Henry,” said Harrison. “I don’t see why I should, and yet I don’t see why I shouldn’t. Anyhow, we agree that Miss Dorice Locket was very frightened?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I invited her to come and see me if she wanted any help?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” said Harrison, “Suppose she accepts the invitation.”
Chapter IX
The First Threat
Back at the chambers, Harrison felt unusually restless. Henry had produced tea and Harrison had drunk it gratefully. He had tried to concentrate on some intricate papers, but had failed dismally. This was annoying, for he usually found it a certain cure for similar moods. He forced himself, for a time, to read the typewritten sheets in front of him but, realising that he was making no progress whatever in assimilating them, he abandoned the effort, lit a cigar and stared at the caricatures of bygone legal worthies on the wall opposite.
His mind was entirely filled by the problem of the mysterious gentleman behind Dorice Locket. In the ordinary way he would have classed him as a somewhat unbalanced city man who had carefully arranged this secret life as an outlet for feelings which had become too strong for him. But such a theory disregarded Lewis Cant. Here the unbalanced city man theory did not fit at all. Why go to the extreme trouble of fastening one’s own peculiar behaviour on to the dead young man unless one had an urgent reason for doing so?
Looking back on the peculiar manner of Lewis Cant’s death, Harrison was not surprised that he had been so ready to believe Mrs. Cant. The young man was found to have committed suicide. Mrs. Cant said it was inconceivable. He had committed suicide because he had embezzled money from the firm of Bonnington. Again Mrs. Cant was not convinced. He had embezzled money so as to be able to support Dorice Locket in secret. Mrs. Cant said that was impossible. On this last point everything that had happened in the queerly-furnished flat had forced Harrison to agree with her.
If, however, the last point was impossible, what became of the other two stages. Had Lewis Cant embezzled money from Bonnington’s at all? Had he committed suicide? And if he had not committed suicide what was the alternative? Murder seemed to be out of the question. There was only accident left. But if it had been an accident, it must have been one which was singularly opportune from the point of view of the mysterious gentleman in the case. But why go to such heights of ingenuity to prove it was suicide? The fact of embezzlement ought to have been sufficient for a coroner’s verdict, and yet the intervention of Dorice had been carefully stage-managed to make doubly sure.
Was it too wild a thought to connect it with Cant’s unlucky walk to Hested, his sudden return from it, and his increasing worry after it until his death? Was the unknown gentleman connected with the Hested episode, and did that explain his anxiety to finish Lewis Cant’s career with the greatest possible ignominy so that no other factor should be called into account? Ingenious, certainly. The evidence given at the inquest was of such a nature and so complete that no inconvenient questions had been asked in any other direction. It was like a conjuring trick where one takes the card specially selected by the conjuror himself without realising how one has been fooled.
Perhaps that is what happened to the coroner. He went straight along the line prepared for him without realising that there could be other paths of inquiry. The coroner had not thought it necessary, for the case had been so obvious. Too obvious, thought Harrison. This strange gentleman is certainly going to be no mean opponent, for opponent he must be considered, there is no doubt of that. But why Lewis Cant? A very junior clerk in a solicitor’s office cannot be considered big game worth all the careful planning which seems to have been displayed.
At this moment Harrison realised that Henry was standing in the room waiting patiently for his master to notice him.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” said Henry, “but Mr. Peary is outside and would like a word with you if you’re not too busy?”
“I wish I was busy, Henry,” said Harrison. “I seem to be up against a ten-foot wall at the moment. Show Mr. Peary in.”
It was almost with a sigh of relief that Harrison greeted the young barrister, who hustled in wearing his wig and gown.
“Sorry to crash in like this,” cried Peary, energetically, “but I have been over the road on a running-down case and I thought it a golden opportunity to look you up for a minute.”
“I’m more than pleased to see you, Peary.”
“I really came to see if there was any news,” explained Peary. “Since Tim Norton asked you to help him you seem to have avoided the club. Cause and effect, I suppose, and no news into the bargain.”
“I’m afraid not,” was Harrison’s reply. “There was one promising line but it hasn’t led anywhere,” and Harrison recounted the interview with the two actors.
“Interesting, all the same,” said Peary. “And you believe Harringway’s story about the letters?”
“Impossible to do otherwise,” answered Harrison.
“But if he was swine enough to use them once, he might
do it again, mightn’t he?”
“He was telling the truth,” said Harrison. “No doubt of that.”
“Still it’s a queer story,” urged the barrister.
“Queerer still,” said Harrison, “because it fits in so obviously with my line of inquiry. Norton himself agreed that his wife might have been driven to suicide by blackmail. The drawing of the money almost proves that. Harringway had some letters with which it might have been done. That’s all nice and logical. But Harringway didn’t do it. He couldn’t have reduced Mrs. Norton to that state of mind. He’s not the type. To my mind, a man who could do that must know the blackmail business backwards.”
“And you’re certain this actor fellow doesn’t fill the bill?” pressed Peary.
“Absolutely convinced,” answered Harrison.
“Surely Sybil couldn’t have left any more indiscreet letters about?”
“Rather unlikely.”
“Well, then, Harrison, what next?”
“Don’t cross-examine me, Mr. Peary,” answered Harrison, severely. “Here is a chance for the penetrating legal mind, the mind that, so I am told, goes through the masses of unnecessary detail and discovers the essential facts of a case.”
“No wonder you made a poor barrister if that’s your idea of them,” laughed Peary. “Still, there is one point still to clear up. What really happened to those letters?”
“That’s more professional, Mr. Peary,” answered Harrison. “The point has been worrying me considerably. Now let me question you. Do you think, if they were really stolen, the thief tumbled to their criminal value?”
“He took a long time doing it,” said Peary. “Or, alternatively, he must have been blackmailing Sybil over a long period, which seems hardly likely.”
“But suppose it wasn’t the original thief who tumbled to it?”
“I see. The original thief keeps the letters by him, thinking they might come in some rainy day, and then disposes of them to a practitioner who is in a position to make better use of them. Is that what you mean?”
Methylated Murder Page 9