Nobody seemed to be travelling. I had the compartment to myself. For this I was thankful. I am bad at luncheon-baskets and at managing legs of chicken upon my knee. Besides, I hate eating, when nobody else is eating.
And then, as the whistle was blown, came a rush of steps. The door – my door was wrenched open, a suitcase was flung on the floor and a man stumbled in. He turned and leaned out of the window to pitch a coin. Then he dropped into a seat.
“Near thing, that,” he panted. And then, “By God, it’s Pleydell.”
I felt more cross than ever.
The last thing in the world that I wanted was to share a compartment with Shapely for nearly two hours.
I shall always remember that journey.
It was a most curious experience and one which, I hope, I shall never know again. There I was, boxed up with a man whom I most firmly believed to have contrived the murder of one I had liked and respected for many years. I knew that he was in touch with the man who had committed the crime. I knew that he was being shadowed – that men would be waiting at Dover, to see if he took the boat: and that, if he did, a telegram would go to my cousin – for what it was worth. Yet Shapely had no idea – and must have no idea – that I knew anything. All that Falcon had told us was secret. The name of Tass had never appeared in the papers… In a word, I had to play a most delicate game; for, though I knew so much, if Shapely discussed the crime – and I was quite sure that he would – I had to pretend that I knew no more about it than what I had learned from the letter that he had read us and what had appeared in the Press. ‘Pretend’ be damned. Neither by word nor look, must I give him the faintest impression of such a thing. The devil of it was that I could not remember how much was common knowledge, for since July, when Falcon’s first letter had come, I had not troubled to note what the papers had said.
“It’s Pleydell,” said I, “because of this blasted fog. I ought to be nearing Paris.”
“And I,” said Shapely, “ought to be halfway to Dewlap. I started home this morning by car, but the Dover Road’s a nightmare; so I threw in my hand and came back. They get the boat-trains through somehow. I’ll lay we’re not ten minutes late.”
“Of course,” said I. “That’s very convenient for you. A four-mile drive, and the boat-train, whenever you please.”
“It has its points,” said Shapely. “But I prefer the road. By the way, you’ve left White Ladies.”
“That’s a fact,” said I.
“You know what people are saying. They call it a sign of the times.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“We had no choice,” I said. “We couldn’t keep the place up.”
“You’re a generous lot. Why make it over to the nation? I mean, it was yours – to sell. America would have paid you a fancy price.”
“I know. But White Ladies is part of the History of England. We always felt that we were no more than trustees. Atlas saw our point and put up the money required. And now White Ladies is safe.”
Shapely laughed.
“Like The Abbey Plate: now in the South Kensington Museum.”
“That’s only on loan; but we felt the same about that.”
“There’s no accounting,” said Shapely, “for points of view. Still, if it’s only on loan, you can always sell that. But you must feel lost without White Ladies. What’ll you do? Travel?”
“As a matter of fact we’re building. Building a villa up in the Pyrénées.”
Shapely stared.
“You’re not!”
I nodded.
“Not far from Lally. On the other side of the valley, as you come up from Nareth.”
“What, not on Evergreen?”
“That’s right,” said I. “Halfway between Lally and Besse.”
“I don’t know Besse: but I slept at Lally once and the name ‘Evergreen’ has always stuck in my mind. My God, what a site! But you don’t mean to live there, do you?”
“All main services,” said I. “I don’t see why not.”
“Main services there?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’m damned. Still, it is a shade distant, you know. What’s the idea? Fed up with the wicked world.”
“Let me put it like this,” said I. “We like the vicinity and we feel the need of a home.”
Shapely smothered a grin.
“You must admit it’s funny,” he said. “From White Ladies to Mountain View. I suppose that’s where you’re bound for.”
“More or less. We’re staying at Pau.”
“D’you mean to say you haven’t been back since I saw you?”
I nodded.
“We should have been, but for the building. We naturally want to watch that. We’re coming back for Christmas and the New Year.”
“After which you’ll leave England for good?”
“Not for good.” With that, I handed him a paper. “You had no time to buy one, and I had no time for lunch.”
As I opened my basket—
“Do your stuff,” said Shapely. “I’ll talk as you go. Oh, and talking of White Ladies, I understand that Old Rowley was one of the trustees.”
“Unhappily, yes.”
“Why ‘unhappily’?”
“Because he was our choice – and now he is dead.”
There was a little silence.
Then—
“You saw the verdict – ‘Person or persons unknown’?”
With my mouth full, I nodded.
Shapely turned, to look out of the window.
“Between you and me,” he said, “that verdict was false.”
I emptied my mouth and stared.
“False?” I said. “What do you mean?”
Shapely lay back in his seat and crossed his legs.
“Oh, the jury was honest enough, and the coroner, too. They couldn’t find anything else – on the evidence brought before them. But the police know who did it all right.”
“Are you sure of this?” said I.
“Of course I’m sure. They make no secret about it – between you and me.”
“Then why not—”
“–say so?” said Shapely. “Because they can’t run him to earth, and they don’t want to put him wise.”
“Well, who did do it?” said I.
“A fellow called Tass. Albert Edward Tass, a chauffeur by trade. And the funny thing is that I put them on to Tass… But what’s much funnier still is that your cousin, Mansel, gave me the line.”
“What ever d’you mean?” said I.
Shapely fingered his chin.
“D’you remember when last we met – in the Place Royale, Pau? And how we spoke of the murder, and I read you my sister’s letter and told you as much as I knew?”
“Yes,” said I, “I remember it very well.”
“And Mansel said that it might have been done by a servant who’d been dismissed.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the moment he said it, I had a dreadful feeling it might be Tass. You see…”
He related what he had told Falcon and Falcon had written to us – how Tass had been dismissed by Old Rowley and how he had taken him on and how he himself had dismissed him at Luz Ortigue.
“And then,” he went on, “in a flash I thought of the keys – the keys of the car and the garage. And I left you and went to look – to look in my dressing-case. And the keys weren’t there.
“Well, I was in two minds whether to tell the police. When I saw that the keys were gone, I, so to speak, sensed the worst. I was damned sure Tass had done it. He was the brooding sort, and he used to burst out about Old Rowley, when he was with me. Work himself up, you know, and say ‘If I’d got him here…’ All the same, he’d been my man, and I felt a natural reluctance to put the rope round his neck.
“And then, when I got back, the police started asking about him…
“And so it seemed best to come clean. In my own interest. Supposing it had come out that I’d had the keys…”
“Myself,” said I, “I can’t see that you had any choice. Murder’s never pretty, but this was a monstrous crime. All the same, the keys won’t hang him. You’ve got to have more than that.”
“They’ve got all they need – and to spare.”
He told me how Tass had been traced – from Pau to Paris, thence to Dover, and back to Paris again.
“And there they lost him. He may turn up, of course, but the scent is cold. Quite frankly, I hope he won’t.”
I felt rather sick. I set down my luncheon-basket and shut the lid.
“That’s a hope I don’t share,” I said shortly. “He damned well deserves to swing and I hope he does.”
“Put yourself in my place,” said Shapely. “Tass was my servant. For the better part of six months, he and I were alone – with the caravan. And if they get him, I’m the principal witness – I’m the fellow who’s going to send him down.”
“That wouldn’t faze me.”
Shapely leaned forward.
“Don’t forget this,” he said. “That by bumping off Old Rowley, Tass did me a very good turn. Old Rowley had my birthright. He controlled my mother’s fortune – and allowed me twelve hundred a year. Well, Tass washed out that outrage and gave me my birthright back.”
“I don’t gather that’s why he did it.”
Shapely raised his eyebrows.
“I hardly flatter myself to that extent.”
“In that case,” said I, “the fact that the crime improved your financial position is wholly beside the point – which is that Tass did murder – vile and beastly murder – to ease a grudge. Well, you know, there’s a law against that.”
Shapely leaned back.
“You’re the wrong person to talk to.”
“I think I am.”
“You liked Old Rowley. I didn’t. I make no bones about that. If he had been nothing to either of us…”
“Yes,” I said, “there’s probably something in that. All the same, one’s a sense of justice. Pretend that Old Rowley was nothing to you or to me – pretend that we never knew him, except by name. Then consider how he was murdered. D’you mean to sit there and tell me Tass oughtn’t to hang?”
“I never said that,” said Shapely. “I said that I hoped they wouldn’t get him. Damn it, man, I don’t want to be involved.”
“I daresay you won’t be,” said I. “As you observed just now, the scent is cold.”
With that, I picked up a paper…
For perhaps two minutes, Shapely said nothing at all.
Then—
“You must admit,” he said, “that Tass did his stuff well.”
I laid down my paper and stared.
“What on earth d’you mean?” I said.
Shapely laughed.
“Well, he’s got the police beat. In and out of the country before they had time to turn round.”
“It was pretty plain sailing,” said I. “He banked on the French, and the French haven’t let him down.”
“It was well worked out,” said Shapely. “You’ve got to hand him that.”
“I don’t hand him anything. He knew what he’d find and he found it. And then he got out. After that, it was a matter of luck. He might have been tapped on the shoulder at any time.”
“The fact remains that he wasn’t. He hasn’t been up to now. No. You’ve got to hand it to him, Pleydell. He never put a foot wrong. And they say that a murderer always makes one mistake.”
“That,” said I, “is tripe. They usually make half a dozen – and bad ones, too. But that’s beside the point. Tass was above mistakes. If what you tell me is true, he fairly blazed his trail. He simply banked on disappearance – and that came off.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Shapely. “Weren’t you in Treasury Chambers?”
“Once on a time,” I said.
“Did all your murderers make a pack of mistakes?”
“That’s ancient history,” I said. “My memory’s dim. I can only remember Crippen.”
“‘Only’?” cried Shapely. “My God, you weren’t in that?”
“From beginning to end,” said I.
“You helped to prosecute Crippen?”
“I did.”
This was perfectly true. And I was accustomed to excitement, whenever I mentioned the fact. After all, R v. Crippen is a classic.
Shapely was leaning forward.
“Go on. Tell me about it. How many mistakes did he make?”
I wrinkled my nose.
“In fact,” I said, “Crippen made three. Three very bad mistakes. One was an error of judgment; one was an error of knowledge; and one was – well, just a mistake: he forgot to do something that he had meant to do.”
Shapely settled himself in his corner and crossed his legs.
“Let’s have the error of judgment.”
“Well, you know what he did,” said I. “He murdered his wife. Then he cut up the body and buried it in the cellar. Then he went about his business and, when he was asked where she was, he said that she had left him and he didn’t know where she’d gone.”
“And he got away with that?”
“For about six months. Then somebody got suspicious and went to the police…
“Well, the police didn’t think much of it. The scent was cold. But they called on Crippen and told him that people were saying things. And they pointed out that it might be a good idea if he could locate his wife. Crippen entirely agreed, and arranged to advertise. And the following day he bolted – to Holland, en route for Canada.
“Well, there’s the error of judgment. The moment they found he’d bolted, the police were perfectly sure that he’d killed his wife. And after a lot of labour, they found her remains in the cellar, where Crippen had laid them to rest.”
“By God, what a fool!” said Shapely. “And you mean, if he hadn’t run, he’d have been alive now?”
“That’s my private opinion,” said I. “I may be wrong.”
Shapely licked his lips.
“Let’s have the error of knowledge.”
“Well, before he murdered his wife, he took the precaution of buying a sack of lime.”
“A sack of what?”
“Lime,” said I. “Quick lime. It’s very ordinary stuff. But it’s useful in an interment.”
“Go on,” said Shapely.
“Well, he murdered her, cut her up and then began to shove her into the grave. And each time he put a bit in, he put in a spadeful of lime. The remains were laid up in lime.”
“Then how—”
“–were they discovered? I’m coming to that. When he put the lime in, he slaked it…wet it with water…made it into slack lime. And there he made his error of knowledge. Though he posed as a medical man, he was unaware of the elementary fact that, while quick lime destroys, slack lime preserves. In other and better words, he did exactly the opposite to what he was intending to do. He proposed to destroy the remains: in fact, he took care to preserve them – to send him down.
“Well, there was his second mistake. And if he hadn’t made that – well, he would have been alive now.
“And now for his third mistake…
“His wife had had an operation, and this had left a big scar. So he cut out the portion of flesh that bore the scar, intending, of course, to destroy it – in case of accidents. The scar was what passports call ‘a distinguishing mark’. Lime or no, if the scar was not to be found, the remains could not be identified as those of his wife. When he cut up the body, he laid that portion aside. (This is surmise, of course, but it’s probably sound.) And then, at the last, he forgot. Forgot he had meant to destroy it, and shoved it into the grave. He may have been startled, or something. The clock may have said it was later than he had thought. Anyway, in it went – the last piece of all; for that was the first thing they saw, when they opened the grave.”
“And that was identified…after a lapse of six months?”
“Why not?” said I. “He’d preserved it – by sla
king his lime. The piece was in perfect preservation. I saw it in Court.”
Shapely made to let down the window: but when he stood up, his knees gave way and he crumpled and fell at my feet.
I lugged him on to the seat, loosened his collar and opened the window wide.
The next moment he opened his eyes.
“Lie still,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s not a tale for weak stomachs. Half a minute. I’ve got some brandy here.”
He drank the brandy I poured, and then lay back.
“Weak stomachs?” he said. “I don’t know what you’re made of. It’s the most revolting story I ever heard.”
“Damn it,” I said. “You asked me.”
“You don’t leave much out, do you? Have you got any more of that brandy? I still feel sick.”
So Crippen served my turn.
For nearly an hour, Shapely never opened his mouth, but lay, either sleeping or dozing, whilst I sat back in my corner and read a book.
At the end of that time I saw him looking at me.
“All right now?” I said.
For a moment the man made no answer.
Then—
“The legal mind,” he said. “Trained in Treasury Chambers. You know perfectly well why I hope that they won’t find Tass.”
I looked at him very straight.
“What are you getting at, Shapely?”
“All right. Let’s pretend. And I’ll tell you what you know. You know I don’t care two hoots what happens to Tass. Why the devil should I? The man was a blasted nuisance, and if I’d had any sense, I’d have fired him before I did. But you also know that the very last thing I want is to be the principal witness at Tass’ trial…because you know what Tass’ reactions will be…when he sits in the dock and hears me swearing his life away.”
“Do his – reactions matter?”
Shapely sat up and swung his legs to the floor.
“They mattered a lot to Old Rowley. Old Rowley had done him no wrong. He’d every right to fire him. But that didn’t count with Tass. Tass is the kind of — who has it in for people who, as he himself would put it, let him down.”
House That Berry Built Page 17