So the man was not a known criminal. This did not mean that he was Simon Warwick—or even Simon Finch. Identification by a landlady with whom he had lodged only for a matter of weeks was virtually worthless. Henry found himself agreeing with Inspector Reynolds’s conclusion that Simon Finch might well have been an identity only recently assumed by the murder victim.
On the other hand, if the dead man was neither Finch nor Warwick, how could he have assembled all that documentary evidence? How did he come to know so much about Finch’s childhood in the United States, so that his story tallied exactly with that of Mr. Bernard Grady? The only point of contact for Simon Warwick in England would seem to have been the long-closed office of Mr. Alfred Humberton, solicitor.
Simon Finch had lived in Westbourne. Humberton had practiced in Marstone. Both on the south coast. Any connection? Henry found a map of southern England, and pored over it. The two towns were nearly two hundred miles apart—Marstone being near Dover at the eastern tip of Kent, and Westbourne beyond the Solent, at the western extremity of Hampshire. No obvious link there.
Ah well, Henry thought. I’ll get Reynolds to follow up whatever traces he can find of Alfred Humberton. Not that it’ll be easy, after so many years. Meanwhile, Henry foresaw a busy day coming up. He took the elevator down to the garage, and drove himself through the biting rain to Chelsea, his small, old-fashioned apartment, and Emmy.
8
Next morning, Henry drove through chilly, Sunday-quiet London streets to the old-fashioned block of flats in Kensington where Miss Cecily Smeed lived. The building had a refreshing Edwardian spaciousness: its lofty ceilings and broad, carpeted stairs with curly brass rails belonged to an era when housing space in England’s capital city allowed comfortable elbowroom to those who could afford it. Henry was surprised that Dumbarton Court had not already been bulldozed to make way for an efficient modern structure that would have accommodated twice as many families on the same square-footage.
The elevator was an elaborate affair of gilt and wrought iron, complete with two small chairs for those delicately nurtured passengers who could not be expected to stand. It rose with majestic slowness to the top floor—the fourth—where a neat brass plate indicated that one of the two apartments was occupied by Miss Cecily Smeed. Henry pressed the bell, hoping he was not getting Miss Smeed out of bed. It was, after all, only nine o’clock on a Sunday morning.
After a short delay, however, the door was opened by Miss Smeed, dressed in a heather-mixture tweed skirt and a cashmere sweater. Her gray hair and discreet makeup were impeccable. She looked at Henry with some surprise and no pleasure, and said, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
Henry introduced himself, showed his official identity card, and asked if he might come in and ask Miss Smeed a few questions. Cecily did not bat an eyelid. She simply said, “I’m afraid it is not convenient, Chief Superintendent. I have a visitor.”
“This won’t take long, Miss Smeed,” Henry assured her. “And it is urgent. I’m afraid—”
From somewhere inside the apartment, a man’s voice called, “Who is it, Cecily?”
Over her shoulder, Cecily Smeed said, “It’s a detective, Denton. From Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, my goodness.” The voice sounded alarmed. “Is it about—?”
“I don’t know what it’s about,” said Cecily, rather too quickly. “I have told him it is inconvenient to speak to him at the moment.”
Henry said, “Is your visitor by any chance Mr. Denton Westbury, Miss Smeed?”
“It’s no business of yours, but as a matter of fact—yes. And now—”
Henry beamed. “What a piece of luck,” he said. “I was intending to call on him after I left you. Now I can talk to you both together. So if you don’t mind—”
With a bad grace, Cecily Smeed admitted Henry to the apartment and ushered him into a drawing room into which a couple of entire modern flats would have fitted comfortably. A big bay window looked out over a panorama of rooftops to the distant dome of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and a Stein way grand piano took up no more than a corner of the space available. On a low marble table in front of the brocaded sofa, two delicate Wedgwood china cups steamed with newly made coffee. Behind the sofa, looking very much on the defensive, stood a young man with a thin, pale face and neatly trimmed sandy hair. He was dressed in brown corduroy slacks and a turtleneck pullover several sizes too large for him.
Cecily said, “This is Chief Superintendent Tibbett of Scotland Yard, Denton. Apparently he wants to talk to you.”
“To me?”
“To both of you,” said Henry. “How do you do, Mr. Westbury?”
“What’s all this about?” Denton Westbury demanded, addressing Cecily.
She shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said. “Please sit down, both of you, and I’ll bring another cup of coffee.”
When Cecily had gone, Henry took off his overcoat, hung it over a chair, and sat down on the sofa. Westbury remained standing. Again he said, “What on earth is all this?”
Henry said, “You may not have heard that Simon Finch was murdered yesterday.”
There was a long pause. At last, Westbury said, “Yes. I had heard.”
“In Ambrose Quince’s office,” Henry added.
“I know. Ambrose telephoned me. That’s why—” He stopped.
Henry smiled. “That’s why you came to see Miss Smeed. You are both affected by the death of Simon Finch—or perhaps I should say, Simon Warwick.”
Cecily Smeed came back into the drawing room, carrying a third cup of coffee. Briskly, she said, “So, it’s about the young man who was killed. Well, I don’t see how Denton or I can possibly help you, Mr. Tibbett. I never even met Mr. Finch.”
“Nor did I,” said Denton Westbury, quickly.
“And yet,” Henry pointed out, “when you heard the news, you came round to see Miss Smeed before nine on Sunday morning. Why?”
Before Westbury could answer, Cecily said, “Denton thought I might not have heard the news. He was quite right—Ambrose Quince didn’t bother to telephone me. Naturally, Denton knew I would be interested. Of course, you must know all about Lord Charlton’s will.” Her eyes went for a moment to a silver-framed photograph on the piano. It showed a man in his sixties with a vigorous, aggressive face. Across the bottom, in bold handwriting, it was inscribed, “To Cecily, with gratitude—Alexander Charlton.”
“Yes,” said Henry. “I know about the will. About both wills, in fact. Both you and Mr. Westbury have a lot to gain from Simon Warwick’s death.”
Cecily said, “The dead man is Simon Finch, Mr. Tibbett. It has yet to be proved that he was Simon Warwick. For all we know, the other claimant may turn out to be Warwick after all. Or perhaps they are both fakes, and the real Simon Warwick will turn up. Ambrose Quince has three years from the date of Lord Charlton’s death to trace the young man, you know.”
Henry said, “Ambrose Quince is convinced that he had found Lord Charlton’s nephew. As he told you, he has overwhelming proof, which he intends to lay before the courts.”
Westbury began, “How do you know—?”
Henry said, “I intend to talk to everybody who was at the Quinces’ dinner party last week. Apart from Mr. and Mrs. Quince, you people are the only ones who knew that Simon Warwick had been found, who knew the claimant’s name, and—very importantly—who knew that he was due in Mr. Quince’s office at ten o’clock yesterday morning. Also, you all stood to gain from a reversion to the old will.”
Denton Westbury clutched the back of the sofa, and looked as if he might faint. He said, “But. . . Ambrose said . . . it must have been the other man . . .”
Reassuringly, Henry said, “Please understand me, Mr. Westbury—I’m not making any accusations against anybody. It’s just that, for your own sakes, I must be sure that everybody who was at that party is completely in the clear. Surely you see that?”
Cecily gave an impatient little sigh. “I suppose so,” she said, “but it
’s so foolish. You talk as though we all had motives for murder. Well, in my case, that’s ridiculous.”
“Two hundred thousand pounds, Miss Smeed? As opposed to an inkwell?” •
Cecily said, “I am not a poor woman, Chief Superintendent. Lord Charlton made sure that I would be able to retire on a handsome pension when he—” She paused. “When he no longer needed my services. Apart from that, I have taken another job. Retirement doesn’t interest me, and I have very wide experience in the business and financial world. I had no difficulty whatsoever in finding work. I am currently employed as personal assistant to Sir William Telford, the managing director of Amalgamated Textiles. Of course I would like to have two hundred thousand pounds— who wouldn’t? But I can assure you that I wouldn’t murder anybody to get it.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Miss Smeed,” said Henry. “Now, in Mr. Westbury’s case—”
Again, Cecily answered for Westbury. “If you knew anything about London society, Mr. Tibbett, you would know that Denton is greatly in demand for organizing charitable work. Isn’t that so, Denton?”
Westbury, who seemed to be feeling a little better, smiled weakly and said, “I certainly mustn’t complain. I’m kept very busy. I have the contacts, you see.”
“Nevertheless,” Henry said, “the job with the Charlton Foundation—”
“Just a job, Mr. Tibbett. As Cecily says, I don’t need it. Goodness me, no. It’ll be quite a relief to be shot of it. Give me time for other things.”
Henry remembered his conversation with Rosalie Quince. He said, “You’re not looking for another job, then?”
Denton laughed, a little shrilly. “Me? Certainly not. I have more on my plate than I can handle as it is, thank you very much.” Carefully hiding his disbelief, Henry said, “Well, that seems to dispose of motive for both of you. Still, I’d better just get from each of you an account of where you were yesterday morning between nine and ten o’clock.”
Westbury said quickly, “That’s easy. I was at my karate class.” Showing no particular interest in the remark, Henry said, “I see. Where is that held, Mr. Westbury?”
“The gymnasium’s in High Holborn.” He gave an address, which Henry wrote down. “You can ask them. John—that’s my friend—John and I go every Saturday morning. Nine to nine-thirty.”
Henry made a note. “And after the karate class?”
There was a tiny hesitation, and then Denton said, “I came here. To see Cecily.”
“To see Miss Smeed?” Henry was surprised.
Westbury was on the defensive at once. “Any objections, Mr. Tibbett? It just so happens that I am helping Lady Bolchester organize a charity ball for the Distressed Gentlefolk Fund, and we want to get Lady Telford to sit on the committee. Not that she’ll be the faintest use, of course, but if we can get Barbara Telford, then Sir William will obviously have to cough up a decent subscription. Now, as I told you, I have the contacts. Annie Bolchester was simply going to write to Barbara, but I said to her, I said, ‘That’s not the way to go about it, dear. You let me talk to Cecily Smeed. Barbara Telford is terrified of Cecily’—sorry, Cecily dear, but it’s true, isn’t it?—‘and if Cecily makes a point of it—’”
Henry cut short the flow. “So you came straight here from High Holborn. In a taxi?”
“Bus,” said Westbury.
“Presumably Miss Smeed can confirm this?” Henry looked inquiringly at Cecily, who nodded.
“Denton got here about a quarter to ten,” she said, “and stayed until about half-past.”
“And you yourself, Miss Smeed?”
Cecily looked puzzled. “I was here with him, of course.”
“But earlier in the morning—’
“I was having breakfast. I am not in the habit of rushing out early on Saturday morning, especially if I have an appointment.”
“You were expecting Mr. Westbury, then?”
“Of course. He telephoned me on Friday evening.”
Henry said, “You didn’t talk to anybody—the charlady, the postman—?”
Evenly, Cecily said, “If you mean, have I an alibi, the answer is no. It would be very surprising if I did.” She thought for a moment, and then said, “Anyhow, why are you interested in nine to nine-thirty? I thought Finch’s appointment with Ambrose was for ten o’clock.”
Vaguely, Henry said, “Oh, he turned up early for it.”
“Well, then.” Cecily was triumphant. “How could I possibly have known he would do that?”
“No,” said Henry. “You couldn’t have known, could you? Silly of me. By the way, are you going to use your influence with Lady Telford?”
“Yes, I am. If it will help Denton.”
“You haven’t mentioned it to her yet?”
“Of course not. I shall speak to Sir William at the office tomorrow.”
Henry made a final note, and then said, “Well, I think that’s all. I may have to ask you both to make formal statements later on, but I hope it won’t be necessary.”
“I should hope not,” said Westbury, who seemed a lot chirpier. “After all, it was the Benson man who did it, wasn’t it? I mean, it stands to reason. Why don’t you arrest him?”
“All in good time, Mr. Westbury,” said Henry with a smile. He turned to Cecily. “Just one more question, Miss Smeed. I believe you were already working for Lord Charlton when the adoption of young Simon Warwick was arranged.”
Cecily raised her eyebrows. “Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Quince mentioned it.” Cecily’s sardonic smile deepened. “I suppose,” Henry added, “that she must have heard it from her husband.”
“Ambrose Quince,” said Cecily, no longer smiling, “is by no means as clever as he thinks he is. If he had not been his father’s son . . . well, never mind. Yes, in the technical sense, I was working for Mr. Alexander. I was sixteen years old, and a junior clerk in the outer office.”
“It must have been a small organization in those days,” Henry said.
“Very small, Mr. Tibbett. The mill itself was not a large concern. It was up in the Midlands, of course. We were turning out army uniforms under government contract. But Mr. Alexander was already experimenting with synthetics, and in 1944 he opened the London office. There was just himself, and his secretary Miss Harkness—she left in 1947 to get married—and Mr. Crumble, whom he brought down from the Wolverhampton plant. And myself. We started Warwick Industries—just the four of us.” There was wistful remembrance mixed with pride in her voice.
“I thought Mr. Dominic Warwick—”
“Just the four of us,” Cecily repeated, firmly.
“Well you must surely have heard something about the adoption at the time?”
Cecily shook her head. “I told you, I was sixteen and the office tweeny. I remember the buzz bombs, of course. And I remember the day we heard Mr. Dominic and his wife and baby had been killed.” She added, “Mr. Dominic started out as a partner in the business, it’s quite true, but when he got married in 1943 he sold his shares back to Mr. Alexander. He didn’t care about the future.”
“As it turned out, he didn’t have a future, did he?” said Henry.
Sharply, Cecily said, “He wasn’t to know that. He just didn’t care.”
Henry said, “Later on, when you became Alexander Warwick’s private secretary, did he never talk to you about his nephew?”
“Never. I assumed the baby was dead, and Mr. Alexander never mentioned him.”
“Well, Miss Smeed,” said Henry, “if you do remember anything about those days, please let me know. Here’s my office number.” He stood up and put on his coat. “Thanks for the coffee. By the way, if either of you plans to leave London within the next few days, let my office know, will you? Please don’t bother to see me out. . .”
As the drawing-room door closed behind him, Henry heard Denton Westbury say, “Well, that was good for a laugh.”
To which Cecily Smeed replied curtly, “I’m glad you’re amused.”
The front door of the Crumbles’ elegant house in Down Street, Mayfair, was opened by a butler, no less, who informed Henry disdainfully that Sir Percy and Lady Diana were in Scotland for the weekend. When pressed for further details, he reluctantly agreed to fetch Lady Diana’s social secretary. He retreated, leaving Henry standing on the doorstep. A couple of minutes later he returned with an equally supercilious blonde who deigned to inform Henry that Sir Percy would be flying back in his private aircraft tomorrow morning and would go straight to his office from Gatwick Airport. Lady Diana, however, would be staying on at Abercrombie Castle for a few more days. Her whole tone implied that Henry should have used the tradesmen’s entrance in the mews behind the house.
Henry thanked her politely, and returned to his office at Scotland Yard. A telephone call to Bertram Hamstone’s house in Saint John’s Wood was answered by a maid, who was ever so sorry but Mr. and Mrs. Hamstone were at their country cottage in Surrey for the weekend. They should be back late tonight. Yes, she did know the address. The house was called The Hollyhocks, and it was at Tenley Green, near Guildford.
Henry’s next call was to the car pool, to request an unchauffeured car. Then he rang Emmy to tell her he would not be home to lunch, and finally pressed the buzzer that brought Sergeant Hawthorn into his office.
Tom Hawthorn was a young man with a round, fresh-complexioned face and an endearing air of perpetual eagerness, like a puppy straining at the leash. Henry had first made his acquaintance on a case in Hampshire, when Hawthorn was still a constable in the uniformed branch, and had subsequently used his good offices to get the young man transferred to the CID. Amply justifying Henry’s confidence in him, Hawthorn had quickly risen to the rank of sergeant, and—since Derek Reynolds’s deserved and overdue promotion to inspector—Henry had selected him to be his personal assistant. Hawthorn, for his part, regarded Henry with what the latter felt was a rather too doglike reverence and admiration, but in all other respects was shaping up nicely. Now, he stood rigidly to attention on the far side of Henry’s desk, quivering with the desire to please.
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