A Case of Suicide in St. James's

by Clara Benson

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she said.

  Tom Chetwynd stopped dead and stared at her, aghast.

  ‘Irene!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the devil—?’

  Tatty gave an exclamation at the sight of the girl, and hurried forward.

  ‘We must get you indoors,’ she said. ‘We’ll take you to the house.’

  ‘No!’ said the girl in horror. ‘Take me home if you must, but please don’t parade me in front of the party—I couldn’t bear it! My house is just nearby. Please take me there instead.’

  ‘Well, then, all right,’ said Tatty. ‘But you’ll catch your death of cold in those clothes. Here, let’s take the coat off you. This blanket will keep you warm.’

  She and Gertie removed her coat between them.

  ‘Oh!’ they said together.

  ‘We’ll get you a doctor,’ said Gertie.

  ‘You must get to bed and rest with your feet up,’ said Tatty.

  ‘Perhaps a hot bath first,’ said Gertie.

  The girl protested, but Tatty wrapped her in the blanket and led her off, followed by Tom, who was white in the face and seemed to have been struck speechless.

  Freddy, still feeling damp and uncomfortable, put on his shoes then picked up his jacket and followed with Gertie.

  ‘I wonder what brought that on,’ he murmured as they walked.

  ‘I should have thought it was obvious,’ replied Gertie, then at his blank look, hissed, ‘She’s in the family way, you idiot! Didn’t you notice? And no wedding-ring.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Freddy, who had noticed the lack of a wedding-ring, but nothing else.

  ‘Poor thing,’ went on Gertie. ‘It’s too bad. I should like to give whoever’s responsible a piece of my mind.’

  They soon reached the little cottage where the girl lived, and she led the way in. She had stopped protesting and seemed quite resigned, defeated, even.

  ‘Is there anybody we can call? Who lives here with you?’ said Gertie.

  ‘I live here alone,’ she said.

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘They’re dead. Listen, it’s awfully kind of you but I’m quite well now, so there’s no need for you to stay.’

  ‘But we can’t leave you alone until we’re sure there’s someone to look after you,’ said Gertie.

  ‘There must be someone we can call,’ said Tatty, with a meaningful glance at the girl’s middle region.

  The girl flushed and turned her face away.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s no-one.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Tom suddenly, and they all turned to look at him. His jaw was set firmly, and he looked as though he had made up his mind to something. The girl called Irene had been studiously ignoring him, but now she raised her eyes to his. Tom took a step forward.

  ‘Why did you do it, Irene?’ he said. ‘There was no need for it. I’d have thought of something sooner or later.’

  She gave a short laugh.

  ‘Sooner or later? How much later? After the wedding? It would have been too late then. No, this way was better for everyone.’

  Tatty was staring from one to the other of them, her face reflecting a dawning realization. Now she straightened up and addressed herself to her intended.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me what’s going on, Tom,’ she said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A doctor had been called and was seeing to Irene, while Tatty and Gertie hovered about, trying to be helpful. They had told him that Irene had fallen into the river accidentally, since it seemed harsh on the poor girl that an attempted suicide should be added to her list of sins. Meanwhile, Freddy and Tom sat outside the cottage, smoking, and in Freddy’s case, drying off in the sunshine. After holding in his secret for so long, Tom seemed only too relieved to get the story off his chest. Irene Parker was a teacher at a local infant school, it appeared. Her mother had also been a teacher, but her father was old Silas Parker, who had had a butcher’s shop in Reading.

  ‘I knew her when we were kids,’ said Tom. ‘Then I went abroad for a couple of years, and when I got back I bumped into her and fell like a stone—and I thought she fell for me, too. Well, you’ve seen her, Freddy. She’s sweet and pretty and clever—much cleverer than I am. I never did have much in the way of brains, you know, but she’d read a lot, and knew all sorts of things. And she was sensible, too, and kind. Any man would be lucky to have her. But Father didn’t agree. He knew what was going on, but I suppose he thought it wasn’t a serious thing—he would never have dreamt of stooping to marry a tradesman’s daughter himself, you see. But when I came to him and said we were engaged he went off the deep end and said he wouldn’t hear of it, and that I couldn’t go marrying someone of that class. He said some things about her that were pretty stiff, and we had a row over it, and he said he would disinherit me if I went ahead with it. I shouldn’t have cared in the slightest—I was still determined to do it, and told Irene so, but she didn’t agree and was all for nobly letting me go. It turned out Father had visited her to say that she ought not to hold me to the engagement because it really wasn’t quite the thing, and that she would be acting to my disadvantage if she insisted on marrying me. Somehow he convinced her that he was right, and she broke it off. She said she was doing it for my sake, but I couldn’t see it that way. I couldn’t budge her, so we had a row and parted on bad terms. I was furious with her, so when Tatty came along I let myself be swept into the engagement. I told myself that would show her. I don’t know what I thought it would show her, but I was so angry I wasn’t thinking straight.

  ‘I’d wanted to play the whole thing down and not make a big fanfare, but Mother and Father and the Browncliffes would insist on announcing the engagement to the world, and holding dinners and balls, and parading us about in public. I don’t think Tatty wanted any of that stuff either. She’s a good sort, but it was obvious she was regretting Doug. At any rate, we both went along with it, as we didn’t seem to have much choice.

  ‘Then on the afternoon of that damned ball I had a letter from Irene that she’d written in an awful hurry. She’d just found out—you know—and had been thrown into a panic, and wrote to me on the spur of the moment, because there was nobody else she could tell. I don’t mind saying it gave me a dreadful shock. I don’t know how I managed to get through the evening—I felt sick, and was sure people must have guessed what had happened, and were looking at me and whispering behind their hands. All I could think was that I’d agreed to marry Tatty in front of the whole world, and it would cause a fearful scandal if I broke it off, and Lord Browncliffe might even convince her to sue me for breach of promise. I seemed to have got myself into an impossible hole and I had no idea how to get out of it. After the ball I came down to see Irene, and she said she’d read about it all in the papers and wished she hadn’t written the letter, as it was all too late now that everybody was talking about my engagement to Tatty, and I couldn’t possibly back out, as it would be too humiliating if everyone knew the truth. And my father would certainly disinherit me, and what were we to do?

  ‘I’m ashamed to say I had no idea what to do either. She was right that it would have caused a lot of talk. I wanted to do the right thing but I’m afraid I dithered and couldn’t face up to it, and hoped it would go away. I couldn’t see how to break it off with Tatty without a fuss, but I thought she might break it off with me once she came to herself and realized that we weren’t exactly suited. She didn’t, though, and time went on, and I still hadn’t plucked up the courage to act. Of course I had no intention of leaving Irene penniless, but I saw I was about to find myself in the despicable position of being married to one woman while secretly supporting another woman and her—our child. However, it seems Irene had no intention of waiting for me to do the decent thing, and had made other plans in the meantime. So here you see me. You don’t need to tell me what a brute I am. I’ve betrayed one woman and driven another to suicide. Not a bad day’s work, eh?’ He laughed bitterly.<
br />
  ‘I’m sorry, old thing,’ said Freddy.

  Tom shrugged and stared moodily at his cigarette. Freddy remembered something.

  ‘Douglas knew, didn’t he?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. He came to see me on the night of the ball. He’d been cool with me ever since I’d got engaged to Tatty, which was understandable. She’d ended things with him weeks before, and latched onto me just to annoy him, I should say—although she’ll deny it. Doug was polite enough, but it was obvious he was hurt, and he was stiff and distant the next few times we met. I felt bad about it, so in the end I scrawled him a note saying I hadn’t meant to offend him, and I’d be awfully glad to be friends again, which was true, but drat the fellow if he didn’t turn up at my flat just as I was reading Irene’s letter. He always did have a rotten sense of timing. I let him in and said something—I don’t remember what, because my head was spinning. He didn’t notice anything was wrong at first, just said he’d got my note and was glad, because he’d been about to do the same thing. I wasn’t thinking straight, but I gathered he was prepared to let bygones be bygones, and wanted to talk to me about something. He started to tell me what it was, but then he must have seen I wasn’t myself and asked if I was all right. If I hadn’t been in such a stew I shouldn’t have said a word, but I blurted it all out to him there and then, and straightaway kicked myself for a fool, because of course his first thought was about what I’d done to Tatty. He told me in no uncertain words what he thought of me, and said if I didn’t confess to Tatty then he would tell her. I could see he meant what he said, so I promised I’d talk to her, but said it would be much better if it came from me rather than him. He agreed to keep quiet about it that evening, at least, then went away. Then that night—well, you know what happened. He killed himself, and I felt dreadful about it, but not dreadful enough to come clean to Tatty.’

  ‘What had he come to talk to you about? Can you remember?’

  ‘What? Oh, I don’t know—I suppose I was too wrapped up in myself to take much notice. He was bothered about something—someone had got away with murder, he said. I imagine somebody had cheated him at cards or something of the kind. But as soon as I told him about Irene he forgot about whatever it was, and laid into me instead.’

  ‘I see,’ said Freddy thoughtfully.

  ‘You may come in now,’ said Gertie just then from the door. ‘We’re all finished.’

  They found the doctor in Irene’s tiny parlour, just preparing to leave, while Irene herself was reclining on a sofa. She had changed into dry clothes and a blanket was tucked around her.

  ‘But I’ve told you, I’m quite all right,’ she was saying exasperatedly.

  ‘Listen to the doctor,’ said Tatty. ‘You must get some rest. I’ll bet you haven’t slept much lately, have you?’

  ‘Not much,’ she admitted.

  ‘Well, that won’t do you or the baby any good,’ said the doctor briskly. ‘Now, if the man who did this was any sort of gentleman, he’d be here to look after you. Where is he, by the way? Run off in a fright, I expect.’

  ‘He’s not here, but he’ll be back soon. They’re getting married,’ said Tatty firmly, to everyone’s surprise.

  ‘Hmph! Better late than never, I suppose, but it never does to put the cart before the horse, young lady.’

  He gave Irene a stern look and went off, leaving the five of them awkwardly avoiding one another’s eyes. There was a silence.

  ‘Tatty—’ began Tom at last.

  Tatty drew herself up and glared at him.

  ‘Now, just you listen to me, Tom Chetwynd,’ she said severely. ‘I don’t know how you thought you were going to dig yourself out of this mess, but if you’d only stood up to your father then you’d never have got into it in the first place. Irene has told me everything, and it seems to me the whole thing has got completely out of hand. If you think I’m going to marry you when this poor girl has such a claim over you, then you’re quite mistaken, and if you’ve any sense of honour at all you’ll whisk her off to a registry office at once, so she can show her face in public again.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I will. Irene, you’ll forgive me, won’t you? My head was so muddled I couldn’t think straight, but I’ll stand by you. I won’t leave you alone any more.’

  She started crying, and he threw himself down on the floor next to the sofa and took her hand.

  ‘Don’t be like that, darling—it’ll be all right, you’ll see.’

  ‘But what about your father?’

  ‘Tatty’s right. I never ought to have listened to him in the first place. This time I’ll do the right thing by you, I promise, and never mind him. I shall get a licence on Monday and we’ll be married as soon as they’ll let us. He may come to the wedding if he likes, but if he doesn’t, then we won’t miss him.’ He regarded her with a doubtful expression. ‘You—you do want to get married, don’t you?’

  She nodded fervently through her tears and gave him her other hand. The other three judged this a good moment to leave the room. They came out of the cottage and shut the door behind them. Freddy and Gertie looked at Tatty warily. She gave a great sigh.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘It looks as though I’m not getting married after all.’ She considered this for a moment, then said, ‘Mother and Father won’t be too pleased, but I must say it’s something of a relief. Now, we’d better get back to the party.’

  And with that she walked off, leaving Freddy and Gertie to glance at each other and follow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘I shall never get engaged again,’ said Gertie. ‘It only leads to misery. Still, I’m glad all’s well that ends well—and glad, too, that Tatty got him before I did. If I’d been engaged to him then I’d have had it all to deal with.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Freddy absently. She looked at him curiously.

  ‘What is it? You’re thinking of something else.’

  ‘I’m just hoping for Irene’s sake that Tom Chetwynd didn’t murder Douglas Westray,’ said Freddy.

  ‘You don’t really think he did, do you?’

  ‘He had a big enough motive that night. Douglas was wandering around drunk, dropping loud hints about what Tom had been getting up to. And Tom said himself that with Douglas dead his secret was safe—until now, at any rate, although he couldn’t have foreseen what was going to happen today. But no, as it happens, I don’t really think Tom killed him. He doesn’t have the brains, for a start, and something tells me this murder was a cunning affair. Besides, his story bears out what Colonel Lomas told me at Skeffington’s, which is that Douglas went to Tom’s flat because he’d discovered something and wanted Tom’s advice on what he should do about it. Tom was in no condition to listen, but he did remember that Douglas had said something about someone who’d got away with murder.’

  ‘That’s just a figure of speech,’ said Gertie.

  ‘True enough, but he said a similar thing to Colonel Lomas, only in slightly different words: he told Lomas that he couldn’t decide whether or not to speak up, and that if he didn’t then he would be a party to murder, which puts an altogether different aspect on it, don’t you think?’

  Gertie looked sceptical.

  ‘But nobody’s been murdered,’ she pointed out. ‘Apart from Doug, I mean.’

  ‘No, that is the difficulty,’ Freddy admitted.

  They fell silent, considering the matter, then Gertie gave an exclamation.

  ‘Oh, but there is someone!’ she said excitedly. ‘Don’t you remember what Lois told you about Captain Dauncey? He was booted out of the Air Force because of some incident in which two people died. It was thought to be an accident, but what if Douglas had found out that it wasn’t?’

  ‘Now that is a thought! Yes, perhaps you’re onto something there. I wonder, now—I might be able to do a little snooping into his war record and find out what exactly happened. We already know he’s up to no good, but the question is: has he taken it as far as murder?’

  ‘I’m sure
he must have,’ said Gertie. ‘He killed these two men, whoever they were, then Doug somehow found out about it and threatened to expose him, so he killed him too.’

  ‘If that’s true, we shall have to be very careful. I’ve already put the wind up him once, remember? I don’t want him to have a second go at running me down flat.’

  ‘No, but still, we must work quickly before he decides things are getting too hot around here and disappears,’ said Gertie.

  But as it transpired, they were too late, for Corky Beckwith had been hard at work on his own version of the story following his adventure in East London, and was all set to steal a march on them. On the Tuesday following the garden-party, the Herald ran a big story, hinting in the strongest terms that a certain foreign individual, whose name would not be unfamiliar to regular readers of the company news, had been involved in the incitement of underhand practices to the great detriment of the reputation of the British engineering industry. The Herald’s correspondent had run no little risk of harm to his own person in his zeal to uncover the truth, and had ascertained in the course of his investigations that a certain company, Stamboul Export Co, had been secretly employing people to spy on large engineering companies, and in some instances, perform despicable acts of sabotage on their machines. Further inquiry had revealed that Stamboul Export Co. was an indirect subsidiary of the world-renowned engineering firm Rawson Welbeck, and that its chief executive officer was Mr. Anatoli Salmanov, who, readers would remember, had been named as one of the leading figures in the Celebes copper mining scandal, although no action was ever brought against him.

  Further, the paper’s correspondent regretted to say that a deeper examination of the matter had revealed that a certain person closely associated with the field of aviation, whose name had for many years been on the lips of everyone in the country thanks to his heroic exploits in the air during the war, was in the pay of Stamboul Export Co, and had been employed by them to engage in acts of industrial espionage and sabotage. The latest example of this had taken place in full view of everyone who had attended the Heston air show less than two weeks ago, when a new fighter aircraft developed by the Nugent Corporation had failed in mid-air, and disaster had, to all appearances, narrowly been avoided. However, the Herald’s correspondent was in a position to state with authority that the pilot of the plane had, in fact, tampered with its engine himself—a perilous act indeed, for only a pilot of his daring and expertise would have risked flying the machine while it was in such a state. It was not to be supposed that Rawson Welbeck was cognisant of what was going on at its subsidiary, but questions were bound to be asked. The Herald did not name the famous pilot, but there was no need to, for it was perfectly obvious whom it was talking about.