Half-Mast Murder
Milward Kennedy
© Milward Kennedy 1930 *
*Indicates the year of first publication.
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. Tells of Tea and Trouble
II. Surveys a Summer-House
III. Concerns a Critic
IV. Announces an American
V. Brings in a Butler
VI. Notices a Nephew
VII. Catalogues Clues
VIII. Looks at a Lady
IX. Yanks in a Youth
X. Interviews an Ingénue
XI. Describes a Dope and a Doctor
XII. Tabulates Times
XIII. Lights on a Legal Luminary
XIV. Postulates a Publisher
XV. Examines Evidence
XVI. Fusses a Future Fiancé
XVII. Incommodes an Invalid
XVIII. Upsets an Unofficial Uncle
XIX. Electrifies an Essayist
XX. Stampedes a Superintendent
XXI. Augurs an Arrest
XXII. Concerns a Confession
XXIII. Records Reconsideration
XXIV. Combines Cigars and Congratulations
CHAPTER I
TELLS OF TEA AND TROUBLE
The parlourmaid set off on her return journey to the house : the immaculate butler stood for a couple of seconds surveying the tea-tables set out in the shade of the trees, then turned to follow her.
“Better ring the bell, Richards,” said Mrs. Arkwright.
“Very good, madam.”
His expression seemed to imply that it was sacrilegious to break the peace of such an afternoon with the rude clanging even of a silver bell, but he carried out the order with ceremonial efficiency.
“Thank you, Richards,” said Mrs. Arkwright. “I expect that will do. And you might tell Miss Cynthia that tea is ready.”
“Very good, madam.” And he departed no less hierophantically.
It was indeed a blazing hot afternoon : not a breath of wind to stir the leaves or ripple the sea, over which hung a slight haze. Mrs. Arkwright in mind and in physical build was admirably suited for a contemplative life, and for the past hour she had been happily indulging her natural bent, seated comfortably on the lower terrace at Cliff’s End ; below her lay the tennis-court, and beyond it a row of thick trees, concealing even the red roof of the octagonal “summer-house” which her brother used as his writing room at this season, and beyond the trees again lay the quiet sea.
“Marvellous, isn’t it, George ?” she suggested to the young man at her side.
“Er—the weather, Mrs. Arkwright ? Oh, yes. Perfect.”
“And don’t you admit that you’ve enjoyed your quiet laze here, even if you’ve only had an old lady like me to talk to, instead of—Cynthia ?”
“Of course I have, Mrs. Arkwright. Only—I hope Cynthia’s all right.”
“I’m sure she is. Very sensible of her, I think it was, to wait till the cool of the evening to play tennis.”
“Hullo,” said a voice behind them. “Tennis over ?”
The new-comer had come across the lawn ; the grass and his brown-and-white rubber-soled shoes had conspired to give no warning of his approach. His grey hairs proclaimed him a contemporary rather of Mrs. Arkwright than of George Shipman, and, whilst Shipman was clad in white flannels, he wore grey, and an untidy coat, of the sort that suggests that its pockets are permanently overcrowded. Under his arm he carried a couple of heavy volumes.
“Hullo, Trent. No, we haven’t been playing. Cynthia had a bit of a headache and went indoors to take it easy.”
“This glare, I expect,” put in Mrs. Arkwright. “At least—if the truth of it isn’t that she didn’t really want to play with George here at all.”
“Anyway, Mary, it’s a spendid day to do nothing on.”
“Which means, Bertie, that you’ve been asleep—in spite of those important volumes ?”
“Guilty. Or because of them. Anyhow, I have had a doze.”
“Mrs. Arkwright’s been almost as bad,” said Shipman. “She’s been sitting here, gazing into space—or sea—for the past hour. I’ve never seen such a perfect specimen of indolence.”
“Here’s Cynthia,” said Bertie Trent. “Evidently the news of tea has revived her.”
“Whereas it woke you up, Bertie.”
Cynthia Paley joined the group. Her white tennis kit admirably displayed her neat figure and a good deal of leg.
“Better, Cynthia ?” George Shipman asked solicitously as she came up.
“Yes, rather,” she answered.
“You look as white as your frock, my dear,” Mrs. Arkwright observed.
“Oh, I’m all right, Aunt Mary. The heat, that’s all. I’ll be perfectly fit again after tea.”
“Too much gadding about, if you ask me,” said the older lady, smiling. “However, it’s no use my trying to interfere—nor your uncle either. And as for him—fancy spending a day like this writing books. But we won’t wait for him.” And she began to pour out tea.
The group settled themselves comfortably, but were evidently disinclined for conversation ; it certainly was a hot afternoon.
Behind them to their right were the steps leading to the upper terrace and the house, below and to their right the steps down to the tennis-lawn. The cliff curved round on their left, and on the other side the lawn, studded with flower-beds, swept gently up until it reached the wall which bordered the property.
The talk was Very desultory ; topics and inclination alike seemed lacking ; even when Cynthia Paley noticed that George Shipman had scratched his hand badly and offered to tie it up, he manifested a deplorable lack of enterprise and declined even to have it examined.
Presently there was the sound of voices.
“This way, sir.” The tea-drinkers, looking round, saw Richards conducting a stranger down the steps from the upper terrace.
“Who’s this?” muttered George Shipman to Cynthia. She shrugged her shoulders by way of reply.
The stranger wore a light flannel suit, well cut and yet in its pattern suggesting something exotic ; or was that the effect of his bow tie ?
“Mr. Quirk,” announced Richards.
“Oh, how d’you do ?” said Mrs. Arkwright. When you act as hostess to a brother who is celebrated through the length and breadth of the world for his writing and views on international affairs, you become accustomed to receiving total strangers without surprise or embarrassment.
“Pardon me.” Mr. Quirk bowed and smiled. Accent and the flash of gold from the teeth confirmed the suspicion created by his horn spectacles and his attire ; he was unmistakably American. “I wrote to Professor Paley to ask if I might pay my respects to him, and he was kind enough to invite me to call upon him.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Delighted. My brother will be here soon—he’s just doing his writing, and we don’t as a rule disturb him.”
“You surely must not disturb him for me,” Mr. Quirk said quickly. “Perhaps I may call again at a more——”
“Oh, I don’t mean that, Mr. Quirk. Won’t you have some tea ? My brother will be here in a few minutes,” I expect.”
“You’re very kind, Mrs.——”
“Arkwright. And this is Miss Paley, my niece. And Mr. Trent, a very old friend of ours. And Mr. Shipman.”
Mr. Quirk shook each of them warmly by the hand, and expressed his delight at meeting them.
“George, would you mind telling Richards——” said Mrs. Arkwright, and the young man walked briskly towards the house.
“What a delightful spot,” Mr. Quirk observed amiably, when they were all seated. “We have nothing like this in our country.”
“I expect you’ve nothing so small, have y
ou ?” Cynthia Paley suggested. The conversation followed the usual line, with particular reference to American architecture and English antiquity. George Shipman rejoined them, and Richards appeared soon afterwards with a further supply of cups : one American means a swarm, was evidently his belief.
“Nothing antique about Cliff’s End—that’s this house—Mr. Quirk,” Mrs. Arkwright said. “We come down here in the summer for a little fresh air. And you can see how tiny it is when I tell you that five of us practically fill it. Oh, Richards,” she went on, “d’you think Mr. Paley heard the bell ? I think you might——”
“I beg you not to disturb the Professor on my account,” Mr. Quirk again insisted.
“Oh, it’s quite time he was disturbed,” Mrs. Arkwright replied. There was a curious silence. Mr. Quirk sensed a domestic division, and tactfully said no more.
“Richards, please go and tell Mr. Paley that tea is nearly over.”
“Very good, madam,” said the butler, still with his air of silent protest. They watched him as he walked down the flagged path at the end of the tennis-lawn, next to the high stone wall, covered with creepers and ramblers, which divided the lawn from the “walled garden.”
Mrs. Arkwright continued to chatter easily, apparently unconscious of the slight strain.
“Up to a point, Mr. Quirk, I allow my brother to be a prophet in his own country. But I draw the line when he becomes a nuisance. And ten to one he isn’t writing at all, but just staring out of his window at the sea—like I’ve been doing, George.”
The butler disappeared behind the row of trees and bushes, the other side of the lawn.
“You mustn’t think, Mr. Quirk,” said Trent, in a distrait tone which suggested that he was talking merely for the sake of the conventions, “that Mrs. Arkwright and her brother quarrel about it. You can’t quarrel with Mrs. Arkwright.”
“I’m sure you mean that nicely, Bertie,” she smiled. “But—why, Richards is almost running.”
It was true : the butler reappeared, his gait very different from the stately progress which they had watched a minute before. Something seemed to communicate his alarm to the group on the terrace, except perhaps Mr. Quirk, who did not realise what a portent he had seen.
“What is it, Richards ?” Mrs. Arkwright asked nervously, as the burly form appeared at the foot of the steps. The American if not alarmed was certainly surprised ; his eyes were almost popping through his spectacles, for he could see no reason why the two men and the girl should have risen from their chairs to stand tensely awaiting the butler’s report.
“I—I can’t make him hear, madam,” Richards panted.
“You mean he’s ill ?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. The door’s locked.”
“Well, but, good gracious—didn’t you knock ?” She smiled. “I expect he’s asleep like you, Bertie.” She seeturned to Mr. Trent.
“Yes, Mary, but I think we’d better see ——”
“I’ll go, Mrs. Arkwright,” George Shipman interrupted him.
The two men stepped forward simultaneously, but each paused as he saw the other’s movement. Then they walked quickly down the steps together. The other, three followed more slowly—or at least Mrs. Arkwright and Mr. Quirk saw no reason to hurry. Trent half turned, as if to tell them not to come, but thought better of it.
The advance guard broke into a run, and when the main body came in sight of the summer-house on the edge of the cliff, Richards and Shipman were hammering on the door, and Trent was trying vainly to find a point from which he could look into the house.
Cynthia Paley gave a sudden scream ; she stopped short, pointing at the roof of the summer-house, then collapsed in a heap on the pathway.
“Good gracious. She’s fainted. I knew she was ill” ; and Mrs. Arkwright plumped down beside her. “Go and see what’s the matter,” she said sharply to the American. “I’ll attend to this.”
Mr. Quirk obeyed without a word, recognising a mistress’s hand in Mrs. Arkwright’s method of grasping her niece’s head, with the intention of “bringing the blood to it.” “All the same, I wonder why she fainted,” he said to himself, and automatically glanced upwards as he hurried forward.
“We must break this down,” Trent half shouted. And the three Englishmen began to apply their shoulders lustily to the door, which gave immediate signs of frailty.
“Once more.” The door gave way with a crash, and the three men tumbled in confusion into the summer-house. Mr. Quirk followed.
“Good God !” Shipman shouted. Trent waved the others back, and stooped over a figure in the chair in front of the big writing-table.
“Dead,” he said. “Murdered.”
Mr. Quirk had the impression that he and the other two shouted, but in fact it was his own gasp that he chiefly heard.
“A doctor, Richards, quick, man,” cried Shipman. The butler turned, pushed unceremoniously past the American, and dashed out of the summer-house.
“It certainly looks like murder,” opined Mr. Quirk, as he stood beside Trent and gazed horrified at the handle of a dagger protruding from the left side of Professor Paley’s breast.
“Afraid he’s dead. Nothing for a doctor to do,” said Trent, and made as if to touch the dagger.
“Don’t,” said the American sharply. “Better leave things as they are for the police.”
The others nodded. Shipman was speechless with horror, and Trent took him by the arm and led him out into the open air.
“Go and telephone the police,” he said.
The younger man evidently welcomed the call to action, and dashed off towards the steps to the terrace.
“Hallo,” said Trent, catching sight of Mrs. Arkwright and Cynthia, picturesquely grouped on the grass. “What’s—oh, God. Mary !” He walked slowly towards them.
“What—what is it, Bertie,” Mrs. Arkwright asked tremulously. “Is Harry—all right ?”
“Mary, my dear—I’m afraid—he’s dead.”
Cynthia Paley, whiter than ever and resting weakly against her aunt’s shoulder, broke into a horrible scream of laughter. She pointed again to the roof of the summer-house.
“Ha—ha—half-mast,” she gasped. The other three followed her gaze ; the flag which floated from the mast on the roof was indeed half-mast.
“Half—ha-ha——”
“Hysterics,” said Mrs. Arkwright, in turn finding relief from her emotions in the need for action. “Bertie, water.”
Mr. Quirk had seldom felt so lonely as when he stood sentry at the door of the summer-house.
CHAPTER II
SURVEYS A SUMMER-HOUSE
It was not long before the Superintendent arrived from Torgate, accompanied by a Detective-Sergeant and two constables ; and he immediately established one fact, that Mr. Paley was dead. He was not particularly impressed by the name of the dead man, but he was aware that Cliff’s End was a house of some social standing, and his manner subtly showed it.
He was briefly acquainted with the discovery and how it had been made, and then requested all the members of the household to wait indoors until he was ready to see them ; one constable took charge of the house. Mr. Quirk, whom he found still on his self-appointed sentry go, was disposed to cavil at this instruction, his grounds being that he was merely a casual visitor. Superintendent Guest dealt firmly with him.
“Now, Sergeant,” he said when he had freed himself from the American’s loquacity, “we’ll look into this summer-house. And you, Bryant” (this to the other constable), “wait outside until the doctor comes and the photographers. Now, Sergeant.”
They first examined the door. It opened inwards ; it had been locked, and the lock forced. The key was not in the lock. The latch was of rough cast iron.
The summer-house was octagonal in form. Its width exceeded its depth, its longest sides being the one in which was the door, and the opposite one. It stood on a little promontory (indeed, it slightly overhung the sea), and its door was, so to speak, the isthmus which
joined it to the mainland.
The long side opposite to the door consisted mainly of window, as also did the four walls which adjoined the two long sides. The two other short walls consisted virtually of built-in bookshelves.
The furniture was simple. To the right of the door was a large leather-covered sofa. To the left, and behind the door when it opened, was a small oak table on which lay one or two books. Across the large window opposite the door was a spacious and solid writing-table, on which a pewter inkpot shone dully. Between the writing-table and the sofa was a dark green safe, its top about level with the top of the writing-table. An arm-chair, upholstered in leather, with a tall back, stood in front of the writing-table. It was turned slightly, as if to face the safe rather than the inkpot.
In this chair was the body of Henry Paley. It had fallen sideways, to the left, but was propped up by the padded arm. The floor of the summer-house was of polished composition, and evidently not quite level ; for a little river of blood ran from the pool beside the chair almost to the small table behind the door.
The windows were all of the casement pattern, with modern steel frames, and all were open. That beyond the writing-table had three casements ; the other four had two each, fastening centrally, and hinged at the outer sides. The slotted bars which held them open were all firmly in place.
“The key’s not inside either,” observed the Superintendent. “Maybe it flew out when the door was broken in or someone made off with it or else it’s in his pocket” ; he nodded at the body in the chair. “In which case we’ll find it when the doctor gets here.”
“Can’t be in his pocket, can it, sir ?” the Sergeant suggested. “I mean to say, you don’t think this is suicide ?”
“No, I don’t. But it might be, so far as we’ve seen at present. Stage by stage is the way to take things.”
He proceeded on that plan.
“This floor now,” he said. “Not much chance of traces showing on it. Not been polished and barely swept : and half the world’s been in and out, and in this weather a footprint’s a rarity. Still, we’ll run no risks.”
Methodically and minutely they scrutinised the floor.
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