“Then, sir, how did you hear——”
“Good Lord, man, haven’t you read the papers ?”
“No, sir, not yet; I’ve been down here——”
“Yes, of course. But naturally there are headlines in most of them, and some pretty plain hints that he didn’t die a natural death.”
“No, sir, he didn’t,” said Guest, and then proceeded to explain that he had been able to establish to his own satisfaction that it was not a case of suicide—this produced a startled grunt from the Chief Constable—when be had all the preliminary evidence sifted out that morning.
“And what have you done about it ?”
“Nothing, sir, yet.”
“Right. Then I’ll come along at once. Be there in half an hour.”
The Superintendent was taken aback. What possessed the Chief Constable to get so excited ? He was an old hand and had never exhibited such symptoms before. True, they didn’t have many cases of murder, thank the Lord, but—Guest shrugged his shoulders ; then thought of the papers. Of course, if there was a Press stunt, things might be different.
It did not take him long to discover that there was distinctly a Press stunt. Despite his conversation with Messrs. Trent and Quirk, he had not really been convinced that Professor Paley had been a celebrity. Professors of Political Economy or International Politics—they weren’t like inventors, in his judgment, nor were they to be ranked with Peers, or Cabinet Ministers, or—in fact, he had supposed them to be very small fry. And now it seemed, to judge by the papers, that Professor Paley had been one of the Big Noises of the world. His writings had been, he learnt, the joy and the terror of politicians and statesmen : his independence of mind and position (for it seemed he had been a very rich man) had enabled him to write the truth, without fear or favour. And especially he had delighted to tilt against Vested Interests.
Guest digested one obituary after another, finding in them a variety of opinions as to whether the Professor had been a good patriot or politically prudent, but a firm agreement that he had been a man entitled to respect.
His reading was interrupted by the sound of a heavy car drawing up outside the station with some violence. The Chief Constable, no doubt ; and the newspapers were bundled out of sight.
“You’ve been quick, sir,” the Superintendent greeted the Chief Constable smilingly.
“Yes. What about you? How did it happen?” Major Dillon wasted no time in preliminaries.
“Looks like murder, sir,” Guest replied.
“Damn it, man, don’t take it so calmly. Let me hear all about it. We shall have every newspaper and God knows who buzzing round. Torgate’s full of them already, I expect.”
The Superintendent carefully and methodically related all that he knew. “As for theories——” he said, and paused.
“Well ?”
“It’s too soon, sir, to form any. There’s a mass of evidence, which may or may not have a bearing on the case. There are three members of the household that I haven’t talked to yet.”
“H’m. Too much for you to tackle single-handed ?”
Guest flushed.
“We were only called in at half-past five or so last evening, sir.”
“Oh, I know. I’m not suggesting you ought to have got it all cut and dried by now. But—isn’t it too much ?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Not if I can have as much extra help as I may need for local enquiries, if you follow me.”
“What I had in mind was whether we ought to call in Scotland Yard.”
The Superintendent answered steadily. “That’s for you to say. I don’t deny that I should prefer not to, but it’s hardly for me to say ‘ Don’t call ’em in.’ I realise that this is—well, a political case, so to speak.”
The Chief Constable looked at him in silence. He had known the Superintendent for a good many years : a steady, careful man; undistinguished, perhaps, by special brilliance, but no fool; obstinate, but not blindly so ; a good team-worker, and a man who ate his cake piece by piece and did not choke himself by trying to swallow it whole. In other words, he was very much what his looks suggested to an acute observer. Of middle height; pleasant features, but not likely to draw a crowd to a stage door ; steady grey eyes ; wiry grey hair ; a forehead which had a curious double ridge ; his face broad across the eyes, in token of administrative capacity ; a firm mouth and square chin ; restless practical hands.
The Chief Constable hastily checked himself in his pursuit of a hobby which he enjoyed, but had never mastered. He had long ago decided that he himself was (besides a judge of character) a man of quick decision.
“Very well, Superintendent. Go ahead. You shall have whatever help you need. And if you do find that it’s a case for Scotland Yard, just say so. If you don’t, stick tight. Either way, I’ll back you.”
“It’s very good of you, sir. Of course——”
“No. Don’t worry. It’s my decision, not yours.”
Guest smiled. “That wasn’t what I was going to say, sir,” he remarked. “I mean, I know a good chief when I get one. I was going to say that there’d be no reason at this stage to think of calling Scotland Yard if it had been—well, Mr. Paley, not a famous Professor, who’d been murdered. And somehow——”
He stopped short. Major Dillon smiled his understanding.
“Now let’s consider,” he said, turning again to the actual case. “What about the inquest ?”
CHAPTER VIII
LOOKS AT A LADY
Half an hour later, the Superintendent found himself relieved by the Chief Constable of such administrative affairs as the patrolling of Cliff’s End, the issue of communiqués and the like ; the date of the inquest was provisionally fixed three days thence ; and the Superintendent was free to pursue his investigation of the case, with all the help he needed.
Left to his own reflections, he tried, almost irritably, to convince himself that he had been wise to reject the offer of Scotland Yard’s help. Logically, he was surely right to maintain that the political importance of the dead man could not affect the solution ; the facts were still the facts. Yet he could not shake off an uneasiness of spirit, and he could not persuade himself that that feeling was due merely to the possibility that the motive for the murder might lie somewhere in a world of politics with which he was little acquainted. In other words, he had something of the feeling of an Oxford batsman who suddenly discovers the difference between Lords and the Parks.
Still, he’d a good chief, he reminded himself. And now to business. Which should it be? The continued study of the reports, or the resumption of his interviews at Cliff’s End ? The latter seemed of more immediate importance, before impressions faded and nerves recovered their equipoise.
This time he stopped the car at the entrance to the drive, dismounted, and went into the little lodge in search of the gardener, who he understood lived there with his wife. He questioned him searchingly about his movements on the previous day, and learnt that he and the “boy” who helped him (but did not live on the premises) had been working on the lawn by the entrance gate all the afternoon, and in full view of the gate. The man was positive that no one but a stranger, whom he described clearly enough to leave no doubt that it was Mr. Quirk, had entered the property—until, of course, the police arrived. Mr. Quirk had arrived at about three o’clock and left again about ten minutes later ; he had appeared again at something like five o’clock, or rather sooner.
Guest thanked the man, and went in search of the “boy,” who corroborated the statement. A sudden impulse sent the Superintendent back to the lodge to ask the gardener whether he knew Mr. Julian Paley by sight and whether he had seen him lately. Apparently he knew him, though not well ; he had not seen him at all since the family came down to Cliff’s End.
“Until last night. That is, sir,” he added, “the wife opened the gate to a taxi last night, and said it was Mr. Julian inside.”
Guest thanked him again, and went on his way, this time to the house. The portl
y butler opened the door to him as if a policeman was a stereotyped garden ornament, suitable to adorn the porch of a seaside residence.
Guest bade him good morning in a pleasant tone.
“I want to have a further talk up here,” he said, “but I don’t want to disturb the household more than can be helped. I don’t know which room——”
“Mrs. Arkwright has given instructions, sir, that you are to have the use of the summer-room—the room you used yesterday ; though she said that if you preferred another it was to be arranged.”
“Very good of her. I think it will do admirably. You might just come with me and——”
Without more ado, the butler conducted him and the detective whom he brought with him to the summer-room, and helped him make a few slight alterations in the chairs and tables, Guest being of the opinion that in broad daylight little is gained by the time-honoured device of the questioned person facing the light, and that more is gained by the questioner’s expression being clearly visible. His assistant meanwhile was strategically placed in the background.
“By the way, Richards”—Guest checked the butler as he was on the point of retiring—“I understood you to say yesterday that Miss Paley took down the tray of lemonade to the summer-house.”
“Yes, sir, that was so.”
“Now, tell me, was the tumbler full of lemonade when she took it or——”
Richards smiled faintly.
“No, sir. The tumbler was empty : the jug was full.”
“And you put them both on to the tray—just in the ordinary way ?”
The butler looked puzzled, and replied affirmatively.
“I mean, did you wipe the tumbler and the jug after you put them on the tray ?”
“No, sir.”
He looked a question, but the Superintendent did not see fit to answer it.
“Thank you. I just wondered. That’s all. Now I think I had better see Mrs. Arkwright, if she’s up to it. Would you ask her to be so kind as to come here ?”
A few minutes later, the door opened and an elderly lady, white-haired and clad in sombre black, came in, composedly enough. Her plump, smooth features gave little sign of any emotion ; but Guest could well believe that the firm chin was the sign of a good deal of will-power and self-control. Yet she looked as if in ordinary circumstances she would be just a pleasant, probably garrulous old lady.
“Good morning, Inspector,” she began at once. “And do please sit down. I’m so sorry I didn’t see you yesterday. You mustn’t think I was unwilling, but my poor niece was terribly upset, and I really didn’t like to leave her.”
“I’m afraid it’s been a great shock to you all, ma’am.”
She smiled very faintly, and there was a slight tremor in her voice as she replied :
“Of course. I can’t tell you—but then I keep saying to myself that we old people mustn’t mind things so much as the young folk. Our lives are behind us, and theirs in front. And a shadow like this——”
She finished her sentence by a gesture of helpless resignation. She sat down and folded her hands on her lap. The Superintendent in turn seated himself, and murmured a few words of further regret, half in apology for the rebuke which perhaps she had read into his previous observation.
“And now, Superintendent, can you tell me what happened ?” Guest half smiled.
“Why, Mrs. Arkwright, that’s just what I can’t do—yet. And what I hope you’ll be able to help me to do.”
“I ? But I don’t——Of course, if there is any way in which I can help——Poor Harry. And he was in such good spirits.”
“You mean yesterday, ma’am?”
“No. I meant generally. Since we came down here a fortnight ago. Yesterday I should say he was less cheerful. But I expect that was just the book.”
Guest assumed an interrogative expression.
“Oh, you know, when he got to a place in a book which gave difficulty, he used to get rather silent and distracted. Downcast, perhaps you might call it. But—as to killing himself, oh, no !” She shuddered.
“Mrs. Arkwright,” said Guest very gently. “I know you’ll keep this to yourself. And I’m afraid it will be a fresh shock. The fact is, everything seems to suggest that your brother did not kill himself.”
“Did not ? But——Oh. Do you mean—he was murdered ?”
“I’m afraid so.”
There was a deep silence. Guest could see that the old lady’s hands were clasped tightly together.
“I suppose I’m glad,” she said at last, in a husky whisper. “Of course I am. I mean—it’s better than that he should have taken his own life. But—who ?”
“That’s what we want to find out.”
“Yes. I suppose so. But—isn’t one life enough ?”
The Superintendent felt, and looked, thoroughly shocked by this suggestion.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she hastened to add, observing his expression. “I know that’s wrong of me. But—I have always felt that the law is so hard.”
“Your brother, ma’am——”
“I know. I—will help, of course, in any way I can.” Then, with a wan smile, she added, “You must remember, my poor brother was generally called a crank ; he hated bloodshed on a big scale. Just put me down as a worse crank still, for hating it even on the tiniest scale.”
“You say the Professor was called a crank, madam. But surely he was looked on as something rather different ? The papers this morning——”
“That is so, of course. Lately, at any rate. But it was a good many years before my brother was recognised, if you understand me. You mustn’t suppose I know much about it—my part was Martha’s, you know : or do I mean the other sister ? Anyhow, the one who attended to the housekeeping.”
“The Professor was a rich man, I believe, ma’am ?”
“I suppose he might be called so. There were only two of us, and our father left a considerable fortune to be shared between us.”
“Do you know how the Professor disposed of his property in his will ?”
“I couldn’t say for certain. The lawyers would know, of course. I’ll give you their address, shall I ? The senior partner, Mr. Motcombe, is a very old friend, and so charming. I’m quite sure he——However, that is by the way, isn’t it ?”
“How do you think he has left his money, if I may ask ?”
“I fancy some of it—some books and pictures—to me ; and the bulk of it divided between our nephew and niece ; and of course some personal bequests—to Mr. Trent, for instance.”
“So the nephew wasn’t altogether disinherited ? I had rather imagined that——”
Mrs. Arkwright looked rather pained and perhaps a little uncomfortable.
“It is true that he and his uncle had a difference. But I don’t think my brother—no, I’m sure he wouldn’t alter his will materially on that account.”
The Superintendent, recognising that the will itself would answer his question, changed to another subject.
“Now have you any reason, ma’am, to suspect any one of wishing your brother to be—dead ?”
“Good gracious, no. Of course not.”
“No enemies ?”
The plump hands clasped and unclasped themselves. The smooth forehead was wrinkled in thought.
“Not in that sense. I mean, poor Harry used to say and write hard things. Good men are apt to be hard, you know. And Harry was particularly scornful of other cranks, if we can call them that, because they are so ready to sacrifice a cause to the feelings of an individual. He was always saying that, so I have quoted his own words.”
She smiled again, more confidently. After a pause, she went on : “I suppose that doesn’t help much. But it’s all I can say. You see, Superintendent, I’ve never measured other people’s dislike as so much potential violence—if you understand what I mean. For example, the editor of the Patriotic Review has often displayed hostility to my brother ; but I’ve never wondered whether that meant that he was prepared to—do murder.”<
br />
Guest nodded and gently sighed ; but he consoled himself by the thought that it had always been his theory that “motive” should not be the main clue in a case of murder, but a check upon other clues.
“And now, Mrs. Arkwright, about the servants ?”
Mrs. Arkwright had nothing but good to say of them. All but one of the maids had been with her for years, and the new-comer was a young girl, incapable of doing any harm, and with excellent references. The Superintendent went into details as regarded the female staff, and was satisfied.
“Now about the butler, Richards.” he said at length.
“He seemed to think you could tell me something about him.”
“Richards. Dear, dear ! Do you know, I’d quite forgotten. He’s been with us—oh, a good ten years, I suppose. A most devoted servant—particularly to my brother. It had quite gone out of my mind, and if you—or he—hadn’t reminded me I should never have thought of it. My brother engaged him as a sort of experiment. He—well, he had been in service as a valet, I think, and had got into trouble. Had been accused of stealing, and sentenced. It was a very doubtful case, my brother thought. He took an interest for some reason, and when Richards was released he offered to help him. And I must say the experiment was a success.”
Here, however, was ground for thought, said Guest to himself. Mrs. Arkwright read him quickly enough, and added hastily and vehemently :
“Don’t be misled, Superintendent, no one could have been more devoted to his master than Richards. He takes—took, I mean—a sort of pride in being a faultless servant, just to show his gratitude, I believe. Of course, you’ll have to look up the records, won’t you ? But do believe that the record of these past ten years counts more than anything before that.”
Guest smiled reassuringly.
“I think he ought certainly to be grateful. It’s not every mistress who’d speak out like that, ma’am. And I certainly won’t forget what you say. And now—is it too much to ask you to tell me in as much detail as you can all that happened here yesterday ?”
“No, of course I will try.”
“Perhaps I might tell you all I know, and ask you to correct or supplement it as I go along. Very well. Then we begin at breakfast—nothing abnormal ?”
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