She watched the neat blue car with the recent dent in its mudguard disappear, spurting gravel as it went, and admired the Commissioner’s handling, for the drive was tricky. As an individual, however, she had less admiration for Major Alan Littleton. He had been abrupt with her. He had mimicked Teddy and laughed. He had a dark lean kind of good looks for which the rather ambrosial head and well-covered person of the late Lord Comstock’s secretary had given her a distaste. She wandered back into the hall, pondering. “Asked to make a statement.” What did that mean? En-countering Aunt Adela she referred the question to her.
“Probably,” responded that lady, “that they’re holding him on some sort of suspicion.” The girl flinched. “My dear child, what else could you expect of local police? Or Cabinet Ministers either; imbecility unfortunately isn’t confined to one class. They’ve suspended Alan, for instance, just because he happened to be there. And they’re asking all the wrong questions, of all the wrong people. This isn’t a crime that can be solved by measuring burnt matches and watching the clock. It isn’t a premeditated crime at all. Therefore “—Mrs. Bradley suddenly knuckled her niece jocosely in the ribs—” therefore it wasn’t Teddy, so try and look a little more cheerful.”
“Of course it wasn’t Teddy,” said the girl resentfully; and then, instinct demanding a backing of reason; “Why wasn’t it?”
“Girl! And you aspire to write stories about this sort of thing! A house full of respectable, right honourable and right reverend people, to say nothing of others we know nothing about as yet, but who may be presumed to come within one or other of those categories; the cook, the gardener, the unknown lady in Sir Charles’ car-you haven’t heard about that, of course; a house where policemen go casually bicycling by; a house swarming with visitors. And the confidential secretary, with all the twenty-four hours of the day to do his murder, chooses just that one, with eminent men popping in and out like cuckoos from clocks. Nonsense! The whole thing was a psychological explosion; the pistol, so to speak, was merely a symbol, merely the physical expression of a mental state. Whose? Well, we shall have to ask a few questions ourselves.”
(III)
Mrs. Bradley began inquiries that night at dinner. It was easy enough, for despite Lady Selina’s anguished glances, and steady leading of the conversation to the Women’s Institute performance of Box and Cox, impending three weeks hence, her guests could not be induced to talk of anything but Lord Comstock’s death. He had never been invited to her table in life-not that he would have come, though he knew to a sixpence the news value of a marquess’s daughter; his notions of entertainment were quite other. Now, by reason of a small blue hole in his temple, he took possession of her mahogany, and lorded it over the excellent food, the candles, the tranquil roses. But this disregard of the hostess’s wishes was understandable considering that one of the guests was none other than Canon Pritchard, the Vicar of Winborough, he whose car had been aspersed by the Assistant Commissioner as that which fled so guiltily down Lord Comstock’s drive.
“When the police inquired of me by telephone,” said the Canon, to an attentive audience, “naturally I assured them that the car had never left the garage. I was in London all day-a most difficult session; Bishops’ ideas nowadays are startingly modern in some matters.
I walked to the station. I walked back from the station this evening. But when I went at seven-thirty into the garage, unlocking the door as usual—”
(“A padlock, Canon?” from Mrs. Bradley.
“Quite an ordinary padlock, yes.) I went in, I inspected the car, which looked much as usual. I did not examine the speedometer. But-and this is a very curious coincidence; quite providential, if one may. use that word with reverence in connection with machinery. Just at the entrance to your drive, Lady Selina, by the lodge, my car coughed, and spluttered, and finally ceased to move.”
Exclamations from the rapt throng.
“You will guess, probably sooner than I did, the true cause: I examined the tank by the aid of a handy little pocket rule which I make it a practice to keep among my tools. Empty I The tank, which to my knowledge had held a gallon when I returned last night from a visit to Meauchamp, was empty.”
This was sufficiently exciting and suspicious; the entire table buzzed with conjecture. Mrs. Bradley, however, in royal blue and looking oddly like a travestied lizard, would attempt no guesses and volunteer no statements. She was most unsatisfactory, and the vicar had a reproachful eye for her, as for a parishioner spied drowsing in sermon-time. But at the duckling stage of the meal she leapt into public favour again.
“Beg pardon, madam,” said the tremulous voice of that gratified crime-fancier, the butler,” Sir Ferdinand Lestrange on the ‘phone.”
Mrs. Bradley left the table to its buzzing, and sought the telephone in the hall.
“Well, Ferdinand?”
“Look here, mother. Do you want to take a hand in this Comstock business?”
“Dear child, I’m human, I hope.”
“I’ve been talking to the Commissioner. He’s going to give facilities to a chosen few—”
Not newspapers?”
“No, no; amateurs; Wimsey among others. thought as you were down there already—”
“Of course. I’m greatly obliged to you, Ferdinand. Especially as, from what I hear, the police are going about the whole business in an entirely idiotic way. Suspending Alan Littleton, for instance.”
“He was there, you. know. With a similar weapon. They could hardly do anything else.”
“Where are the two revolvers now?”
“The local fellows are holding them, I believe. No finger-prints on either. On the one he was killed with, none at all.”
“The one he was killed with? Dearest child, aren’t you assuming a good deal?”
“The one found by the body; I apologize. The bullet has been extracted. By the way, one bullet only had been fired.”
“Thank you, dear. I like my news crisp. Now, there are some people I would very much like to talk to. I’ve spoken with Alan; but there are these two unfortunates who are being detained—”
“I’ll get the Commissioner’s office to telephone permission. Have you seen Comstock’s Clarion this evening? Black borders an inch thick, and a suggestion in the leader that he should be buried in the Abbey.”
“I think that honour should be reserved for his murderer. Very much obliged, dear boy. Good-night.”
(IV)
In the morning there was a pitched battle with Lady Selina.
“Adela, I will not have it. You are quite old enough—”
“Sixty-four, dear.” A macaw-like screech.
“—to judge for yourself, but I will not have my daughter mixing herself up in police-courts.”
“Daddy was on the bench. He always said you saw simply masses of human nature like that. Why shouldn’t I go in with Aunt Adela?”
“I will not have you cheapening yourself by running after a young man whom I have always refused to have in the house, I’m thankful to say. Of course, you’ll take no notice of me—”
“He’s absolutely innocent, and I don’t know what you call Christianity, letting people down when they need help most.”
“Don’t be irreverent, Sally. You must go out of the room if you can’t speak properly. It is your aunt’s fault for encouraging you. No, Adela, I will not listen, and much as I enjoy having you here, you know that I cannot have you encouraging Sally to be disobedient and wilful.”
In short, Lady Selina was roused to the point, which occurred about once in five years, of putting her large and sensibly shod foot firmly down. Nothing could be done. Mrs. Bradley could do no less than withdraw her support from Sally, who unquestionably had displayed bad manners; and a quarter-hour later set off in a car, leaving the protagonists to simmer down. With a sigh for the tactlessness of parents she saw, as she stepped into her vehicle, the younger combatant, in an old leaf-coloured skirt, slipping away in the direction of Comstock’s house, and h
oped, but without much confidence, that the child would keep out of mischief.
They held Assizes in Winborough, which was the county town, and there was accommodation in its gaol for every degree of prisoner. Her name and permit had preceded her; and at eleven o’clock she found herself at last in the presence of Mr. Edward Kimberly Mills.
He was shaven and kempt, and less offensive than Mrs. Bradley had feared; but he had already been a good deal questioned, and his manner with her was at first a trifle restive. But the third sentence broke it down.
“I don’t usually deliver this sort of message, Mr. Mills; but my niece, Sally Lestrange, sends her love.”
He steadied at that.
“Does she? Has she told you-?”
“Not a great deal,” said Mrs. Bradley, who, having paid her tribute to sentiment, was not prepared to let Mr. Mills drivel. “Now, you know, I’m only here to help. I dare say you’ve been so much questioned that you’ve got your story quite fixed in your mind by this time, but I want you to be flexible. Let us try a few relaxing exercises. For instance, what was the late Lord Comstock’s manner to dependants?”
Mr. Mills stared, smoothed his too-curly hair with a somewhat podgy hand, and replied:
“Rude, mostly.”
“Ah! Familiar, ever?”
“Sometimes. But look here, I mean, don’t get the idea it was Farrant shot him, you know.”
“Farrant? That’s your fellow-detainee? No, I didn’t suppose it. Did Lord Comstock ever have periods of intense depression?”
“Funny you should ask that,” returned Mr. Mills, with a touch of awe. “He was always up and down. Cursing the soul out of somebody, or else sitting tight with a face screwed up like a fried sole.”
“Or a lost one,” said Mrs. Bradley softly.
“Which? Oh yes, I see. Bright of you spotting that. He was a bit of a genius, of course; you expect ups and downs. But,” said the young man again, with a gleam of alarm, “he didn’t shoot himself, you know. I mean, he may have been depressed, but I’d take my oath he didn’t do it.”
“No,” dubiously Mrs. Bradley agreed, “possibly not while he could get himself noticed in any other way. These inferiority complexes always prefer to make other people suffer.”
“Inferiority? But he was—”
“A blusterer; I know. You’ve misapprehended the term as people do. Men conscious of inferiority are always trying to impose themselves on others, because they know that underneath they are cowards or cretins. Very occasionally they see themselves as they are;then they go down in the dumps. I don’t want to put the police type of question, but you must excuse just one. Is it true that you were under notice to leave Lord Comstock’s service?”
Mr. Mills shot her a look; but the lizard’s face was smiling in kind wrinkles, and the beautiful voice was persuasive.
“Well, as a matter of fact-but absolutely wrongly. I mean he’d got absolutely the wrong idea.” “What was the right idea?”
“He thought I couldn’t hold my tongue.”
‘’ But you can, of course.”
“Of course. Only what I mean is, you’ve got to make it worth a fellow’s while. I’d had one or two offers to sell information, you see; nibbles. I turned them down, of course. But I told Comstock I’d had them, and I—well. I sort of suggested that I could have found a use for the money. Just a hint, you see. After all, there was the future to think of. Only instead of giving me a rise, he told me to get out,” said the injured young man, “that was two days ago. Just the sort of thing he was always doing himself, too; only he gets-got-away with it.”
“I see.” Mrs. Bradley pondered, and looked at him with unblinking lizard’s eyes.
“Do you know, Mr. Mills, if you’ll allow an old woman to comment, I don’t think you’re cut out for a career of piracy. It takes a good deal of strong, sterling, bumptiousness and a thick skin to succeed as a blackmailer.”
“Look here,” said the young man desperately, “I’ve had quite enough bullyragging. As much as I can stand. You’re Sally’s aunt and all that, but—”
“Sally’s aunt,” repeated Mrs. Bradley gently. “You haven’t actually taken any money, have you, Mr. Mills? From the nibblers, I mean?”
Mr. Mills, his eyes intent and frightened, faced her and made no answer.
“Because if you had,” went on Mrs. Bradley, as if musing, “of course that clears you from any suspicion of murder.”
“Clears me?” echoed the young man, and rather painfully cleared his own throat.
“Of course. Comstock was the goose that laid the golden eggs; he contrived the plans and-stunts, isn’t that the hideous word?-that the nibblers paid you for. It was to your direct advantage to keep Comstock alive, and planning, and the nibblers well informed. Of course you’ll say “-Mr. Mills’ mouth was opening, fish-like “that he had already found out and dismissed you. But I imagine that, even so, you would not have lacked for information. There are always impressionable typists, and you with your remarkably good looks—you mustn’t really mind an old woman.” Mr. Mills, crimsoning once more, flinched as she dug him in the ribs with two bony fingers. “So, you see, it might be as well to own up.”
Mr. Edward Mills hesitated, gulped, and came out suddenly with a request.
“I say, please, you won’t tell Sally, will you? The typist, I mean. I can’t think how you got hold of it, there’s absolutely nothing in it, only this girl-well,” said Mr. Mills relinquishing all hope of an explanation in words, and relying on Mrs. Bradley’s intuition, “you see how it is.” He smoothed his too-curly hair, with just the hint of a lady-killing smile.
“I do,” said Mrs. Bradley. “I see how quite a number of things are. You belong psychologically to a very large class; I won’t bother you with the technical name. But they all copy their neighbours, and do in Rome as Rome does, and in the right environment they can remain perfectly honest on a thousand a year.”
She moved, with a gesture of farewell, to the door.
“But look here,” said Mr. Mills, following, “I haven’t admitted anything. I’m not going to admit anything—”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Bradley, with superb impatience. “my dear good ostrich of a young man, good-bye!”
(v)
The two revolvers were indeed in Superintendent Easton’s charge, and obedient to the wires pulled miles away by Sir Ferdinand Lestrange they were produced, with something of a tolerant and condescending smile.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Bradley, peering down at the pair through lorgnettes, “American make, I see; 15,or thereabouts.”
“Correct, ma’am,” agreed the Superintendent, a trifle surprised at this show of technical knowledge. “No finger-prints on either.”
“No,” said Mrs. Bradley, “naturally. The butt’s rough. And as for the trigger, one doesn’t pull with the tip, whichever finger one uses. Personally, with a 38—but that’s a good deal larger-I find I have more complete control pulling with the middle finger, and steadying with the fore. However. Which was the revolver from which the shot was fired?”
The Superintendent scanned both butts, and handed her the one to which a small red label was attached.
“That’s the weapon. Fully loaded in all chambers, one shell fired, finger-prints wiped clean, and barrel.” Mrs. Bradley almost jumped. “Yes, ma’am. Barrel clean as a whistle.”
“When’s the post-mortem?” Mrs. Bradley asked, paying no attention. “And where’s the bullet?”
“Doctor’s in there now.” The Superintendent indicated the direction of the mortuary with a jerk of his head. “Well, talk of angels, as they say.”
For a neat grey gentleman had appeared in the doorway, smelling not disagreeably of disinfectant.
“That’s over, Superintendent!” he announced after one single curious but gentlemanly glance at Mrs. Bradley, who, dressed as she was in peacock green, seemed the last person to be expected in a police-station.
“This is the bullet, ma’am,” said the Superintend
ent cheerfully, producing a small wooden box from his pocket. “And Dr. Raglan might have heard us talking about him. Of course,” he opened the sliding lid and eyed the greyish fragment, “this won’t tell us much till they get the microscope to it.”
It was a small bullet. The nose had mushroomed; but there was enough lead left, the stalk, as it were, of the mushroom, in its original shape, to display the characteristics by which each barrel sets its own stamp upon every bullet fired from it.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bradley slowly, “I suppose we must wait for the microscope. Who wields it? You, Dr. Raglan? ‘’ Her smile drew him into the. conversation.
“I’m not an expert, I’m afraid. It’s a very expert job, you know. Vital to be accurate.”
“Browne and Kennedy; yes, I realize that.” She picked up the other revolver, broke it, and was squinting down the barrel and the chambers in turn. “And this is the weapon Major Littleton was carrying. Yes. You’ll fire test bullets from both, of course; and then compare the markings with this.” She indicated the grey fragment.
“That’s the ticket,” said the Superintendent jovially. “Then we shall know for certain which gun it came out of.”
“But not who fired the gun,” said Mrs. Bradley very gently. “Well, gentlemen, I’m greatly obliged to you. Dr. Raglan,” she paused, “is it possible that you attend the cottage hospital here?”
“I am one of the surgeons, yes.”
“The policeman who was so unfortunately run over, how is he?”
“Not conscious yet. He’s had a very nasty knock.”
“Funny it should be the A.C.“-the Superintendent corrected himself—” Major Littleton, that run him down. He’s always one to be thoughtful for the men. And him working out a traffic scheme to bring down the number of road accidents, too! Well, there’s no saying the funny way things’ll go,” said the Superintendent, who was reckoned something of a philosopher in the town, “a waggonload of monkeys is nothing, you might say, to Fate. Anything more I can do for you, ma’am?”
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