The occasion was the “last-night” supper on the stage of Sir John’s own theatre the Sheridan-at the end of a seventeen months’ run. Sir John, who had not taken a single day’s holiday during that time, had promised himself at least two months’ rest, except for the inevitable rehearsals of the new play which he was producing in the autumn. Meanwhile it was June, and the long run was over. The usual floral tributes for Martella and the ingénue, the laurel wreath for Sir John, the “last-night” enthusiasm of the loyal gallery, and the speeches of thanks, had preceded the supper. The supper itself was almost over, and the darkened auditorium on the other side of the curtain held only the ghosts of by-gone playgoers. The clock in Martella’s dressing-room, whither she repaired the moment the guests had been speeded on their way, showed ten minutes past one. The end of a long run always left her feeling stale, flat, and unprofitable, and on the morrow they were due, she and Johnny, at a vicarage garden party. Absurd, thought Martella, rebelliously. It was ridiculous of Johnny! And to have asked that insufferable old idiot of an archbishop to the supper!
Her husband’s voice without said quietly:
“I say, Martella, may I come in?”
“Of course.” She opened the door. Sir John assisted her with her wrap and walked with her to the stage-door. It took a little time to respond to the farewells, but at last they were left alone.
“What’s the matter, Johnny?” Martella said.
“Nothing. But-would you mind going home alone, Martella? I can’t come just yet. I won’t be very long.”
He knew how tired she was; how near to tears; realized, with tenderness, exactly how she felt at the end of the long run. His voice was very gentle.
When, hat in hand, Sir John had watched the tail-light of the car disappear at the first turning, he became aware that His Grace the Archbishop of the Midlands was standing just behind him on the pavement.
“Ah, Pettifer,” he said superbly. The Archbishop, as nearly as was possible to so self-possessed a man, seemed ill at ease.
“Ah, Saumarez,” he said. “A pleasant night, is it not? I was wondering—one does not sleep these hot nights unless one has one’s stroll after dinner—or, as in this case, supper. And I have not thanked you for your hospitality, my dear fellow. A charming occasion, charming; and, to me, of course, unique—quite. Yes, thank you a thousand times. Shall we-ah-walk a little of the way?”
“There is nothing,” Sir John said-sighing to himself, for he had supposed that they would sit and talk, in which case he could have handled the conversation so as to keep his promise to Martella; if they began to walk there was no telling how long they might be—“nothing I should enjoy better. The Comstock case, of course?”
There were, he realized, several more tactful openings leading up to the same point, but time was fleeting and very precious.
“The Comstock case.” The Archbishop fell into step, and they moved off down the deserted street. “Most tiresome and unpleasant; and dreadful, of course. Most dreadful. Such a promising fellow. An old pupil of mine, you know. A clever lad. A clever, promising lad. I was with him, as I told you, almost immediately before his death.”
There was silence, except for the echoing of their footsteps; a silence which Sir John was resolved not to break. His patience was rewarded in a few moments.
“And so-you won’t misunderstand me, my dear Saumarez-the whole thing is both upsetting and exceedingly embarrassing for me.”
“Quite,” said Sir John.
“I have interviewed everybody who can possibly matter,” his Grace went on, “but the fact remains that while the time of death is so extraordinarily vague, my position in the matter is, to say the least, unsatisfactory in the extreme. So unsatisfactory is it, that, if I did not fully realize how utterly impossible it is that I should be implicated in the affair, I should be very seriously perturbed. Very seriously perturbed indeed, Saumarez.”
There was another long pause. Sir John, who apprehended perfectly whither these preliminary remarks were tending, wished that the Archbishop would come to the point and let him go home to bed. It took his Grace another five hundred yards to do so. Sir John took advantage of his companion’s preoccupation to lead the way towards his own flat in Berkeley Square, so that when the conversation terminated he would be within measurable distance of his beauty sleep.
“You have heard some of the details, I take it?” his Grace went on, at last.
“I have read the evening papers,” said Sir John cautiously. It was the truth, but not the whole truth. However, it sufficed.
“I was wondering—” His Grace coughed, un-certain how to proceed, and they traversed another two hundred yards. The great feature of a square, Sir John reflected, is that one can walk round and round it, exercising body and brain without appreciably increasing the distance between oneself and one’s front door. “I understand that on occasion you interest yourself in a little detective work.”
Sir John permitted the remark its full meed of silence. Then:
“The occasions are rare,” he said, “and my interest in them is always guided by my interest in, shall we say, the protagonists in the drama.”
“Surely. Sure—ly.” The Archbishop, delighted to have launched the subject so satisfactorily, began to purr. “And your interests, no doubt, my dear John—”
Sir John noted the nominative of address, and smiled wickedly into the darkness.
“Are with the right and against might, mob law, any kind of a frame-up, and so on.” Thus Johnny Simmonds on his own naïf beliefs in innocence and justice.
“Quite, quite. Well, my dear fellow, it is criminal, quite criminal, to keep you out of your bed any longer, but I am sure I can rely on you. Noblesse oblige, you know! Any information I can give you-you have only to ask. I would that I could shed upon the unhappy affair all the light it needs! Poor Comstock! Such a promising fellow. I am sad—sad.”
Sir John stopped dead in his tracks.
“And what do you suppose I can do? “he inquired.
“My dear John!” The Archbishop’s tone was benign. It was almost princely. Sir John, recognizing a fellow artist, chuckled inwardly. The man was as much a poseur as he was himself; as vain; as great an egoist. “I place myself entirely in your hands. I do not dictate. I implore. Believe me, I am not thinking only of myself. I am a shepherd of souls, you know.” He smiled his bland, ecclesiastical smile. He was usually caricatured as a cherub. “I am a doorkeeper in the house of the Lord. For that very reason I went to see poor Comstock. You know, of course, how he received me.”
“You had no means of finding out beforehand what your reception would be?” Sir John inquired.
“My dear fellow, I did not risk attempting to make an appointment with him. I knew he would not see me.”
“Guilty conscience?” inquired Sir John.
“Partly, I think. I used to teach him once. Black-minster Grammar School, you know.”
Sir John did know; had spent precious hours that very afternoon in finding out all he could about the school. It amounted to very little. The Archbishop seemed to have made a successful headmaster. Scholarships had been won. The O.T.C. flourished. The games record had been sound.
“What effect would Comstock’s policy have had, I wonder,” mused Sir John aloud, “upon the general public? Comstock the Apostate. … What influence would he acquire?”
The Archbishop shrugged.
“He did his soul harm, not the church.”
“You realize,” Sir John said slowly, “that you are supposed to have had a motive for the murder?”
“Of course! Of course! How, otherwise, should I presume to encroach upon your time like this?”
“You know—” Sir John began. They were standing beneath the street lamp which was nearest to Sir John’s front door. He knew by the light at the front of the house that Martella was still waiting up for him. The Archbishop waved the plump white hand of the pontiff.
“I know the worst there is to know,�
� he said. Sir John recognized the curtain line. He was also annoyed at being interrupted. He let the curtain fall.
“Good-night,” he said, and went in to Martella. She had sent her maid to bed long since. Her husband took her by the elbow and conducted her into the bedroom.
“You go to bed,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
She was about to protest, but, knowing the futility of doing so, gave in. Sir John, having prepared himself for bed, retired to the study.
Well-disciplined in her double capacity of wife and leading-lady to Sir John Saumarez, Martella shrugged one shapely shoulder, glanced sadly at the empty twin-bed beside her own, looked at the bedroom clock and then switched off the light.
In the study Sir John was frowning over the Home Secretary’s letter. A sheaf of newspapers lay on the floor beside his desk. The topmost of them displayed in thick black type the caption:
MURDER OF LORD COMSTOCK: ASTOUNDING DISCLOSURES.
Sir John folded the Home Secretary’s letter and glanced with distaste at the pile of newspapers. He rose, gave an elaborate yawn, stretched his arms wide so that the magnificent Chinese dragon across his magnificent shoulders stretched also and was revealed in all its Oriental glory, let his arms fall to his sides, and went over to a gramophone cabinet in the corner. One of the biggest gramophone companies in the world had recently persuaded Sir John to make half a dozen records for them of famous speeches from Shakespeare. It was not one of his own records, however, that Sir John selected from the cabinet and placed upon the gramophone. A harsh, resonant, arresting voice said firmly:
“And I tell you this; I, Comstock. Our civilization is doomed. Doomed? It’s dead!”
Abruptly Sir John curtailed the remainder of Lord Comstock’s speech at the Albert Hall on the subject of the Sunday Amusements (Greater Facilities) Bill, and replaced the record with great care. Then he closed down the gramophone and went into the bedroom. Martella, reclining against pillows banked like cumulus cloud, was reading her bed-book. In the soft light Sir John’s pyjamas, proudly-hued as the peacock, shimmered in all their silken glory as he removed his dressing-gown and climbed into bed. Martella laid aside the book.
“Tired, Johnny?” Sir John cocked an eye at her.
“You are, I expect,” he said.
“Tell me,” ‘she said, interpreting his need. She switched out the light. Sir John’s bed creaked as he flung himself on to his side.
“Comstock,” he said. “A scoundrel. A wicked devil, if ever there was one.”
“And you’ve been asked to find out who killed him,” said Martella, into the darkness.
“And why should I? “said Sir John irritably. “It’s nothing to do with me.”
“Well, don’t bother then,” said his wife. “You’re tired. You want a holiday. It doesn’t matter in the least who did it. If they hang the wrong person, it’s still nothing to do with you.”
“You’re an irritating devil, Martella,” said her husband, not for the first time during their married life. “In addition, you possess the gift of second sight. How did you know?”
“Good-night, Johnny,” said Martella. “You’d better go and see him in the morning.”
There was a considerable interval of silence. Then Sir John coughed very gently.
“It’s all right. I’m awake,” Martella said resignedly.
“Look here, Martella,” said Sir John, “when we get to that garden party to-morrow you might collect our hostess and get her away from me, will you?”
“All right,” she said. “Who’s going to be there, Johnny?”
“I’m not sure. It is a shot in the dark. I cast my bread upon the waters,” said Sir John magnificently.
“You realize, don’t you,” said Martella, speaking slowly, “that there must have been a cook? No, don’t jump up and down in bed, darling. It’s bad for the springs.”
“Forty-eight hours!” Sir John said tragically.
“Oh, I could round up the cook,” said his wife. “There might also be a wife belonging to the gardener, mightn’t there? You know, the gardener who saw the mysterious lady.”
“Who has been telling you the details?” asked Sir John.
“Oh, they are in all the evening papers, darling,” said Martella innocently. “You must let me have the Rolls to-morrow morning. I think you had better have the cook brought to the garden party-it is certain to be admission by ticket-vicarage garden parties always are.”
“I could go over and see the gardener’s wife at Hursley Lodge. It is eight miles by road from Win-borough Vicarage. But if Littleton did it—” began Sir John.
“Alan Littleton? He couldn’t!” Martella’s voice was confident. “I’ve known him for donkey’s years.”
“Proof positive,” murmured her husband.
“Don’t be beastly, Johnny. Sometimes I believe you’ve got a cynical outlook. Alan couldn’t have done it.”
“On temperament,” mused Sir John, his eyes beginning to close in spite of his efforts to remain’ alert and clear-headed, “Alan is by far the most likely person to have done it.
“No,” said Martella drowsily. “I don’t believe it.”
II
“Depress’d he is already; and deposed
‘Tis doubt he will be.”
Sir John’s vapour bath fulfilled a double purpose, one-half of which was to allow him a period of seclusion in the early morning during which he could think over the occupations of the day and its problems. Accordingly, on the morning following that upon which Lord Comstock had met his death, the knight, enclosed to the neck, considered the day. It overflowed with things to be done and bristled with problems.
“… as a personal favour to me,” the Home Secretary’s letter had said. The sentence tickled Sir John’s sense of dramatic irony. The smile on his flushed handsome face appeared but for a moment, however, and then faded, and he frowned. By the early morning post-he had been downstairs in his dressing-gown to look over his correspondence-had come another letter, containing the same request as that made by Sir Philip Brackenthorpe, the Home Secretary, and by His Grace the Arch-bishop of the Midlands, but couched in somewhat different terms from those in which the Archbishop, verbally, and the Home Secretary, in writing, had seen fit to express themselves.
“For God’s sake, Johnny, find out who did it, or I can see myself in jug,” the impetuous Assistant Commissioner of Police (temporarily suspended) had inscribed on a sheet of notepaper; and the sheet upon which he had expressed his anguish of soul had been so hastily tom from a writing-pad that at least one-seventh of its total surface area had never got as far as the envelope, but remained adhering to the parent block, mute witness to the Assistant Commissioner’s state of mind.
A further sentence in the Home Secretary’s admirably-worded letter, as well as a portion of the police dossier of Comstock’s death, had revealed the damaging fact that the Assistant Commissioner, who looked like having to resign his office on the strength of it, was in the extremely delicate position of having been on the premises-actually inside the house, it appeared-when the murder of Lord Comstock was committed.
Martella was breakfasting in bed, so, the appointed time for slimming-cum-meditation being over, Sir John went into the pleasant morning-room and breakfasted in solitary state. After breakfast he went into the bedroom and acquainted his wife with the fact that he was going out, but added that he would return to a very early lunch.
“How early, darling?” asked Martella. Lady Saumarez, even more attractive at thirty than she had been during her early twenties, was beautiful at any hour of the twenty-four which constitute a day. She did not look the least so in bed, leaning back against the propped-up pillows.
“Say twelve,” he replied. “We can’t be late for that garden-party. I must be there. There’s certain to be gossip, and if we can lay hands on the cook you promised me—”
“Johnny,” said Martella, “you know you’ll hate it. And after all, why should you trouble? Alan is certa
in to be all right. You don’t know who did it, and you don’t care! Why should they use your brains? Let the police do their own work.”
“The trouble is,” Sir John said slowly, “that although in a sense I don’t care, I do know, Martella. But proof I Proof! “sighed Sir John. “I may do innocence an injustice unless I prove myself either right or wrong.”
He left her, and called for the car. Sir John leaving his London house was usually an impressive spectacle, but this morning, except for the butler, who opened the door of the house, and the chauffeur, who opened the door of the car, there was no one to see him off. His secretary had been given a holiday; his valet had been waved away and instructed to have suitable raiment in readiness, for Sir John proposed to attend a garden-party that afternoon. No last-minute commands had to be issued; no odds-and-ends were needed to be carried out to the car. A seventeen-months’ run was over. Sir John was not prepared to produce his new play before October at the earliest; and, masterful yet suave, had put off indefinitely the signing of a new film contract. He paused a moment at the top of the fight of stone steps which led from his front door to the street, unconsciously posing against the background of the house. Then gracefully, and enjoying to the full his own appreciation of his own grace, he descended the steps and entered the waiting car. In deference to Martella’s suggestion that she should use the Rolls, Sir John had commanded his second car to be brought. He dismissed the chauffeur and drove himself.
The Assistant Commissioner was at home.
“And likely to be, until this hellish mess is cleared up! “he snorted. “I suppose you can’t see daylight yet, Johnny?”
“So much,” replied Sir John, “that my eyes are dazzled.”
“Case of can’t see the wood for trees, if you ask me,” said Littleton, scowling at the tip of his cigarette before he tapped off the ash. “Likewise, too many cooks spoil the broth. Likewise-oh, hell, what’s the good of talking! I suppose you know the police have been shoved right out of it!”
Ask a Policeman Page 12