Ask a Policeman

by The Detection Club

  “‘Tis far off;

  And rather like a dream than an assurance,”

  Sir John said under his breath.

  “A dream?” said the cook. “Ah, and in a dream I thought I was when no less than that police officer turned up all unexpected. It was Mr. Farrant told me, else never should I have guessed he was anything to do with the police. All spruced up as nice as ninepence and in a suit like everybody else, and looking quite the gentleman. ‘He’s in the drawing-room,’ says Mr. Farrant, ‘hoping to get into his lordship. Breach of promise at last, I’ll warrant you,’ says Mr. Farrant to me, ‘and him with a warrant in his pocket, I shouldn’t wonder. Well, he’ll have to wait till Sir Charles has had his do, warrant or no warrant, I’ll bet,’ he says.”

  “Sir Charles?”

  “And the spit and image of his picture in the papers,” said the cook excitedly. “He was in the waiting-room while all the to-do was going on. The police officer gentleman came afterwards. Sir Charles I was not quite surprised to see. Some funny fish being fried in politics, Sir John.”

  Sir John indicated gracefully his appreciation of the point.

  “I think so. Yes, I think so. Alas! Poor Yorick.”

  “Not having heard him so referred to, but always as Sir Charles,” the oracle replied. “However, there we was, and me nearly jumping out of my skin when they said his lordship was dead. ‘All of ’em seen him and nobody done it?’ I says to Mr. Mills’, which is too much like something on the pictures to altogether take my fancy, present company accepted,” said the cook magnificently.

  ;’Thank you, indeed. Thank you,” said Sir John, acknowledging the tribute.

  “No. Say those gals what they like of Adolphe Menjou,” the cook continued-” me taking no stock in Ronald Coleman as too tall and with that spoilt look—your sideface makes my ’eart go all of a leap, which is not,” she concluded archly, “as it ought to be. But there! we all go girlish at the films, you know, Sir John, and no harm done that I knows on.”

  (IV)

  “What’s to do?

  —A piece of work that will make sick men whole.”

  “I had to come,” said the voice. “I inquired at your house. They said you were here. Dear Sir John—”

  Dear Sir John rose.

  “Ah, Miss Hope-Fairweather,” he said. He glanced round cautiously. Their portion of the garden was deserted except for the small girl who had found a swing and was now engaged in seeing whether it was possible to kick the roof of the summer-house. Sir John smiled and beckoned. With a jolt that threatened to dislocate every limb, she dropped to earth.

  “Would it be possible for you to find Mrs. Pritchard and give her these,” he said, handing her the loose-leaved notebook and the pen. The child considered him.

  “What shall I say you’ve done with the autograph money?”

  Sir John raised his eyebrows in mock seriousness.

  “Do I understand that you are questioning my good faith?” he asked. He gave the money he had made, having first considerably augmented it. The little girl counted it carefully, vouchsafed him an approving smile, said, “Thirteen pounds twelve. Righto,” and trotted off.

  “Shall we walk?” Sir John suggested, steering Miss Hope-Fairweather across the lawn and past a meagre shrubbery.

  “You don’t seem at all surprised to see me,” the lady said. She was young and charming and, it was obvious, a prey to considerable anxiety. Sir John considered her.

  “I’m not easily surprised,” he said. As a matter of fact, he had expected her. “I hoped to pick up information here. Gossip. You know these county towns.”

  She said she did.

  “But there! “his rueful smile was eloquent. “Once I was coerced into collecting money, people fled from me. My shadow frightened them. The place wherein I was became a desert.”

  In spite of anxiety, she laughed at that.

  “I don’t believe there is much information to pick up,” she said. “Poor Brother Charles is in despair. He feels—I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Sir John!—but he does rather feel that it is madness on the part of the Home Secretary to keep the police out of the case for two whole days. He says that every possible clue will be cold and dead by that time. I came to see whether I could be of any help. I know all that happened. I know”—she floundered, but recovered—“I know someone else went with him, and, as he can’t appear in the affair— Oh, it is unfortunate! He is so brilliant—this career—everything!”

  Sir John, his eyes upon the unweeded gravel path, managed to convey by the expression on his flawless countenance, presented profile-wise to her, his entire agreement that the whole affair, from start to finish, had been one vast “misfortune.” Greek tragedy, this death of Comstock, invented by the gods who kill us for their sport, Sir John’s face said; his hands, with a gesture of helplessness, bore witness to it; while his shoulders, expressive always, deplored the sense of humour of the gods.

  Martella, beautifully gowned, exquisitely cool in spite of the warmth of the day and her efforts on behalf of the church fund, manifested herself apparently from the depths of the shrubbery. Sir John, who knew her inherent dislike of spiders and most of the forms of animal and insect life which haunt the shady places, realized that this could not actually be so. She came up to them, a hunted expression in her eyes.

  “My dear, they’ve just begun the Country Dancing. Listen; you can hear the music.”

  They all three listened. The strains of a solitary violin, wailing like a lost soul which had found its way into the vicarage garden and could not remember how to get out again, came to their ears on a rising cadence and then faded away.

  “Mrs. Pritchard-is singing the instructions and dancing, and pushing all those who don’t know how to do it, and calling out, ‘B music again, please,’ until I couldn’t bear it,” Lady Saumarez explained, exhibiting a distressing tendency to giggle. “It seemed a splendid chance to slip away. You could get over to Hurdey Lodge now, Johnny, if you wanted to go. We shan’t be missed for an hour at least. Mrs. Pritchard is in her dement. Oh, and she has changed into her Girl Guide uniform.”

  In three seconds they had sneaked out at the vicarage gate and were in the car. Very gently Sir John let in the clutch.

  A constable was on guard at the gates of Hursley Lodge, and another kept the door. Sir John, slowing the car to a decorous five miles an hour, produced the Home Secretary’s pass, received the official salute, passed on, took the left-hand bend of the drive, and pulled up exactly opposite the steps. The Home Secretary’s pass having been duly scrutinized and saluted again, Sir John followed Miss Hope-Fairweather and Martella into the house.

  “What do you expect to find?” Martella whispered. The stillness-the queer hush of death which hung over the place-was unnerving.

  “I have not the faintest idea,” Sir John replied, also in a whisper.

  “I wonder which is the study?”

  He again produced the plan of the house which had been supplied to him, and copies of the police photographs of the room where the murder of Lord Comstock had occurred, and in they went. The big desk stood in the bay window, with the light entering to the right of any person who sat at it. The revolving chair backed the light; and anyone sitting in it was facing the concealed door in the bookcase. This concealed door Sir John opened, and through the opening entered the drawing-room. He soon returned to the study, however, sat at the desk, and, after telling the two women what he was going to do, he pushed over the revolving chair. Then he inspected the overturned chair near the hall door, entered the office through the double doors, and then rejoined Miss Hope-Fairweather and Martella in the hall. To his wife’s inquiring look he vouchsafed a most eloquent shrug of the shoulders.

  “Come into the garden,” he said. But when they were out on the drive and had thrice circumnavigated the clump of trees, he was still silent and so obviously preoccupied that his companions did not interrupt the flow of his thoughts. At last he said to Miss Hope-Fairweather: />
  “What does Sir Charles make of the secretary, Mills?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t believe Charles has seen him since. Mills is being detained at Winborough, isn’t he? Won’t you could you find time to go and see Charles, Sir John? Or you could have him to see you, if you wished, I suppose, couldn’t you?”

  “I can’t see that Mills would gain anything,” said Sir John, almost in a stage aside. “It would be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.”

  Miss Hope-Fairweather clutched his arm.

  “But if you found that Mills would benefit by Lord Comstock’s death—” she said. She caught her breath, and added bravely, “But I can’t believe that Mills would have been able to seize his opportunity when all those people were in the house. Imagine it! The Archbishop, the Assistant Commissioner of Police, and my brother were all either in the study or in a room next-door to it. How could Mills have stood the slightest chance of committing the murder and remaining un-detected?”

  “But that” Sir John said quietly,” would apply to everybody. Don’t worry about Sir Charles. It is a pity that he went at all. But it can’t be helped.”

  “Oh, I know Charles behaved like a fool,” said Sir Charles’s next-of-kin. “But it was only his sense of duty! He’s so enthusiastic. He never has spared himself. Whether he did it or not-but, of course, he didn’t-it will ruin him I”

  “Of course, Sir Charles has behaved recklessly. He was stupid. A hopeless blunder, this, which he will find it difficult to retrieve.” Sir John, pretending to be un-aware of two indignant faces, halted, produced a cigarette, fitted it into a holder, lighted it, all with maddening elegance and precision. Miss Hope-Fairweather kicked the gravel with a pointed, patent toe-cap, the threatened tears averted. Sir John winked solemnly at Martella and resumed his stride. He could bear almost anything but tears.

  ” This gardener,” said Sir John, changing the tempo briskly. He went up to the front door and made discreet inquiry. The constable, who was a local man, indicated the way to the gardener’s cottage.

  ” I think—’ Sir John said, hesitating, and glancing at his wife.

  “Not in these shoes,” his wife said promptly, interpreting the unspoken request. “We’ll sit in the car until you come.”

  So Sir John, clothed like the lily of the field, from beautiful hat to lavender gloves and the most perfect shoes in the world, set off alone. The cottage was not difficult to find, He passed between banks of blazing colour up to a rose-arched open door whereon he tapped.

  “Briggs, sir? Yes, please, sir. He’s having his sleep.”

  “I know,” Sir John sighed profoundly, or appeared to, at the disturbance he was causing. “I know. It’s quite too bad. But important. Really important,” said Sir John. He was invited in. One chair was dusted to receive the knight; another to receive his hat and gloves.

  “Thank you. Thank yon.”

  Briggs was called.

  “George! George! A gentleman to see you. Ay, and put your collar on. No, it isn’t one of they newspaper fellows, neither. ’Tis a gentleman, I tell ’ee. Brush your hair. Well, put on dickey, then, but do you hurry yourself, not to keep company waiting.”

  “Well, George?” Sir John smiled, man to man. “Don’t throw me out. I know you’ve been vastly bothered. But murders, George, don’t happen every day.’

  George grunted; seated himself; grinned.

  “No offence, sir.”

  “None,” Sir John agreed, most cordially.

  “Only badgered ain’t the word. Swarm of bees, more like. All day yesterday, and all this morning. ‘Tell you? ‘I says. ‘Well, what can I tell you? ‘

  “‘Tell us about the lady,’ says one.

  “‘Give us your own views,’ says t’other.

  “‘What about Sir Charles?’ says t’other.

  “‘Who killed Comstock?’ says the silliest fool of the whole lot. Him I give a look to. ‘Not me,’ I says. ‘But not for want of wishing, neither,’ I says.”

  Sir John produced his card; held it between two slender fingers. George wiped his large hands on his thighs and took the card by the smallest possible corner; gazed at it. Suddenly he called:

  “Emmie!”

  ‘Ah?”

  “Come you in here.” She came. “Take a read of that, my gal. We’ve been to your theayter. Ah, and seen you act, my lord,” he said, addressing the knight with awe, and conferring on him a title which had the merit of being æsthetically correct.

  “Beautiful it was. Right beautiful,” sighed Emmie. “Lovely you looked, Sir John, you in your crown. A dook you was. And when you forgave her all, I could ha’ cried me eyes out.”

  “Did, too, nearly,” said her husband, grinning. “Used up your own handkercher, ah, and mine as well.”

  “But you must come again,” Sir John said cheerfully. He took the card and scribbled on the back. “Any date after the end of September. Send this to the box office and they’ll give you seats. Dress circle you would like, I think.”

  After that, it seemed, they would tell him anything. George told the tale, which was earnestly edited by Emmie. It was no different, however, from the version which had been given to Sir John in the Home Secretary’s letter. Sir John forbore to cross-question, and, as soon as it was possible to do so, took his leave. Before he reached the garden gate, however, George came trotting after him.

  “There was one thing,” he said. “Mebbe nout, but I’ll tell ’ee, Mr. Mills is a dead shot wi’ a rook rifle, Ah, a proper O.T.C. I calls him. All bombast and no belly, if you take me, sir.”

  Sir John walked on. The most interesting point which had emerged, both during the interview in the Home Secretary’s private room at the Home Office and in the present instance, was George Briggs’ personal dislike of his late employer. Sir John had hoped to eliminate suspects. To find himself adding to their number was, to say the least of it, disheartening. But behind his disappointment another feeling struggled. Sir John racked his brain, for the feeling was one of enlightenment on a hitherto obscure point. Yet, for the moment, the point itself, no longer obscure, nevertheless had become elusive. It eluded him for seven miles out of the eight that lay between Hursley Lodge and the vicarage. As the outskirts of Winborough came into view, however-a church tower stood up out of a flat green field-he suddenly accelerated, and the car tore over the last few hundred yards. Sir John said urgently:

  “We shall have to get away, Martella. How long do you think it will take you to find our hostess, and make our farewells?”

  Martella was saved from the necessity of replying, for Mrs. Pritchard, perspiring and ready to overwhelm Sir John with thanks for the autograph money, was bearing down upon them. Sir John was graceful, charming, modest; his leave-taking was unexceptionable. His hostess, still in her Girl Guide uniform, a modern Boadicea surrounded by her daughters, stood in the gateway waving her valedictions until the car was out of sight. Miss Hope-Fairweather had driven away in her own car. Martella was taken home. Sir John sat back in the car and possessed his soul in patience during a traffic jam. Once he looked at his watch. The time was twenty minutes past six. At twenty-six minutes past six he was at the Home Secretary’s private house.

  “The pistol? Certainly you can borrow it. We’ve the two of them, you know,” Sir Philip said. “Want to see the bullet that came out of Comstock’s head? You don’t? Oh, all right. Any news?”

  “Plenty,” replied Sir John, “but not for broadcasting.” He noted that Sir Philip looked harassed and pale.

  Sir Charles was pleased to see Sir John;or said he was. He referred to the murder of Comstock as the devil of a mess, and invited Sir John to dine with him at his club. Sir John smiled;shook his head;said he had come to badger Sir Charles;deprecated the fact that he was a nuisance. But had Sir Charles really worn his gloves all the time he had been at Comstock’s house? Sir Charles, who gave his questioner a fleeting but none the less a distinct impression that he had expected to be asked a far
more awkward question, flushed slightly and replied that really he was damned if he knew.

  “I was impatient, you know, Saumarez, at being kept waiting. I particularly wished my interview with Comstock to be secret. It would have been most damaging to me in my public capacity if it had got about that I was visiting Comstock privately like that I In fact, it hasn’t done me a bit of good, apart from the fact that the silly ass got himself murdered like that. You take me? Devilish awkward. And when I’m impatient, I fidget with things. Gloves, for instance: Take ’em off, put ’em on—any old thing. Just fidgety, you know. But how much I had ’em on—or off—”

  “Marksman?” said Sir John.

  “Eh? What’s that, my dear chap?”

  “Do any shooting?”

  “Oh, shooting? Well, of course, when I get the chance. Oh, I take you! Forgotten for the moment that Comstock was-ah-shot. Oh yes, I’m pretty deadly on my day. Enjoy it, you know. Scotland. Don’t care for shooting over English moors. Tame. Devilish tame. And for fellahs who are going to hit a beater, Scotland is less expensive. Fellahs up there are so hardy. Scarcely notice a few pellets in the leg, or whatnot.”

  He laughed. Sir John joined him. They drank whisky, and parted on the best of terms. For some reason-possibly, Sir John reflected, because he did not know of it-Sir Charles had made no mention of his sister’s visit to the vicarage garden.

  “For a man whose career is ruined-” mused Sir John.

  The Archbishop of the Midlands was staying at the Neo-Hydro Hotel in Piccadilly. So handy, he explained, for Lambeth Palace. Sir John looked at the luxuriously appointed room and, rather cautiously, agreed.

  “But you come on business l” the Archbishop exclaimed. “Tell me all, my dear fellow. You have solved our little problem?” He, too, seemed jauntier than the circumstances appeared to justify.

  Sir John came to the point abruptly.