A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  ‘A heartfelt letter.’

  Andrea nodded sadly.

  ‘And if I may say so,’ continued Hollingsworth, ‘not a letter which seems to invite a return.’

  He looked at Andrea somewhat pointedly, until she realised what he meant.

  ‘You mean, why did I come back this morning? Well don’t you see?’

  Hollingsworth said he did not.

  ‘Read it again! “Shall not meet again”… “go to my grave”… Detective inspector, this was a suicide note!’

  Hollingsworth raised his eyebrows. It did not strike him as anything of the sort, but now he thought about it, he supposed the words could be interpreted as such. But if that were the case her actions seemed even less understandable.

  ‘You read a suicide note last night... and you waited until this morning to come and see?’ he asked in amazement.

  Andrea shook her head.

  ‘The note was sealed in an envelope, and I just couldn’t bring myself to open it last night. I thought if I didn’t put the whole affair out of my mind I would go quite mad. Then this morning I thought again and it seemed unfair not to at least read what the note said. As soon as I read it I rushed here. When you told me Ronald was dead I assumed he had killed himself.’

  Hollingsworth nodded. Now he finally understood her initial peculiar reaction to the news. When he had informed her that Ronald Asbury was dead she was saddened and upset, but not shocked. A girl who has rushed to someone she fears may have killed himself might react in just such a way upon hearing of his death. Then, when she was instead told it was murder, the amazement followed.

  Hollingsworth wondered whether it might not be a good idea to change his strategy and allow Miss Ketterman to believe her first impression of suicide.

  ‘It’s funny,’ said Andrea. ‘Murder sounds so awful, and yet… it’s somehow better… For me I mean. I felt so guilty on my way here, worrying that Ronald would be dead because of me. At least… at least this way I didn’t cause it.’ She turned her appealing eyes on Detective Inspector Hollingsworth. ‘Is that terrible of me?’

  Hollingsworth shook his head, quite honestly. He looked at the young woman before him. She was quite an attractive girl, although not exactly beautiful. Her high forehead and broad face prevented that, but the perceptively-styled flowing black hair framed her features in a manner which made the most of her looks. Her figure was slender and pleasant, yet the overall effect was not the kind of woman to have left such tragedy in her wake. He wondered if the letter really had been a suicide note, or nothing more than a melodramatic turn of phrase.

  On balance he thought the latter to be more likely. The steamer ticket to New York was still in the hotel room. Ronald Asbury had clearly accepted his rejection and prepared a life for himself in the United States. There seemed no reason to suppose a further refusal from the same woman should suddenly drive him to suicide instead. Nevertheless there seemed little point saying as much; the more he thought about it, the better it seemed for her to believe the suicide idea for now.

  Hollingsworth suddenly snapped his attention back to the matter at hand. He had a murder to solve.

  ‘Well Miss Ketterman, it seems that your brother may be the man to help shine some light on this case. I don’t suppose he has accompanied you here?’

  Andrea looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Of course not, detective inspector.’

  ‘Why do you say that miss?’

  ‘Didn’t I explain? The reason I came to Southampton was to see my brother off. He sailed for South America this morning.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes detective inspector. That’s where I’ve been this morning: waving him off. It was only after his boat sailed that I brought myself to read the note.’

  Hollingsworth groaned.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me that I have a corpse in a hotel room, no apparent motive for murder or suicide, and the last known person to see the victim alive is halfway to Rio de Janeiro?’

  No one was pedantic enough to point out that the boat would barely have left the English Channel yet.

  ‘I don’t think John could have told you any more than I can, detective inspector. His return upstairs was a matter of two minutes. There was no further conversation. Ronald just gave him the note and wished him goodnight.’

  ‘And how do you know that Miss Ketterman?’

  ‘John told me as we walked back to our hotel.’

  Hollingsworth raised two cynical eyebrows. Andrea stared back defiantly.

  ‘There’s no need to be so sceptical,’ she snapped. ‘I hope you’re not suspecting John of any crime. He’d barely met Ronald before last night. They had seen each other once or twice when John came to visit me, but nothing more than to say hello. What earthly reason could John have to harm Ronnie? John did not live in Upper Wentham and never has, and anyway he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s very gentle, very Christian, not the kind of man to make enemies or seriously dislike anyone. Besides there simply wasn’t enough time for him to have murdered anyone between him going upstairs and coming back down.’

  She paused for breath after this outburst, and Hollingsworth fought to keep an amused expression from his face. People always became extremely verbose and articulate when affronted.

  ‘Very true miss, and I’m not saying your brother did anything untoward. I never accused him of any crime. I’m just desperate for information, and he may have been able to tell us something important that happened during those last few minutes. Thus far our investigations have shown that Mr Asbury has been abroad for some months, returned alone yesterday, checked into the hotel alone and had no contact that we can discover with anyone except the pair of you.

  ‘He did not leave the hotel after returning at a quarter past three yesterday afternoon, and no one apart from you and Mr Ketterman came to the hotel to see him. It’s possible, though unlikely, that he could have left the hotel unobserved, and even less likely that someone else could have both entered and departed without being seen.

  ‘In fact,’ continued Hollingsworth, ‘in light of what you’ve told us I now believe that you were correct with your idea that the letter was a suicide note. The scene initially suggested murder but your letter, on top of the evidence that has appeared since then, really points definitively in the opposite direction.’

  Sergeant Davies shot his superior a puzzled look, and was about to say something when he received a surreptitious wink in reply.

  ‘I wish I could help, detective inspector,’ said Andrea with sincerity.

  ‘Perhaps you can,’ replied Hollingsworth. ‘If you feel up to it I’d like you to look at Mr Asbury’s room and see if anything is significantly different from how you remember it yesterday evening.’

  As he ushered the group out of the office he whispered in Davies’ ear.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I want her to leave here believing it was suicide after all.’

  The stairs and corridors of the Metropole might, in a different hotel, have been described as “poky”. Within the context of this bastion of luxury however, and with judicious use of muted light and tasteful art, they became “atmospheric”. The corridors felt labyrinthine, winding all over with no clear pattern until one felt it was possible to be lost inside forever. Here a staircase may rise from nowhere, simply connecting this single floor to that above; there a corridor may suddenly end in a random alcove (usually containing some sort of sculpture or suit of armour).

  The room lately occupied by Ronald Asbury seemed one of the most clandestine of all, and Hollingsworth wondered how the murderer had even found the place.

  Room 314, when they arrived, had a police constable on guard, and a police surgeon within. The room was extremely pleasant and, like the corridors, somehow projected an atmosphere of “cosy” rather than “cramped”. It had a charming writing table, an old oak wardrobe and a washstand with brass fittings. In the centre of the room was a raised bed, and over this was sprawl
ed a body lying on its front. The corpse lay across the bed and the right arm was extended, dropping over the side and almost to the floor. Beneath the outstretched fingers was a revolver, as though it had dropped from the limp grasp of the hand. The head was turned toward the door and a small rusty brown hole was visible in the side of the temple, above the staring and lifeless eyes.

  Hollingsworth turned to Andrea and warned her to prepare for an unpleasant sight. He was still unsure about the wisdom of showing her the body, but since his report would require formal identification from someone who knew the deceased anyway he decided to risk it. He just hoped she would hold herself together.

  As Andrea passed through the doorway and saw the body his worst fears seemed realised. Her wall of detached control crumbled and she ran to the figure, collapsing to her knees by the side of the bed.

  ‘Ronald! Oh no! Ronnie! Please no, please don’t be dead!’

  Hollingsworth always tried to stay aloof from the emotion in a case. Now he tried not to feel too sorry for the prostrate young woman in front of him, nor too smug with himself for having seen through her veil of indifference. Whatever she had tried to imply from her manner, it was clear that this young man’s death had devastated her. Hollingsworth mused again on the history of this relationship.

  She clearly felt something for Ronald Asbury, and yet she had turned down the opportunity to be his wife. Why had she done that? Did she love another man more? Or was there another factor which had forced her hand and made her say no to the man she really loved? Had she thought she loved another and only now realised the truth? Whatever the answer, Hollingsworth felt as he looked at the sobbing girl in front of him that Andrea Ketterman had chosen wrongly. Well, the fact of Ronald Asbury’s death notwithstanding…

  Hollingsworth shook himself. There he went again, speculating on the people and relationships in the case. He found that in murder cases especially the emotion was apt to draw in anyone with a sense of human drama, and he had to be strict with himself to remain impassive.

  Andrea carried on sobbing for another minute, and Sergeant Davies was running out of ways to be too busy to notice her. Finally she rose and wiped her eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry detective inspector. I think I had to get that out of my system.’

  ‘I understand miss. It must have been quite a shock. Now I wonder if you could look around the room and see if anything strikes you as being different from when you and your brother were here last night. Take your time, don’t rush yourself. Just picture the scene.’

  Andrea did take some time to think and look, but she could not stop her eyes being drawn back to the lifeless figure on the bed. Eventually she shook her head, still sniffing.

  ‘Nothing strikes me as obvious detective inspector. I do remember that the writing desk had papers on it when we were here, but I suppose Ronald must have cleared them away.’

  Or somebody else, thought Hollingsworth to himself. Aloud he said, ‘I don’t suppose you noticed whether the connecting door was locked?’

  Andrea followed his gaze to a second door set into the right wall, which evidently joined to room 315.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m not even sure how I would have known.’

  ‘It’s a simple bolt,’ replied Hollingsworth, indicating a sliding lock set just beneath the handle. It was now unbolted.

  ‘Oh yes, I see. No I’m afraid I didn’t notice it at all.’

  ‘Can you remember if Mr Asbury locked the main door behind you after you left?’

  ‘I can’t, detective inspector. Really you must think me the most frightfully useless witness. But you see I left the room first and John followed. Besides,’ she added, after a moment, ‘it wouldn’t have mattered since John came back up here anyway.’

  Hollingsworth nodded in frustration.

  ‘Tell me about your brother, Miss Ketterman.’

  ‘John? John is my only sibling. He is eight years older than me and we haven’t lived together in a long time; he was living in Africa when I moved to Upper Wentham to live with my aunt. He returned from South Africa just over six months ago and has been living in London, before preparing to go and live in the Argentine.’

  ‘He sounds somewhat peripatetic,’ smiled Hollingsworth.

  ‘He is,’ agreed Andrea, returning the smile. ‘He deals in oil and works freelance. He seems to have a good nose for the right place and time. I believe he’s made quite a lot of money from it. But it does mean we see very little of each other.

  ‘Anyway, I visited him a few times in London during this last half year, and he came to Upper Wentham once or twice but only for the day. He never met Ronald or anyone else for that matter, apart from just a passing introduction. John knew nothing about the village and very little about my life there. He loves me very much but his, ah, “peripatetic” nature, as you call it, means we have never been particularly close.’

  Hollingsworth looked glum. He could not simply take Andrea Ketterman’s word for the saintliness of her brother, of course, but his instincts were telling him that it was all true. It seemed highly unlikely that John Ketterman would have had any motive to kill Ronald Asbury, and even if he had, the evidence of both Andrea and the desk clerk seemed to prove that there simply wasn’t enough time for John to have returned upstairs, murder Asbury and arrange the scene currently before Hollingsworth’s eyes. If it was murder, there was no question that time was needed.

  He would wire the steamer, of course, and request John Ketterman’s version of the evening’s events, but all Hollingsworth saw at the moment was a huge dead end.

  Sergeant Davies, having had little success trying to disguise the fact that he had nothing in particular to do, saw an opportunity.

  ‘I wonder, miss, if you could tell us of any family we should notify?’

  Andrea shrugged.

  ‘None, to my knowledge. Ronald’s mother died when he was very young and his father a few years ago. I’m not aware of any brothers or sisters, although they could have left before I came to live in Upper Wentham I suppose. Poor Ronnie. He was all alone. I should have treated him better...’

  Andrea looked once more at the body of her rejected suitor, choking slightly again.

  ‘Suicide,’ she muttered eventually. ‘So it was my fault after all. I’ll never forgive myself.’

  Sergeant Davies felt his services might be best served by accompanying Andrea away from the scene, and Hollingsworth agreed, having wrung all the pertinent information he could from the closest thing he had to a witness.

  Once they had departed the room Dr Hyatt, the police surgeon, came over.

  ‘Look here Hollingsworth, what’s the idea telling her it was suicide? I told you this was murder.’

  ‘I know. But I want this kept as quiet as possible, and if she goes back to the village crying “murder” the press will get hold of it in days. This case could take some investigation, and I think everything will be much easier if the general public don’t know anything about it.’

  Chapter 3

  ‘So where do we stand?’

  Hollingsworth and Sergeant Davies were in the office of the chief superintendent. It was now afternoon and the hotel seemed to have coughed up all the clues it intended.

  ‘Murder, sir,’ said Hollingsworth.

  ‘By person or persons unknown,’ added Davies impressively, and Hollingsworth kicked him under the table.

  ‘That’s not good enough Hollingsworth,’ said the chief superintendent, ignoring Davies completely. ‘Not good enough at all. Reginald Harwood is a good friend of mine, and I don’t want an unsolved murder in his hotel.’

  Mr Harwood had indeed shown no signs of ceasing his fretting as the morning had progressed; at first he had valiantly tried to ignore the police presence and continue as if nothing unusual had occurred, but the constant coming and going of the various members of the force needed for a murder inquiry gradually wore him down. The lowest point came whilst he was welcoming a well-known peer of the realm at the front d
esk, at which moment the surgeon and two policeman emerged from the stairwell carrying the covered corpse on a stretcher and bidding the group a hearty good morning as they went outside.

  ‘You’re certain it wasn’t suicide?’ pressed the chief superintendent optimistically. ‘The way you describe the thing it certainly sounds like it. There was no note of course, but one could count the letter to Miss, ah, Ketterman at a stretch.’

  ‘We did originally think suicide ourselves sir. It was Dr Hyatt who found the first flaw.’

  Dr Hyatt had been the police surgeon for nearly twenty years, and was a man in whom the chief superintendent had supreme confidence. This single statement seemed to deflate him by itself.

  Hollingsworth reached for the sheaf of photographs and picked out a close-up of the wound.

  ‘If you look here you can see that some blood had trickled from the bullet hole slightly, before drying. But the stream ran toward the cheek, meaning that Asbury must have been sitting upright when he was shot. If he had fallen into the position we found him, the blood should have run in the direction of the floor, across the forehead. In addition, the head was resting on the bed but there was no blood anywhere on the sheets. The blood must have dried before he was placed on the bed.’

  The chief superintendent grunted. ‘You said that was the first flaw. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes sir. The gun had just one set of very clean prints on it, belonging to the dead man. If he had shot himself, the gun should have slipped out of his fingers, smudging the prints. Besides, why would a man about to commit suicide feel the need to wipe the gun clean first?’

  ‘Alright, alright, it was murder I suppose,’ grumbled the chief superintendent, taking the whole thing as a personal vendetta.

  ‘I’m afraid so sir.’

  ‘Now the body was found by…’ The chief superintendent sifted through the initial report Hollingsworth had written up, ‘the maid?’