Death Came Softly

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “But not the ground Mr. Lockersley treads on, I gather,” replied Macdonald.

  Carter chuckled. “They like one another about as well as dog and cat,” he replied. “Mr. Lockersley, he’s devoted to madam too, or I’m much mistaken, and it’s made Mr. Keston as miserable as a sick monkey to see them together, but what’s that got to do with it, when all’s said and done. Mr. Keston, he didn’t want to kill the professor, nor Mr. Lockersley neither.”

  Macdonald paused for a moment, and then continued by a question at a totally different angle.

  “Who looks after the electric fittings here, fuses and so forth?” he inquired.

  Carter stared, evidently surprised. “Well, I do any small jobs like fuses,” he replied. “Bonner, the caretaker who was in the house before it was let to madam, he’s no good at them jobs. I fitted up all the bulbs and hand lamps and that when we first came, and learnt about the fuse boxes and so on, just in case of need.”

  “I see that there were lights in the porch and at the entrance gates,” said Macdonald, and Carter, looking more and more mystified, replied:

  “Yes, sir. That’s right. Very well done it was. There were lights at all the awkward turns in the drive, and on the bridge as well, also at the entrance. I went round them all and removed the bulbs, so that there shouldn’t be no accidents with this blackout business. If anyone’s made any complaints, there’s been a mistake somewhere.”

  “No. There haven’t been any complaints,” replied Macdonald. “I may need to fix up a light in the cave. If I connect a flex with the fitting in the entrance arch that will do it. I wondered if you’d removed the fuses.”

  “No, I haven’t, though it wouldn’t have been a bad idea, now you mention it,” rejoined Carter. “This bloody blackout, if you’ll pardon me, is just about a nightmare. Always worrying about it, I am. Brady’s a sensible, careful sort of chap and does his best, but the professor’s that absent-minded, and Mr. Keston, too, they’d never remember to see their curtains was shipshape unless someone looked after them. Many’s the time I’ve been outside at night when I ought to’ve been in me bed, just to make sure the place wasn’t showing lights enough to attract every Jerry who came over. It was the professor and Mr. Keston who were careless. They’d both go wandering around at night, and leave windows and doors open with the curtains flapping in the wind.”

  “So Mr. Keston was in the habit of wandering outside at night, was he?”

  “Bless you, yes, sir! I believe he’s a bad sleeper, and when he can’t sleep he goes prowling about like a cat. He’s a queer chap, but no vice in him, if you take me. Harmless as our Dinah.” Dinah was an outsize in marmalade-colored cats, and was at the moment sitting beside Macdonald, regarding him with a benign stare.

  Macdonald had been studying Carter, sizing him up. He liked the look of the man’s stout, healthy face and the straightforward stare of his blue eyes. He was a clean, neat looking fellow, and the condition of the house and the kitchen was a credit to himself and his wife. Macdonald realized that Carter, for all his weight, must do as much work as three average housemaids in the great house at Valehead. Studying him, Macdonald said:

  “Were you ever a sailor, Carter?”

  The other looked surprised. “Why, yes, sir, I was as a young ’un. What made you ask?”

  “I noticed you coming downstairs sideways, as a sailor does, and then you’re a handy fellow. They say sailors make good housewives. Do you like a shore job better than being at sea?”

  “I do now, sir. Not so young as I was. I like a bit of ’ome comfort.”

  * * *

  Brady was Macdonald’s next concern, and the C.I.D. man derived a good deal of amusement from the small Irishman. Brady and his wife had been with Professor Crewdon for twelve years, and both lamented bitterly concerning his death. As was only to be expected, the pair had been discussing the matter of the professor’s death ever since Superintendent Turner had begun his inquiries. They made no bones of the fact that they had discussed every individual known to them in the light of a possible murderer, and were perfectly willing to pass on their opinions. Mrs. Merrion was held in high esteem by both of them, and they dismissed her solemnly as a person above suspicion. Mrs. Stamford, however, they regarded in quite a different light. Her superior manner and inconsiderate ways had incensed Brady considerably.

  “It’s only true to say, sir, that things have been different ever since she came into this house,” affirmed Brady. “Everything was as peaceful and happy as could be before she came, and she changed it all.”

  “Come, come, that’s a bit sweeping,” said Macdonald. “Mrs. Stamford couldn’t have affected the weather, you know.”

  “That I don’t know,” said Mrs. Brady, “and neither do you, begging your pardon. Some folks brings trouble and some brings rain. Why not mist? But this much you’ll admit. Mrs. Stamford comes here and everything’s upset. Mr. Rhodian, he goes away—a telephone call from London, maybe, but there might have been other reasons. The professor, God rest his kind soul, he comes hurrying back here, him that never did anything in a hurry—and is it too much to believe that he wouldn’t leave Mrs. Merrion alone in this place with that sister of hers?”

  Brady put his spoke in here. “Now see here, sir. My missis, she’s going too far, that I’ll own, but you asked us to be open with you, and that’s what we’re trying to be. We wouldn’t name our thoughts to anyone else, but you’re a London detective—and you’re a gentleman, if you’ll pardon the liberty of my saying it—and we’re telling you just what is in our minds, same as we worried it out to ourselves. You ask us if we noticed anything out of the ordinary and we’re telling you. Since Mrs. Stamford came, things haven’t been the same.”

  “I don’t want to discourage you from telling me anything which may be helpful,” replied Macdonald, “and I’ll respect your confidence over any ideas you may have, but it doesn’t help anyone to get an idea into their heads when there is no evidence to support it. Now, Brady. Did the professor ever talk to you about the cave?”

  “No, sir. Not to say talk. I told him it wasn’t seemly for him to sleep there, and he’d likely catch his death of cold and get pneumonia, to say nothing of tramps and hooligans disturbing him, and Holy Mary knows what ghosts haunt the place, but he only laughed. ‘Brady,’ he says, ‘I’ve never seen a ghost yet. If there’s a ghost in yonder cave I’ll go more than halfway to meet it.’ He was a fearless man, the master. Nothing ever rattled him. Even the blitz in London—it only annoyed him because the noise interfered with his work. He’d tell me and Mrs. Brady to go and sleep in the shelter, but for himself, he’d never go into a shelter. He said, ‘What will be, will be.’ Faith, and he was right, but I’d like to get my hands on to the man or woman who caused his death.”

  “Did you ever talk to anyone in the village about the professor liking to sleep in the cave, Brady?”

  “Sure, and I did not,” returned the little man indignantly. “I don’t talk about my master—and as for the village, it’s three miles away if it’s a step. I haven’t been there once the whole time we’ve been here, nor me wife neither.”

  Of the events of Wednesday night, Brady had little to say, and what he said corroborated what Carter had said. He had sat up with Carter until midnight, and had then gone to lie down. At half past two he had gone into “Carter’s kitchen” again, and found that Lockersley had returned. At four o’clock he had heard Keston come in and had gone to speak to him and tell him that Lockersley was back.

  “What did he say?” inquired Macdonald.

  “He said, ‘Damn and blast him. I’m tired. Does the professor know he’s back?’ I told him the professor was out, and he said, ‘Oh, the morning’ll be soon enough.’ He tumbled onto his bed just as he was, as soon as he’d taken his boots off, and I left him to sleep. He was up at eight the next morning, though, because I saw him go off, and that was when he found the dear old gentleman, may the saints rest his soul.”

  * * *

/>   It was after talking to the Bradys that Macdonald saw Eve Merrion again. She was standing by the front door talking to Keston. To Macdonald’s mind, Keston’s adoration of her showed plainly enough in his face and bearing when he was with Eve Merrion, as it did in the irritated glance he turned on the chief inspector. Mrs. Merrion, however, turned to the latter eagerly.

  “I expect you’re used to people asking the same futile questions, Chief Inspector, but all the time you are here I am wondering and wondering. . . . I can’t even get on with my beloved rose garden.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Macdonald’s sympathy sounded quite spontaneous, which it was, for he had a knack of putting himself into another person’s place, though even as he spoke he realized that he was in danger of ruling Mrs. Merrion out from his list of suspects automatically. Rather sardonically, at the back of his mind he realized that it was the sheer kindliness and gentleness of the woman who spoke to him which influenced him, probably as it appealed to the doting Keston.

  “I’m afraid you may have to go on wondering for some time, Mrs. Merrion, just as I am doing myself. I admit that I haven’t found a single indication to enlighten me as to the causes of things here. The next thing I want to do is to go through the professor’s papers.”

  “Of course. I’ll show you his rooms. Also, I have some papers which the bank manager has sent. I was keeping them for Mr. Layton, Father’s solicitor, but I expect it’s right for me to show them to you, isn’t it? I knew very little about my father’s affairs.”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Merrion.” Roland Keston’s nervous voice intervened here. “Would it not be wiser to wait until Mr. Layton comes before the professor’s private papers are inspected?”

  “Why?” inquired Eve Merrion. “The chief inspector is here to investigate everything concerning Father’s death. All I want to do is to help him get at every possible fact. It’s not as though there were anything we wanted to hide, and even if there is, it wouldn’t be much use trying to hide it. No. I say let the chief inspector see everything.”

  “Quite honestly, I think that that is your wisest course, Mrs. Merrion, as it is your easiest,” replied Macdonald. “I shall be very glad to see your father’s solicitor tomorrow, and if I go through the professor’s papers tonight, it will save time when Mr. Layton does arrive.”

  “Of course,” replied Eve. “Mr. Keston will take you to Father’s room and tell you where things are kept. Nothing is locked up, my father did not believe in locking things up.”

  Macdonald went with Keston, the latter leading with no attempt to conceal his repugnance for his errand, to the long west wing of the house where the professor had had his quarters. These consisted of two fine big rooms on the ground floor, one used as the professor’s study, one as a dining room; a room fitted up as a kitchen, and the Bradys’ bedroom were at the back of the house, also on the ground floor, and a small stairway led upward to the bedrooms on the first floor occupied by the professor and Roland Keston. The rooms were conveniently grouped, having their own entrance from the garden, and Macdonald observed to Keston that it must have been an ideal environment for a scholar to work in, utterly peaceful and cut off from any interruptions or sounds from the world outside.

  Keston stood fiddling with his glasses, his thin face morose and unhappy.

  “Possibly,” he replied. “Professor Crewdon was very pleased with the accommodation. I can only say that I shall never cease to regret that Mrs. Merrion came here, beautiful though it is—” He broke off abruptly and then continued in his usual precise way: “This was the professor’s study. His business papers are in the roll-top desk. It is unlocked. The writing table by the window holds his literary work—manuscript, notebooks and letters pertaining to his work. Since it is Mrs. Merrion’s wish, I will leave you here to make any investigations you think desirable.”

  “One moment,” said Macdonald. “Will you tell me if your work as the professor’s secretary involved any dealings with his personal correspondence and business affairs, or was it concerned only with his literary work and research?”

  “The professor answered his own personal letters, though he occasionally asked me to draft replies, embodying his own suggestions, letters from fellow scholars, requests for information and so forth. As to business, I was entrusted with the routine work of paying current expenses—rent, rates, household bills and the like, also of checking passbooks, royalty accounts and such like. The professor was a methodical business man; you will find an account of his sources of income and so forth among his papers in the desk. Everything is quite orderly, simple and straightforward. Mr. Layton has the professor’s will.”

  While he listened to the dry, precise voice Macdonald tried to assess the undercurrent of rancor which sounded through Keston’s pedantic utterance. Why, Macdonald wondered, should a reasonable man like Keston thus resent the obvious routine necessities of a police investigation? The chief inspector put in another inquiry:

  “To the best of your knowledge, has there been any unusual financial transaction on Professor Crewdon’s part recently? In an inquiry such as this one, the investigator has to search for any motive, however improbable it may appear.”

  Keston flushed, as though he resented the question as a personal affront.

  “I do not know exactly what you would designate as an unusual financial transaction,” he replied dryly. “There was certainly nothing spectacular in any of the professor’s dealings with his stockbrokers. You will find that all his investments are sound, unspeculative affairs.” Again he fiddled with his glasses, paused as though to consider, and then added, “Shortly after the outbreak of war the professor did carry through an unusual transaction—unusual for one of his conservative habits in money matters, that is to say. He sold a considerable block of industrial shares and invested the proceeds in a very different manner. He bought diamonds, being of the opinion that it might be advantageous, in an emergency, to have some portable valuables which would not deteriorate in value, as currency might.”

  In Macdonald’s mind ran the question, “Are you a bigger fool than you look, or do you look a bigger fool than you are?” as he studied Keston’s nervous, melancholy face. Aloud the chief inspector said:

  “That is a very interesting fact, Mr. Keston. Can you tell me where the diamonds are?”

  “I have no idea,” replied Keston. “I know nothing of jewels, and this matter did not interest me. I had forgotten about it until you made your query concerning unusual financial transactions. I do not even know if the professor repented his action, and later realized on these gems and reinvested the proceeds in War Savings. I remember being surprised when he told me of his action in buying the diamonds. It seemed out of character for one of the professor’s philosophic mind. He was thinking of his children, I believe, and his grandchildren, and how he could best be of service to them in a time of national upheaval, when currency notes might prove valueless. He was certainly not thinking of himself or his own safety.”

  “Have you any idea of the value of the diamonds?”

  “None at all. You will doubtless find all the data relevant to their purchase among the papers in the desk.”

  “But not the diamonds themselves, I take it?”

  “I have no idea at all,” replied Keston. “I have never so much as speculated on the place where they are kept. As I told you, I had actually forgotten all about the matter. It was in no respect my business. The professor only mentioned the diamonds to me one day when we had been discussing the possibilities of a world collapse of the economic system. I have never seen the jewels in question, and I have no idea where they were kept.”

  “It did not occur to you that such negotiable valuables might be a motive for murder?”

  Again Keston stared in his surprised, melancholy fashion.

  “Indeed, no. Now you suggest it, I can only reply that such a hypothesis seems groundless. To steal—yes, that is a commonplace to certain types of mind, but to murder adds to the danger of the c
riminal without adding to the value of the things stolen.”

  “Quite—but murder has been done on many occasions in order to safeguard the thief from discovery. If, for instance, the professor told a certain person—and no one else—of the existence of the diamonds and their hiding place, that person could not steal the jewels and hope to escape suspicion unless the professor was silenced for all time.”

  A dark flush crept up over Keston’s thin face.

  “I follow your reasoning,” he said. “It might be . . . no, any supposition is too fantastic. I can make no helpful suggestion at all. In any case, this conversation is foolishly speculative. You have no grounds for assuming theft. I can only suggest that you follow out Mrs. Merrion’s wishes, and examine the professor’s papers in detail.”

  “Yes. That seems indicated,” agreed Macdonald. “I may need your assistance later, to answer any further questions which may arise, so I should be glad if you would stay in the house.”

  “I had no intention of doing otherwise while you remain here,” replied Keston with dignity, and Macdonald smiled to himself over that ambiguous answer as the secretary walked out of the room, his shoulders hunched up, his head down.

  * * *

  Roland Keston had been perfectly correct in saying that Professor Crewdon’s business affairs were straight-forward, and his papers in order. An hour’s work over the methodically kept books and papers in the roll-top desk put Macdonald in possession of all the salient facts regarding the dead man’s financial affairs. An income of five hundred pounds a year from investments, plus varying sums from his books, articles and lectures—totaling just over one thousand pounds of income in the past year—were clearly stated in a book kept for that purpose, which also included a list of share securities. The sale of twelve hundred pounds’ worth of stock, and the paying out of twelve hundred fifty pounds to a firm of diamond dealers in Hatton Garden in the year 1939 were also entered. A copy of the professor’s will, his passbook file and a statement from his bank covering his current account for the past three months was also found. The will left all deceased’s invested securities to his daughter Emmeline, who was to enjoy the income therefrom during her life, the capital to be divided in equal shares between her children on her death. To his daughter Eve the professor left any sums accruing from royalties, together with his books, manuscripts and papers. To Roland Keston was willed one thousand pounds in War Savings and National Bonds together with the professor’s furniture, and to Brady and his wife the sum of two hundred pounds. A short, neat will, but it contained no mention of the diamonds, having been drafted in 1935, and no codicil having been added.