Emmeline Stamford collected her knitting and went to the door with her sister. Eve said:
“Good night, everybody. Sorry to be abrupt, but I’m dog tired.”
Keston held the door open for the two women as the others murmured good night, and then closed it behind him as Eve and Emma went upstairs. Rhodian poured out his cup of tea, saying:
“Reckon I’ll take this upstairs with me. The trouble is there’s been too much talking already. Everyone’s jittered.”
“Yes. So it seems,” said Lockersley. He spoke almost absent-mindedly, and then added, “I think I know who did it. I know why they did it. I think I know how they did it, but some of the details are confusing. Someone’s playing the goat, or else they’ve lost their nerve.”
“Well, you don’t seem to have lost yours,” replied Rhodian. “Congratulations on your Sherlocking, but I’d rather wait for the official verdict. Amateur detectives leave me stone cold.”
He walked to the door carrying his cup of tea and opened it quietly. Keston stood outside, his face white.
“I heard what you said.”
The words were thrown at Lockersley, who shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“Just what I expected of you. That’s why I said it,” he replied. “What is far more important than what I said is—what you did.”
“Oh, put a sock in it,” said Rhodian quite good-temperedly. “You poetic blokes are too fond of a good curtain. This one isn’t yours. It’s mine. Come along, little man. I’m going to put you to bed. You might get quarreling if you stay up any longer, and that’d put the lid on it.” He took Keston by the arm and turned to Lockersley. “Go to bed, pudding face. You’re being tiresome.” Lockersley grinned at him, but Keston allowed himself to be led off without another word.
9
It was in the small hours that Macdonald got back to the room he had taken in the village, but he did not go straight to bed. Far from feeling sleepy, he was particularly alert and intensely interested in the case he was studying. He found that his landlady had thoughtfully left him a kettle and spirit lamp and a tray with teapot, tea and milk, and he boiled the kettle, filled his pipe and settled down at length with a good brew of tea to write up his notes and get his ideas into order.
First Macdonald studied the sheets which Lockersley had handed to him. There is an assumption on the part of many people that poets, painters and musicians are inevitably muddle-minded and impractical persons apart from the art they practice. There was certainly nothing muddled or impractical about David Lockersley. Having read the neatly typed pages which the young man had handed to him, Macdonald sat back and contemplated for a little. Lockersley was undoubtedly a clear-headed thinker, and an accurate and dispassionate observer. There was something startling, to Macdonald’s mind, in the way Lockersley had set down many of the facts concerning which Macdonald himself had made careful, though veiled, inquiry. The reconstruction of the conversation which Macdonald had asked for was also given in careful detail.
When Macdonald settled to his own notes, he considered three channels of reference: his own inquiries, including both his interrogation of the people at Valehead House and the telephone inquiries he had set on foot earlier in the evening, the facts elicited by the local force, and young Lockersley’s statement. Macdonald began, as he had asked Eve Merrion to begin, with the evening preceding the professor’s return to Valehead. He remembered Eve’s statement: “Everything was perfectly ordinary before then.”
On the Tuesday, then, Mrs. Stamford had arrived at Valehead and had dined with her sister and her sister’s guests. After dinner, Lockersley had taken Rhodian to see the Hermit’s Cave, and Keston had followed them. Mrs. Stamford had remained in the house with her sister, save for a short walk in the grounds. At nine o’clock had come the professor’s telephone call, when he had spoken to Eve and told her that he was returning to Valehead the next day, instead of on Thursday, as he had originally planned. He was traveling by the one-thirty train from Paddington to Enster.
At ten o’clock that same evening another trunk call had been put through, this time a personal call for Bruce Rhodian. Both these facts were also set down in Lockersley’s statement, and the latter had added that Rhodian said his own call was concerning business with the cinematograph company who were producing what he called “his own film,” based on his famous travel book. The only other facts concerning Tuesday evening were given by Lockersley, who stated that he had gone for a walk in the woods at eleven o’clock that evening and had returned about midnight. He had heard two sets of footsteps while he was out: one of these he was sure was Keston’s, because he walked clumsily in the half-light. The other might have been Carter’s; the latter was still up when Lockersley reentered the house about midnight.
Rhodian had told Mrs. Merrion that he would have to go up to town first thing on Wednesday morning when he had said good night to her on the Tuesday, and Eve had said that she would order a taxi for nine o’clock in the morning, in order that he might drive to Starford Station to catch the nine-thirty train for London, which connected up with the express from Tawmouth to Enster.
Consequently breakfast on Wednesday morning had been ordered for eight-thirty. Rhodian, Lockersley and Mrs. Merrion had breakfasted together, and Lockersley had said that he would go out for a long tramp by himself. He had collected sandwiches from Mrs. Carter immediately after breakfast, and had not been seen by anybody in the household after nine-fifteen.
Macdonald was interested in this fact because someone had taken the trouble to write an anonymous letter to the police saying that Lockersley had been seen on the London to Enster train on the Wednesday afternoon—the same train by which the professor had traveled. Macdonald pondered over this piece of information for some time. He was well accustomed to the odd, irrelevant, frequently inaccurate bits of information which were sent to the police in the shape of anonymous letters during every big case while it was being investigated. He could not quite see what—if any—bearing on his case this statement about Lockersley might have, but he made a note of the fact that it might have been possible for Lockersley to have reached Enster Station by ten twenty-five on Wednesday morning, if he had got a lift on the high road to Enster. In this case, he could have reached Reading in time to pick up the professor’s train, which stopped there at two-thirty.
“And what sense there is to be made out of that, I don’t quite follow,” said Macdonald to himself. He turned to the report he had received from the railway company. All tickets issued on the Wednesday from Starford or Enster had been duly given up at their appropriate destinations. Bruce Rhodian, as Macdonald knew from the station master at Starford, had taken a monthly return to Paddington, and both halves of his ticket had been duly given up.
Again Macdonald pondered over the anonymous letter. It was a very commonplace production, written in untidy block capitals penciled on very cheap paper. It ran: “Mr. Lockersley, who is staying at Valehead House, was seen on the 1:30 train, Paddington to Enster, on Wednesday, June 26th.”
If there were any truth in this statement, it looked as though Lockersley had found it necessary, for reasons unknown, to see the professor before the latter returned to Valehead, but Macdonald doubted very much if this were the case. The professor had been a very truthful, straightforward and outspoken man, and Macdonald doubted if he would have allowed Eve Merrion to have gone on worrying about Lockersley’s continued absence in the mist had he—the professor—known that the young man had never set out on his famous walk.
Returning to ascertained facts, Macdonald noted that the professor had arrived at Enster at five o’clock, and had there changed into the Starford train, arriving at the latter station at five-thirty, and having been driven to Valehead by the local garage proprietor. Macdonald had already made inquiries of the railway company concerning the ticket inspector and guard on the professor’s train, and had made arrangements to see them in London on the following day.
The chief inspector’s
next consideration was concerning the stone he had found in Lockersley’s pocket, which he was pretty certain was an uncut diamond. Two points stood out concerning this discovery, one being Keston’s imperative injunction “Search him,” and the other Lockersley’s nonchalance when he himself had said, “What did Keston mean when he kept on telling you to search me?” and his further suggestion that Macdonald should do as Keston had demanded. In spite of his own assurance to Lockersley to the contrary, Macdonald knew that such a small object as the diamond could have been disposed of in the semi-darkness without being noticed. A variety of interpretations could be put on the incident. Keston might have “planted” the stone in Lockersley’s pocket, as the latter had suggested. Lockersley might have put it in his own pocket deliberately, and jumped at the opportunity provided for bringing suspicion on Keston owing to the latter’s insistence on a search—but if Lockersley had wanted to dispose of such a small object between Keston’s suggestion and his own reiteration of it, he could certainly have done so.
Before he went to bed Macdonald made notes of various things to be done in the morning. Turner could try his hand at tracing the anonymous letter concerning Lockersley. It had been posted locally, and if the writer were a local inhabitant, it was probable that Turner could run him to earth. Then there was an inquiry to be made of the friend with whom Professor Crewdon had stayed during his absence from Valehead. Then there was the matter of the diamonds, which gave Macdonald food for much thought. He could search the whole of the house, and ransack everybody’s belongings, but he very much doubted if such a proceeding would bring him any nearer to the object of his search. Now that the matter of the diamonds had come to light, as it inevitably had to do once his own investigation was under way, it would have been only too easy to dispose of the stones—bury them, put them in the river or lake, hide them in the woods. It was doubtful if direct search would help him there.
Finally there was the matter of seeing the professor’s solicitor. This now seemed to Macdonald to be one of those necessary routine formalities, not very promising of results. He thought that he would probably telephone to Mr. Layton in the morning, and make an appointment to see him in London, rather than waiting to see him at Valehead.
* * *
Four hours of sleep were enough for Macdonald. When Turner came in to see the chief inspector shortly before nine the next morning, the latter had already had his breakfast.
“ ’Morning. Valehead’s been on the phone early this morning. Mrs. Merrion rang up to know if there was any objection to her sister going back to town. It seems Mrs. Stamford’s too nervy to stay at Valehead any longer. Wants to go to town to see her doctor, and they say Mr. Rhodian’s going up and can escort her. I told them I’d let them know shortly. I take it you want them to stay here?”
“No. I don’t think so,” rejoined Macdonald. “If Mrs. Stamford wants to go back to London, she can go. I shall want to know where she’s going to stay, of course. I’ll come across and ring up Mrs. Merrion. I’m going up to town myself, too, this morning.”
Turner shrugged his shoulders, his face more than a little exasperated.
“I suppose you know your own business best,” he replied, “or perhaps you’ve come to the conclusion the whole thing’s a mare’s nest, and the old chap lit the brazier himself. Might have been suicide, of course. I’ve always thought there was a possibility of that.”
“No. I think it was murder, undoubtedly,” replied Macdonald.
Turner stared. “And yet you’re letting one of ’em clear off?” he inquired indignantly. “It’s different with young Rhodian, he wasn’t even here that night, but Mrs. Stamford—I’ve always thought she was concealing something. Too high and mighty altogether.”
“From my point of view, it will be easier to keep an eye on her in London than here,” replied Macdonald. “I’ve more men up there for one thing. You can’t police Valehead with a man and a half.”
The chief inspector went to the phone at Turner’s headquarters and rang through to Valehead House.
“Is that Mrs. Merrion? Inspector Macdonald speaking. If your sister wants to go to London she’s at liberty to do so, but I should like to know where she will be staying, in case I need her as a witness.”
Macdonald heard the sigh of relief from the other end of the wire.
“Thank you so much for ringing up, Chief Inspector. My sister will be so thankful to get away, and honestly I shall be glad for her to go. She’s nearly frantic with nerves, and I’m getting to the state when I may snap back any minute. She will be staying at her club—the Fortescue Imperial in Conduit Street. Mr. Rhodian is going back to town today, and he can look after my sister in the train. She’s really pretty shaky. This unhappy business has simply shaken her to bits.”
“Yes. I realized her nerves were in a bad state,” replied Macdonald. “You will be glad to be alone for a bit, I expect. Is Mr. Lockersley staying on with you?”
“I suppose so. I haven’t asked him—anyway, he’s no trouble. He just wanders about by himself and keeps out of everybody’s way.”
“I think it would be a good idea if he kept out of Mr. Keston’s way,” said Macdonald. “You might see if you could arrange it. Meantime, I shan’t be coming to bother you today, so I suggest you spend a long day in the rose garden.”
She laughed a little, amusement and sadness mingled in the sound.
“That’s just what I intend to do. I can’t help anyone by tearing my hair, can I? I should be much better employed rooting up bindweed and cutting back brambles.”
Macdonald put through a call to Mr. Layton, the professor’s solicitor, asking him if he could see him at Valehead the following day, before he rejoined the rather disgruntled Turner.
“I’m leaving Reeves at Valehead; he’s a useful observer, and will keep an eye on things there. I shall drive into Enster to catch the ten-thirty and leave my car there. I wish you’d do your best to find the writer of that letter about Lockersley. I feel it’s a local effort, and there’s probably some gossip going round which will help you.”
Turner nodded. “Gossip? You’ve said it. Everyone’s gossiping. I can’t see the sense of that bit about Lockersley. Probably invented by some busybody. The fact is that when London people come down and take a place like Valehead there’s always gossip in a place like this, without mysterious deaths to give it a fillip. Half the folk in the village were gossiping about the professor and Keston, and Mrs. Merrion and her young men visitors, long before that cave business.”
Macdonald nodded. “Life in the country would be almighty dull if it weren’t enlivened by conjectures about infiltrating ‘foreigners,’ ” he replied. “I’ve often found the local gossips very useful, but in this case I’ve a hunch that the local pundits can’t help much. However, you listen in at the local bars, and see if you can pick up anything about anybody who is interested in Lockersley’s movements.”
* * *
The members of the country’s police organizations, whether local police or metropolitan, have a great advantage over amateur investigators. When Macdonald arrived at Enster, he was told by the railway authorities that Mrs. Stamford and Bruce Rhodian were traveling in the front coach of the Starford train, and that the main line train, which Macdonald was boarding, would be coupled to the front of the Starford train. He had only to get in the rear coach of the main line train and he would be quite close to Mrs. Stamford’s compartment when the sections were coupled. While he was at Enster, Macdonald also had the chance of speaking to the ticket inspector who had been on duty on the one-thirty train from Paddington by which the professor had traveled on the Wednesday. This man—William Denton, an Enster man, and a railway servant of long standing—remembered Professor Crewdon quite clearly when Macdonald described him. The professor, with his noticeable height and fine sweep of white hair, was an easy person to describe, and not an easy one to forget.
“Yes, I call him to mind,” said the ticket inspector. “A very fine looking
old gentleman, I remember thinking, and I had a word or two with him. Very pleasant he was. Now let me think. It’d have been between Reading and Westbury I looked at his ticket. Yes. That was it. He was in the front of the train—the first coach—in a corner seat facing the engine. The train was pretty full, but the corridor in that coach was clear, though some of them at the rear were crowded. What was it you wanted to know, sir?”
“So far as you could tell, had he any friend traveling with him? Did you notice him talking to anyone?”
“No, sir, I don’t think he had anyone with him. They were all service men and their folk in that compartment, I seem to remember—sailors, and a few R.A.F. lads and one boy in khaki. The old gentleman chatted to them a bit, I think, but mostly he was reading. I saw him get out at Enster, and he was alone then.”
“You’re sure there wasn’t a civilian in the same compartment, a tall, heavily built young man, with fair hair and rather sulky eyes?”
“Not in that compartment, sir. I was in there several minutes, for one of the R.A.F. boys had lost his ticket. No, barring the old gentleman, they was all service chaps, and two of them had their wives with them. No one else.”
Macdonald settled down as comfortably as he could in one of the few vacant seats left to choose from in the rear coach of the London train. It happened to be in a non-smoking compartment, and he went out into the corridor after a while to stretch his legs and smoke. He hadn’t been there many minutes when a voice behind him said:
“Hello. Be a good soul and give me a light.”
Rhodian stood beside him, grinning cheerfully as Macdonald offered his gasoline lighter.
“I’m escorting Mrs. Stamford, as you probably know,” said Rhodian. “I think she’s gone to sleep, and I’m sure I hope so. Cassandra also ran. She beats the band for melancholy.”
Death Came Softly Page 13
