CHAPTER XXVIII
She was conscious that the revelation that her father had been killedby Mr. Holymead was a less shock than the revelation that her fatherhad dishonoured the great friendship of his life by seducing hisfriend's wife. Her father had been dead three months, and her grief hadrun its course. The shock caused by the discovery that he had beenmurdered had passed away, and she had begun to accept his violent deathas part of her own experience of life. But the discovery that he hadbetrayed his best friend, in a way that a pure-minded woman regards asthe most dishonourable way possible, was a fresh revelation to her ofhuman infamy.
The knowledge that her father had been a man of immoral habits was notnew to her. His predilection for fast women had long ago made itimpossible for her to live in the same house with him for more than aweek at a time. But that he had trampled in the mire the lifelongfriendship of an honourable man for the sake of an ignoble passionrevealed an unexpected depth of shame. That Mr. Holymead had killed himseemed almost a natural result of the situation. It was not that she feltthat a just retribution had overtaken her father, but rather that she wasglad his shameful conduct had come to an end. As she thought of her deadfather--dead these three months--she gave a sigh of relief. The wretchedguilty woman, who had shared with him the shame of his ignoble intrigue,had said that if her father could make his wishes known he would pleadfor the life of the friend he had dishonoured. But it was not herfather's plea for the life of his friend that would have impressed her somuch as a plea to bury the whole unsavoury scandal from the light. Shehad promised to save Mr. Holymead if she could, but that promise hadsprung less from the spirit of mercy than from the desire to save herfather's name from a scandal, which would hold him up to public obloquy.
She greeted Crewe with friendly warmth in spite of the feeling ofoppression caused by the consciousness of the situation in front of her.He did not sit down again after greeting her, but stood with one handresting on an inlaid chess table, with wonderful carved red and whiteJapanese chessmen ranged on each side, which he had been examining whenshe entered the room.
"I came down to make my report to you because I think my work isfinished," he said.
"You have found out who killed my father?" she asked quietly.
Crewe had sufficient personal pride to feel a little hurt when he saw thecalm way in which she accepted the result of his investigations, insteadof congratulating him on his success in a difficult task.
"I think so," he said. "Before I tell you who it is you must prepareyourself for a great shock."
"I know who it is" she said--"Mr. Holymead."
There was no pretence about his astonishment.
"How on earth did you find out?"
She smiled a little at such a revelation of his appreciation of his owncleverness in having probed the mystery.
"I did not find it out," she said. "I had to be told."
"And who told you, Miss Fewbanks?" he asked. "Has he confessed to you?How long have you known it?"
"I have known it only a few minutes," she said. "Will you tell me how yougot on the track and all you have done? I am greatly interested. You havebeen wonderfully clever to find out. I should never have guessed Mr.Holymead had anything to do with it--I should never have thought itpossible. When you have finished I will tell you how I came to know. Thestory is extremely simple--and sordid."
The fact that the key of the mystery had been in her hands only a fewminutes was a solace to Crewe, as it detracted but little from the storyhe had to tell of patient investigations extending over weeks.
He pieced together the story of the tragedy as he had unravelled it.Hill, he said, had conceived the idea of blackmailing her father after hehad discovered the existence of some letters in a secret drawer of SirHorace's desk. The fact that Sir Horace had kept these letters instead ofdestroying them as he had destroyed other letters of a somewhat similarkind showed that he was very much infatuated with the lady who wrotethem. That lady, as doubtless Miss Fewbanks had guessed, was Mrs.Holymead--a lady with whom Sir Horace had been on very friendly termsbefore she married Mr. Holymead.
"What became of the letters?" asked Miss Fewbanks. "Have you got them?"
"I think they are destroyed," he said. "Mrs. Holymead removed them fromthe secret drawer the day after the discovery of the murder. Sheremoved them when the police had charge of the house, and almost fromunder the eyes of Inspector Chippenfield. It was a daring plan and wellcarried out."
Miss Fewbanks heaved a sigh of relief on learning the fate of theletters. It had been her intention to endeavour to obtain them if theywere in Crewe's possession, and destroy them.
Crewe explained that Hill was afraid to take the letters and then boldlyblackmail Sir Horace. The butler conceived the plan of getting Birchillto break into the house. He did not take Birchill into his confidencewith regard to the blackmailing scheme, but in order to induce Sir Horaceto believe the burglar had stolen the letters he told Birchill to forceopen the desk, as he would probably find money or papers of value there.But in order to prevent Birchill getting the letters if he should happento stumble across the secret drawer, Hill removed them the day before.His plan was to go to Riversbrook in the morning after the burglary, andafter leaving open the secret drawer which had contained the letters, toreport the burglary to the police. When Sir Horace came home unexpectedlyHill had just removed the letters and had them in his possession. Hillwas greatly perturbed at his master's unexpected return, and had to getan opportunity to replace the letters in the secret drawer, but SirHorace told him to go home, as he was not wanted till the morning. Hillwent to that girl's flat in Westminster, and there saw Birchill. He toldBirchill that Sir Horace had returned unexpectedly, but he urged Birchillto carry out the burglary as arranged, and assured him that as Sir Horacewas a heavy sleeper there would be no risk if he waited until Sir Horacewent to bed. Hill's position was that if the burglary was postponed SirHorace might make the discovery that the letters had been stolen from thesecret drawer. In that case Sir Horace would immediately suspect Hill,who, he knew, was an ex-convict. It was just possible that Sir Horace,before going to bed, would discover that the letters had beenstolen--that is, if he went to bed before Birchill got into theplace--but Hill had to take that risk.
It was the fact that the burglary Hill had arranged with Birchill tookplace on the night Sir Horace was killed that had given rise to the falseclues which had misled the police. Crewe, as he himself modestly put it,was so fortunate as to get on the right track from the start. Hissuspicions were directed to Holymead when he saw the latter carrying awaya walking-stick from Riversbrook after his visit of condolence to MissFewbanks. Crewe explained what tactics he had adopted to obtain a briefinspection of the stick in order to ascertain for his own satisfaction ifit had belonged to Holymead. His suspicions against Holymead werestrengthened when he discovered that the latter, when driving to hishotel on the night of the tragedy, had thrown away a glove which was thefellow of the one found by the police in Sir Horace's library.
"The next point to settle was whether Holymead had had anything to dowith your father's sudden return from Scotland," said Crewe, continuinghis story. "If that proved to be the case, and if evidence could beobtained on which to justify the conclusion that these two old friendshad had a deadly quarrel, the circumstantial evidence against Holymead asthe man who killed your father was very strong. I may say that before Iwent to Scotland I came across evidence of the estrangement of Holymeadand his wife. Do you remember when you and Mrs. Holymead were leaving thecourt after the inquest that Mr. Holymead came up and spoke to you? Heshook hands with you and was on the point of shaking hands with his wifeas if she were a lady he had met casually. Then, on the night of themurder, the taxi-cab driver at Hyde Park Corner drove him to his house atPrinces Gate, but was ordered to drive back and take him to Verney'sHotel. All this was interesting to me--doubly interesting in the light ofthe fact that Sir Horace had known Mrs. Holymead before her secondmarriage, and had paid her every att
ention.
"I went to Scotland and made inquiries at Craigleith Hall, where SirHorace had been shooting. My object was to endeavour to obtain a clue tothe reason for his sudden journey to London. The local police had madeinquiries on this point on behalf of Scotland Yard, and had been unableto obtain any clue. No telegram had been received by Sir Horace, and hehad sent none. Of course he had received some letters. He had told noneof the other members of the shooting party the object of his departurefor London, but he had declared his intention of being back with them inless than a week. It had occurred to me when the crime was discoveredthat his missing pocket-book might not have been stolen by his murderer,but might have been lost in Scotland. I made inquiries in that directionand eventually found that the man who had attended to Sir Horace on themoors had the pocket-book. His story was that Sir Horace had lost it theday before his departure for London. He had taken off his coat owing tothe heat on the moor, and the pocket-book had dropped out. Heascertained his loss before he left for London, and told this manSanders where he thought the pocket-book had dropped out. Sanders was tolook for it, and if he found it was to keep it until Sir Horace cameback. He did find it, and after learning of your father's death wastempted to keep it, as it contained four five-pound notes. Sanders is anignorant man, and can scarcely read. He professed to know nothing of thepocket-book when I questioned him, but I became suspicious of him, andlaid a trap which he fell into. Then he handed me the pocket-book, whichhe had hidden on the moor, under a stone. In the pocket-book I found aletter from Holymead asking your father to come to London at once asthere were to be two new appointments to the Court of Appeal, and thatSir Horace had an excellent chance of obtaining one if he came to Londonand used his influence with the Chancellor and the Chief Justice, whowere still in town. The writer indicated that he was doing all that waspossible in Sir Horace's interests, and that he would meet Sir Horace atRiversbrook at 9.30 on Wednesday night and let him know the exactposition. There is nothing suspicious in such a letter, but my inquiriesconcerning new appointments to the Court of Appeal suggest that thestatements in the letter are false.
"Now let us consider the conduct of Holymead and his wife since the nightof the murder. His course of action has not been that of a man anxious toassist the police in the discovery of the murderer of his old friend. Wehave first of all his secrecy regarding his visit to Riversbrook thatnight; the fact of the visit being established by the stick, and theglove he left behind. We have the estrangement of husband and wife. Wehave Mrs. Holymead's visit to Riversbrook on the morning that the firstdetails of the crime appeared in the newspapers. Ostensibly she came tosee you and pay her condolences, but as she knew that you had been awayin the country she ought to have telephoned to learn if you had come upto London. Instead of telephoning, she went to Riversbrook direct, andwhen she found you were not there she was admitted to the presence of myold friend, Inspector Chippenfield. He is an excellent police officer,but I do not think he is a match for a clever woman. And Mrs. Holymead issuch a fine-looking woman that I feel sure Chippenfield was so impressedby her appearance that he forgot he was a police officer and rememberedonly that he was a man. She managed to get him out of the room longenough to enable her to open the secret drawer in Sir Horace's desk andremove the letters. No doubt Sir Horace had shown her where he kept them,as their neat little hiding place was an indication of the value heplaced upon them. She was under the impression that no one knew about theletters, and her object in removing them was to prevent the policestumbling across them and so getting on the track of her husband. But asI have already told you, Hill knew about the letters, and on the night ofthe murder had them in his possession. On the night after the murder,while Inspector Chippenfield was making investigations at Riversbrook,Hill had managed to obtain the opportunity to put the letters back. Henaturally thought that if the police discovered some of Sir Horace'sprivate papers in his possession they would conclude that he had hadsomething to do with the murder.
"The next point of any consequence is Holymead's defence of Birchilland the deliberate way in which he blackened your father's name whilecross-examining Hill. If we regard Holymead's conduct solely from thestandpoint of a barrister doing his best for his client his defence ofBirchill is not so remarkable. But we have to remember that yourfather and Holymead had been life-long friends. His acceptance of thebrief for the defence was in itself remarkable. The fee, as I took thetrouble to find out, was not large; indeed, for a man of Holymead'scommanding eminence at the bar it might be called a small one, and heshould have returned the brief because the fee was inadequate. We have,therefore, two things to consider--his defence of the man charged withthe murder of your father, and his readiness to do the work withoutregard to the monetary side of it. Much was said at the time in some ofthe papers about a barrister being a servant of the court and compelledby the etiquette of the bar to place his services at the disposal ofanyone who needs them and is prepared to pay for them. A great deal ofnonsense has been said and written on that subject. A barrister canreturn a brief because for private reasons he does not wish to haveanything to do with the case. It was Holymead's duty to do his best toget Birchill off whether he believed his client was guilty or innocent.Could Holymead have done his best for Birchill if he had believed thatBirchill was the murderer of his lifelong friend? Would he have trustedhimself to do his best? No, Holymead knew that Birchill was innocent;he knew who the guilty man was, and, knowing that, knowing that hisaction in defending the man charged with the murder of an old friendwould weigh with the jury, he took up the case because he felt therewas a moral obligation on him to get Birchill off. His conduct of thedefence, during which he attacked the moral character of your father,was remarkable, coming from him--the friend of the dead man. As theaction of defending counsel it was perfectly legitimate. It gave riseto some discussion in purely legal circles--whether Holymead did rightor wrong in violating a long friendship in order to get his man off.The academic point is whether he ought to have violated his personalfeelings for an old friend, or violated his duty to his client bydoing something less than his best for him.
"Apart from the circumstantial and inferential evidence against Holymead,there is the fact that his wife knows that he committed the crime. Heracts point to that; her conduct throughout springs from the desire toshield him. Even the removal of the letters from the secret drawer wasprompted more by the desire to save him than to save herself. Theirdiscovery would not have been very serious for her, but it would have putthe police on her husband's track. If I remember rightly, she asked youto keep her in touch with all the developments of the investigations ofthe police and myself. You told me that she was greatly interested in thefact that I did not believe Birchill was guilty, and particularly anxiousto know if I suspected anyone. At Birchill's trial she did me the honourof watching me very closely. I was watching both her and her husband.When she discovered through her womanly intuition that I suspected herhusband; that I was accumulating evidence against him; she sent round herfriend, Mademoiselle Chiron, with some interesting information for me. Anextremely clever young woman that--like all her countrywomen she iswonderfully sharp and quick, with a natural aptitude for intrigue. Ofcourse, the information she gave me was intended to mislead me--intendedto show me that Mr. Holymead had nothing to do with the crime. But someof it was extremely interesting when it dealt with actual facts, and someof the facts were quite new to me. For instance, I had not previouslyknown that a piece of a lady's handkerchief was found clenched in yourfather's right hand after he was dead. The police very kindly kept thatinformation from me. Had they told me about it I might have been inclinedto suspect Mrs. Holymead and to believe that her husband was trying toshield her. His conduct would bear that interpretation if she hadhappened to be guilty. The police unconsciously saved me from taking upthat false scent.
"I have detained you a long time in dealing with these points, MissFewbanks, but I wanted to make everything clear. I have all but reachedthe end. Let us take in chronolog
ical order what happened on the night ofthe tragedy. We have your father's sudden return from Scotland. Hill wasat Riversbrook when he arrived, and having the secret letters in hispossession, was greatly perturbed by the unexpected return of Sir Horace.He went to Doris Fanning's flat in Westminster to see Birchill. In hisabsence Holymead arrived. It is probable that he took the Tube from HydePark Corner to Hampstead and walked to Riversbrook. He rang the bell; wasadmitted by your father, and, leaving his hat and stick in the hall-standas he had often done before, the two went upstairs to the library. Therewas an angry interview, Holymead accusing your father of having wrongedhim and demanding satisfaction. My own opinion is that there was anirregular sort of duel. Each of them fired one shot. It is quiteconceivable that Holymead, in spite of his mission, being that ofrevenge, gave your father a fair chance for his life. A man in Holymead'sposition would probably feel indifferent whether he killed the man whohad ruined his home or was killed by him. But whereas your father's shotmissed by a few inches, Holymead's inflicted a fatal wound. When he sawyour father fall and realised what he had done, the instinct ofself-preservation asserted itself. He grabbed at the gloves he had takenoff, but in his hurry dropped one on the floor. He ran downstairs, tookhis hat from the hall-stand, but left his stick. Then he rushed out ofthe house, leaving the front door open. He made his way back to HampsteadTube station, got out at Hyde Park and took a cab to his hotel.
"Within a few minutes of Holymead's departure from Riversbrook theFrenchwoman arrived. She may have passed Holymead in Tanton Gardens, orHolymead, when he saw her approaching, may have hidden inside thegateway of a neighbouring house. She had come up from the country onlearning that Holymead had come to London. She caught the next train, butunfortunately it was late on arriving at Victoria owing to a slightaccident to the engine. I take it that she was sent by Mrs. Holymead tofollow her husband if possible and see if he had any designs on SirHorace. She took a cab as far as the Spaniards Inn and then got out, andwalked to Riversbrook. When she arrived at the house she found the frontdoor open and the lights burning. There was no answer to her ring and sheentered the house and crept upstairs. Opening the library door, she sawyour father lying on the floor. She endeavoured to raise him to a sittingposture, but it was too late to do anything for him. With a convulsivemovement he grasped at the handkerchief she was holding in one hand, anda corner of it was torn off and remained in his hand. When she saw he hadbreathed his last she laid him down on the floor. Since she had been toolate to prevent the crime, the next best thing in the interests of Mrs.Holymead was to remove traces of Holymead's guilt. She picked up therevolver, which she thought belonged to Holymead, turned off the light inthe room, went downstairs, turned off the light in the hall, and closedthe hall door as she went out.
"She behaved with remarkable courage and coolness, but she overlooked theglove in the room of the tragedy, and Holymead's stick in the hall-stand.Later in the night we have Birchill's entry into the house, his alarm atfinding your father had been killed, and his return to the flat whereHill was waiting for him."
When Crewe had finished he looked at the girl. She had followed hisstatement with breathless interest.
"You have been wonderfully clever," she said. "It is perfectlymarvellous."
Crewe's eyes had wandered to the inlaid chess-table and the Japanesechessmen set in prim rows on either side. Mechanically he began toarrange a problem on the board. His interest in the famous murder mysteryseemed to have evaporated.
"I was very fortunate," he said absently, in reply to Miss Fewbanks."Everything seemed to come right for me."
"You made everything come right," she replied. "I do not know how tothank you for giving so much of your time to unravelling the mystery."
"It was fascinating while it lasted," he replied, his fingers still busywith the chessmen. "Of course, I am pleased with my success, but in a wayI am sorry the work has come to an end. I thought that the knowledge thatHolymead was the guilty man would come as a great shock to you. But I amglad you are able to take it so well."
"A few minutes before you arrived I learned that it was Mr. Holymead. Butwhat has been more of a shock to me, Mr. Crewe, is the discovery that myfather had ruined his home. Oh, Mr. Crewe, it is terrible for me to haveto hold my dead father up to judgment, but it is more terrible still toknow that he was not faithful even to his lifelong friendship with Mr.Holymead."
"Your nerves are unstrung," he said. "You want rest and quiet--you want along sea voyage."
"Yes, I want to forget," she said. "But there are others who want toforget, too. Cannot we bury the whole thing in forgetfulness?"
Crewe's growing interest in the chessboard and his problem suddenlyvanished. His eyes became instantly riveted on her face in a keen,questioning look.
"What is it to me or you that Mr. Holymead should be publicly provedguilty of this terrible thing?" she went on, passionately. "Why drag intothe light my father's conduct in order to make a day's sensation for thenewspapers? For his sake, what better thing could I do than let hismemory rest?"
"Do you mean that Holymead should be allowed to go free?" he asked, inastonishment.
"Yes."
"I'm extremely sorry," he said slowly.
"Won't you let it all drop?" she pleaded.
"I could not take upon myself the responsibility of condoning such acrime--the responsibility of judging between your father and hismurderer," he said solemnly. "But even if I could it is too late to thinkof doing so. There is already a warrant out for Holymead's arrest"
The Hampstead Mystery Page 28
