The Threefold Cord

by Francis Vivian

  “The Inspector is too polite to say so, but he wants you to stay indoors and keep your mouth shut.”

  Manchester nodded. “Put that way, I see what he means. Yes, I see!”

  He ambled towards the door. “Seven o’clock then! So long, all!”

  As the door closed behind him, the Chief Constable flicked a switch and spoke into the blower. “I want this room disinfected while I am at tea.”

  “And that is that,” said Ellis, closing his notebook and returning it to his pocket. “Some gentleman!”

  “Passed unanimously, Sergeant,” said the Chief Constable. “I must tell you both how sorry I am about this case. Really, I am!”

  “Please don’t apologise, sir,” said Knollis. “I understand now why you advised me to rest before going out to Bowland. I’ll need a good meal to bolster up my stomach before I have a second dose of Manchester. Well, Ellis, let’s away to the hotel.”

  “A minute, please, Inspector,” said Colonel Mowbray. “You really think there is something behind these two apparently minor events?”

  “Yes-es, I think so, sir,” Knollis replied cautiously. “I can’t tell you why I think so. It is just an intuition, and intuitions are so unscientific, aren’t they? And yet it may not be an intuition, but something that has reached the back of my mind during the interview with Manchester. Something that you have told me, or something that Manchester has said, that has soaked away into my mind and stirred a chord. I’ll look through Ellis’s note later; they may give me the clue.”

  The Colonel rose and stretched himself. “Well, we’ll see you after tea, and then try to find out whether we are on a wild-goose chase or not. On the face of it, we are, but I can’t ignore your judgment.”

  An hour later the Chief Constable strode into the dining-room at the Crown Hotel. Knollis looked up in surprise. “You are early, sir! You gave me an hour and a half!”

  Colonel Mowbray nodded grimly. “They didn’t give Manchester as long as that!”

  Knollis started from his seat. “You mean that—”

  “I always said he’d get it in the neck, and by God, he has! Somebody has chopped him with an axe or some similar weapon. Nearly fetched his head from his shoulders. They found him dead in the grounds just over twenty minutes ago.”

  “You’ll want the Yard to take the case, sir?”

  “Most assuredly. I’ll fix the authority later. Let’s get moving.”

  Knollis looked at Ellis. “The murder bag, Ellis!”

  CHAPTER III

  THE EVIDENCE OF SMITH

  Bowland, like most English villages, grew up around the church. The magical processes of time mellowed the stone cottages, and brought to full maturity the elms, ashes, and chestnuts that lined the roads and dotted the meadows. In some mysterious way, the red rash that afflicted the countryside in the thirties ignored the environs of the village, leaving it slumbrous and content, a haven of rusticity in an industrial area.

  The Elizabethan manor-house has long been a ruin, and the children play in it and tear the stones down as if eager to destroy all vestiges of a more glorious England. In its place, during the Regency, the Tanroy family built two large square houses, one opposite the church and on the edge of the hurst from which it took its name, and the other on the north-eastern boundary of the village. Tall, three-storey buildings they are, of plum-red brick, with stone sills and doorways. Of the fifteen windows in each wall, seven are imitations painted on wood; relics of the Window Tax, and proof of the Englishman’s love of quiet display and dislike of taxes in any shape or form.

  Baxmanhurst has long been the centre of the life of the village. The Squire Tanroys of many generations have given out advice, largesse, and orders with equal readiness and impartiality. If Widow Martin was ill, a large basket of provisions was sent round from The House. If her son failed to deliver the load of logs at the stipulated time, then he was sent for and dressed down. When he needed advice over his mother’s will, then the Tanroys sent him to Lawyer Willis, paid the score, and bade him give ear to wisdom and experience.

  Times changed. Cash became scarce in the Tanroy family, and the present squire, young Sir Giles, sold out and went to live in the other Tanroy house, Knightswood, with the remains of a cadet branch of the family. Fred Manchester moved in. He took over the house, the grounds, and the hurst. He hoped to take over the manorial rights and privileges as well, but although the villagers had moved with the times to some degree, tradition still held them in thrall, and they continued to regard young Sir Giles—he was twenty-eight—and no one else, as the titular head of the community. To them, Manchester was “him that’s in Baxy,” an interloper with whom they did not even care to drink in the Anchor Inn lest it place them under an obligation. And now he was lying dead in the Green Alley, at the north-eastern corner of his rural palace.

  “A nasty mess!” Knollis commented as he stared over the shoulders of the local doctor and the Trentingham police surgeon.

  “He never saw it coming, and that’s a certainty,” said the police surgeon. “A good square blow! The guillotine couldn’t have done a better job—except that it would have completed the decapitation.”

  “Looks as if it was done with a cleaver or some similar implement,” remarked the local doctor. “Severed his spine as neat as can be.”

  “How long has he been dead?” asked Knollis, while Ellis stood by with his notebook.

  “Well under the hour,” replied the police· surgeon.

  He turned to his colleague. “You agree with that, Denstone? You were the first on the scene.”

  Dr. Denstone nodded. “Yes, I agree. According to Smith, the chauffeur, I arrived quarter of an hour after his discovery of the body. The slight temperature drop was consistent with his statement.”

  “Can we remove him yet?” asked the police surgeon.

  “A few more photographs, and he is all yours,” Knollis replied. “Now, Ellis, let’s review the scene. A square building with a modern annexe on the north side; one storey only. It almost comes up to the boundary wall, which is quite sixteen feet high. Can anyone tell me what the annexe is?”

  Dr. Denstone looked up. “Staff bathroom, Inspector. Manchester had it built shortly after taking over the property. The sanitary arrangements upstairs are poor.”

  “The door facing us? It is the only entrance from outside the house?”

  The doctor nodded.

  “Queer, surely, putting an outside door on a bathroom,” murmured Knollis.

  “Doesn’t go directly into the bathroom,” said the doctor. “There is a narrow L-shaped passage through the doorway. Enter, turn left, and you are in the passage leading to the kitchen, pantry, and staff sitting-room. There is no exit at all on the west side of the house, and Manchester had this one built to stop the staff crossing the front of the house when leaving the premises, the staff entrance and exit being on the south side of the house. Old Charles Tanroy was too much concerned with windows and not enough with doors when he built Baxy.”

  Knollis turned and considered the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the drive. “Is that the only entrance to the grounds?”

  Dr. Denstone nodded. “Just the one way in, and the one way out. Of course, if you go across the front of the garage on the south side, you can take the footpath through the hurst, but the entrance gates constitute the only official entrance and exit.”

  He jerked his head towards the lean-to greenhouse that was built against the high boundary wall. “This is the cactus house, and was Manchester’s pride and joy. Looks almost as if he was leaving it when he was smitten down.”

  Knollis looked wonderingly at the doctor. “You seem to know a great deal about this place, Dr. Denstone!”

  The doctor grinned. “This is a village, Inspector. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, and Manchester’s habits were almost as familiar to me as my own.”

  “I may ask you to help me later.”

  “I’ll do all I can to assist,” the doctor repl
ied.

  “Thank you,” said Knollis. “Now where do I find the chauffeur?”

  “He lives over the garage, but you’ll most likely find him in the kitchen. He’s courting Freeman, the maid.”

  “You are very helpful,” said Knollis.

  “The case doesn’t look quite so funny now, does it?” said Ellis as they walked towards the staff door.

  Knollis grimaced. “There was a certain grim note in the story even when it seemed farcical. Bodies, bodies, bodies! My life is littered with ’em!”

  Rounding the corner of the house they met a pleasant-looking fellow dressed in a blue uniform coat and breeches.

  “You Smith by any chance?” asked Knollis.

  “Yes, sir. I’m the chauffeur.”

  Knollis introduced himself. “I would like to ask you a few questions. I understand that it was you who found Mr. Manchester?”

  “That is so, sir,” Smith replied correctly.

  “Tell me about it, please.”

  “Well, sir, I ran him back from Trentingham about ten-past five. He told me to put my foot down as he had an appointment with Sir Giles Tanroy. I had to get clear of the town traffic before I could really get cracking, but I did the four miles in just under ten minutes. I dropped him at the front door, parked the car, and then went to the kitchen to scuffle my tea down me.”

  “Why scuffle it? Why the haste?” Knollis asked.

  Smith grinned feebly. “I was due to take my girl out at a quarter to six, sir. It was her evening off, and I had finished for the day.”

  “That would be about twenty-five-past five?” suggested Knollis.

  “Er—yes, I suppose it would, sir. Yes, it would, because after bolting my tea I came back to my room to change into my flannels—I live over the garage—and my clock was telling twenty-five to six. It didn’t take me many minutes to change, and then I went back to the kitchen.”

  “You have since changed back into uniform,” Knollis pointed out.

  The chauffeur nodded. “Yes, sir, I could see that I might be wanted.”

  “Carry on, please.”

  “Well, Freeman—that’s my girl—said she would be a few more minutes, so I took a walk round to the cactus house. Mr. Manchester has some queerish-looking plants in there, and they always fascinate me. I went through the passage on the north side, and saw him lying there—well, like you’ve seen, sir.”

  “So it was roughly a quarter to six when you found him? You agree on that?”

  “Within a minute either way, sir.”

  “And next?” prompted Knollis.

  Smith grimaced. “I took one look at him and I knew it was Upton—”

  “Upton?” Knollis murmured, raising an eyebrow.

  “Slang for all up, or finished,” Smith explained with a faint smile. “I ran back to the kitchen, told the women on no account to go into the Green Alley—that’s the stretch of green between the annexe door and the main drive—and got busy on the telephone. I ’phoned the police, and then Dr. Denstone. It was just on six when he arrived. Price, the village constable, was on his heels.”

  “And Mrs. Manchester?” said Knollis.

  “I went in and told her that Mr. Manchester had met with a nasty accident, and that she mustn’t go out to him.”

  “How did she take it, Smith?”

  Smith pushed back his peaked cap and scratched his head. “Remarkably well, sir, but then I’ve noticed before that women of breeding always do take bad news like that. She said ‘Oh!’ and then asked exactly what had happened. I told her I was afraid that someone had killed him. She said ‘Oh’ again, and went on with what she was doing—for all the world as if she hadn’t taken in what I’d been saying to her.”

  “What was she doing?” asked Knollis quietly.

  “Darning Freddy’s socks—pardon, sir. We used to call him Freddy between ourselves. No disrespect, sir.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Knollis; “it is quite a normal practice. Now can you tell me who was the next person to see Mrs. Manchester?”

  “Well,” said Smith, “I stood there, and she looked up after a minute and told me to inform Mr. Brailsford, if I could find him.”

  “And who is Mr. Brailsford?”

  “A friend of Mr. Manchester’s who is staying here.”

  “Miss Vaughan was also in the house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you find Mr. Brailsford?”

  “He was in his room, sir, reading a novel. I told him what had happened, and after a few seconds he said he would come down with me. We got as far as the annexe door, which I’d left open, and he took one look and said we’d better not disturb the body or the police would complain.”

  “Quite right, too,” said Knollis. “Tell me, Smith; have you seen much of violent death?”

  “I was a volunteer in the Spanish Civil War, sir.”

  “Then you have,” said Knollis with an emphatic nod. “From your own experience, would you say that Mr. Manchester had been dead very long?”

  “He couldn’t have been dead many minutes when I found him, sir. His body was still twitching. In fact my own opinion is that I must have been right on the heels of whoever did it.”

  “And you saw no one about?”

  “No one, sir.”

  “I think that will be all for now,” said Knollis. “Perhaps you would be good enough to go round there now; they may require help to lift him into the ambulance.”

  Smith went without any show of reluctance, and Knollis touched Ellis on the arm and led the way into the kitchen. A stout motherly woman faced them as they pushed open the door.

  “May I come in?” called Knollis. “I’m from Scotland Yard—name of Knollis. Shocking affair, isn’t it?”

  “It’s terrible bad, sir,” she sighed. “Can I offer you a cup of tea? I’ve just made a pot, ’cause I felt I needed it.”

  “We’ll accept gratefully,” said Knollis. “Our own tea was disturbed by the news.”

  Her bosom rose and fell as she emitted another deep sigh. “It was a chance in a thousand that Smithy found him. Usually, you can’t get him near the bogey-house.”

  “Bogey-house?” murmured Knollis.

  “That’s what we call the cactus house with all them queer-shaped things in it, sir. Some of them aren’t decent, I’m sure, and Smithy always says that if he had his way he’d burn the lot.”

  Knollis and Ellis exchanged glances.

  “Ah yes, the cactus house,” said Knollis. “Smith was waiting for his girl, was he not?”

  The lady shook her head. “I don’t know what they were trapesing about at. First Smithy comes in for his tea—him getting it late with having to take the Master to town. He gobbles it down him and says he is going across to change. Then Freeman squitters downstairs and chases after him, and then she came back. Smithy followed her in and wanted to know how long she was going to be. She said she’d be a few minutes yet, and Smithy said he’d have a walk to the bogey-house and look round.”

  “Interesting,” said Knollis. “By the way, I don’t think I know your name, do I?”

  “Mrs. Martha Redson, sir. A widow these ten years. I’m the cook here. Yes, Smithy was waiting for Freeman. You know what modern girls are with their paint and powder and all this titivating up and so on. She told him to hang on, and he went through to the alley because he said he was looking for something he’d mislaid.”

  “Oh!” Knollis said quietly.

  “So if he hadn’t gone through the Master might have been there yet and nobody to look after his poor dead body!” she added.

  “Quite so,” agreed Knollis. “Was Mr. Manchester a good employer?”

  She held out two cups of tea. “A very good master, sir. He paid well, and he wasn’t afraid of telling you when he’d enjoyed a meal. He always said he could pay for the best, and he expected the best. Well, he always got my best. I wouldn’t have reigned long if he hadn’t, so that’s a reference on its own.”

  “Tell
me,” said Knollis; “what happened after Smith reported his discovery?”

  “Well, I just sat and flopped. I went weak all over. Freeman, who’d just come downstairs again, ran through to Madame.”

  “How many have you on your staff, Mrs. Redson?”

  “Just the three of us, sir—Freeman, Smithy, and me. Domestic labour’s a bit hard to find. I have a day-woman from the village every day to do the rough cleaning, and she finishes at four and has tea before she leaves.”

  “And how many people are in the household?”

  “Master and Madame, and two visitors just now, them being Mr. Brailsford and Miss Dana.”

  “Mm!” murmured Knollis. “Miss Vaughan is a friend of Mrs. Manchester’s, is she not?”

  “A very old friend, I believe, sir.”

  “And Mr. Brailsford?”

  “A friend of the Master’s, sir. He’s been here before. Miss Dana used to come down about twice a year, apart from short week-ends.”

  “I see,” said Knollis. “Where is Freeman? Is it possible for me to speak with her?”

  “Nothing easier,” replied the cook. “I’ll ring for her. She’ll be in her room.”

  She pulled on an old-fashioned bell-pull, and Knollis could imagine a handbell jangling in some remote corner of this wilderness of a house.

  Two minutes later a tear-stained girl of about twenty years entered the kitchen. “You wanted—”she began, and stopped abruptly as she caught sight of Knollis and Ellis.

  “This gentleman from Scotland Yard wants to speak to you,” said the cook. “Here, there’s a cup of tea for you, love. That’ll put you to rights in no time.”

  The girl, who was probably pretty when not tearful, edged timorously into the room and accepted the cup and saucer.

  “Do take a seat,” Knollis invited. “You have no cause for nervousness. I only want to ask if you can tell me where various people were round about the time that your master met his death. Mr. Brailsford, for instance? Where was he?”

  Freeman lowered herself nervously to the edge of a hardwood chair, and opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged.