The Threefold Cord

by Francis Vivian

  “You should,” Ellis replied happily. “I’m one of the most legible shorthand writers in the Yard.”

  “And so modest!” returned Knollis. “Hop it, Watson; I’m getting hungry.”

  Ellis came back a few minutes later, grinning broadly. “I called in the kitchen. Mrs. Redson is sending in three cups of tea. Miss Vaughan is coming down shortly.”

  “As usual,” Knollis remarked absently, “your organising is of the highest order. I’ll remember this when I get my promotion.”

  “What promotion?” Ellis blinked.

  Knollis toyed with his pencil. “Well, there is a rumour . . .”

  “Chief Inspector Knollis,” murmured Ellis. “Sounds good to me. Does that mean that I’ll lose you?”

  “Not necessarily, my lad. Anyway, it’s no more than a rumour at present.”

  “Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” said Ellis. He broke off to open the door as a light knock sounded on it.

  Dana Vaughan did not enter the room. She made an entrance, and there is all the difference in the world between the two. She made a dignified entrance, but all her art could not conceal the fact that she had been weeping.

  Knollis went forward to meet her and conduct her to a chair. “I regret having to disturb you,” he said, using his favourite opening, “but I will detain you no longer than I can help.”

  “At a time like this, one must expect to be disturbed,” she replied in a level voice.

  Knollis ran his mental tape-measure over her. She was not as tall as Mildred Manchester, but rather more buxom and considerably younger, probably twenty-nine or thirty. Her hair was brown. Her eyes were dark grey, large, and solemn. The white blouse and grey-flannel costume suited her figure admirably, and she carried herself as gracefully as a queen. The only item, to Knollis, that spoiled the effect was a gold-tipped cigarette that hung from the ringless fingers of her left hand.

  Knollis quickly catalogued her in his mind, and gave an embarrassed laugh. “This is a terrible question to ask you, Miss Vaughan, and I do not wish you to read implications into it that are not intended. Whereabouts in this house were you when Fred Manchester was being—er—killed?”

  She regarded him with large and solemn eyes. “Dr. Denstone tells me that Fred died about twenty minutes to six. If that is correct, then I was in my room, Inspector. I think that Freeman will be able to substantiate that statement, inasmuch as she was busying herself between Mildred’s room and mine. Mrs. Manchester, you know!”

  “Thank you,” Knollis said quietly. “You are taking a holiday here, I believe?”

  She nodded. “Convalescing, Inspector. I suppose you know that I am an actress?” She asked the question proudly, as if there could be no doubt.

  “I have had the pleasure of seeing The Hempen Rope three times, Miss Vaughan.”

  She bowed her head. “The compliment is implied, and no less pleasurable to me for that.”

  “I understand that the part you played affected your nerves to the extent that you had to leave the cast?”

  “That is right, Inspector. You have complimented me on my performance, and so you will probably understand me when I explain that to get such a part over to an audience it is necessary to get right into the skin of the character?”

  “Yes,” said Knollis, “I think I can appreciate that point, Miss Vaughan.”

  She gave a wry smile. “I did it too well. My subconscious mind accepted the characterisation, and I began to relive the part in my sleep. A great deal happened in the ensuing months, but the final result was a nervous breakdown. I am now taking an enforced rest for six months.”

  “Disastrous,” Knollis said earnestly.

  “Very,” she replied dryly. “Still, this can have no bearing on Fred’s death, Inspector. Is there any way in which I can help you?”

  “I have met Mr. Brailsford for the first time this evening,” said Knollis. “He seems an unusual fellow. Can you tell me anything about him?”

  Dana Vaughan was about to reply when a knock sounded at the door, and Mrs. Redson entered with a tray.

  “Had to bring it myself,” she explained volubly. “Can’t make out what’s wrong with Freeman. She’s gone to her room, and she’s sobbing her eyes out. Shouldn’t have thought as the Master’s death would have upset her like that, ’cause he wasn’t any too gentlemanly to her once or twice. Still—”

  “Mrs. Redson!” snapped Dana Vaughan. “You forget your place!”

  “Sorry, I’m sure,” the cook replied, unabashed, “but it’s the truth, and that never hurt nobody!”

  “You should remember your place,” said the actress.

  “Pardon me!” Knollis interrupted. “I happen to be chairman of this meeting, and I’m interested in what you were saying, Mrs. Redson. Suppose you finish it?”

  The cook cast a glance at the actress, and then her chin went up. “These folk don’t like the truth, Inspector, ’cause it lets the side down, they say. The Master was a good payer, but he was no gentleman, and that’s the truth of it. Freeman has nothing to be ashamed of, and if it hadn’t been for Smithy being here she’d have left months ago. Always stopping her on the landing and trying to kiss her and that—mainly that nasty, dirty old man he was where a young girl was concerned!”

  “This—this is awful!” exclaimed Dana Vaughan. “I refuse to sit here and listen to such stuff!”

  She whisked out of her chair and left the study.

  Knollis gave a dry smile. “You can talk now, Mrs. Redson. Look, why not sit down and join us in a cup of tea? Miss Vaughan won’t need hers now.”

  The cook bobbed in a half-curtsy. “Thank you, I’m sure, sir. It’s a good cup o’ tea, although I say it myself. Yes, sir, I’m glad to get it off my chest. Freeman used to tell me about him, but she always made me promise as I wouldn’t say anything about it—especially to Smithy, because he’d have created a row as sure as anything.”

  Knollis nodded understandingly. “So he liked kissing maids on landings, eh? You know this household very well, don’t you, Mrs. Redson?”

  “I should do, sir.”

  “Quite so. Would you describe it as a happy household, or otherwise?”

  The cook sipped at her tea and considered the question. “No,” she said finally, “it isn’t. I’ve watched, and I’ve seen, and I’ve kept my mouth shut—as a good servant should until the proper time comes to open it. Her that’s just gone out, for instance! I don’t know what she’s here for, but it isn’t for friendship, and I says that as a woman. There’s things happening in this house, sir. Things that you can feel. Perhaps you don’t know what I mean, sir?”

  “I think I do,” Knollis assured her.

  “The Master now; he was good enough to me, as I told you when you first asked me about him, but he used to watch Madame like a cat watches a mouse. Do you know as she’s only been out of the house twice in six months? Out of the grounds, that is.”

  “I didn’t know,” Knollis murmured. “It is an incredible state of affairs.”

  “Exactly my own words, sir! She went down to Trentham—as we call it—on the bus, and when the Master found out when he came home at night he played her up no end. Said that she wasn’t to go out like that, and that she knew why. Oh, and a lot more like it, sir! It was more than flesh and blood could bear. If Smithy hadn’t held me down in my chair I’d have gone right in and told him he ought to be ashamed of himself.”

  Knollis slowly drank his tea, pondering on what he was hearing.

  “And that Mr. Brailsford, sir,” the cook continued. “He isn’t here for anybody’s benefit but his own. I never did like him, with his twisted ways. Moves about the house as if he was scared of being seen and heard. You walk down a passage and find he’s on your heels all the way. Gives you a proper turn!”

  “I can well imagine that,” said Knollis. “Now tell me about Temple. What kind of a man is he?”

  The cook planted her empty cup in the saucer and put them on the tray. “Ah, now you ar
e on to something, sir! Temple agrees with me as the Master was no gentleman. He had some sort of trouble with him years ago. The Master put him in court for some money as he owed him, and then offered him the job as gardener. Temple was out of work and couldn’t do any less than take it. The Master gave him the cottage across the way—Gates Cottage—but he has to pay five shillings a week rent for it. He always says the same as me, that he wouldn’t stop here if it wasn’t for the money. The Master certainly did pay well! Temple gets a pound a week more than he’d get anywhere else.”

  “Does he still—er—harp on the trouble he had with Mr. Manchester?” Knollis asked.

  “He’s quiet enough about it when he’s sober, but when he’s drunk he carries on no end. I’ve been a bit frightened of him one time or another—although I don’t think he’d do anything desperate.”

  “Has he had any disputes with Mr. Manchester since he came here as gardener?”

  “Well,” the cook replied slowly, “you can hardly call them disputes, because the Master used to pitch into him and he’d stand there and take it. Later, when he’d been round to the Anchor, he’d come into my kitchen and say what he was going to do to him one day, but he’d fall asleep as a general rule, and that would be the end of it. The Master told him off this morning because the hedges hadn’t been trimmed for a week. He said it was bad enough at ordinary times, but worse when he had friends staying in the house. Knowing Temple, I reckon that his wife has put him to bed and he’s sleeping it off again.”

  “He went out to drown his sorrows as usual?” Knollis asked urgently, and yet striving to conceal his impatience.

  Mrs. Redson nodded. “He called in just after lunch and said he was going round for a quick one, and I haven’t seen him since—” She broke off, and alarm showed in her eyes. “You don’t think, sir . . . ?”

  Knollis smiled to reassure her. “It doesn’t sound like Temple to me,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry. Well, I think we must be getting back to town now. Thanks very much for the way in which you have sketched the household for me, Mrs. Redson. Oh yes, and thank you for the cup of tea. It was most enjoyable.”

  “I’m glad you liked it, sir,” she said, rising. “Thank you, sir!”

  She collected the tray, and left them. Ellis grinned at his chief. “Nice people, with nice manners.”

  Knollis looked grim. “Come on, Ellis. Let’s look for Mr. Temple! I would like to interview him.”

  They left the house and walked up the gloomy drive to the main road and thence to the door of the lighted cottage facing them. Knollis’s knock was answered by a roly-poly little woman with bright eyes and glowing cheeks.

  “Is Mr. Temple at home?” Knollis asked.

  “I’m afraid he isn’t, sir. Is there any message I can take for him?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Knollis replied. “I am the detective in charge of the enquiry into Mr. Manchester’s death, and I wanted to ask your husband a few questions about his employer. To-morrow will do just as well as to-night. I don’t suppose you can tell me where I can find him?”

  She hesitated. “Well, he went down to the Anchor Inn just after dinner, sir, and later I saw him going back down to Baxy, but he hasn’t been home since, so I think he must have gone back to the inn—he often does that.” She added apologetically: “He gets these fits now and again, sir.”

  “We all have fits and moods at times,” Knollis replied soothingly. “I’ll see him in the morning. Perhaps you will tell him that I have called?”

  “Oh certainly, sir! What name shall I say?”

  “Inspector Knollis, ma’am.”

  “I’ll remember, sir,” she said, and closed the door.

  “Get the car from Baxmanhurst, Ellis,” Knollis said briskly. “I think we should look into the local. I’ll wait here.”

  He glanced at his watch. “A quarter to ten! Lord, how the night has flown!”

  Ellis returned with the car, and Knollis got in beside him. “Now where is this pub?”

  “I think I can find it,” said Ellis. “I noticed it on the way here. It lies a few yards farther up the main road.” He smacked his lips. “I know a good home for a pint of mixed!”

  Knollis laughed. “I think I can help you. The evening has been so interesting that I’d nearly forgotten about the important business of victualling.”

  Ellis turned to glance at him. “You sound quite happy, sir! Think you are on to anything?”

  “Don’t I usually sound happy?” Knollis enquired in a surprised voice.

  Ellis chuckled. “No!”

  “Oh well, I’m not really miserable even when I’m not demonstrative. I’m interested in my job, Ellis.” Ellis refrained from comment, and stared under the railway bridge that spanned the main road. A hundred yards farther on he drew in beside the inn. It was well lighted, and a subdued murmur came from it, a murmur that grew into a mild hubbub as they opened the door and entered the saloon bar. Knollis ordered two tankards.

  “Make mine a pint, please,” said Ellis. “It’s nearly closing time.”

  The landlord eyed them with rural curiosity. “You’ll be the gentlemen from Scotland Yard?” he said hopefully.

  Knollis lowered an eyelid. “Keep it quiet, if you don’t mind.”

  The landlord laughed. “You’ve a hope, sir! The whole village knows you and your personal history by now. They have been talking you over all night in here.”

  “Too bad!” Knollis replied. “By the way, I think you can help me. Which is Temple, the Baxmanhurst gardener?”

  “He isn’t in, sir. He hasn’t been in to-night.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Knollis. “He was here earlier in the day?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, he was. Came in about one-ish, and went with the rest of them when I closed at three.”

  “Er—was he sober?”

  The landlord registered deep reflection. “We-ell, to be quite fair, sir, it doesn’t take much to get Matt wuzzy, and he was a bit under the weather when he left here, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Is he troublesome when he gets wuzzy?”

  “No-o, not really. He talks a lot after the first two pints, and then he goes very silent, and just keeps on drinking. Occasionally he falls asleep over the table.”

  “And then what do you do with him? Get someone to take him home?” Knollis asked.

  “I have done that,” the landlord answered. “On odd occasions I’ve just let him stay where he is. He sleeps through until we open again, and then staggers home.”

  “Was he making any threats against his employer this afternoon?”

  The landlord’s mouth opened, and he planted his hands flat on the counter and stared. “So that’s the way of it, sir!”

  “No, it isn’t!” Knollis replied sharply. “Please don’t jump to conclusions. I want Temple because I think he may be in a position to give me information about a caller at Baxmanhurst. I think you’d better refill these,” he said, pushing the pint jar and the tankard forward. “Perhaps you will join us?”

  “Well, a glass, thank you, sir.”

  As the landlord gathered the receptacles and put them under the pumps he said: “Sorry if I said anything out of place, sir. It—well, it just looked as if that was the drift of your talk. Matt Temple’s all right, sir. He wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  “But he was making threats?” Knollis persisted, returning to the attack.

  “He was, sir. He always does—for the first two pints, and then he gets maudlin.”

  “He has a good character in the district?”

  The landlord nodded. “Very good, sir, and he’s one of the best gardeners there is.”

  He glanced at the wall-clock. “Well, sir, I’ll have to call time. We’ve run over a bit to-night with talking. Time, gentlemen, please!”

  Knollis put his mouth to Ellis’s ear. “So Temple is missing, eh? Drink up, Watson. There is work to be done.”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE COGITATIONS OF KNOLLIS


  The Chief Constable was champing his bit when Knollis and Ellis reported to the Guildhall at nine the next morning. “Ah-h!” he exclaimed with deep satisfaction. “You’re here!”

  “Good morning, sir,” Knollis greeted him. “Any news come in during the night?”

  “Have you any news yourself?” the Chief Constable retorted.

  “Very little at the moment, sir. I left orders last night for your men to hunt for the murder weapon, and for Matthew Temple. You will have read my report, sir?”

  The Chief Constable rubbed his hands together, and smiled broadly. “Yes, I read your reports, and also the typed statements of the Baxmanhurst people. So Manchester thought we were incompetent, did he?” he chuckled.

  Knollis raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  “We are not so dim as a candle, nor yet so bright as a searchlight,” the Chief Constable paraphrased, “but we suffice. You wanted Temple, and the axe—we’ve found them! The axe was in Temple’s dustbin, wrapped in yesterday’s Trentingham Advertiser and Courier, and Temple was in the woodshed at Baxmanhurst, as soused as the proverbial herring.”

  “Good work!” Knollis commented. “At what time was he found, sir? He left the inn at three o’clock, and the landlord said that he was no worse than usual—whatever that may mean.”

  The Chief Constable glanced at the reports lying on his desk, and then threw them across to Knollis. “Five minutes to midnight, and he was still flat out.”

  “Very strange, surely!” Knollis muttered under his breath. His eyes became mere slits as he stared blankly at the opposite wall. “Did a doctor see him?”

  “Oh yes! The sergeant sent for Clitheroe! We wouldn’t omit such a simple item of procedure.”

  “I’d like to talk to Clitheroe, sir, and as soon as possible.”

  The Chief Constable nodded. “You shall, Inspector. Meanwhile, here is another interesting piece of information. Clitheroe and Denstone made a more thorough examination of Manchester when they got him to the mortuary, and they report that they found a nasty-looking bruise over his left ear.”