“Can you tell me where Miss Vaughan had been previous to entering the bedroom, Miss Freeman?”
“No, sir, I’m afraid I can’t.”
“She was perhaps in the sitting-room with Mrs. Manchester?” Knollis suggested.
“No, sir, I know she wasn’t there, because I had looked in on the way upstairs. Madame was just opening her work-basket, and she was alone.”
“That is not the work-basket that is usually in her boudoir?”
“No, sir, that is a workbox.”
Knollis grunted. “Now, that copy of the Trentingham Courier—it was usually left in the sitting-room?”
“Every day, sir,” Freeman replied. “Mr. Manchester used to read it over breakfast, and then I would take it to the sitting-room.”
“No other daily paper entered the house?”
“None, sir.”
“So that, guests or no guests, Manchester was in the habit of reading over breakfast?” asked Knollis.
“He used to read it aloud,” replied Freeman.
“Charming manners!” commented Knollis.
“He had the manners of a pig—or he hadn’t,” interposed Mrs. Redson, “and I’m not sure which it was. That was him all over—no thought for anybody else but himself.”
“Now I want you to think carefully,” Knollis said to Freeman. “When do you last remember seeing that particular copy of the paper?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “it was there at teatime, because I went in to tidy up while they were finishing tea.”
“That would be at what time?”
“About ten to a quarter-past four. Tea is served at four o’clock in the dining-room.”
“Formal tea, or afternoon tea?” asked Knollis.
“Afternoon tea—served on the wagon.”
“The Manchesters seem to have some queer ideas,” Knollis remarked dryly.
“You’re telling us!” commented Mrs. Redson.
“And you can swear that the paper was in the sitting-room then?” Knollis asked keenly.
“Yes, sir, I can swear to that, because I had a look at it. There was a fashion article I was interested in.”
“We’re getting somewhere at last,” said Knollis, “thanks to a little co-operation. Now more careful thinking, please. Can you say for sure whether either Miss Vaughan or Mr. Brailsford went in the sitting-room after tea?”
“They both went in with Madame after tea was finished,” replied Freeman.
“The time?”
“Half-past four.”
“Now,” said Knollis, “Mr. Manchester was at home for tea, was he not? At what time did he leave for Trentingham?”
“I can help you there,” said Smith, taking a step forward. “It was twenty to five by the hall clock. We got to town about ten to five, and made one call before driving round to the Guildhall.”
Knollis turned back to Freeman. “Did Mr. Manchester go into the sitting-room?”
“No, sir, he went to the bathroom, and then straight out to the car. Didn’t he, Smithy?”
Smithy smiled. “I can’t say. I wasn’t in the house.”
Knollis grinned. “That is good enough. Cheer up, I’ve nearly finished with you all. I’m now interested in the hour after half-past four. Can either of you two ladies tell me the movements of the three remaining members of the household during that hour?”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Smith. “Could you tell me why you are so interested in that paper?”
“I can, and I will,” Knollis replied pleasantly. “The axe was wrapped in it, and thrown into Temple’s dustbin. I’m trying to find who took it from the house.”
“Then it is possible for the paper to have been taken after he was killed, sir—that is, a long time after?”
“Think it out for yourself, Smith,” said Knollis. “Your young lady will corroborate the fact that Mrs. Manchester never left the sitting-room after being informed of her husband’s death, so that whoever went in to take the paper would have been under the necessity of conjuring it away without her noticing it—a very risky proceeding if the killer intended the axe to be found in Temple’s dustbin. Further to the point, the body and the place where it lay could not have been left unattended for more than a few minutes after you discovered it. No, Smith, the paper was filched before the killing, and kept in readiness on the killer’s person.”
“Yes, I see, sir.” Smith nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about your question, sir,” said Freeman. “Neither Miss Vaughan nor Mr. Brailsford stayed in the sitting-room for more than a few minutes. Both went to their own rooms.”
“Thanks,” said Knollis. “We’ve nearly finished. Did you, Miss Freeman, see Miss Vaughan between her leaving the sitting-room and you being present in the dressing-room when Mr. Brailsford called on her?”
“No, sir, I can’t say that I did.”
“And Mr. Brailsford?”
“I saw him twice. Once on the landing as I was going up the back stairs—”
“What was he doing?” Knollis interrupted sharply.
“We-ell,” Freeman replied, “he looked as if he was about to go down the back stairs. He was leaning over the banisters when I got to the top. He grinned at me in that awful way he has, and said he hoped it was a burglar when he heard me start up the stairs, because it needed something to liven the place up.”
“And the second time?” queried Knollis.
“He was in the hall when Smithy brought Mr. Manchester back from town. He said to me: ‘Looks as if the Big Noise is home again. I’ll skip out of the way.’”
“Hm!” said Knollis. “I thought he was supposed to be Manchester’s personal friend?”
“He was, sir,” said Freeman, “but earlier in the day I overheard him telling Mr. Manchester to dry up about the cat and the budgie and not be a beastly bore.”
“I understand,” said Knollis, “that on the morning of his death, which was yesterday of course, Mr. Manchester left the breakfast-table saying that he was expecting a telephone call. Do you know whether he received it?”
“That was Sunday, sir, and not yesterday,” Freeman corrected him.
Knollis consulted his notebook. “Quite right; so it was. Still, did he get the call?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir, and I was backwards and forwards through the hall, serving the meal.”
“Was Mr. Manchester—well, hovering round the telephone? You know, as if he was expecting it?”
“I saw him twice, sir.”
“How many times did you go through the hall in one direction—say from the kitchen to the dining-room? Can you remember, or guess?”
“Oh, at least six or seven times, sir.”
“And you saw him twice?”
Freeman’s forehead developed a row of creases. “I don’t understand, sir?”
“I’ll try to help you.” Knollis smiled. “You saw him twice, and yet he was not at breakfast on the four, five, six, or seven occasions when you entered the room?”
“No-o, he wasn’t, sir. I hadn’t thought of that before.”
“And this was the morning on which the budgerigar was found dead in Mrs. Manchester’s boudoir?”
Freeman stared. “You mean, sir, that it was him!”
“Now, now!” Knollis corrected her. “I never said anything of the kind. I believe you also told me that Miss Vaughan was late down to breakfast?”
Freeman considered the point. “No,” she said at last, “I didn’t tell you that, sir, although she was late.”
Knollis again pretended to consult his notes. “Oh no, it was Mrs. Manchester who told me that. She also said that her husband was fetched to the ’phone.”
Freeman shook her head vigorously. “He was not fetched, sir. He looked at his watch as I was serving the porridge, and rose from the table saying that he was expecting a call.”
“Rather unusual for a Sunday morning, surely?” suggested Knollis.
“I suppose so,” Freeman said in a puzzled tone. “I’ve
never known him get calls so early on a Sunday.”
Smith appeared to be as puzzled as Freeman, judging by his expression. “Inspector?” he said.
“Well?” murmured Knollis.
“That paper? Who could have taken it from the sitting-room?”
“There’s only one person for it,” Knollis replied vaguely, “and I know who it was!”
Smith opened his mouth in awe. “Oh!”
CHAPTER IX
THE INNOCENCE OF BRAILSFORD
Desmond Brailsford was not pleased to see either Knollis or the inevitable Ellis as they entered his room. The corners of his mouth took a downward curve, and there was a lowering of his truant eye. “Questions again?” he asked.
“The sooner they are asked, the sooner they are done with,” Knollis replied cheerfully. “This is merely the routine check-up on statements See, where did you say you were at the time of Manchester’s death? In your bedroom?”
“I told you that,” Brailsford replied, “and I told you about hearing the voices under my window.”
“You had your window open, of course?” Knollis suggested.
“Why, yes, the top sashes of both windows were well down. Otherwise I don’t suppose I should have heard the voices at all.”
“Quite,” said Knollis. He glanced at his notebook. “You heard a voice like a woman’s under the window. That was before Manchester was killed, of course?”
“Oh yes,” Brailsford replied, and glanced suspiciously at the two detectives.
“Where were you when Manchester was killed?” Brailsford stared. “I—well, I must have been here, mustn’t I?”
“That,” Knollis said easily, “is what I want to find out. You heard the voices beneath the window, and yet, strangely enough, never heard a sound while Manchester was· being murdered. I find that rather queer, Mr. Brailsford. In fact I refuse to believe it. At what time did you hear the voices?”
“A few minutes after half-past five.”
“Good enough,” said Knollis. “The next time you went downstairs you were informed of Manchester’s death?”
“Er—yes.” Brailsford hesitated for a fraction of a second before making the reply.
“Who informed you that Manchester was dead?”
“Smith, the chauffeur.”
“And you were in this room for the whole of the time previous to Smith informing you?”
“Yes. Haven’t I made that clear?” Brailsford demanded heatedly.
“No,” Knollis said flatly.
“I don’t understand,” complained Brailsford.
“I don’t understand your story myself,” said Knollis. “You heard voices at half-past five, and apparently closed your ears for the next twenty minutes, neither hearing Manchester being struck down, nor Smith finding the body. That strikes me as queer.”
Brailsford’s twisted mouth developed a leer. “That’s the way it is, and I can’t do anything about it, can I?”
“Oh yes, you can do much more,” said Knollis. “You can tell me how you came to discover the body.”
“Dis—cover the body? But Smith discovered the body, Inspector!”
Knollis flicked over the pages of his notebook.
“Hm! According to information that has been placed at my disposal, you went to Miss Vaughan’s room about twenty to six, and the following conversation ensued . . .”
He read the facts as related by Freeman, but without stating their source. He then put the book in his pocket and said: “Well?”
“I—I—” said Brailsford, and then made for the door exclaiming: “Dana’s done this—the double-crossing bitch!”
Ellis nimbly stepped between Brailsford and the door, smiling at him. “I wouldn’t leave just yet, sir. I don’t think the Inspector has finished speaking to you.”
“You can’t get away with this!” stormed Brailsford.
“Whether I can, or whether I can’t, please attend to the Inspector,” smiled Ellis.
Brailsford turned on Knollis. “You are trying to work something across me. You are trying to suggest that I did him in. Well, I didn’t, but I’m glad that somebody did. I know nothing about it!”
Knollis smiled on him, and turned to the window on the north wall. He first examined the sill, and then tried to push up the lower sash, which refused to be moved. He next pulled down the top sash, but it came down a mere fifteen inches all told.
“Rather high windows,” he commented. “Even standing on the sill I would not be able to see over the top sash and down into the Green Alley. I also notice that your bedroom chairs are considerably lower than the sills. Deduction? That you didn’t discover Manchester’s body by looking from the window. Therefore you either went downstairs to the Green Alley, or were told by a second person.”
He looked straight into Brailsford’s eyes. “By withholding information you become an accessory after the fact, and as such liable to prosecution. You knew that Manchester’s body was lying under your window, didn’t you?”
Brailsford took a loose match from his pocket, broke it in halves, and chewed them viciously. “You’re making it devilish awkward for me!”
“I haven’t really started yet,” Knollis said happily. “You’ll be surprised what I can do when I get warm. Now suppose you give me the full story—unless you would care to accompany me to Trentingham.”
Brailsford glowered. “What do you want to know?”
“Where were you between half-past twelve and half-past one yesterday noon?”
Brailsford jumped as Knollis shot the unexpected question at him.
“I—why, I was in the house. It was lunch-time. Freeman, Redson, or Smith can prove that.”
“And between one-thirty and three o’clock?”
“I went for a walk in the village—to the newsagent’s as a matter of fact. I wanted some magazines.”
“Surely the house supplies them for guests?” Knollis enquired.
Brailsford rolled his eyes in a manner that indicated that he was sick of silly questions. “I wanted my own type of magazines, not caring to read furniture-trade journals and gardening papers.”
“You do drink?” said Knollis.
“Yes, moderately. Why?”
“I merely wondered,” Knollis replied. “So you went down the back stairs after hearing Manchester being killed, and rushed into the Green Alley to find his body?”
“I never said that!” Brailsford protested.
Knollis smiled soothingly. “No, you didn’t say so, but that is what happened, isn’t it?”
“You are wrong, Inspector. I wouldn’t have gone down the back stairs in any case. Definitely against all the etiquette of the house.”
“I’m not supposed to know that,” said Knollis. “I’m only a detective.”
“Of course,” Brailsford said leniently.
Ellis grinned, and winked at Knollis.
“So you came down the main stairs, along the passage, through the annexe, and out into the Green Alley. Is that more like it?”
“Well—yes,” Brailsford admitted reluctantly. “And there he lay, smothered in blood. I was going to him when I heard retreating footsteps behind me, and turned to see someone vanishing behind the house. I rushed to the corner, but he had gone.”
“Interesting!” said Knollis. “You heard footsteps on the grass!”
“Well, I did!” Brailsford said defiantly.
“And you say the person was a man?”
“I think so, anyway.”
“That’s very queer,” said Knollis. “You heard a woman speaking to Manchester, heard sounds which make you curious, and rush down to see a man rushing from the scene. Anyway, we can ignore that temporarily. Which way did he go?”
Brailsford shook his head. “I don’t know, Inspector. I can only suggest that he went in the house by the back door.”
“There’s no back door,” said Knollis. “Try again.” Brailsford assumed an expression of innocence. “There isn’t? Well, that is surprising, but of cours
e I wouldn’t know, because if there is one it would be in the staff quarters, and one doesn’t go in them, near them, or round them. Definitely not done.”
“Really!” said Knollis. “As he didn’t go into the house through a doorway that wasn’t there, can you make any other suggestions which may help me?”
“Well,” Brailsford said cautiously, “he could have gone into the woodshed at the back of the house—it is against the boundary wall on the west side.”
Knollis nodded solemnly. “Perhaps you have something there. Very useful suggestion, Mr. Brailsford, if I might say so.”
“Oh well, if I can be of any use . . .”
“You didn’t pursue this fellow?” Knollis murmured. “Rather queer, surely?”
“Well,” said Brailsford with an uneasy laugh, “I suppose it does look that way now, but what with the shock of finding Fred, and the hope that he was still alive, and that I could do something for him—well, you must see for yourself . . .”
“Of course! Of course!” Knollis appeared to agree. “There was Fred. He was dead? I mean he didn’t give you any last-minute message, or anything like that?”
Brailsford regarded Knollis suspiciously, but he was perfectly serious to all appearances. Brailsford shook his head, very sadly. “He was dead as the proverbial door-nail, Inspector. He never said a word.”
“Too bad!” Knollis murmured.
Brailsford leered, or perhaps he only smiled. “I didn’t know what to do, and so I dashed upstairs to consult Miss Vaughan.”
“Using the main stairs, I hope,” said Knollis.
“Oh yes, naturally!”
“You know,” remarked Knollis, “I can always admire a man who can respect the conventions even during fearful stress. It marks him out as a gentleman.”
“Well,” Brailsford sniffed, “if it’s bred in one! I mean, you just don’t notice because you wouldn’t think of acting in any other way.”
“Quite so,” said Knollis. “I envy your advantages. Now you consulted Miss Vaughan. May I ask why you went to her?”
Brailsford fumbled for a reply. “We-ell, you see, Inspector, she’s been mixed up with murder—on the stage—for three and a half years, and I thought she might know something about what one does on such occasions.”
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