“Sample Five: a well-meaning, rather flustered, middle-aged, stout lady, mother of five. ‘It’s all stuff and nonsense, this talk about him and her, and nothing will persuade me different. Mr. Barratt was a powerful preacher and a good abstainer and a man one could look up to. I’ve no patience with people who’re ready to believe the worst of everybody. Mrs. Callis was far too above-board to do anything of the sort, even if she had got tired of her husband a bit. I haven’t read the stuff printed in the newspapers about it. I don’t need newspapers to tell me what I ought to think about people I know.’
“Then there’s Sample Six,” Peter continued. “She’s a Miss Jessica Legard, a nice little old lady who does a bit of dressmaking and finds the church a great help in adversity. She liked Barratt. Mrs. Callis didn’t get such a good mark. She smoked, for one thing. Miss Legard doesn’t hold with these modern girls’ ways. No other complaints to speak of. But she was more worried about something else. It seems she was a child in 1887, the year of the first Jubilee. You remember they put out a special coinage then?”
“Before you were born, Diamond, if you will allow me to get a word in edgeways,” interrupted Wendover. “They issued a five-pound piece and a two-pound piece in gold and a double-florin in silver. People didn’t like the look of the Jubilee coinage, and about five years later Boehm’s designs were replaced by a new one by Brock, and the issue of the double-florin was discontinued. Double-florins are pretty rare nowadays. Numismatists have snapped them up.”
“I’ve heard all that already—or most of it—from Miss Legard,” Peter explained. “Point is, her daddy in 1887 presented her with one of these double-florins. She’s preserved it religiously and it’s come to be a sort of mascot to her. She carries it about with her everywhere. Now when they came to gather up the loaves and fishes at that last meeting where Barratt presided, the old lady discovered with horror that she’d left her purse at home, or forgot to put any cash in her bag before coming out. So when the collecting-plate came round, the only coin she had on her was this double-florin. You know the sort of old lady; the kind that would die rather than let the plate go by without putting in something. So she hawked out her double-florin and dumped it in, bravely. What she meant to do was to see Barratt after the meeting and ask for her mascot back in exchange for four bob in current coin, which seemed to her fair enough in the circs. Unfortunately, she missed Barratt. So the double-florin went off in that black bag with the rest of the dibs. And now she’s very distressed about it. So I thought I’d mention the point. If the dibs turn up, you’ll see she gets it back again, won’t you? It has a hole in it to hang it up by, so you’ll recognise it.”
“I’ll see what can be done,” said Sir Clinton, who seldom promised anything. “What was the figure of the collection, Peter? Any idea?”
“Well, there were about fifty people present,” Peter explained. “I happened to ask that. I’ve attended services at the Awakened Israelite church—on business, I may say. They’re not the sort that roll in rhino. Coppers mainly. The rest was tanners, with an occasional bob or half-dollar from the few plutocrats in the congregation. I doubt if the total would rise above thirty bob in the case of this meeting.”
“Any more? Or have you exhausted your material?” asked Sir Clinton.
“Not quite. Just one more sample of opinion. Miss C. R. Maldon. Like a fat pussy-cat with a harsh voice and—I imagine—a nasty mind. Age uncertain. Perhaps forty-five, but looks more. Obviously jealous of Mrs. Callis and the part she took in church work. As a result, the good lady had a grudge against Barratt also. Or so it sounded. I condense her statement. There was a lot of it, mostly irrelevant. Boiled down, it came to this. She’d had her eye on the pair of them for quite a while. And what she’d spied out had been far from pleasing her. She was quite sure they’d been ‘carrying on’ on the sly. Of course, if you start out with a spite against people, you’re bound to notice a lot of trifles which other folk would overlook; and by putting the worst interpretation on them, you can build up quite a solid-looking case. That seems to have been her method. Looks, and behaviour, and little private jokes, and the cold-shouldering of a bore—for the good lady is a bore, and no error—all point the same way when it happens to be the way you want to go. She seems to have spied on them pretty efficiently. Once, just to catch them, she’d gone back into the hall after a meeting had dispersed and there she found Barrett with Mrs. Callis, and he’d got his arm round her neck.”
“That didn’t look well,” commented Wendover. “I don’t wonder your friend was surprised.”
“There’s nothing in it, really,” Peter explained. “Barratt put his arm round my neck when I interviewed him about the prospects of the Awakened Israelites. It was just one of his less agreeable mannerisms and meant nothing whatever. I saw him once, after a service, festooning himself round the neck of a pretty young girl in the face of all the congregation. No one seemed to mind. It was just his little way. So I discount that.”
“And a good deal of the rest too, I suppose,” Wendover interjected.
“A good deal of the rest, too, as you say. In fact, almost all of it. And I told her so. But she would have none of my apologetic. She knew what she knew, and that was a damned sight more than I did, for all my cleverness. And then, just as I was leaving her, she brought out something really fresh.”
“Suppose you do the same,” suggested Sir Clinton, as Peter made an orator’s pause for effect. “This is pretty dull, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Peter fished a wallet from his pocket, extracted a paper, and spread it out impressively before continuing.
“Miss Maldon’s what you might term a confirmed snooper,” he went on. “No pains spared, as you can infer from my previous anecdote. When she heard about these torn-up love-letters, the news acted on her like trinitrin on a crocked race-horse. In the distant past, it seems, she’d read a novel which described how the hero and heroine, separated by stern parents, managed to communicate with each other by notes left inside hymn-books in their pews. . . .”
“That’s common ground,” said Wendover. “Mark Twain used it in Huck Finn.”
“Perhaps she got it there,” Peter conceded. “Anyhow, it set her on the snoop. And more to the purpose than you’d think. She got into the church. Borrowed the key on the excuse that she’d left her bag behind, after that meeting. She clawed through the books in the Callis pew, and in one of them she found a scrap of paper. I got it from her to give to you. She seemed to shrink from handing it over to you herself.”
“It’s curious to see what people will boggle at, especially after doing Paul Pry work like that,” said Wendover contemptuously. “Did she ask you to keep her name out of it?”
“She did. But I refused—after I’d got the paper out of her. I gave her a sound lecture on the danger of suppressing evidence. Put her in a blue funk, if no worse. So that’s all right. Now here’s the document, Driffield. The writing is Barratt’s, identified by Miss Maldon, who states that she knew his fist well. Besides, there’s an embossed heading on the paper, with Barratt’s address. Contents as follows: ‘Wait for me after the service to-night, darling. Fondest love. J.’ Which sounds fairly affectionate to an amateur like me.”
“No date on it?” inquired Sir Clinton, holding out his hand for the document.
“No. No need for any, seeing it was left in her hymn-book,” Peter pointed out as he handed over the billet-doux.
Wendover saw that it was a half-sheet of white note-paper with an embossed heading.
“I’ll keep this,” said the Chief Constable. “I suppose you’ve taken a copy of it?”
“Yes, I’ve got one,” said Peter. “You can keep the thing. It’s a sprat thrown out to catch a herring, if you take my meaning. Where’s my herring?”
“Meaning that you expect me to dole out some exclusive information in return for that document? I’ll have to think over that proposal, I’m afraid.”
“Meaning that you’ve got none to
dole?” asked the journalist sceptically. “Ha! That strikes homes, does it? Chief Constable Confused. Driffield Detects Damn All.”
“You ought to enter for the jumping match at our police sports, Dwarf. You leap to a conclusion quicker than most people, I’ll say that for you. Unfortunately, it’s sometimes the wrong conclusion. As in this case. But while I’m turning the matter over in my mind, suppose we play a small parlour game invented by myself on the spur of the moment. I call it: ‘Choose your clue.’ We take turn about, and each of us mentions what he thinks is an interesting clue in this business. When you come to the end of your stock of clues, you drop out. The last man left in is the winner. You may have the honour of starting, Dwarf. What’s your choice?”
Peter reflected for a few seconds before taking his plunge.
“This is where I become subtle,” he announced at last. “My first clue is the hue-and-cry that the late Barratt raised against Edward Alvington at the time of that divorce case. And I’ll just ask you, Driffield, if you know anything about Ted Alvington’s movements on the night that Barratt was put on the spot.”
“That’s ingenious, Dwarf,” Sir Clinton admitted frankly. “I’ve no secret information about that particular Alvington, though, so your subtlety’s been wasted if you were hoping to elicit any by this move. Your turn to play, Squire.”
Wendover had his answer ready.
“I’m not subtle like Diamond,” he admitted with a smile. “Plain facts are all I can think about. So my clue is the four empty cartridge-cases found near the two bodies. That’s twice as many as were needed. I think that’s interesting. Now it’s your turn, Clinton.”
“Oh, I play the packing and labelling of the suit-cases,” the Chief Constable volunteered.
“Because that shows premeditations?” queried Wendover.
“Obviously it shows premeditation,” said the Chief Constable. “Your shot now, Dwarf.”
“I play that missing twenty-five pounds,” said Peter, thoughtfully. “Barratt had that in his pocket, evidently for initial expenses. But it wasn’t in his pocket when his body was found. Was it stolen from him, dead or alive? Or had he found an unexpected use for it? Squaring somebody, for instance?”
“That’s a bright idea, Diamond,” said Wendover with hearty approval. “It looks as if you might have hit something, there. That extra trail through the bracken certainly suggests that some third person was on the spot; and Barratt may have parted with the twenty-five pounds to buy him off. A blackmailing Peeping Tom might fit the case. But,” he added with less assurance in his tone, “if Barratt paid over the twenty-five pounds then, it would leave him with next to nothing to foot his hotel bill in London.”
“No good, that objection of yours,” said Peter definitely, “First and foremost, they’d probably dropped the idea of going to London at all, when they retired to the bracken-slope. So the twenty-five pounds wouldn’t be needed. Secondly, the Alcazar isn’t as expensive as the Carlton or wherever it is that you put up when you go up to town. The extra notes Barratt had in his pocket would easily cover the cost of bed-and-breakfast for two at the Alcazar. And Mrs. Callis had her cheque-book in her suit-case. She could cash a cheque next day at a London branch of her bank. They might have to make inquiries, but she’d get the dibs, eventually. It’s your turn, now.”
“Very well,” said Wendover, “since I’ve mentioned the trails in the bracken, I’ll take them as my next contribution. There should be either one broad trail or two single trails, if it was a suicide pact business. Actually, there’s a broad double trail and a single track. There’s no getting away from the fact that there was someone else on the spot beside the two victims. It may have been a suicide pact all the same; but it may just as easily have been murder, so far as I can see.”
“So the murderer first blackmailed them and then shot them. Or else they were shot first and the twenty-five pounds lifted from Barratt’s body,” commented Peter. “There’s no evidence either way, so far. Let it go at that. What’s your next, Driffield?”
“Oh, those love-letters, I think,” said the Chief Constable.
“Hot stuff, are they?” asked Peter. “Rufford didn’t show them to me.”
“I don’t know what precise meaning you attach to ‘hot stuff,’ Dwarf,” said Sir Clinton. “If you mean ‘obscene,’ they certainly aren’t. Wendover’s seen them. I brought home Rufford’s complete dossier and let him glance through it, seeing that he’s a magistrate. He could perhaps find the right word for you.”
“A gentle hint that they’re too sacred—or is it secret?—for the eyes of a mere newspaper man,” said Peter, in a tone of annoyance. “Well, what would you call them, Wendover?”
“Passionate, I think,” said Wendover in a judicial tone. “That would fit them. Very passionate, in fact. But rather touching; though perhaps you wouldn’t think so, Diamond. At least, one could see that the writers were in earnest and were deeply in love. The language wasn’t anything special. They were very ordinary love-letters, I’d say.”
“As between bachelors, I’ll take your word for that,” declared Peter. “Personally I’m no judge. Nobody writes love-letters to me. I read ’em in the newspapers—in the reports of breach-of-promise cases. Usually they’re funny.”
“These weren’t,” said Wendover, rather nettled. “It’s your turn again, Diamond.”
“He’s anxious to shut me up,” explained Peter, unnecessarily. “So be it. And I play the anonymous letter which Callis handed over to Rufford, the one that warned Callis that he was blind if he didn’t see what was happening under his nose. That shows there’s someone in the offing who knew there was some funny business afoot. If you could lay hands on him, Driffield, you might extract something of interest.”
‘No doubt,” admitted the Chief Constable, drily. “First catch your hare. . . . But I don’t know the hare’s name and address, unfortunately. So we can leave that aside for the moment. Your turn, Squire.”
“Second in hand plays low,” said Wendover. “I’ll content myself with the text and unfinished sermon that Rufford found on Barratt’s desk. That suggests to me that Barratt knew quite well that someone had been gossiping about his doings and that he meant to get a bit of his own back from the pulpit. He’d planned his elopement long before that.”
“Which suggests my next contribution,” interrupted the Chief Constable. “I’ll pitch on the booking of the room at the Alcazar, since it follows naturally upon your clue, Squire.”
“It’s certainly hard to bring those two into line,” said Wendover musingly. “If Barratt had everything ready for a bolt, I do not see what need there was for him preparing a sermon which he’d never preach.”
“Force of habit, perhaps,” Peter suggested flippantly.
“Now it’s my turn. I play the Clue of the Jubilee Double-Florin. No one has more right to it than I have, seeing that I spotted it myself.”
“Seeing that it hasn’t led to anything yet, and may never do so,” said Wendover acidly, “I don’t think you need look so pleased with it. My turn now? Then I’ll mention the accident to Callis’s car. That will have to be fitted in, somehow.”
“He’s jealous,” declared Peter, with a pretence of pique. “Not having discovered any clue by his own exertions, he runs down more able practitioners. Let’s get on with the game. What’s yours, Driffield?”
Sir Clinton lit a fresh cigarette before answering.
“The rifling marks on the two fatal bullets and the fingerprints of Barratt on the pistol,” he said, as he put down the spent match. “These really ought to count as two points, but I’ll make one of them just to give you a chance of winning, Peter. What’s your next?”
“Another of my own discoveries,” declared the journalist. “The rendezvous letter found in the hymn-book. That’s a good ’un.”
He turned, to Wendover expectantly, but at this stage Wendover was evidently running dry of material. He thought for a few seconds before producing his choice.
“And now you, Driffield?” queried Peter, hopefully.
“Oh, I think the disinheriting of Edward Alvington will serve my turn,” said Sir Clinton.
“Ah!” exclaimed Peter. “The revenge motive, eh? Might be something in that,” he added, more thoughtfully. “I’d forgotten about that side of Ted’s troubles. He certainly owed Barratt something over that business. . . . Hum! Suggestive. In fact, it suggests something entirely different to me, which I now proceed to play. I’ve made a few inquiries on the strict Q.T., Driffield. And the result of them was that I found the firm of E. and A. Arlington’s not regarded as a rock of finance, down town. Some of their recent building specs. haven’t shown the hard-headed acumen so necessary in speculative builders. They’re not broke, or even on the edge of it. But some people are beginning to say: ‘Oh, well, old Mrs. A. is bound to die soon, and then Arthur’ll come into something.’ And that suggests to me that if anything happened to make the old lady change her will again, Arthur’s credit might suffer when people discovered that he wasn’t going to come into money. And if his credit suffered at this juncture, that firm very might well go B U S T—bust. So, quite without any ill-feeling or after-thoughts, I play the Alvingtons’ financial position as my next clue. Now what about you, Wendover?”
Wendover sat silent, evidently thinking hard. Peter shifted up his coat-sleeve and inspected his watch.
The Twenty-One Clues Page 16
