The Twenty-One Clues

by J. J. Connington

  “How long did the meeting last?” inquired Sir Clinton casually.

  “About an hour, I think,” said Quixley. “I stayed behind for some further discussion with the two experts. Mr. Barratt also stayed with us; but I think he was content to leave the matter in my hands, since he knew nothing about organ construction. Mr. Callis shook hands with me before he left; and he also nodded in a friendly way to the Rev. Mr. Barratt, who was standing beside me at the moment. I am quite sure he bore me no grudge whatever over the slight disagreement, none at all; for he very kindly offered me a lift in his car if I was going his way. But I was going in the opposite direction, and in any case I wished to discuss some details with Mr. Rastell. That took us about half an hour, and then Mr. Rastell and the man Vowler went away. The Rev. Mr. Barratt kept me a little while longer, to discuss some points about choir practices. It really hardly concerned him, but he liked to have his finger on everything connected with the church. Then he shut up the church and I hurried away, because I had a pupil coming for a lesson at noon, and I had just time to get home to receive her.”

  “How long does it take you to walk to the church on Sundays?” asked Sir Clinton.

  “Just under a quarter of an hour,” the organist informed him. “I can do it in twelve minutes, but I generally allow the full fifteen.”

  “You have a good many private pupils?” queried the Chief Constable.

  “Quite a number,” answered Quixley, evidently not anxious to give too definite an estimate. “If you were thinking of arranging for a pupil, Sir Clinton, I dare say that I could find time. I’m always glad to be of assistance, and no doubt I could manage to squeeze in one more on to my list.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind if anyone applies to me,” Sir Clinton answered. “But I see you looking at your watch, and we mustn’t keep you late for an appointment, if you have one. Thanks for your assistance.”

  He and Rufford took their leave of the organist. When they got back into the car, the inspector evidently expected his Chief to make some comments on the evidence which Quixley had furnished; but Sir Clinton’s only remark was:

  “We’ll try Mrs. Barratt, next.”

  When they reached 38 Granville Road, Mrs. Barratt opened the door to them. She recognised the inspector, showing no surprise at this second visit from him; and when he introduced the Chief Constable, she invited them both into the house as naturally as if they had been two of her acquaintances come to pay a friendly call. Even in an awkward situation she had the talent for seeming perfectly at ease.

  “Can I help any further?” she asked, when she had shown them into Barratt’s study. “I suppose you want to ask more questions, or you would not have come back. I’m quite ready to tell you anything you want to know.”

  Sir Clinton took her at her word, and put his first question without further preliminaries.

  “Did you or Mr. Barratt ever stay at the Alcazar Hotel in London?”

  Mrs. Barratt seemed rather surprised by this opening, but obviously she was in no way perturbed.

  “Yes, we did,” she replied without hesitation. “Last month, my husband had to go to London to attend some general meetings in connection with church affairs. I took the opportunity of going with him. I had not been in town for a good while, and that visit gave me the chance of seeing the shops and other places, while he was busy with his meetings. It was a little change for both of us; and I was glad to get away from housekeeping for even a few days.”

  “Could you, without too much trouble, give me the date of that visit?” Sir Clinton inquired.

  “Oh, easily enough, if you’ll just wait for a moment.”

  Mrs. Barratt went across to a cupboard, searched for a few seconds, and then came back with a packet of neatly-docketed papers, evidently a series of receipted accounts. She leafed through them rapidly, extracted one, and handed it over to the Chief Constable.

  “That’s our bill for the hotel,” she explained. Then, seeing the expression on Sir Clinton’s face, she added, “I was trained as a girl to keep receipts for three years. My uncles taught me that. Something about people being able to sue you for a small account so long as it hasn’t been standing for longer than three years, I think. Anyhow, I’ve always preserved receipts.”

  “Quite a sound practice,” Sir Clinton agreed. “I see this bill is for your stay from the twentieth to the twenty-third. Had you any difficulty in getting them to reserve a room for you? I’ve never stayed at the Alcazar myself, but I believe they are always pretty full.”

  “No, we had no trouble,” Mrs. Barratt explained. “I wrote to them a fortnight ahead to book the room. Somebody told me I ought to do that. They made no difficulties. I think I could show you their reply, if you would like to see it. I was trained to keep all business documents, you see, and I could probably find it for you if you want it.”

  “Don’t trouble,” said Sir Clinton hastily, as she made a movement to rise from her seat. “Now there’s another question I want to ask about the Alcazar. You didn’t book a room there lately, I suppose?”

  “No, of course not,” retorted Mrs. Barratt in a tone of surprise. “I had no idea of going there.”

  She got up, went to a small table at one of the windows, and came back with a pocket diary.

  “Here’s my engagement-book,” she said, handing it to the Chief Constable. “If you glance over it you’ll see that all my time has been filled up with one thing and another. I couldn’t have got away just now without cancelling a whole lot of engagements.”

  To satisfy her, Sir Clinton opened the little volume and glanced over some of the pages. Then he handed the book back to her without comment, and turned to a fresh topic.

  “Do you get many telegrams?”

  “Telegrams?” Mrs. Barratt’s tone showed her surprise at this jump to an unexpected subject. “No, I can’t say we get many. A telegram always suggests bad news, doesn’t it? So few people think of wiring good news to one; a letter’s quick enough for that. But they’re always ready to spend a shilling if it’s bad news they have to send. So I can’t say I’m sorry that we don’t get many wires.”

  “Then it will be easier to recall if you’ve had any lately,” Sir Clinton suggested.

  “Obviously,” agreed Mrs. Barratt, with a faint smile of amusement. “As it happens, my husband did get a wire about a fortnight ago. It was from Mr. Callis, apologising for not being able to attend some meeting or other on church business. I don’t know whether you’d say that was good or bad news. I kept that telegram, if you’d like to see it.”

  “I should,” said Sir Clinton, somewhat to Rufford’s surprise. “If it wouldn’t trouble you too much to find it.”

  “It’s easy enough,” Mrs. Callis explained. “It’s a ‘business’ document, so it should be amongst my collection. You see how strong a habit becomes, when it’s been acquired when one was young. I’ll get it for you in a moment or two.”

  She went again to the cupboard, hunted for a few seconds amongst packets of documents, and came back again with the telegram which she handed to Sir Clinton in passing.

  “Why did Mr. Callis go to the trouble of wiring?” asked the Chief Constable, as he glanced at the contents of the telegram. “You are on the phone, aren’t you? Surely he could have rung up.”

  “I believe he did ring up, more than once,” Mrs. Barratt explained. “But both my husband and I were out for the whole afternoon, that day; and as we keep no maid, there was no one to answer Mr. Callis when he rang up. That was probably why he was driven to sending a wire. You might look up that date in my engagement book. I’d like to be sure that I’m right in this.”

  Sir Clinton turned over the pages of the engagement book as she asked him to do, found the date, and put the book down again.

  “It says: ‘Classic, 2.45 p.m., Mrs. Sidworth,’” he reported.

  “Yes, that’s right. I remembered it, but I want to be quite sure. I went to see a news-reel with Mrs. Sidworth, and had tea with her in
town, afterwards. My husband had a meeting to go to, which kept him rather late in the afternoon. I found the wire lying in the letter-box when I got home and gave it to him when he came in.”

  “You’d opened it, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. It came addressed to ‘Barratt’ and it might have been meant for me, for all I knew. One generally opens any wire when it arrives, doesn’t one? In case it needs an immediate answer.”

  Sir Clinton agreed with a nod and then turned to another fresh topic.

  “You don’t keep a car, I understand.?”

  “Oh, no,” said Mrs. Barratt, rather scornfully. “Cars are luxuries beyond my husband’s means. Very occasionally, if I happen to need one, I borrow it from one of my uncles; I have a key of his garage. But that’s a rare treat.”

  “When did you last borrow one?”

  “About three weeks ago,” Mrs. Barratt answered promptly. “If you’ll look up my engagement book there, you’ll find I went out to see the gardens of Rockingham House. They throw them open to the public once a week in the summer. I’m very fond of flowers; and I went there one afternoon. My uncle, Mr. Arthur Alvington, lent me his car so that I could get there comfortably.”

  Sir Clinton verified this by referring to the engagement book.

  “Yes, that’s quite correct,” he said with a smile. “You have a wonderfully good memory, Mrs. Barratt. Now, another point. I believe Mr. Barratt was interested in hypnotism. I gather from Mr. Rufford that you did not share his enthusiasm for the subject.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mrs. Barratt admitted frankly. “I know very little about hypnotism, but it seems to me either too silly or too dangerous to dabble in, as an amusement. My husband tried to hypnotise me several times, but he never had the slightest success. Whether he succeeded with other people or not, I can’t say. It’s so easy to pretend that you’ve been hypnotised, if you want to flatter the vanity of the hypnotist.”

  She hardly troubled to conceal the sneer which flitted across her features as she made this last suggestion. Obviously she believed that people had played up to Barratt when he attempted to hypnotise them.

  “Evidently you and I are in the same boat,” commented Sir Clinton. “No one ever succeeded in hypnotising me, and consequently I’ve no real proof of these things. I don’t deny that the phenomena occur; but I’ve had no convincing experience of them, personally.”

  He paused for a moment or two, as if reflecting, and then turned to yet another subject:

  “You remember telling Inspector Rufford that your husband took a small black bag with him when he went away? (Just open that parcel, inspector, please.) Is this the bag?”

  Mrs. Barratt examined the bag which Rufford extracted from its wrappings.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” she confirmed. “I recognise it because a bit of the lining is beginning to fray—here.”

  “You’ve no doubt about it?”

  “None whatever.”

  “He always used it to carry money in, didn’t he, if he had to bring church collections home?”

  “Yes, it was just about the right size. We had nothing else suitable.”

  “Thanks,” said Sir Clinton, with a gesture which gave Rufford permission to wrap up the bag again. “Now, another point. At what time had you dinner on the night that he went away?”

  This time, Mrs. Barratt made no attempt to mask the derision in her smile.

  “Dinner?” she echoed. “You must remember that my husband often had to attend evening meetings at the hour when civilised people are sitting down to dinner. He insisted on having his principal meal in the middle of the day. I’m afraid you don’t realise how simply we live. The meal he had before he went out that evening was what we called supper.”

  Sir Clinton made a gesture admitting his blunder.

  “Well, perhaps you can tell me what he had for supper,” he answered accepting the correction without comment. “And at what time he had it.”

  “Tea, bread and butter, boiled eggs, and some cheese,” Mrs. Barratt explained. “Seven o’clock is our usual suppertime. Really, Sir Clinton you do ask curious questions, if I may say so.”

  The Chief Constable conceded this with a smile.

  “They must seem queer to you,” he admitted, “but they’re really mere routine inquiries. Now, here’s something else that I want to ask. Do you know if your husband has been having any disagreements with people recently? Just tell us, even if they were only slight disputes.”

  Mrs. Barratt seemed to give this question a certain amount of consideration before she answered it.

  “I’m afraid that my husband was in some ways not very easy to get on with,” she admitted. “He liked his own way, and generally got it because he didn’t realise how much he was rubbing people up the wrong way. You mustn’t think that he went out of his way to pick quarrels. He really regarded himself as a very peaceable person, and I am sure he meant to be that. But he hadn’t much imagination and couldn’t see how he hurt many people without meaning to do so. I want to make that perfectly clear, so that you’ll understand that he wasn’t deliberately quarrelsome.”

  “I quite understand,” Sir Clinton assurred her. “You needn’t give us a catalogue of minor grievances. What I want are instances of real disagreements, if you can give me any.”

  “Well, quite recently he seems to have had a squabble—I think that’s probably the best word for it—with Mr. Callis, about some repairs to the church organ. My husband gave me his side of it when he came home to his dinner, after the meeting. Mr. Callis gave me his version when he called to see my husband that evening. It seemed to me a very trivial affair altogether. Evidently, after consideration, Mr. Callis felt that himself, and he came round here meaning to smooth things over. So I gathered, at any rate. But I don’t think you need attach much importance to the business, in any case. There was a much more awkward affair over my uncle’s divorce case. You’ve heard of that? My husband had very strong views about it, and he made things difficult for my family. There’s no use my trying to conceal that from you; it’s common knowledge and every loose tongue in that congregation has gossiped about it to the full, My Uncle Edward and my husband had a definite quarrel over it, a really bitter affair. And my other uncle, Mr. Arthur Alvington, got dragged in also to some extent. And of course I myself got mixed up in it, with an uncle on one side and a husband on the other. I’d rather not discuss it, unless it’s really necessary.”

  “I quite understand,” said Sir Clinton in a sympathetic tone. “I don’t think we need go into it. Can you think of any friction with other people?”

  Mrs. Barratt evidendy had difficulty in adding to the examples which she had already adduced; but after or two for consideration, she produced a final one, though she gave it with unconcealed contempt for its pettiness.

  “My husband got into hot water not long ago with a Mr. Kerrison,” she explained, rather disdainfully. “Mr. Kerrison has ideas about the Book of Revelation, and he took exception to a sermon which my husband happened to preach. I really paid no attention to the matter. That kind of thing doesn’t interest me. But I know that my husband was very cross about it all, and no doubt Mr. Kerrison felt the same. Neither of them was very tactful, so . . .”

  She shrugged her shoulders instead of completing the sentence.

  “Thanks,” said Sir Clinton, stifling a smile. “I quite understand. Now just a final question. I suppose you know that the coroner may want you to give some evidence, when he resumes his inquest?”

  This seemed to take Mrs. Barratt rather aback.

  “Will he?” she asked. “I’d no idea that he’d want me as a witness.”

  “Oh, it will be nothing very serious,” Sir Clinton hastened to assure her. “He’ll merely want to ask you the same kind of thing as Inspector Rufford and I have asked you already; and probably he’ll not be half so inquisitive.”

  “That isn’t what I was thinking about,” explained Mrs. Barratt. “This house belongs to the ch
urch, and they’ll want it for my husband’s successor, so I shall have to leave it, perhaps in a week or two. In any case, I couldn’t afford to go on living in it. Probably I shall go to London. It’s not very pleasant, living here now, after what has happened.”

  “So long as you leave an address where we can find you,” said Sir Clinton, “that will be all right. I didn’t know that the house was church property. And now, I think, that’s all I need trouble you with just now. Thanks for giving us this information. I realise how much you must be disturbed by the whole thing.”

  He and Rufford took their leave and went back to the car. As they drove away, Sir Clinton turned to the inspector.

  “She’s rather deceptive,” he commented unexpectedly.

  “Deceptive?” echoed the inspector. “What do you mean, sir? She seemed to tell a plain tale.”

  “I mean ‘apt to deceive’,” Sir Clinton explained, with a smile at the inspector’s surprise. “What age would you reckon her? I think you put it under thirty, didn’t you? Well, I took the trouble to ring up the registrar’s office to find out when she was born. She’s thirty-five. Obviously she’s deceptive, if she looks at least five years younger than she really is.”

  “Oh, indeed,” muttered Rufford, annoyed at having been caught by the Chief Constable’s equivocations.

  Sir Clinton seemed to drop that subject and started another which surprised the inspector just as much.

  “Did you ever read a book called The Dangerous Age, by Karin Michaelis?”

  “I never even heard of it, sir.”

  Inspector Rufford had a certain contempt for works of fiction, and he was also suspicious that the Chief Constable was trying to pull his leg a second time.

  “Before your time, perhaps,” said Sir Clinton. “It had a vogue in its day. Curious that the title should cross my mind just now. As a matter of fact, I’d say that any age is ‘the dangerous age’ for some women. It just depends on the particular woman. . . . But I see I’m boring you. Sorry. We’ll now intrude on the labours of Buggins the Builder, I think. That Happy Family is busy at its temporary offices on the new estate that it’s developing—rather unsuccessfully, I’m afraid.”