“Oh, but it isn’t!” said Miss Bingham. “Oh, no—not by any means. I don’t know whether I went to sleep again or not—you see what an accurate witness I am—I may have done, or I may not. I am inclined to think I did, because I have a vague recollection of a dream in which I was skiing with the dear Vicar. Not that either of us has ever done so, but one sees pictures, and of course dreams are so very absurd, are they not? Well, well, I mustn’t digress, but, you see, I must really have dropped off, perhaps just for a minute, perhaps for longer, and then I woke up again. I don’t know if you are at all psychic, Inspector—”
The Inspector said “Certainly not!” in a barking tone. Detective Abbott covered his mouth with his hand.
“All the Binghams are psychic,” said Miss Bingham with pride. “My grandfather—but no, I merely want you to understand how it was that I awaked in a state of great uneasiness. The atmosphere was most menacing. I felt an immediate necessity to investigate. I put on the light and looked at the clock. It was five minutes to three. I slipped on my dressing-gown and opened my front door. I was immediately struck by the fact that no light came up from below. As I told you before, I had put out the light on my own landing at a little before one, but it is usual for these lights to remain on all night. I could see by looking down the lift shaft that none of the landings were lit. There was a faint light in the hall, but all the landings were dark. This meant that the lights had been turned out by someone for reasons best known to himself. I went down to the turn of the stair, and as I stood there listening I distinctly heard someone move. I heard a door shut, and I heard someone move. And then, just as my eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, the door of poor Mary Craddock’s flat was opened and the light went on in her hall, and there was that girl Mavis Grey coming in from the landing with her dress clutched up in her hand where it was torn, and there was Peter Renshaw in the hall. And they shut the door and I didn’t see anything more.”
The Inspector jerked forward.
“Miss Grey was going into the flat? You’re sure of that?”
“I am quite sure, Inspector.”
“And Mr. Renshaw—was he going in too?”
Miss Bingham hesitated.
“I don’t know. He might have been. He was in the hall.”
Detective Abbott spoke for the first time. He said in an undertone,
“If they had both been out of the flat, he wouldn’t pass her and go in first—I beg your pardon, sir.”
The Inspector nodded.
“No—that’s right. Miss Bingham, you say Miss Grey’s dress was torn. Was it torn when you saw her at one o’clock?”
Miss Bingham primmed her mouth.
“It was disgracefully torn—I noticed it at once—she was quite dishevelled.”
“The first time?”
“Oh, yes—at one o’clock. I noticed it at once.”
The Inspector got thankfully to his feet.
“Thank you, Miss Bingham, that will do.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Inspector looked at his watch. If Miss Mavis Grey was at home she ought to be here within the next quarter of an hour.
“Good job I’d told Lintott to fetch her along as soon as Mr. Renshaw let on that it was her with Mr. Craddock at the Ducks and Drakes last night. Looks as if she might have quite a piece to tell us if that Miss Bingham wasn’t making her story up.”
“I don’t think she was making it up,” said Detective Abbott.
“There’s no saying what a spiteful woman will make up. And when you know as much about ’em as I do, my lad, you’ll know that the only thing you can be sure of about any of ’em, good or bad, is that you never can be sure about anything. They try and fox you, and then if you catch ’em out, they up and laugh and say they weren’t trying, and the next thing you know they’re at it again. Here, ring up Mr. Grey’s house, and if Lintott’s still there, you tell him to ask Miss Grey for the silver dress she was wearing last night, and tell him to bring it along. I want to have a look at it, see? There’s the address and the telephone number on the paper we got from Rush. And when you’ve done that I think I’ll just have a word with Mr. Peter Renshaw.”
Detective Abbott busied himself with the telephone. He caught Lintott, delivered his message, and went to collect Peter. He found him in Miss Lucy Craddock’s flat, and had a glimpse through the open sitting-room door of Miss Lee Fenton, all eyes and very pale. Peter, who had opened the front door, said,
“Hullo—again?” And then, “I say, you are Fug Abbott, aren’t you?”
“Off duty,” said Detective Abbott suavely. “At the moment—”
“You’re a myrmidon of the law. Well, well—any use asking you to drop in when you are off duty—or is the position too delicate?”
“I don’t know. Of course, anything you said—”
“Would be used against me. Well, put it to the Inspector if you like, and come if you can. We needn’t talk murders.” He smiled an odd, twisted smile. “You know where to find me.”
They came back into Ross Craddock’s flat. The Inspector was looking out of the window. Peter took up a position in front of the fireplace with his hands in his pockets. He had had enough of the chair—the prisoner was accommodated with a chair—no, thank you!
Inspector Lamb came back from the window.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Renshaw?”
“No, thank you, Inspector.”
Detective Abbott sat to his notes again. The Inspector turned a frowning face and said,
“Mr. Renshaw, I have just taken a statement from Miss Bingham. She informs me that she saw Miss Mavis Grey enter your flat just before one A.M. last night, and again at five minutes to three. What have you to say about that?”
Well, what had he to say? If the old cat had actually seen Mavis, there wasn’t very much to be said. They were bound to interrogate Mavis, and the only thing for Mavis to do was to tell the exact truth. But would she? He felt a considerable amount of doubt. And if she didn’t stick to the truth, then anything he said was going to make things worse. In fact, least said, soonest mended.
He looked frankly at the Inspector.
“I don’t think I’ve got anything to say.”
“Mr. Renshaw, this is a very grave matter. You made a statement just now—”
“I made a statement which concerned myself and my own movements during the night. That statement was perfectly true.”
“All of it, Mr. Renshaw—including your reason for sleeping on the sofa in the sitting-room? Do you still say that it was because the breeze was that side, or will you modify that and admit that you had given up your bedroom to Miss Grey?”
Peter smiled affably.
“It sounds better that way—on Miss Bingham’s statement. That is to say, I’m not really admitting anything, you know, and if you want to heckle me about the breeze, I daresay I could prove that it was on that side of the house. As to Miss Grey’s movements, I suggest that you ask her, not me. She’s in a much better position to know what she was doing last night than I am.” He smiled again in the pleasantest manner in the world. “You can’t insist on my making a statement—can you?”
The Inspector did not smile. He said stiffly,
“All these statements are entirely voluntary. But at the same time I would like to point out—”
“That any failure to make one, or to do all in my power to assist the police would be highly suspicious. But you see, Inspector, I am doing my very best to assist you. I am suggesting that you apply to Miss Grey. She will probably tell you a great deal more than you want to know. Girls are like that.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Miss Bingham, for instance. But of course that’s all in the day’s work.”
The Inspector took no notice. He continued to frown, and said in an official voice,
“I would like your permission to search the flat you are occupying.”
“My permission, Inspector? Why this formality?”
“Because I haven’t got a search-warra
nt, and your permission will save time. Have you any objection to giving it?”
“Oh, none—none at all.”
“Then when Lintott arrives you will perhaps accompany him. You had better be present.”
“Just to see that he doesn’t manufacture fingerprints and fabricate bloodstains? I see.”
“Meanwhile—”
Peter laughed.
“Meanwhile, you’d like to keep me under your eye. All right, I don’t mind. I’ve spent the last fortnight destroying things in that flat, and I’m fed up with it.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Inspector watched Miss Mavis Grey come into the room. Pretty girl—fine eyes—a lot of hair—plenty of paint on. Difficult to stop girls doing it nowadays, but if he found one of his with her mouth made up to look like orange peel he was going to have something to say about it. He kept his direct look on her, and saw her eyes widen and startle, and saw the colour in her cheeks go suddenly hard, as colour does when the skin beneath it blanches. She looked every way at once like a frightened horse, but the first place she looked at was the floor—just that space from which the rug had been rolled up and taken away.
Having seen these things, Inspector Lamb said good afternoon and invited her to sit down. He thought she was glad to reach the proffered chair. When she was seated he went out into the hall where Constable Lintott was waiting, shutting the door behind him. Mr. Peter Renshaw, who had been asked to wait in Mr. Craddock’s bedroom, was summoned, and he and Lintott went over together to No. 9.
As soon as the door had closed behind the Inspector, Mavis Grey leaned back and relaxed. Perhaps he wasn’t going to come back. Perhaps she would only have to talk to the young policeman who was writing at Ross’s table. Ross’s table.… A giddy feeling came over her. She mustn’t think about Ross.… It passed. She looked out under her eyelashes at the young policeman. It would be so much easier to talk to him than to that fat, red-faced man who had stared so hard when she came into the room. She hoped earnestly that he wasn’t coming back. But as the thought went through her mind the door opened. He came in and sat down in the chair that was opposite hers. Much too near. She did hate people sitting as near to her as that—unless she liked them very much. She slid her chair back a few inches, and the Inspector said,
“When did you hear of Mr. Ross Craddock’s death?”
All the things that they might possibly ask her had been going round, and round, and round in her head, but this was one which she had never thought of at all. She didn’t know what to say. Her eyes filled with tears.
“The policeman—”
“You knew nothing about it until the constable informed you?”
She shook her head.
“And my uncle and aunt are out for the day. It’s dreadful!”
“Murder commonly is,” said the Inspector. “Now, Miss Grey, I have to ask you some questions. You are not on oath now, but you will be called as a witness at the inquest, and your evidence there will be given on your oath, so will you be as accurate as possible in your answers? Detective Abbott will take them down, and they will be read over to you afterwards. There’s no need for you to be alarmed, but I hope you will tell us just what happened last night.”
Mavis looked down at the grey and white muslin of her dress and the long white gloves she was holding. It was too hot to wear gloves. But her hands were not hot, they were deathly cold and damp.
She said, “Oh, yes,” in a fluttering voice.
“You were at the Ducks and Drakes with Mr. Craddock?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would it be somewhere before one o’clock?”
“I think so.… Oh, yes, it was, because my uncle and aunt really don’t like my being out late—not just in the ordinary way, you know. I haven’t got a key. They’re very strict and old-fashioned, so it means that someone has to sit up.”
This was one of the bits she had thought about. She felt pleased with herself, because really she was doing it very well. She went on, hurrying to get it over.
“So when I knew how late I was going to be, I rang up and said I would spend the night with Isabel Young—that is, Mrs. James Young, Upton Villa, Carrisbroke Road, Hampstead, Garden City.”
“Hm!” said the Inspector to himself, “Very pat with that address, aren’t you?” Then aloud, “And then you came back here with Mr. Craddock?”
Mavis’s hands tightened on the gloves.
“Oh, no—of course I didn’t. I went to Isabel’s.”
He leaned forward.
“Miss Grey, I’m going to ask you to be careful. This is a murder case. Your friend Mrs. Young might say that you had stayed the night with her to get you out of a scrape with your uncle and aunt, but do you think she’ll stand up and swear to it on her oath in a court of justice?”
Mavis looked at him in a perfectly terrified manner.
“I did go there.”
“Not at one o’clock, Miss Grey. You came back here with Mr. Craddock. You were seen here.”
Mavis said, “Oh!” and lost her head. “Oh, I wasn’t—who saw me? There wasn’t anyone—Peter wouldn’t—”
“It was not Mr. Peter Renshaw. He has referred me to you. Now, Miss Grey—you were seen, and the best thing you can do is to tell the truth. Lies won’t get you anywhere, and trying to cover things up won’t get you anywhere. You can’t cover things up in a murder case.”
She leaned back, panting a little.
“It’s all very stupid. Of course I’ll tell you the truth. I really did mean to go to Isabel’s. But it’s such a long way, and when he—when Ross suggested that I should come back here and ask my cousin Lucy Craddock to put me up I thought I would.”
“Were you not aware that Miss Craddock was leaving for the Continent yesterday?”
“Ross said she had put off going—he really did, or I wouldn’t have come back here with him—I really wouldn’t. And when I found she had gone I just came in here to have a drink. And Ross was rude to me, so I went over to Peter, and he took me in.”
The Inspector considered this a very economical description. It took him a good deal of questioning to fill in the details—the crash that had waked Miss Bingham, and probably Mr. Peter Renshaw as well; the decanter that had smashed over Mr. Craddock’s head—and he seemed to have asked for it proper; and the girl’s headlong flight, clutching her torn dress—well, that fitted in all right with what Miss Bingham had seen. She hadn’t made any bones about it either, not once he got her going. He was left with no doubt in his mind that one cousin had been rude to her, and the other cousin had taken her in, and that except for a cut over the eye which he had richly deserved Mr. Ross Craddock was alive and hearty at 1 A.M. The question was, what had happened after that? Had Mr. Renshaw gone across to his cousin’s flat and come to such terms with him over the girl that it had ended in a revolver shot? It might have happened that way. Words running high. One at least of the two men flushed with liquor. Mr. Craddock getting out his revolver perhaps, and having it snatched from him. Some sort of a struggle, and—the shot. And the girl running in on them. Yes, it might have been that way very easily. Against it only Abbott’s remark—and by rights Abbott shouldn’t be making remarks—that if he and Miss Grey had both been out of the flat, Mr. Renshaw wouldn’t pass her and go in first.
He studied Miss Mavis Grey with his chin in his hand. He thought she looked like a girl who has said her piece and got it over. She had let go of those gloves she had been wringing into knots and was sitting back. Colour a bit more natural too. He said,
“Did you notice what time the shot was fired?” and saw her flinch.
She caught her breath and said all in a hurry,
“Oh, no—how could I? I never heard any shot.”
“Not with your head right up against this wall? Mr. Renshaw gave you his bedroom, didn’t he? I’ve had a look at the flat, and the head of the bed is not three yards from w
here you’re sitting now, and not four from the place where Mr. Craddock was found. Come, come, Miss Grey, I think you must have heard that shot.”
“Oh, but I didn’t. I was so tired. I’d been dancing—it was so hot—I was dreadfully tired—I just slept. When I’m like that nothing wakes me—and there was a lot of traffic.”
“Did you hear the traffic in your sleep? Be careful, Miss Grey. You say you were asleep. Did you undress?”
“I took my dress off.”
“Then you must have put it on again, because you were wearing it when Miss Bingham saw you go back into Mr. Renshaw’s flat at three o’clock in the morning.”
“She couldn’t—she didn’t—I was asleep.”
“She is prepared to swear that she did. Don’t you think you had better tell me the truth, Miss Grey?”
A bright angry glow suffused the artificial colour in her cheeks and overflowed it. She clenched her hands over the gloves and said stubbornly,
“She saw me at one o’clock. She couldn’t have seen me at three—I was in bed and asleep.”
“Are you going to swear to that at the inquest?”
She gave a sort of gasp and said “Yes.”
He went on looking at her hard for a moment, and then said in an easy conversational voice,
“What about that dress you were wearing last night? I’d like to have a look at it. Did Lintott bring it along?”
“I haven’t got it. It was torn. I’ve thrown it away.”
“Where?” said Inspector Lamb.
Mavis stared at him.
“Did you put it in your waste-paper basket, or what? If you did, I’m afraid Lintott will have to collect it, even if it’s gone into the dustbin.”
Mavis rushed into speech.
“I burnt it.”
“Where did you burn it?”
“In my bedroom fire. It wasn’t any use—it was all torn—I couldn’t have worn it. I—”
“Do you generally have a fire in your bedroom when the temperature is over eighty? Come, come, Miss Grey, what have you done with that dress?”
The Blind Side: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 10
