by Lynn Brock
‘About half-past four, I suppose … or five.’
A couple of men drifted into the lounge, exchanged salutations, drifted away to the billiard-room.
‘However … what I really wanted to explain,’ said Challoner, ‘was that business in Hatfield Place the other afternoon. I know it’s safe with you, old chap. But I can’t help feeling that you must have wondered about things a good deal—’
It became clear that the best little woman in the world had been a little unreasonable. She had wanted Mr Challoner to snap his fingers at the gossips of Linwood and take her away to Italy and marry her without delay. Mr Challoner had found many inconveniences in this programme, and had been obliged to point them out. The best little woman in the world had misunderstood him—absolutely. She had gone rushing off to France with her mother still misunderstanding him—absolutely. As if any chap with a spark of honour or decency would think for a moment of throwing over the best little woman in the world … But she had persisted, it seemed, in believing that that was what Mr Challoner desired and intended to do. And she had come back from London to say so, once more and for the last time. And well—that was how things had stood when Gore had let himself into the hall of 27 Hatfield Place and startled both of them into fits.
‘My God, Wick,’ Mr Challoner said impressively, ‘if She had shot Herself, I swear I’d have put a bullet into myself too.’
‘That,’ said Gore, ‘would have been quite a jolly little picnic—for all of us. However, as it is, I assume everything is now quite satisfactorily explained and understood and so forth.’
‘Oh, Lord, yes,’ said Mr Challoner. ‘I’ve explained it to death. However … I’ve been wanting to have a chat with you about things. Just to prevent your getting hold of the wrong end of the stick, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Gore, ‘one is apt to get hold of the wrong end of the stick, isn’t one?’
‘You see now how it is, old chap, don’t you?’
‘Quite … quite.’
Mr Challoner rose, surveyed his reflection, not unkindly, in a mirror, and sauntered to a window to regard the weather.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look as rotten as it did, does it?’
‘I think it looks rottener,’ said Gore with conviction.
When Challoner had left him alone he read, successively, the interesting portions of The Times, Punch, The Sketch, The Tatler, The Bystander, and the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic. At the end of that time it was sleeting outside. So he had a little drink and read the interesting portions of The Field, Country Life, The Strand, Nash’s, The Morning Post, and Punch of the week before. He then fell into a stupor and dozed off before the fire. When he awoke snow was falling, and General Barracombe was telling a bald-headed man a story at the other side of the fire. Lest he should hear it, he dozed off again.
These particulars of Colonel Gore’s behaviour are of significance. For they were the outward manifestations of a conviction that in point of brain-power he compared quite unfavourably with a bisected earthworm.
CHAPTER XXIV
IT was nearly ten o’clock that night when Melhuish arrived, detained at a nursing-home by a transfusion case to which, he said, he must return in an hour or so.
‘However,’ he said, as he settled himself in a chair, ‘I have hesitated so long about coming to have a talk with you that, despite the lateness of the hour, I felt I had better come tonight … as the adjourned inquest is tomorrow. You’ll have to attend, I presume?’
‘Yes. Rather a bore. I don’t suppose they’ll ask me any more questions.’
‘I hope not. However, to speak quite frankly, there is the possibility that they may, and that you may find it extremely awkward to have to answer them.’
Gore paused in the filling of his pipe.
‘Awkward?’
Melhuish made a little impatient gesture. ‘No, no … Don’t fence with me. Let us face this thing together.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Gore. ‘But … what thing? I have nothing to conceal, if they do ask me any further questions tomorrow. I assure you of that.’
‘You do not expect me to take that statement seriously?’
‘I do. I’ve no idea why you shouldn’t.’
Melhuish stared in perplexity.
‘You’ve no idea who murdered this man Frensham?’ he asked at length, bluntly.
‘None whatever. Have you?’
‘I know who murdered him,’ Melhuish replied coldly, ‘and so I believe do you, though you refuse to admit it.’
‘Well, let us face it then, doctor,’ Gore shrugged. ‘Who? Arndale?’
‘Yes, Arndale.’
Gore shook his head with a smile.
‘No. You’re wrong, doctor. I thought so, too. But Arndale was with his wife at the picture-house in Prince Albert Square from a little after six until eight o’clock that evening.’
‘Who says so?’
‘Mrs Arndale.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘No. Not that I know of. But I believe it’s the fact.’
‘You saw the knife with which the thing was done?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘Yes. It was one of our knives all right … or one exactly the same.’
‘I told you that Arndale called at my house on Saturday afternoon last?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was left alone in the hall for several minutes while Clegg came out to my consulting-room to tell me that he wanted to see me. Well?’
‘You said that thirty people at least were in and out of your hall that afternoon. Why on earth should Arndale want to kill that unfortunate little blighter? What motive could he have had?’
‘That question,’ said Melhuish, ‘you can probably answer better than I can. But my guess—for I can only guess—is that he killed him for the same reason that he killed—or helped to kill—Barrington.’
At that Gore sat up in his chair.
‘This is extraordinarily interesting, doctor. Now how did you get hold of that idea? I’d like to know … because it’s just the idea I got hold of myself … for a bit.’
‘I saw him doing it,’ Melhuish said coolly; ‘though I didn’t realise it at the time. Arndale, to all intents and purposes, killed Barrington—I believe I know why. And I believe he killed Frensham for the same reason—or partially for the same reason. And when I say I believe that … I mean that I’m as convinced of it as that I’m sitting here in this chair looking at you.’
Gore relit his pipe. ‘Suppose you tell me just all you know, and how you know it, doctor—and then I’ll tell you why you’re all wrong.’
‘I should be glad to hope that you could. I fear not.’
There was a silence before the level, quiet voice proceeded.
‘I saw my wife on Sunday. I think I told you I intended running up to Surrey—?’
‘Yes.’
‘She told me that she had made you … as a very old and trusted friend … her confidant with reference to some letters … some letters which she had written to Barrington—before her marriage, and which she wished to recover from him. I … you will understand that, naturally, it has hurt me a good deal that she selected even the oldest of friends for a confidant … rather than myself. However … I am … capable of understanding her reasons. And you will permit me to say that I have met few men with whom I should consider a confidence safer …’
‘Charming of you to say so, doctor,’ Gore plunged hurriedly, ‘I’m delighted Mrs Melhuish has unburdened her mind to you. That chap Barrington seems to have been making her life a perfect nightmare … though, of course, she has altogether exaggerated … er … I mean, she allowed herself to be quite too seriously disturbed by … er—’
‘She has told me all about him … Some of it, I had not known until she told me. Some of it I had. I knew that Barrington came to my house that night. I saw him in my house that night myself. I heard him talking to my wife … in the hall. I knew … w
hy he had come.’
‘Oh!’ murmured Gore feebly, ‘you did? Then why the— I beg your pardon—’
‘Why didn’t I thrash him and kick him out of the house? Well, put yourself in my place. Would you have faced your wife’s discovering that you had been watching her—spying on her?’
‘Lord, yes,’ said Gore heartily.
Melhuish shrugged. ‘My faith in myself is not as robust as yours,’ he said coldly. ‘I wish it had been. If it had—these two wretched men would have been alive now.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing. I remained on the stairs where I had been when Barrington and my wife came out of the dining-room into the hall … until Barrington went away. My wife told you of the conversation which she had with him that night?’
‘The general trend of it, yes.’
‘She told you that—that Barrington took one of those knives with him when he left her?’
‘Yes. She told me all about that.’
‘There is one thing she did not tell you—one thing which I haven’t told her. As I came down the stairs—Barrington and my wife were still in the dining-room, then—as I came down the stairs the hall door was pushed open—Barrington had left it ajar when he came in—and someone came into the hall and stood there listening for a minute or two. Can you guess who that someone was?’
‘Frensham?’
‘No. Not Frensham. Arndale. He stood there listening to Barrington’s voice—the dining-room door was shut, but I could hear Barrington from the stairs. Then, I suppose, he heard Barrington coming towards the door … At any rate he hurried out—just before Barrington came out into the hall with my wife.’
‘But—’
‘Wait. Let me finish my story—and then we’ll argue. When Barrington went away, leaving my wife in the hall, I went upstairs to my bedroom. My bedroom looks out on to the Green, I ought to say. The windows were open, and after a moment or so, hearing voices below and knowing that Barrington had just gone out, I went to it and looked out. You know the little bit of cross-road that connects Selkirk Place and Aberdeen Place?’
‘Yes.’
‘About half-way across it I saw Barrington and Arndale struggling on the ground. Then Arndale got up and threw something away from him over the railings of the Green. Just then my night telephone rang in my bedroom, and I left the window to go to it. It was a call from a Mrs MacArthur to go and see her boy. She’s a talkative nervous woman. She kept me at the telephone for some minutes. When I got back to the window, both Arndale and Barrington had disappeared from where I had first seen them. But when I leant out a little I saw Arndale lifting Barrington into a car—Barrington’s car, I believe, but I’m not sure of that—which was standing a little way down Aberdeen Place, towards Albemarle Hill. I concluded then that Barrington had been hurt and that Arndale was taking him home—until I saw Arndale put him down on the floor of the car and cover him up with a rug. I guessed then that something serious had happened, and went downstairs and out. But by the time I reached the hall door the car had gone.’
‘Which way?’ Gore asked.
‘I can’t tell you. It may have gone up Selkirk Place, or up the lane, or down into Albemarle Hill. I don’t think it can have gone up Aberdeen Place towards the Mall. I think I should have been in time to see it, if it had. But it was out of sight, and hearing, when I reached the hall door. So that Arndale must have driven away at a furious speed.’
‘Suppose the car had simply gone across into Selkirk Place,’ Gore suggested, ‘and stopped a little way along there, you couldn’t have seen it from your hall door—and you would have heard nothing, naturally—if the engine had stopped?’
‘No. It didn’t do that. I went across myself into Selkirk Place immediately. There was no car there—not a soul in sight—so far as I could see. Of course it was foggy that night. But I fancy it went down into Albemarle Hill. The intervening houses would have cut off the sound of the engine once it turned the corner there—’
‘You went across into Selkirk Place immediately, you say?’
‘Yes. It had occurred to me by that time that what I had seen Arndale throw away was the knife which Barrington had taken. I thought it quite possible that Barrington had tried to use it—or threatened to use it—and that Arndale had taken it from him and wounded him with it. Remembering what you had told me only an hour or so before, it occurred to me that, if that had been the case, Barrington was probably either a dead man or as good as one. You can understand that that thought alarmed me?—’
‘Oh, quite,’ said Gore. ‘Quite.’
‘And why it alarmed me. I went across at once to see if I could find the knife. And, as I told you the other evening, I did find it—almost at once—lying just inside the railings of the Green—quite close to the gates leading into the hotel grounds. I didn’t find the little sheath—though I looked about for it for a little while—just to make sure. But while I was looking for it that door beside the bar—you know?’
‘I know,’ Gore nodded.
‘That door opened and two women came out. One of them was, I think, a girl belonging to the hotel—a barmaid.’
‘Quite right.’
‘The other was, to my amazement, Miss Heathman.’
‘What?’ demanded Gore incredulously.
‘Miss Heathman. I’ll explain that presently. When they saw me, they went back into the house and shut the door. I didn’t care to loiter about there any longer, naturally. In any case, I thought it probable that the sheath had not been on the knife when Arndale had taken it from Barrington. I went up Selkirk Place, half intending to go and see Mrs MacArthur’s child. But I was so disturbed by what had happened—and by the thought of what it might mean for—my wife—that I really scarcely knew what I was doing, or where I was going. At the Mall end of Selkirk Place I gave up all intention of going to Mrs MacArthur’s that night, and turned back. I met you then—you remember—by the pillar-box.’
‘Quite,’ said Gore. ‘But, you remember also, we both saw Arndale coming out of Challoner’s flat. How do you account for that? What had become of the car? Suppose he had driven it down into Albemarle Hill, how on earth could he possibly have got to Challoner’s flat in so short a time? Where had he left the car? What had he done with Barrington?’
‘That I can’t explain,’ Melhuish admitted. ‘I can only tell you what I saw.’
‘You’re absolutely certain that it was Arndale whom you saw in your hall?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘He must have worn an overcoat of some sort on a night like that. Can you remember what kind of coat?’
‘Yes. A raincoat—a rather light-coloured raincoat. The coat he wore over his evening clothes. I myself helped him into it when he went away with Mrs Arndale after dinner.’
‘You saw his face … in the hall?’
‘Distinctly.’
‘Well, hell,’ said Gore.
‘You haven’t told Mrs Melhuish that you saw him?’ he asked, after some moments of perplexity.
‘No. I have told her nothing that might lead her to connect Arndale with what happened that night … or with what happened last Saturday evening.
‘I know what is passing through your mind,’ Melhuish went on, after a moment. ‘You think my wife may have known that Arndale was there—outside the house—that she had asked him to help her to compel Barrington to give up those letters. I had thought that possible myself—until last Sunday.’
‘You don’t think so now?’
‘No. My wife has told me everything.’
‘I wonder,’ thought Gore.
‘Well?’ he asked, after some silent meditation, ‘what do you intend to do?’
‘Nothing—unless I’m compelled to. I’ve taken a big risk already. I’m content to take a bigger one—provided I’m sure of you. I have no claim on your silence. It is a matter for your own conscience. I simply tell you that I am prepared to face any risk—any consequences—to blot out the fact that Barrington
was at my house that night. You know. I guessed from the first that you knew—’
‘How did you guess?’ Gore asked curiously.
‘I saw your face when you looked at Barrington in the hall. I saw your face when you came back into my consulting-room and caught me examining his hand. I saw your face in the bedroom at Hatfield Place when you discovered that his wrist-watch had disappeared—’
‘I see,’ said Gore. ‘I sincerely trust that other people are not as observant as you are, doctor. What the deuce was the Heathman woman doing there with that girl at that hour of the night? By the way—has it occurred to you that the A. H. who wrote that mysterious letter to Frensham arranging a meeting—’
‘Yes,’ said Melhuish quietly. ‘It was she who wrote it. She told me so herself on Monday. I have known for some time past that she has been taking drugs—though I had no idea where she got her supplies from. However, she told me all about that on Monday.’
On his return from Surrey, he explained, on Monday afternoon, he had found waiting for him a message from Lady Wellmore, asking him to go and see her sister as soon as possible, as she appeared to be on the verge of a most serious nervous breakdown. He had gone at once to the big house in the Promenade and had found Miss Heathman in a pitiable state of fright and hysteria. She had confessed to him that she had been in the habit of obtaining cocaine and morphine from Barrington for a long time back, and that a few days after Barrington’s death Frensham had come to her, representing himself as a friend of Barrington’s and in his confidence, and had offered to continue the supply of the drugs. She had written to Frensham on the Friday before his death, arranging that he should meet her on the Promenade; and the discovery of her letter making that appointment and the fear that its authorship would be traced to her had reduced her to such a condition of terrified apprehension that she had locked herself up in her bedroom from Saturday night until Melhuish’s arrival on Monday afternoon, refusing to see anyone until he came, and barricading the door with the furniture of the room.
‘Fortunately,’ said Melhuish, ‘Frensham had failed to obtain the drugs for her. Otherwise—’
