The Deductions of Colonel Gore

by Lynn Brock

  ‘I haven’t told one except yourself, sir.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘I don’t, sir—after what I done. But it’s the truth, sir.’

  ‘Have you been out to Hilpound since Saturday evening?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, sir. That’s the only bit of luck’s come my way for a while.’

  But some other bits came Stevens’s way that night—a square meal, a bath, and a bed in one of the Riverside’s attics. When Gore presented him with an ancient suit of pyjamas, he ejaculated a strangled ‘Gawd, sir,’ and wept like a child.

  About eleven o’clock next morning Gore knocked at the hall door beside the ironmonger’s shop and requested to be informed if Mrs Richards was in—quite unnecessarily, since he had just seen her return from her Saturday morning’s marketing. Any lingering doubts which he still entertained vanished promptly when his eyes fell upon the table of the little sitting-room in which Miss Betty Rodney greeted his apparition with a stare of blank dismay.

  ‘Colonel Gore!’ she gasped, and then made a pitiful attempt to mask her fright with pleasantry. ‘Good gracious. This is a pleasant surprise.’

  He waited until, with curious eyes, the aged landlady had retired, and then locked the door and put the key into his pocket.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded. ‘Why have you locked that door?’

  He pointed to the little bottle of marking-ink which stood, still uncorked, by the parcels which she had just laid down, and picked up a collar from amongst a miscellaneous array of soiled linen which was scattered over the table.

  ‘Not even carefully done,’ he said quietly. ‘And you go and leave those things lying about for that old woman to see—’

  The girl was trembling now violently.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded. ‘Open that door at once, or I’ll scream.’

  But the threat was a mere formality. She offered no resistance when he took her arm and drew her a step or two towards the window. Outside the door of the police-station at the opposite side of the road a benevolent-looking, red-faced sergeant was conning in the sunshine the contents of a long blue envelope with official severity.

  ‘Now, I give you your choice, Miss Rodney,’ Gore said sternly. ‘I want to get certain information out of you. If you’re sensible, you’ll let me have it. If you’re not, I shall go across the road and—you’ll go with me. It’s no use whatever trying to bluff me. You may as well be sensible.’

  Miss Rodney made a pretence of fainting, and more than a pretence of tears. But from beneath these manifestations emerged a resolute determination to save her own skin as far as it could be saved. With a very little further pressure she became quite sensible. Presently, even, she consented without demur to the unlocking of a trunk which contained the more precious intimacies of her wardrobe—and some other things which interested Gore more.

  The rosy-cheeked sergeant had laid aside his helmet and the cares of office temporarily, and was smoking a pipe in the little plot of garden in front of the station, when Miss Rodney and her trunk and her visitor departed from the hall door beside the ironmonger’s shop in a taxi. From the first-floor window Mrs Stone, the aged landlady, watched the taxi out of sight. Then she turned to the table and read once more the message which lay there awaiting the possible arrival of Mr Richards that evening. ‘Gone away,’ it said simply. And Mrs Stone’s thoughts, as she gazed at it, did Colonel Gore a grievous wrong.

  As a matter of fact Mr Richards did not call that evening. Until ten o’clock Mrs Stone and a crony whom she had invited to share the thrill of his discovery of that curt message sat expectant of his arrival. By that hour the snow which had hesitated for the past week or so had definitely decided to make a night of it. Mrs Stone let her friend out into a blizzard of swirling gray silence, and went to bed with her curiosity still unsatisfied—a condition in which, as regards Mr and Mrs Richards at least, it still remains and is likely to remain.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  THE church bells were ringing next morning when Gore passed out through the front door of the Riverside to survey from its steps approvingly the as yet immaculate whiteness of a snow-wrapt world upon which the sun shone dazzlingly. Behind him in the hall, Percival and the hall-porter gazed speculatively at an elaborate apparatus which had arrived late on the preceding afternoon from Messrs. Wright and Hardman, the photographers in the Mall. The hall-porter had never seen such a large camera before; and after some contemplation of it he went out on to the steps to inform Colonel Gore respectfully of the fact.

  ‘One of my boys goes in for it a bit, sir,’ he explained. ‘I expect he’ll be out this morning with his camera, like a good many more. Always is a lot out with their cameras when we get a bit of snow. Though it’s animals my boy goes in for mostly. I suppose you did a lot of photographing when you were in Africa, sir. I see that film of yours—’

  He paused as Dr Melhuish’s car, its brasses winking violently in the sunlight, came round the corner out of Aberdeen Place and drew up at the foot of the Riverside’s steps.

  ‘This for you, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Dr Melhuish has kindly lent me his car for this morning. Can you get that stuff aboard for me?’

  While the hall porter and Percival carried down the camera and its stand and several plate-packs, and deposited them in the car, Gore descended the steps with a pleasant nod in return to the chauffeur’s salute.

  ‘Good-morning, Thomson,’ he explained. ‘I want to try to get some pictures before this sun thaws things out too much.’

  ‘Yes, sir. So the doctor told me.’

  ‘I rather think of trying the glens running down towards the river.’

  ‘Beside Valley Road, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s have a look round there first. All in, Percival?’

  ‘All in, sir.’

  The powerful car purred up Albemarle Hill, swung left-hand across Linwood Gardens, and descended the long, curving sweep of the Promenade. As it approached the Fountain Gore leaned forward.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll try that path along the edge of the cliffs. I ought to get some pretty bits along there. Carry on up the hill. Left, then.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Save for a few early Sabbath morning strollers, black against the snow, the expanse of the Downs was deserted. At the top of Fountain Hill the car turned left-hand, and a couple of hundred yards farther towards the river, drew up, in accordance with Gore’s directions, at the head of the narrow winding path which led back through the wilderness of thorn and gorse-bush towards Prospect Rock. Gore got out, lighted a cigarette, and possessed himself of the camera and its stand.

  ‘Now, how am I going to manage those plate-packs?’ he mused. ‘I wonder if you’d mind fetching them along for me, Thomson. The car will be all right here, won’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir,’ said the chauffeur, rather dubiously. ‘I hardly like leaving her.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be all right,’ Gore assured him. ‘I shan’t be going farther back than the Rock.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  As they made their way along the rocky path—treacherous going that morning—Gore turned his head to take in with appreciation the beauty of the view across the gorge. The sky was gladdest blue. Against its gladness the sombre winter woods that crested the opposite ridges made a pleasing note of contrast. The russets and grays of the gashed cliffs that descended precipitously to the river, always admirable, were that morning delightfully diversified by clinging patches of snow. The river, in flood and swirling blackly for a while between white banks, twisted abruptly and dramatically into fullest sunshine as it swept round the foot of the cliffs to westward for a space. The gulls wheeled and swooped in the sunlight. A cargo-boat, dropping cautiously downstream, supplied the requisite point of human animation. The effect, Gore thought, was quite Norwegian that morning.

  ‘Rather t
opping, isn’t it?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Ever been in Norway, Thomson?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  A pale, spectacled young man in very dark clothes came up the path, aimed a small Kodak at the scenery hurriedly, and went on his way.

  ‘I’m not the only pebble on the beach,’ Gore remarked pleasantly. ‘Ever done any photography, Thomson? I suppose you have—like everybody else. Now, I rather think that when we get round the next bend there’s a rather striking bit—’

  The path, turning aside sharply as it touched the very verge of the precipice at their right hand, became a mere staircase of footholds in the flank of the outcropping ridge known as Prospect Rock. As they came in view of this slight eminence, a man rose from the seat placed there at the inner side of the path for the benefit of sightseers, and stood against the sky in the narrow passage between the railing and the bushes, looking down at them. At sight of that tall figure the chauffeur halted.

  ‘Mr Arndale, sir—’ he said doubtfully, perceiving that Gore had turned about and was regarding him with a curious intentness. Gore nodded gravely, and stood aside to allow him to pass to the front.

  ‘Yes. Carry on, Thomson. You can put those things down by that seat on top. No … Don’t do anything foolish. I’ve got a man behind. Carry on to Mr Arndale.’

  Thomson cast a swift glance behind him, and saw, some thirty yards back along the path, a sturdy and very determined-looking individual armed with a stout stick, who barred his retreat in that direction. At one side was a dense tangle of thorn-bushes through which flight at any speed was an impossibility. At the other was the railing and a sheer drop of three hundred feet.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Carry on,’ Gore repeated blandly. ‘We’ll discuss all that in a moment. If you want a scrap, you can have it—with pleasure. But you haven’t a dog’s chance, you know.’

  It took Thomson some further moments of calculation to convince himself of the truth of that statement. Finally, however, he did accept it, with a calmness which extorted Gore’s admiration. Not the faintest stir of emotion pierced through his self-control as he faced Arndale’s contemptuous greeting at the summit.

  ‘You’re a pretty scoundrel,’ his former employer broke forth.

  ‘And you?’ he retorted coolly.

  With a gesture Gore checked Arndale’s angry rejoinder.

  ‘Let’s have this out quietly. Now, first of all, Thomson—before we sit down—will you just show us this bower of love in which you and Miss Rodney were sitting about ten o’clock—I believe I am exact enough in saying ten o’clock—on the night of February the third, nineteen-nineteen? Where is that—to begin with?’

  Thomson stared.

  ‘Who the hell told you about that?’ he asked. ‘That—?’

  ‘Now, now. No flowers of speech, Thomson, please. All we want is a plain, unvarnished narrative. And understand this. That’s all we do want. Nothing more. You understand? Absolutely nothing more. You may swing for what you’ve done—you deserve to. But that’s not our business. At least we’re going to assume that it isn’t. Understand? There is not the slightest use in calling Miss Rodney names. She has, I admit, given you away as thoroughly as it is in her power to give you away; it’s only fair to tell you that. But you must realise that she finds herself in the awkward position of an accessory after the fact. You must make allowances for her. Now, where is this nesting-place she has told me about? I seem to remember that there are a good many of them hereabouts, amongst these bushes. You won’t tell us? Very well, then, we’ll take that for granted for the moment. Sit down there, on that seat.’

  Again Thomson’s narrowed eyes made a swift calculation. Then, with a shrug, he obeyed.

  ‘Certainly.’

  A nursemaid and two rosy-cheeked children came up the path and passed the three men as they seated themselves. The nursemaid lingered a moment to look down timorously over the railings into the abyss below, holding her charges each by a hand. Then, after a curious glance about her, reminiscent, no doubt, of the recent tragedy, she turned about and went back in the direction from which she had come. The children, excited by the snow and the slipperiness of the path, laughed and babbled joyously.

  ‘Now, let us start from that night,’ Gore said, when the little party had passed out of earshot, ‘the night of February the third, nineteen-nineteen. At that time you were in Mr Arndale’s employment as chauffeur. You were also, I understand, carrying on, more or less, with Miss Rodney. I believe there was some talk of your marrying her at that time—however, the point is not of importance. The pertinent fact is that on that night you took her for a walk, as you seem to have been in the habit of doing just then, brought her up here, and sat with her in this bower of bliss amongst the bushes. While you were in there, so Miss Rodney has informed me, you saw Mr Arndale come along this path. Your bower of bliss must have been very close to the path—otherwise you could hardly have recognised him at ten o’clock on a February night. But perhaps you heard his voice. At any rate, you recognised him. He was accosted just here by a woman—’

  ‘He accosted her,’ said Thomson.

  Arndale shrugged his shoulders, and Gore passed the point.

  ‘At all events, he spoke to a woman and a woman spoke to him. Then a man appeared on the scene, and the woman cleared off. The man made a certain accusation against Mr Arndale, and Mr Arndale struck him and knocked him down. He got up—or tried to get up—and Mr Arndale struck him again. He caught Mr Arndale by the legs and pulled him down, and they fought for a bit on the ground. Then Mr Arndale got an arm free and struck him again, and he slipped under the railing and went over the edge of the cliff. I don’t know exactly how much of all this you saw—but that, Mr Arndale informs me, is what happened.’

  ‘More or less,’ commented Thomson coolly. ‘It’s a matter of phrases and words. You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble by simply saying that Mr Arndale threw the chap over the cliff.’

  ‘You suggest—deliberately?’

  ‘I say deliberately.’

  ‘It’s a lie,’ broke out Arndale. ‘I meant only to get clear of him. I didn’t know we were so close to the railing. If you thought I had murdered the man—deliberately thrown him over—why did you say nothing about it? Why did you remain in my service?’

  Thomson laughed.

  ‘I had a good job. I wasn’t in a hurry to lose it. Besides, I always had an idea it might pay me better to hold my tongue.’

  ‘Oh? You had that idea before you came across Mr Barrington, had you?’ Gore asked. ‘That’s rather interesting. Well, now, let us get on to your association with Mr Barrington.’

  ‘I never had any association with him.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you had. You left Mr Arndale’s employment at the beginning of June, nineteen-nineteen, and went from him to Mr Harry Kinnaird, at 26 Hatfield Place. Now, Mr Barrington had just moved into 27 Hatfield Place then. I presume he had a car at that time—and I presume that you must have begun to look after his car for him very shortly after you went to Mr Kinnaird. If I’m wrong, please say so. Miss Rodney has supplied me with a good deal of information—but there are gaps. Now, when did your intimacy with Barrington reach such a stage that you were able to discuss with him this affair of Mr Arndale’s up here on the night of February the third?’

  ‘I never discussed it with him. I was never intimate with Mr Barrington.’

  ‘Yes, you were. Some time or other before the beginning of September of that year, nineteen-nineteen, either you or Miss Rodney must have told Barrington what you had seen that night. Because it was at the beginning of September of that year that Barrington began to blackmail Mr Arndale. According to Miss Rodney’s account, you and she and Barrington frequently discussed what you had seen—though she denies positively that she knew anything whatever about the blackmail scheme—’

  ‘It was she who first suggested it to me, the—,’ said Thomson. ‘She was carrying on then with Barrington—th
ough I didn’t find that out until a bit after that. He got her to make the suggestion to me. It was Barrington’s idea from beginning to end. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Come, come. He was paying you considerable sums of money regularly from that September onwards. Why was he doing that? You don’t suggest that he paid you something like five hundred a year regularly, merely for looking after his car in your spare time?’

  ‘How do you know he was paying me considerable sums of money, as you call them?’

  Gore smiled.

  ‘Well, someone whose initials were F. T. was getting them, you know. By the way, that reminds me. If you’ve got any more collars or things that are still marked F. T., I should alter those F’s to A’s myself, if I were you. That is, if you think it at all worth while. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t quite certain that you were F. T. until I discovered that Miss Rodney had been busy with her marking-ink.’

  ‘Some Sherlock Holmes,’ laughed Thomson placidly. ‘I might have known that slut would give me away.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Gore, with conviction. ‘Very well, then. From September, nineteen-nineteen, this nice little arrangement went on quite smoothly until just the other day. Barrington took the risk, and you received a dividend on the profits. I said quite smoothly, but, as a matter of fact, it didn’t go on quite smoothly, did it? There was some little ill-feeling over Miss Rodney, wasn’t there? Barrington had cut you out there completely, I understand. Also, you began to think that your dividends were not large enough—considering that you had supplied the capital, so to speak—the information upon which the bleeding of Mr Arndale depended. You had some sort of row, finally, with Barrington—at the end of October of this year—a row which ended with his death on the night of November the sixth, in Aberdeen Place. Now, why did you kill Barrington, Thomson—exactly?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you did.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ Thomson repeated doggedly. ‘The swine had bad heart-disease. We had a bit of a row, and he got excited and drew a knife on me. I took it from him—and then I found he was dead. I swear it was his rotten heart killed him—nothing I did to him.’