The Attic Murder

by S. Fowler Wright

  “No. I can’t say that I did. I think it must have been open, because I remember how the draught blew through when I opened the door, but I can’t say that I saw.”

  “Had the bed been occupied?”

  “I can’t say that I saw. I don’t remember anything clearly, except the way that Mr. Rabone lay on the floor.”

  “But you said that you looked round to see if anyone else were there?”

  “Yes. I did that, but I’ve no clear recollection of what I saw, except that I felt sure that I was alone.”

  “Then you can’t say whether the bed had been occupied. Was Mr. Rabone fully dressed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. We must accept that you observed nothing clearly except the dead man. Then you went down to rouse Mrs. Benson. And after that?”

  “I went round to Sefton Street, to call Dr. Foster. That was what she asked me to do.”

  “And is that, from first to last, all you know of the matter?”

  “Yes. I think I’ve told you everything that I know.”

  “With no reservation of any kind?”

  “No. I really know nothing about it, except how I found Mr. Rabone.”

  “Very well. That is all.”

  Mr. Garrison looked at the defending counsel. “Any questions, Mr. Huddleston?”

  Mr. Huddleston rose slowly. He had an impression that the witness had given a substantially true account of the finding of the body of the murdered man, though he had a feeling also, instinctive rather than logical, in his experienced mind, that there was something in reserve which it might, or might not, be advantageous to bring to light.

  He had no suspicion of the truth. No suspicion that Francis was the Harold Vaughan who had been convicted of active participation in a despicable fraud a mere fortnight before, or that it was he who had stood, a week ago, in the place now occupied by his own client, and charged with the same crime. This was an ignorance which may be traced to the extensive business carried on by those enterprising criminal lawyers, Messrs. Moss & Middleton, from whom he had received his brief. They were now represented in court by Mr. Richard Middleton, Junior, and by a clerk, neither of whom had been concerned in Harold Vaughan’s, earlier trial, and to whom his face was unknown.

  Mr. Huddleston knew that it is a dangerous thing to attack an honest witness in ways which may alienate the sympathy of the court; and, beyond that, the line of defence on which he ultimately relied left this evidence so entirely aside that, from his point of view, Mr. Dunkover was merely beating the air. But there were a few questions which must be asked.

  “Do I understand, Mr. Hammerton, that, on the night of the tragedy, so far as you are aware, you yourself, and the two women of whom we have heard, were the sole occupants of the house, in addition to the dead man?”

  “Yes. So far as I know. I didn’t see anyone else.”

  “And of these, Miss Jones had gone—how and when and where we shall doubtless hear from herself, and Mrs. Benson was asleep in the basement, so that you were the first to come into contact with the dead man, and to give the alarm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I think that will do.”

  He felt that his question had sufficiently indicated, without emphasizing, the fact that the witness’s account was uncorroborated, and that there was nothing but his own word to show that he had not himself drawn the razor across the throat of the murdered man.

  Francis stepped from the box, feeling that the ordeal had been less than he had expected to face, but as he did so Mr. Huddleston became conscious of the presence of a solicitor’s clerk at his elbow, who was urgent to gain his ear.

  Francis observed him also, and recognized the man who had been engaged in his defence at the earlier trial, and who, in fact, had entered the court a moment before with no other purpose than to give a message to Mr. Richard Middleton in connection with a different case. Francis saw that Mr. Huddleston’s eyes were now directed sharply upon himself. He saw him rise hurriedly, and address the magistrate.

  “I may very probably wish,” he said, “to ask the witness one or two further questions. I will defer them, with your permission, if you will allow him to be recalled at a later stage. May I respectfully suggest that he be directed to remain in court in the meantime?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Huddleston. All the witnesses will, of course, remain until they have my permission to leave.”

  Mr. Garrison, aware of a position which he did not fully understand, was careful to speak in a general manner, but a moment later he gave a quiet word aside to the usher, which instructed that functionary to ask Inspector Combridge to see that Mr.—Hammerton—should not leave without the permission of the court.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Benson had entered the box. Her flustered evidence threw no additional light on the tragedy which had brought her apartment-house into such unwelcome notoriety, and would be tedious to record. She would have entirely escaped Mr. Huddleston’s attentions, had she not persisted in alluding to Francis as “Mr. Edwards,” in spite of the careful contrary instructions which she had received before entering the witness-box.

  “The late Mr. Rabone was a bank inspector?” he asked genially. “In fact, a man of the highest respectability?”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, responding to his friendly tone. “No one could ever say as he wasn’t that.”

  “Had you had the slightest doubt of his character or respectability, you would not have let him rooms in your house?”

  “No, sir. I’ve always been careful who I takes.”

  “So I have no doubt that you have.... And this Mr. Hammerton—or Mr. Edwards, as you appear to be accustomed to call him—you had found him also to be a satisfactory lodger? Had he been with you long when this sad event occurred?”

  “No, sir. He only came in the afternoon before.”

  “He came the afternoon before! And no doubt you had satisfactory references? No? No references! Thank you, Mrs. Benson. That is all.”

  Mr. Huddleston sat down well satisfied that he had sufficiently discredited the principal witness that the police had yet put into the box. It might have little direct bearing upon the case—whatever it might prove to be—which his client would have to meet, but it all tended to prepare the atmosphere he required for the moment to which he was already looking forward, when he would take the extreme course of asking the magistrate to refuse the committal of the accused.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Miss Weston entered the witness-box.

  She took the oath, and gave her name and address, with a cool self-possession which suggested to Mr. Huddleston’s experienced glance that she might be a formidable obstacle to his client’s freedom, if she should have anything damning against him to which she would be prepared to swear.

  But Mr. Peter Entwistle looked at her, and was undisturbed. He could not recall having seen her previously, and he decided that she was not one whom he would quickly forget. Anyway, he had a defence, when the time to show it should come, by which he hoped to bring a more worried look on to Inspector Combridge’s face than it now bore—and even now he did not appear to be particularly well-content.

  Meanwhile Miss Weston was saying that she was employed by the Texall Enquiry Agency. In the course of her duties with them, she had taken an attic-room at No. 17 Vincent Street, in the name of Mary Jones, about two months ago.

  “With what instructions did you go there?”

  “I was to make the acquaintance of Mr. Rabone, and to endeavour to discover whether he were in any way concerned in certain events which had occurred at the London & Northern Bank, of which he was an inspector.”

  Mr. Garrison interposed: “Am I to understand that your agency was acting on the instructions of the bank, or for private interests?”

  “For the bank, of course.”

  Mr. Garrison’s face cleared somewhat at this reply, but he asked again: “Then do I understand correctly that William Rabone was under the suspicion of his employers in conn
ection with irregularities at the branches of the bank at which his inspections were made?” He turned his attention to Mr. Dunkover as he went on: “And, if so, is it a matter which should properly be brought out in connection with the present charge?”

  Mr. Dunkover replied that the magistrate understood the position correctly. He was afraid that the issue of the probity of the dead man could not be entirely avoided. It might even become a question of the first importance. But it was only right for him to say at this stage that the instructions which Miss Weston received did not necessarily convey any imputation against him. Certain irregularities had occurred—it might not be necessary to be more specific—the source of which it had become imperative to trace, and under such circumstances it might become an unpleasant necessity to scrutinize the records, and to direct enquiries of other kinds upon a number of officials who would normally be above suspicion, and most of whom must be innocent and upright men.

  Mr. Garrison said, very well. He was quite sure that counsel would avoid any imputation—especially against a man who could no longer defend his own integrity—which was not relevant to the present charge.

  The examination proceeded.

  “You did, in fact, Miss Weston, establish a considerable degree of intimacy—using the word, of course, in a quite innocent sense—with William Rabone?”

  Miss Weston’s reply paused.

  “I don’t think,” she said, “that the word intimacy would be quite accurate, however you use it. He was never in any sense confidential with me. He professed friendship—or something more. You may say that.”

  “May we say that you appeared to have won his affections, but that you had not advanced to a point at which his confidence was equally given?”

  “I should put it differently. I should say he acted toward me as, under such circumstances, it was normal for him to do.”

  Mr. Dunkover perceived clearly that, whatever William Rabone’s feelings may have been, on her side, Miss Weston’s affections had not been won. He was conscious of a slight irritation at the exactness of definition that the witness required, when he had been endeavouring to do no more than to lead her smoothly over the unavoidable preliminaries to the point where her evidence became important to the present case.

  But he was pleased to observe, without appearing to do so, that Miss Weston’s evidence had already caused an interchange of whispered words between Mr. Huddleston and his instructing solicitor, and that the latter gentleman was now occupied in a similar colloquy with Peter Entwistle over the rail of the dock.

  Evidently the suggestion that William Rabone might be shown to have been involved in some conspiracy to defraud the bank, whether or not he may have been already known to be of that character by the defence, indicated a line of attack proposing an illicit connection between their client and the murdered man, or even a possible motive for the crime, which they saw that they must be wary to meet.

  Mr. Dunkover went on: “Perhaps it may be sufficient to say that your relations as a fellow-lodger with William Rabone reached a superficial familiarity, of which he would have taken some further advantage had he been permitted to do so.”

  As Miss Weston received this amended definition in a silence which might be taken for assent, he continued quickly: “And during this time is it correct to say that you occupied one of the two attic rooms which constitute the top floor of Mrs. Benson’s house, and that William Rabone had the other?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did that contiguity enable you to observe any unusual or suspicious circumstance?”

  “The second night after I took the room, I heard a noise that sounded like someone coming cautiously over the roof, and then entering through the window of Mr. Rabone’s room. Then I heard voices in his room—his own and one other’s, if not more—which almost at once became very low. I supposed that he had given a warning that my room had become occupied.

  “He or they who had come left after about half an hour, very quietly. It was a dark night, and without opening my window, which I hesitated to do, I could learn nothing more, except that whoever had come returned across the front of my window—that is that they went in the direction of Windsor Terrace.”

  “And were these visits repeated?”

  “The same thing happened again about three weeks later, but on that occasion they were so quiet that I did not wake until I heard voices, very low, in Mr. Rabone’s room. I had kept my own window closed and bolted since I had known that men were liable to be prowling about the roofs in the night, but when I heard the voices I got out and loosened it, so that it would open without noise—it was a dormer window, opening from side hinges—and when a man came out of Mr. Rabone’s window, and went back the same way as before, I opened it, and followed him as closely as I safely could without being observed.

  “The night was cloudy, but not very dark. I could not see the man with any distinctness—he went faster than I, and got farther away as he went on—but I counted the windows, and was sure that he went in at No. 13.”

  “Beyond these singular incidents, did you observe or hear anything of an unusual nature prior to the day preceding the death of William Rabone?”

  “No. Nothing till the evening before.”

  “And then? Will you tell the court what occurred in your own way?”

  “Mr. Rabone came in earlier than usual—about six o’clock. It had been understood that he would do so, and that he wanted to talk to me. He had made it plain that he didn’t want Mr. Hammerton to be there, and he went upstairs when Mr. Rabone came in, so that we had a long time alone.

  “The conversation didn’t go at all as I had expected it would. He said almost at first that he had found out who I was, and that I was spying on him. He made out that he had known all along, though I didn’t think that was true. But he didn’t seem to care, or to resent it at all. He treated it more as a joke.

  “He said that I had been wasting my time, and that he had written to the general manager of the bank. He said he was going to make him an offer, and if it were taken in the right way, he could save the bank many thousands of pounds, besides more worry than it was good for bank directors to have; but, of course, he wasn’t going to do it for nothing.

  “He said, anyway, that he didn’t care. It would be their funeral, not his. Even if they wouldn’t come to terms, they couldn’t do more than dismiss him, and he was thankful to say that he wasn’t poor enough to mind that. Whatever else happened, he would resign. When he found that they were putting people to spy on him, it was time to bring things to an end, which he meant to do.

  “Then he went on to say that I needn’t worry about the office again, as he was going to give me a better life than that of a common spy. He would go abroad, and begin to spend money, instead of working all the time, as he had been doing till then, and I could share his life, as he seemed to feel sure that I should be willing to do.

  “Even when I raised difficulties, he seemed to think that I only stood out because I wasn’t sure that he would do all that he said.

  “On my side, I wanted him to say more than he would—he was too cautious, from first to last, to let me learn anything definite—and so, altogether, we talked for a long time without getting much further forward.”

  Mr. Garrison intervened: “I must be clear upon this. Do I understand that Rabone admitted to you that he had been party to conspiracies for defrauding the bank by which he was employed, which he would be willing to betray if he were to receive a sufficient reward, but not otherwise?”

  “No. It wouldn’t be right to say that. He admitted nothing. But it was implicit in all he said.”

  “And he recognized at the same time that he was threatened with exposure? Did he appear to be in a mood in which a man might destroy himself to escape the consequences of his wrong-doing?”

  “No. Not in the least. He appeared confident in his own position, and contemptuous of anything they could do.”

  “And you feel sure that that attitude was g
enuine, and not merely assumed?”

  “Yes. I don’t think there could be any doubt about that.”

  “Very well. Pray go on, Mr. Dunkover.”

  “And how did this conversation end?”

  “I allowed it to appear that I was overcome by his persuasions, and inclined to agree. It was after midnight then. I think I was willing to say almost anything which would have ended the conversation. I proposed to give him a final answer in the morning.”

  “Did he agree to that?”

  “No. He became very difficult. I think he became more doubtful of what I meant than he had been while I was holding him off more indefinitely. He was very shrewd in his own way, but he had an idea that any girl could be bought, or that he would be attractive to her, or perhaps both. He said he must have an answer then, and he made it very clear what he meant it to be.

  “I said I was too tired to say more that night, and was going to bed. He didn’t object to that, but he followed me up, and tried to come into my room before I could lock the door.... He’d tried to do that more than once before, but I’d had less difficulty in putting him off.

  “Now he said that I’d got to learn that one room was enough for both, and I might begin then just as well as later. I threatened to call Mrs. Benson or Mr. Hammerton, if he wouldn’t leave me alone for that night, but he said he didn’t care about them. He knew how to manage them, and a few more if it came to that.... And then I happened to say, did he know how late it was?—that it was half-past one then, and when I mentioned the time he suddenly altered, and said he hadn’t known that I was as tired as I said, and of course he’d wait till the next night.

  “I felt sure it was reminding him of the time which had made such a sudden change, and it made me guess that he was expecting a visitor to his room of whom he didn’t wish me to know, so I went into my own room, and locked the door, and loosened the window, and after a few minutes I put out the light, as though I had gone to bed. But I didn’t really undress. I just lay down on the bed.”