On the ground floor, a single room was rented by Miss Patricia Welkins, an ancient invalid who shared it with rather numerous cats. She had been an actress in prehistoric days, and was very willing to talk to Inspector Combridge concerning her triumphs and acquaintances during the latter half of the previous century, but she showed less interest in more recent events.
As to people passing in and out during the night, the nuisance was too frequent for the observation or memory of separate instances. On the night of the fourth inst.? No doubt there were. Probably dozens. But she had no detailed recollection whatever.
The opposite room was rented by a registered alien of doubtful character, who was often absent for long periods, of which this had been one. He returned to it four days after the murder, saying that he had been abroad, which his passport confirmed.
All the occupants of the house, except Miss Welkins, were in possession of latchkeys, and went in and out at their own discretion.
Among these people, Inspector Combridge had found in John Bigland the only, and fortunately a valuable and talkative witness. When the court reassembled, Mr. Dunkover put him into the box.
He was a short, thick-bearded man, with a gruff voice, and a grey profusion of unbrushed hair. He suffered from rheumatic troubles, and appeared to walk with difficulty.
He gave his name, and 13 Vincent Street as his address, with an aggressive air, his glance going defiantly right and left over the crowded court, as though challenging contradiction from those who heard.
He said he was a master-plumber by trade. He occupied the two rooms of the third floor of No. 13. There were two attic rooms on the fourth floor over his head.
He explained that he was responsible for two rooms because; one had been occupied until recently by an unmarried sister, who had died about five weeks before. He had been in no haste to give up the room because the furniture and other contents were his. He looked round as he said this as though expecting contradiction, and ready to resent it when it appeared. His attitude stirred a ribald and possibly baseless doubt in some listeners’ minds that the lady might have been of a less innocent relationship.
On the night of the fourth he had been awake, suffering from a sharp attack of sciatica. The rooms overhead were occupied by Mr. Entwistle, whom he knew well, and whom he recognized as the man in the dock. He was a left-handed man. He had seen him sign a receipt with his left hand.
He was sure that he would have heard anyone ascend or descend the attic stairs on the night in question. He had, in fact, heard light steps descending at some time before three a.m. He had not doubted that they were those of a woman, and of one who had been anxious not to be overheard. He had supposed that Mr. Entwistle had been entertaining an illicit visitor, and had thought no more about it until Inspector Combridge had interviewed him.
Mr. Huddleston was unable to shake this testimony. The man was aggressively sure that he had not slept. Anyone who had had sciatica would understand that. He had heard no one getting out on to the roof, or entering from it, but it was unreasonable to suppose that he would.
The window which was said to have been used was not in the room over his head, but on the other side.
But the top flight of stairs was uncarpeted. They creaked. They terminated within a foot of his own door. He was fiercely sure that no one could have passed up or down whom he would not have heard.
As to the time when he had heard the steps, it was certainly before three a.m. He knew that because it was before he took some medicine which he had been directed to swallow at that hour. He took the time from the chimes of the nearby church clock.
It was before three. But he could not be more exact. That was because he was telling the truth. Had he been making up lies, he would doubtless have been exact to a minute, or perhaps less. He left the box truculently, his evidence unshaken.
After this, there was some legal argument, in the course of which Mr. Huddleston submitted that there was no case to answer.
Mr. Garrison showed more hesitation than he would often allow to appear, but finally said that he could not agree. If Mr. Huddleston did not call evidence, he should rule that it was a case for a jury’s verdict.
Mr. Huddleston said that in face of that decision he should call his witnesses. He put Peter Entwistle into the box.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The prisoner entered the witness-box with a blue-coated constable at his side. He took the oath with easy confidence. He gave his name as Peter Musgrave Entwistle. His address as 13 Vincent Street, N.W.1. His occupation, artist.
A hundred curious eyes, fixed intently upon him as he faced the court, observed a man unusually tall, with a long narrow face, in which sandy brows were highly arched over grey vigilant eyes. He had a fresh complexion, and a pleasantly ingratiating manner, better adapted, perhaps, to impress a jury favourably than the more criminally-experienced lawyers by whom he was now surrounded.
Mr. Huddleston’s examination was of a pointed and unexpected brevity.
“Mr. Entwistle, you are aware that you are accused of the murder of William Rabone. Did you know this man at all?”
The prisoner smiled slightly, as though at a suggestion that could be easily put aside. “So far as I am aware, I never met nor even heard of him in my life.”
“Did you, on the night of the fourth inst., or at any other time, ever enter the attic floor of number seventeen Vincent Street through one of the windows in the roof?”
“Never at any time.”
“Were you at home in your rooms at thirteen Vincent Street on the night in question—that of the fourth inst.?”
“No. I was away. I got back about 5:30 a.m.”
“Do you know anything whatever of William Rabone’s death?”
“Absolutely nothing more than I have read in the newspapers. I did not hear of it till I read it in the afternoon editions. It didn’t enter my head that I could be in any way concerned, he being an utter stranger to me.”
“Do you recognize this razor?” The weapon with which the fatal wounds had been inflicted was handed up to the witness.
“So far as I am aware, I have never seen it before.”
“Have you, or have you ever had a razor of similar pattern?”
“I have always used a safety-razor. I never in my life possessed one of any other kind.”
“Do you swear that you had no part in, nor any knowledge of William Rabone’s death, of which you were not even aware until you read the report in the daily press?”
“I do.”
“That is all, thank you.”
Mr. Huddleston sat down with a smile for Mr. Dunkover which said as plainly as words: “Your witness now! Question him at your own risk,” which Mr. Dunkover, uneasily conscious that there was a very probable guile in the method of an examination which left him so much to elucidate, must proceed to do.
“You are,” he commenced, “as I have been given to understand, a gentleman of some means?”
“I have a moderate income.”
“A considerable capital?”
The witness looked annoyed. The questions were not those which he had been expecting to have to meet. He said: “My uncle left me some money when he died about five years ago.”
“How much?”
“About three thousand pounds. But it has increased since then. I have been fortunate in my investments.”
“Well, that is what I suggested at first. You are a gentleman of substantial means. Will you tell the court why you occupy rooms which are particularly suitable for getting on to the roof, but which are not otherwise of a particularly desirable character?”
“I am an artist. I find that attic rooms have the best lights.”
“Do you recognize it to be a singular coincidence that William Rabone, who was not an artist, had a similar preference for attic rooms?”
“There has been evidence that people visited him during the night.”
“But it was not you?”
“It was cert
ainly not I.”
“You do not doubt that he was visited in such ways?”
“Why should I? We all heard what the young lady said.”
“Nor that she followed the man by whom the murder was surely committed back to the window of your own rooms?”
“How can I tell? I was away. She may have made a mistake in the dark. I should think it would be easy to do.”
“And you say that you were away. We will come to that in a moment. You have never used your own windows for such purposes? Never been out on the roofs during the night?”
“Oh yes, I have. Several times.”
The reply, and the almost jaunty tone in which it was given, were so unexpected that they checked for a moment even Mr. Dunkover’s experienced advocacy, and he was not ready with the following question. He recovered himself quickly, to say: “You are often out on the roofs during the night! May I ask for what purpose you go, and to what address?”
“I didn’t say often. I said I had been out several times. I go to No. 11 Vincent Street to visit my wife.”
Mr. Dunkover paused again. He had an unquiet conviction that where he had thought that he was leading the witness, Peter Entwistle had really been leading him, and that it would need exceptional caution on his part to avoid falling into further pitfalls. But he could not leave that answer unchallenged and unexplained. He asked: “Does your wife also occupy attic rooms farther along the roof?”
“No. She sometimes stays at No. 11. On those occasions she has a room on the third floor, which another lady underlets to her when she is away.”
“And on those occasions you visit her by way of the roof? Can you explain the reasons for this singular method of matrimonial intercourse?”
Mr. Garrison interposed. “I do not wish to embarrass your cross-examination, Mr. Dunkover, but it appears to me that if Entwistle can establish the fact of his having been at No. 11 Vincent Street between midnight and three a.m. of the fifth inst., that is all that he should be asked to do. If he has witnesses of satisfactory character who can testify to that, there must be an end to the present charge.”
Mr. Huddleston rose to say that in addition to Mrs. Entwistle’s own evidence he had that of Mrs. Musgrave, and of two independent witnesses.
“Mrs. Musgrave?” Mr. Garrison asked.
“I am instructed that Peter Musgrave is my client’s true name. He added Entwistle to conform to that of an uncle who brought him up—in fact, the one from whom he inherited the small fortune which he has mentioned.”
“Then I will confine myself,” Mr. Dunkover began, “to asking—” But the witness interrupted him to say that he would prefer to explain.
He said that he had met and married his wife during a holiday in Cumberland in the previous summer. When on holiday he had always used the name of Musgrave, and that was the only one by which he was known to her.
The marriage was secret, and, as he had no suitable home to which to bring her in London, it had been decided that she should remain with an aunt with whom she had been residing previously, until he could realize his investments, which he was now doing, so that they could then go abroad together.
Some months ago, he heard that a lady at No. 11 Vincent Street wished to let her rooms while she was away on holiday, and he had suggested that his wife should write for them. By a mutually convenient arrangement, she had occupied these rooms on that and subsequent occasions, of which this was the third, and he had visited her without risk of observation, except by the two lodgers on the top floor of No. 11, who let him in, being friends on whose discretion he could rely.
There was little risk of oversight from the attic windows of No. 12, which, unlike most of that row of rather squalid apartment-houses, was occupied by a small family who used its top floor for the storage of lumber only.
Having heard this explanation, Mr. Dunkover decided discreetly to accept it without demur. Its credibility must depend upon the demeanour of the witnesses who were still to come.
There was one other matter on which to test Mr. Entwistle’s integrity, or the fertility of his imagination.
“Could you tell the court,” Mr. Wendover asked, “how or where you were occupied during the three days preceding that on which you were arrested here?”
“I went away because I didn’t like being watched.”
“You became conscious that you were under the observation of the police?”
“It wasn’t easy to miss.”
“But if your conscience were void of offence?”
“Some people might like it. I don’t.”
“And that is all the explanation you have to give?”
“Well, I’m free to go where I like. I didn’t have to throw up a job.”
Mr. Garrison gave the witness one of his keenly questioning glances as these questions were asked and answered. A moment before he had said to himself that the man was innocent, and that Inspector Combridge had been barking under the wrong tree.
But it was evident that the questions were unwelcome, and the answers were unconvincing. The witness’s irritation was not lessened as Mr. Dunkover went on to ask: “And if, as you say, William Rabone was a stranger to you, and his murder of no concern, will you explain what was the attraction which drew you to this court a week ago, when another man was charged with complicity in the same offence, and in spite of the fact, as you have admitted, that you were hiding from the surveillance of the police?”
“I came because—” He checked the unfinished sentence to say lamely: “A court’s a public place, isn’t it? I just happened to look in!”
“That is the explanation you have to offer. You just happened to look in!”
With this sarcastic echo of the witness’s words, Mr. Dunkover sat down, feeling it to be a better termination than he had expected to reach, and Mr. Huddleston showed his consciousness of an awkward corner by allowing his client to leave the box without endeavouring to remove the impression his answers made. He called Mrs. Jean Musgrave, and a small, fair-haired ineffectual girl, who had been sitting tearfully at the back of the court, came forward and entered the witness-box.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mrs. Musgrave, twisting a wet handkerchief in her hands, said that she was the daughter of the late Brigadier-General Seton-Farrimer. She had met Peter Musgrave at Kirkoswald, and married him last July.
She confirmed what he had said concerning her visits to No. 11 Vincent Street.
She did not know that he used the name of Entwistle. She knew nothing of his occupations or manner of life, except that he could paint pictures. She had trusted him absolutely? Yes, of course. Her tone implied that anyone would.
He had been with her on the night of the 4th–5th. There was no possible doubt of that, as it was on the 4th that she had arrived.
“Oh,” she said, when questioned on that point, “I was to show this!” She produced the remaining half of a return ticket to Bath, stamped with that date. Her aunt, she explained, was staying at Bath for her health.
She was either telling the simple truth, or was an actress of exceptional merit. It seemed more probable that she was a born fool.
Mr. Dunkover asked no questions, but let her go.
She was followed by two brothers, who gave their names as Edward and Lionel Timmins. They were young men of amiable manners and apparent honesty. Edward was a metal engraver, Lionel a compositor. They said that they had known Mr. Entwistle since they had attended classes at which he taught in a Technical School, some years before. He had shown a kindly interest in their future welfare, and had got Edward his present job.
They had opened their skylight window to let him in at about midnight on the night of the 4th, to which point their evidence was identical. It was true that only Edward had seen him leave at about five-thirty on the following morning, but this difference rather increased than diminished the value of their testimony, by the impression of veracity which it gave.
Mr. Dunkover, making a hopeless effort, suggested that t
hey might have been mistaken about the date, and they gave confirmatory particulars which left their evidence even more firmly established than it had been previously.
Mr. Huddleston, rising confidently, asked for the discharge of his client, “for whose arrest,” he said boldly, “I suggest that the police never had any reasonably sufficient ground.”
Mr. Garrison asked Mr. Dunkover what he had to say in opposition to that application.
Mr. Dunkover, seeing no remaining possibility but to conduct a dignified retreat with such of the honours of war as might still be his, made a short and forcible speech, in which he dwelt upon the strength of Miss Weston’s evidence, and the confirmation it received from that of John Bigland, who had heard her steps—and no others—descending during the night.
It was, he argued, beyond reasonable doubt that she had followed the murderer to Peter Entwistle’s window, and seen him enter. Was it not the natural presumption that the man was the occupant of the rooms to which he retreated after the crime was committed? If he were a stranger, how did he know that he could find an asylum there? Did he know that Peter was absent? Had he his permission to use his rooms?
He reminded the magistrate that, according to Miss Weston’s testimony, it was not the first time that a man had visited William Rabone during the night, and retired through Peter Entwistle’s window.
If it were not Peter himself, then it was reasonably certain that Peter must know who it was. Why did he not assist the police? Would he be likely to keep silent, and risk conviction, to protect another man—and one who had been guilty of a murder which must be repellent to all decent minds?
The Attic Murder Page 15
