“Too early to think anything,” grunted the other. “Let’s see what we can find. The grave first.”
The two stout men went down on their knees by the churned-up earth, in the middle of which the impression made by the body was still plain, and began to sift it through their fingers with the utmost care, in search of any article however trifling that might have been inadvertently buried at the same time. When this had proved useless, Moresby took a pick and loosened the surface on which the body had lain, which was also treated in the same way, and finally dug a foot down until he struck a layer of gravel which had plainly never been disturbed. Not so much as a match-stalk rewarded his work.
“Try the walls, then,” said the superintendent philosophically.
Here better luck awaited them. On one of the two walls allotted to him Moresby almost at once found a mark on the whitewashed surface, at about the level of his own shoulders, which he examined closely.
“She was shot here, sir. Here’s the mark where the bullet struck. Plain traces of lead.”
The superintendent came over to look. “Yes, that was no nickel-coated bullet. Bears out what the doctor said. Well. . .” As if at a command both heads bent abruptly to the floor at the foot of the wall, and simultaneously a disappointed expression appeared on each face. “Not a hope,” said Green, voicing their common thought. “He must have taken it off with him. Seems to me we’re dealing with a very well-planned crime here, Moresby.”
“True enough, Mr. Green,” agreed Moresby ruefully, and did not add his fear that the chances of catching its author seemed a little slim.
The two spent another twenty minutes in the cellar, during which every square inch of the walls, ceiling and floor underwent the scrutiny of at least one pair of keen eyes, without however revealing anything else of the slightest help. All that was plain was that the murderer had shot his victim here, had dug her grave, and had methodically mixed the mortar which he must have expected would hold her down for ever.
Up in the drawing-room again the superintendent lowered his bulk into one of the still swathed armchairs. “Premeditated, of course,” he began to deliver his opinion. “Otherwise why take her into a cellar at all? Dare say he had the cement and sand all ready. Might get a line there. Cement isn’t usually bought in small quantities; enquire for a single bag sold six to nine months ago. Sand not so hopeful, but try it all the same. Know anything about this house? Was it empty six months ago?”
“I don’t know yet. I thought of having a word with the neighbours on each side as soon as we’re through here; and Afford can get on to the house-agent when he gets back. I’ve got his name and address here. His office will be shut, of course, but Afford can follow him up.”
The superintendent nodded approval of these suggestions. “As for the girl, there seemed enough of her face left for the doctors to fake up quite a fair reconstruction,” he said grimly. “We’ll have that circulated to the Press, of course. And then you’ll simply have to work through the ‘missing’ list; you ought to be able to get a line on her that way, with any luck.”
“Yes, sir; of course,” said Moresby, without quite so much of his usual geniality. It was an arduous task that his superior officer had tossed him so casually.
“And put Afford on to making enquiries round here. There should be gossip of some kind. That’s all I can suggest for the moment. We’ll go into it more closely tomorrow morning, when we’ve got the doctor’s report. I’ll be getting along now.”
When the superintendent had gone, Moresby joined the divisional inspector, who was now ferreting about in the kitchen. The latter reported that so far he had found nothing. “And don’t expect to, Mr. Moresby,” he added gloomily.
“You never know,” Moresby comforted. “And if there is anything, you’ll find it, I’m sure. Pay particular attention to the fire-places; that’s where people throw things, you know.”
It was now getting on for eight o’clock, and as cold as a late January night at that hour might be expected to be. Moresby was not sorry that his own immediate business took him out of the chilly, untenanted house into warmer ones. He stepped into the dank darkness outside, and turned to his left. Burnt Oak Road was made up of pairs of semi-detached villas, of the four-bed., two-sit., spacious-and-commodious-kit., type. The one to which Moresby now turned was the Siamese twin of the Danes’.
A gaping little maid opened the door to him.
“Is Mr. Peters in?” said Moresby pleasantly.
The maid gaped a little wider. “Peters? He don’t live here. It’s Mr. Cottington as lives here.”
“Did I say Peters? 1 meant Cottington, of course. Is he in?”
“Well, he’s having his supper.”
One of the doors opening on to the tiny hall was pushed ajar, and a bald little head came round it, to be followed the next moment into the hall by its owner. “Someone to see me, Mabel?”
“Yes, sir, but I told him you was having your supper.”
“I’ve finished, I’ve finished.”
“Then in that case if I might have a word with you, sir,” said Moresby, who by this time was inside the hall too.
Mr. Cottington seemed doubtful as to whether his visitor might have a word with him or not. He took off his gold-rimmed spectacles, looked at them dubiously, as if they were an oracle of some sort, and replaced them. “Well . . .”he said feebly. “I’m rather busy, you know.”
“I’m not connected with any business firm, sir,” Moresby smiled.
Mr. Cottington brightened. “Oh, well, then. All right. Mabel, you can go. Come into the sitting-room, Mr. . . ?”
“Moresby, sir.” The chief inspector became aware of another head round the same door, a rather nice head with greying hair and a comfortably motherly face, at the moment undisguisedly curious. “And if Mrs. Cottington could join us . . . ?”
The next minute they were all three in the sitting-room, sitting comfortably on chairs round a cheerful little fire.
“I didn’t wish to say so in front of your maid, Mr. Cottington,” Moresby said genially, “but I am a police officer.” He produced a card and gave it to his host, who read it with high interest and passed it to his wife.
“Well, really,” said that lady, not without trepidation.
“I’m making enquiries about the house next door, No. 4,” Moresby explained quickly. “I understand——”
“Oh, what has been happening?” interrupted Mrs. Cottington, her trepidation quite forgotten. “I saw the new tenants moving in this afternoon, and the furniture men go away, and I was just wondering whether I’d go across and offer them some tea here, what with them being in such a muddle, when I saw Mr. Dane (I think their name’s Dane) run out without his hat or anything, and come back with a policeman; and then more police arrived, and all sorts of other men, and cars, and then Mr. and Mrs. Dane came out to one of the cars and drove off, and the police stayed there. I’ve just been telling my husband all about it at supper. Mabel—that’s our maid—said they’ve found a body in the cellar, but I couldn’t believe that.”
The chief inspector sighed behind his smile. At every supper-table in Burnt Oak Road at that very moment, he knew, excited wives were telling incredulous husbands that a body had been found in the cellar at No. 4; and in each case the information would have come from the Mabel of the household.
“Not in this road,” added Mr. Cottington. “Always been very quiet and respectable, this road has. That’s why we came here ourselves. I told my wife such a thing couldn’t happen here. Of course, it’s all a silly tale? “Behind their spectacles his eyes gleamed almost as eager a curiosity as his wife’s.
Moresby had already made up his mind. A little confidence will produce far greater results in the way of information than a too correct reticence; and in any case the papers had it already. “Yes, it’s quite true,” he nodded.
“Well, I neve
r!” ejaculated Mrs. Cottington ecstatically.
“But how on earth do the Mabels get their information?” added the chief inspector, with a humorous groan. “That’s what beats me.”
“Then I’ll show you,” whispered Mr. Cottington, as he tiptoed across the room, and flung open the door with a sudden jerk.
The result was admirable.
“Mabel!” boomed Mr. Cottington. “Go back to your kitchen!”
An atmosphere of friendly confidence being thus induced, the Cottingtons vied with each other in giving their thrilling visitor all the information he wanted.
Put more briefly, this amounted to the interesting fact that No. 4 had, before its lease to the Danes, been vacant only a few weeks; six months ago it had been occupied, by an elderly spinster whose name was Miss Staples. Miss Staples had died last October, in consequence of which the house fell vacant.
This was not at all what Moresby had expected. He had taken it for granted that six months ago the house was either vacant, or occupied by a man who would prove to be the murderer. The character of Miss Staples, as the Cottingtons described it, seemed to shut out the remotest possibility of her being concerned in the crime in any way; she had been a gentle, feckless creature, incompetent in the most ordinary things of life and devoted to a fat pug and a fatter white Persian cat. How, then, had her house managed during her occupancy of it to acquire a very obviously murdered corpse under its cellar floor?
Here the Cottingtons were able to supply a valuable suggestion. Miss Staples had been away from her home for three weeks in August, on her annual holiday. It must have been during that period, Moresby considered, that her cellar had been put to this improper use.
He questioned them closely as to whether they had noticed at any time during those three weeks any signs of improper occupancy of the house while its owner was absent, but they had noticed nothing. They had indeed been away themselves for the first fortnight in August.
Moresby obtained the exact dates of the Cottingtons’ absence, and approximate ones for that of Miss Staples, and then, having asked the names of the occupiers of No. 6, took his leave with many expressions of genial gratitude.
The tenants of No. 6 were an elderly and retired insurance broker of the name of Williams, and his two elderly sisters. They also received the Scotland Yard man in a flutter of excitement, and the information received from their Mabel had first to be confirmed before questions could be asked.
These preliminaries settled, it appeared that they had known Miss Staples very well indeed, and while agreeing completely with the Cottingtons’ estimate of her, were able to add a number of details to complete her picture in Moresby’s mind. It became still more certain that Miss Staples must have remained in ignorance of what had happened in her cellar. Moreover when she came back from her holiday at the end of August she had said not a word to the Misses Williams as to her house having been entered in her absence; and both ladies gave it as their firm opinion that had Miss Staples noticed the slightest thing amiss she would certainly have spoken of it to them.
Had any of the three heard or noticed anything suspicious? Nothing; but then they had been on holiday themselves (Moresby was interested to hear) during the second and third weeks in August. Most curious, wasn’t it, how everyone took their holidays in August, even people who had no real need to, like Miss Staples and themselves, although it really wasn’t the best month for weather, and everyone knew that prices were much dearer; just habit; most curious. Most curious; it wasn’t possible, was it, to fix the exact dates of Miss Staples’s absence? Yes, indeed it was; Letty’s diary; they all laughed at Letty for keeping a diary, but one never knows; diaries can sometimes be most useful; if it wasn’t for Letty’s diary, how could Mr. Moresby ever have found out such a thing as that?
Letty’s diary was fetched, excitedly pored over, and finally divulged the information that Miss Staples had been away from the 6th of August to the 30th.
Neither of the two ladies had ever been in Miss Staples’s cellar, of course? Why, indeed they had. Ever so many times. Was it kept empty? Oh, dear, no. It was full of the most odd sorts of lumber. Miss Staples kept all her old newspapers there for one thing: one never knew when old newspapers weren’t going to come in handy, did one? No, never: what else did Miss Staples keep in her cellar? Oh, all sorts of bits of furniture, broken and quite useless; and packing-cases; and odd remnants of wall-paper; oh, and all the silly sorts of things one does keep in cellars. Was it chock-a-block, then? No, one certainly wouldn’t call it that; there was plenty of room to move about. Oh, the chief inspector meant . . . Yes, indeed; it would have been quite easy to clear one corner, perhaps a whole half; and then if the things were put back again . . . How horrible! Yes, and just fancy: if Miss Staples hadn’t died the—the murder might not have been discovered for years. Yes, Miss Staples had signed another seven years’ lease only a few months earlier. Oh, she had, had she? Yes, she had. She always said she meant to die in that house, and oh, dear, oh, dear, died in it she had—and lucky not to be murdered in it too! Dear, dear, dear, what was the world coming to, Mr. Moresby? What was it indeed!
Now, what about Miss Staples’s visitors? And her relations? Well, she didn’t have many visitors; a few people in Lewisham, of course, and her neighbours in Burnt Oak Road; not more than a dozen all told. Could the Misses Williams make out a list, did they think, of the people Miss Staples knew? Oh, certainly they could; with pleasure; but surely Mr. Moresby didn’t think . . . ? Oh, no; just a matter of routine; one never knew; the most unlikely people were sometimes able to contribute helpful information. Relations? Well, there was a nephew; but such a nice young man; quite impossible that . . . his name and address? Well, his name was Staples too, but as for his address . . . wasn’t he in the navy, Jane? Or was it the merchant service? Anyhow, Miss Staples called him “Jim,” if that was any help. It was? How wonderful to think of oneself actually helping Scotland Yard!
Where was Miss Staples born? Oh, in Bath. Yes, very nice family. Miss Staples always spoke very well of her family. The Staples of Bath, yes. There had been a brother, but he was dead. Yes, he had been in business in Bristol. Something to do with advertising, but Miss Staples had never said very much about him; she had not thought advertising was really a very nice thing to be in; well, one does meet such queer people in advertising, doesn’t one? Yes, perhaps one does: the nephew, then, was the son of the advertising brother? Yes, precisely. And he had a sister too; but she could not be a very nice girl, because she had never been to see her aunt—well, not for the last six years, since the Misses Williams had known her, at any rate. No, she had never spoken of any other relations, but no doubt there were cousins; there always are cousins, somehow, aren’t there?
Moresby agreed that there always are cousins, somehow.
From No. 6, where he felt that he had been a good deal luckier than he had expected, he proceeded to the police station of the division. There he was informed that the records showed no complaint at the end of August or beginning of September, from Miss Staples of 4, Burnt Oak Road, that her house showed signs of having been tampered with during her absence; it was therefore quite certain that no such complaint had been made.
Moresby went back to No. 4.
The divisional inspector and his sergeant, their hands blue and their noses red but their devotion to duty unshaken, were working their way through the second of the four bedrooms. They eyed the chief inspector’s warm presence with chilly gloom.
“Keep on looking,” Moresby encouraged them. “You won’t find anything, but keep on looking. Afford back? ”
The divisional inspector explained that Sergeant Afford had reported back, and been sent off on the track of the house-agent. “Have you found out anything. Mr. Moresby?” he added.
“I’ve fixed the date of the murder,” Moresby grinned, “if you call that anything. At least, within a week.”
“You h
ave, sir? When was it, then?”
“Second week of last August,” said Moresby, and explained why. “And what’s more,” he added, “the murderer must have come in with a key. Now, I wonder how he got hold of that?”
CHAPTER II
The enquiry into the death of the young woman found in the cellar at Burnt Oak Road proceeded on its routine course. The Press, of course, seized on it avidly. If, as Miss Rose Macaulay says, women are news, and by that presumably meaning live women, murdered young women are super-news. Young women, in the eyes of Fleet Street, are invariably romantic; and to be murdered in a suburban villa and buried under its cellar floor is obviously the quintessence of romance. Banner headlines flaunted their boldest type over double-column stories for just seven times as long as would have been the case if the victim had been an unnewsy young man. The Mabels of Burnt Oak Road had their lives’ ambitions gratified.
Before he had gone home on the evening of the discovery Moresby had telephoned through to the Bristol police for particulars of the son and daughter of advertising Mr. Staples, late of that city. The possession on the part either of murderer or victim of a key to 4, Burnt Oak Road, as seemed clearly evidenced by the lack of any signs of forcible entry, appeared to Moresby to point to one of the pair being connected in some way with Miss Staples herself, and he was hopeful that the murdered woman would prove to be the niece. At any rate, the first line of enquiry was plainly in that direction.
The next morning Moresby devoted entirely to the case. First of all Sergeant Afford was interviewed. He had seen the house-agent from whom the Danes had taken the house, at his home on the previous evening, but had been able to obtain no information of real value from him. On Miss Staples’s death her nephew, who was her sole heir (Afford thought there had been some trouble with the niece), had put the house in his hands for disposal of the remainder of his aunt’s lease. The house had only been empty for three weeks. Then Mr. Dane had taken over the lease and, so the agent had gathered, got married on the strength of his acquisition. So far as the agent could say, Mr. Dane had had no motive in taking the house other than the possibility it gave him of immediate marriage. He had not called in connection with the board displayed outside No. 4; he had merely enquired, quite hopelessly, whether they had any house at all in a quiet road at not too high a rental.
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