Rope's End, Rogue's End

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “You say that you saw a man whom you assumed to be one of the Mallowoods, because of his likeness to his brother, when you were on duty at the front door?”

  Beach nodded. “That’s right, sir. He was crossing the lawn, walking towards the house from the shrubbery on the west side. He was a tall chap, a good six-foot I’d say, and pretty lean. He had no hat on, and he was fair-haired, but apart from that he was very much like the other one, Richard. I lost sight of him as he got near the house – this side he was making for – and he didn’t appear again.”

  “When you saw him, he was coming towards the house, not going away from it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Long considered anew, and then, leaving Beach in the morning-room, he went and consulted Superintendent Watson. The latter had made a careful list of every member of the Wulfstane household at the time the shot was fired – Veronica and Richard on the first floor, the former in her bedroom, the latter in the bathroom. Ada Brown was at the door of Martin’s bedroom, also on the first floor. The cook was in the kitchen. Albert, the scullery boy, in the coal cellar. The gardener, Higgins, was in his own cottage at the entrance to the drive, his dinner hour being 12.30 to 1.30. Higgins had seen Richard Mallowood coming up the drive about 12.25, just as he (Higgins) had knocked off for dinner. None of them had seen Martin since he left the house after breakfast, neither had Veronica been seen returning to the house. Higgins corroborated Richard Mallowood’s statement about Paul’s departure that morning, the gardener saying that Paul got his car out of the garage himself, and fussed around like an old woman over it. Higgins also corroborated the fact that Martin had leaned out of the window and called good-bye to Paul, who had responded with a wave of his hand. “Didn’t half fancy himself, and just reeked of money,” was Higgins’ comment about Paul. “Nice brother, he is,” went on the gardener. “Them two, Miss Mallowood and Mr. Martin, they haven’t a bean between them to keep this place up. There used to be six gardeners here in the old days and a proper staff of servants, and look at the place now! Call it a garden? I’m ashamed of it, and that’s flat, but what can one man do in a place this size? When I see that Lord Tom Noddy with his Rolls Royce car and his high and mighty ways, it was as much as I could do not to give him a piece of my mind.”

  Long went back to the house, pondering anew. Such properties as Wulfstane were new to his experience, but he had thought that the house looked neglected, and certainly the servants were a poor lot. When he got back, Watson had just received a phone message in answer to an inquiry he had made (at Long’s suggestion). The authorities at Croydon air port stated that Mr. Paul Mallowood had left by the 10.0 o’clock plane for Lisbon that morning, his passport having been duly examined, and his tickets and reservation being all in order. His car had been left to be taken up to his garage in town by a man from a local firm.

  Watson pulled his right ear thoughtfully.

  “It’s all ship shape barring that statement of Miss Mallowood’s about her brother, Martin, and the fact that he hasn’t shown up himself,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m inclined to think we needn’t pay too much attention to that. I’ve heard a good bit about these Mallowoods, one way and another, since I’ve been at Sendover. Mr. Martin had infantile paralysis when he was a lad and he wasn’t much better than a cripple for years. His sister looked after him, and she was wonderfully devoted to him, folks said. Now this tragedy’s happened to her other brother, Miss Mallowood gets frightened in case Martin should be suspected of having a hand in it, and she tries to make an alibi for him, so that he needn’t be bothered by questions, him being a nervous fellow. You know what women are.”

  “If you’re trying to tell me that Miss Mallowood is the ‘womanly woman’ with motherly tendencies, I’m afraid I shall take a lot of convincing,” said Long.

  “Also, I shouldn’t have put her down for any sort of fool, although she’s behaved like one to-day.”

  “A bit contradictory, aren’t you?” grinned Watson, and then continued: “This statement by Sergeant Beach that he saw a man cross the lawn, and the man resembled Mr. Richard Mallowood, and so it must be Mr. Martin, Beach never having set eyes before on Mr. Martin, well, I don’t take it very seriously. Beach might have seen someone quite different. Wulfstane’s quite a famous house in its way, and sightseers do come and stare at it without a by-your-leave.”

  Long sat and frowned, and then answered, “Well, leaving out the muddle about Martin’s whereabouts, can you tell me this. Even if Martin had wanted to shoot Basil, how could he have done it in this particular way, inducing his brother to sit still in a chair while the muzzle of a gun was put under his chin, and a string fixed over his toe, remembering that the brother previously wrote out a statement that he was going to shoot himself. Remembering also that the door of the room was locked on the inside, that there is no trapdoor in the ceiling, and a thirty-foot drop from the window to the ground?”

  Watson nodded his ponderous head. “Yes, I’m remembering all that,” he said. “Also the fact that according to your evidence – and I’m not questioning it – deceased had not been dead for more than a very few minutes when you found him. Bearing all that in mind, I don’t see there’s any room for explanations which aren’t obvious explanations. I think Miss Mallowood is just making a muddle of things. Come to think of it, she’d had a fair-sized shock seeing one of her brothers in that ghastly state. Enough to upset any woman.”

  Long nodded absent-mindedly. He was recollecting Veronica Mallowood as she sat in the chair by the window answering his questions; her calm face and even voice, the still, strong hands, lightly clasped on her knee, the immobility of her statuesque figure. A prey to nerves? Long did not believe it.

  Then he remembered her voice, when he had heard her calling as he ran upstairs, “Martin, Martin; open the door!” The two memories were contradictory.

  “Well, I shall be interested to hear what Martin says when he does turn up,” he said at length to Watson. “It’ll be a bit odd if he doesn’t come back, though,” he added.

  Watson stared – and then went on staring.

  “By heck!” he said; “By heck…”

  Then he slammed down his fist on the table. “If you think he did it, tell me how he did it!” he exclaimed. “Any way, that body isn’t Martin Mallowood’s. I’ve seen him. I can tell you that, and the handwriting of that letter isn’t Martin’s, either.”

  Long grinned this time.

  “It’s a teaser,” he said. “Either you’ve got a case that is blatantly obvious, or else you’ve got one that is so complicated that it beats the band. Still, it won’t do any harm to have a look-out kept for Martin, in case he doesn’t come back before the inquest.”

  “All right. I’ll see to that, though you mark my word, it won’t be necessary,” said Watson, and Long went on:

  “I wonder if they can provide us with a few family photographs. They might come in useful. I’ll ask Richard Mallowood. He seems a sensible sort of bloke. Meantime, I’ve got my report, and I shall have to be beating it back to town. Let me know when you’ve fixed the time of the inquest. You’ll have a unanimous verdict, that’s one thing. No jury will want to split hairs over a case of this kind. Much too obvious, and my evidence will outweigh half a dozen Martins.”

  Going out into the hall again, Long found Richard Mallowood there, standing by the open front door, looking out at the garden. He turned at Longs approach, and said:

  “You chaps ought to have a meal. I know you’ve been hard at it, but our family tragedy oughtn’t to deprive you of your food. I’ve had some ham and cheese and beer left in the dining-room for any of you who would like it.”

  “Very good of you, sir. I’ll tell the others. There are just one or two other things I wanted to ask you.”

  Richard nodded. “Ask away, here, or in the morning-room?”

  “In there, I think, sir. Servants have a habit of listening in.”

  “They do, and the variety here aren’t out of the to
p drawer m the servant line. Nasty pair of wenches,” observed Richard.

  Once back in the morning-room, Long asked:

  “Have you, any photographs of your brothers, sir? I should be glad if you could let me have any.”

  Richard Mallowood stared. “Photographs? What on earth for? I haven’t got any myself, and i don’t think my sister has. As a family we don’t tend to sit for our portraits. I’ll ask, and have a look round, but I think it’s doubtful if I can find any. I certainly haven’t seen any about. What’s the idea?”

  Long considered for a moment before he replied, and then said, “There’s only one point which isn’t clear in this case, so far as I can see, sir. I’m telling you this in confidence, of course, and I hope you won’t misunderstand me.”

  He then told Richard about Veronica’s statement concerning Martin, and Beach’s testimony about seeing a man who might be assumed to be Martin. Richard meditated for a moment in silence, and then said:

  “You’re feeling it doesn’t make sense. You heard Veronica calling Martin’s name outside that infernal door, and then she goes out of her way to tell you that he was miles away at the time. That it?”

  Long nodded, glad in his own mind that Richard showed the shrewd commonsense Long had expected from him.

  “Yes, sir. It seems contradictory, and was really quite unnecessary, because the whole case was straightfoward enough.”

  “Obviously,” said Richard dryly. “No fancy explanations needed. To understand my sister’s behaviour, Inspector, it’s necessary for you to hear a bit of family history. Martin had infantile paralysis when he was sixteen. He made a much better recovery than the majority, but the disease left its marks on him. Although he’s a big fellow, he hasn’t much stamina. He tries to live an ordinary country life, but gets exhausted in doing it, and becomes a prey to the blackest sort of depression. My sister has always lived with him and looked after him. You can understand that when any trouble seems imminent, or anything abnormal occurs; her immediate reaction is Martin. ‘Is Martin all right?’ When we heard that shot above our heads this morning, it was obvious to both of us that something was wrong. We’re used to guns in this family. We knew no one was letting off a gun inside the house for fun. Veronica’s reaction, as usual, was ‘Martin.’ My own was nearer the mark.” He paused, musing a while, his face furrowed and sad. Then he went on, “I don’t want you to think that Martin had explicitly threatened to commit suicide when he had one of his black fits on him. He may have done. I don’t know, but I understand Veronica’s break from commonsense. She was afraid, and she lost all sense of logic and reasoning. I don’t know if it’s a fact in your experience, as in mine, that the people who threaten to commit suicide are generally the last to do it,” he added.

  “So I’ve heard it said,” agreed Long. “You wouldn’t have expected your brother Basil to do such a thing, then?”

  “No, I shouldn’t,” agreed Richard bluntly, “but I have noticed, speaking in generalisations again, that money troubles cause more men to commit suicide than any other factor. However, your next point concerned the chap on the lawn seen by your sergeant. It couldn’t have been Martin. If he’d changed his mind and doubled back home he’d obviously have come in for a meal. It was probably a man I saw in the village yesterday – a tall, fair fellow. He asked if I knew where he could find Mr. Basil Mallowood. I think it’s likely he mistook me for him at a first glance. I didn’t care for the look of the chap, a dun or a tout I sized him up as. I replied, ‘Why not go back to London, where he lives?’ and left it at that. I didn’t see why Basil shouldn’t have a day or two’s peace while he was down here.”

  Long hitched up his eyebrows. “Then you guessed that duns might be likely to appear, sir?”

  Richard Mallowood shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “I’m not prepared to put it in as evidence, Inspector, but I don’t mind chatting, if you’ll put that notebook away. It’s not fair to ask a maw to repeat surmises on oath.”

  Long put his pencil down, and Richard went on:

  “My brother Basil, as you know, was reckoned a wealthy man. I’d always thought of him as such, not that I envied him, because I’ve found during the course of my sinful life that some of the most discontented men on earth are to be found among the wealthy ones. They’re everlastingly worrying about adding to their pile. When I saw him on Monday evening I thought to myself that for all his shekels I wouldn’t be in his shoes. Later, as we got talking, I wondered a bit. I could tell from some of his inquiries that everything in the money garden wasn’t lovely. It occurred to me that he was pressed for ready money. I’ve known that happen when a reputedly wealthy man has raised all he can to back some scoop on ‘change. That being so, the idea of debts wasn’t far away, but it was all vague surmise. I could see he was nervy, but I put it down to anxiety about some deal.” Richard looked at the other thoughtfully. “It’s not your province to answer questions, I know, but I suppose there’s no doubt about these… allegations? Isn’t it possible that Basil was a fool, rather than a scoundrel?”

  “You’ll hear all the evidence in due course, sir. I’m sorry, but I don’t think there was any chance of a warrant being made for his arrest unless the charges were well grounded. Besides, he must have known that himself to take the course he did.”

  “Oh, hell! I suppose he did,” said Richard wearily, “What you call a real stink, eh?”

  And Long did not contradict him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “THERE seem to be certain features which need elucidating, said the Assistant Commissioner pensively. “Inspector Long sent in a very able report – incidentally he is in charge of the Mile End Road case at the moment – and the jury’s verdict at Wulfstane was unanimous, but the Chief Constable of Sendover feels that further investigation is indicated, Macdonald – an opinion in which the City division concur.”

  It was after the inquest on Basil Mallowood that the Chief Constable had entered into consultation with Scotland Yard concerning a case which he said, “seemed simple at first glance, but had disquieting implications.” Colonel Wrigley, the Assistant Commissioner, had called Chief Inspector Macdonald in for a consultation.

  “It seems an unusually interesting case, sir,” replied Macdonald. “It’s quite possible that the jury were right, and I don’t think that they could have given any other verdict on the evidence presented to them, but the case may be likened to a scorpion. Its sting is in its tail.”

  Colonel Wragley chuckled, not because he was amused at the Chief Inspector’s analogy – it seemed to him to be a very apt one – but because one of his colleagues at Scotland Yard had once likened Macdonald to a scorpion. Not altogether fairly perhaps, Wragley had thought, for Macdonald was a very sound man, but he had a habit of being right in the end, which, while it was a very valuable attribute in a detective officer, could also be exceedingly irritating to those who had disagreed with him on first premises.

  “All things considered, I think you had better look into it, Macdonald,” went on Wragley. “Long is doing very useful work in a district which is his own speciality, and I think it’s quite a sound idea to bring a fresh mind to this Wulfstane business. It’s very definitely at a standstill at present, and it ought to be cleared up. You’ll have the advantage of Long’s report at the outset – an unexpected piece of good fortune in a case like this – and since you can discuss the evidence with him there won’t be any waste or overlapping. I’d say he’s a reliable man.”

  “He certainly is,” agreed Macdonald. “He’s a farseeing one, too. There don’t seem to have been many possibilities he didn’t check up on, though the results were negative. His evidence and the report he based on it show sound thinking.”

  Macdonald, unknown to the Assistant Commissioner, had already seen Long and discussed the Wulfstane case with him. Detectives, in common with other experts, do on occasions forgather “after the hooter has gone,” as Macdonald said, and discuss points of professional interest. Macdona
ld had enjoyed the way in which Long had perceived the different possibilities which arose in the matter of Basil Mallowood’s death, and had sympathised with him over the manner in which his carefully collected evidence discounted ingenious theories.

  Now, at a later stage, evidence had come in which made it clear that there was “some funny stuff somewhere.” The first point was that Martin Mallowood had not returned, and that the combined police force of the country had failed to trace him. Wulfstane Manor and its garden and park had been searched by the local police (though Long expressed his own opinion about the difficulty of searching the vast old house in an adequate manner).

  The second point was that Basil Mallowood – very shortly before his death – had translated certain securities into currency or negotiable bearer bonds, of which no trace could be found. The careful work of the auditors had been too slow for this evidence to be put in at the inquest; but it seemed overwhelmingly probable that Basil Mallowood, at the time he left London, had been in possession of a large sum of money, and “large,” in the cautious language of the auditors, meant a very considerable sum, amounting to over £10,000.