Death by the Book

by Deering, Julianna

  “Nobody would wear that to an evening affair. It’s hard to tell with that sort of girl. Roger said she’d wear most anything and somehow make it look chic. Bohemian type, don’t you know.”

  Drew glanced at the girl again. She was a pixyish little thing with fiercely red, lacquered nails and bobbed hair dyed an impossible shade of black. Roger would fall for a girl like her.

  “Come on, Nick. We’d better see to Rog and then ring up the police.”

  When they returned to the kitchen, Roger had his head down, his face buried in his arms. His cigarette had rolled onto the table and was leaving a tiny charred mark in the wood. Drew put it back into the ashtray.

  “Better tell us about it, Roger.”

  He groaned as he lifted his head. “She is dead, isn’t she?”

  Drew nodded.

  Roger closed his eyes. “What’ll I do now?”

  Drew looked at Nick. “Better see if there’s brandy or something in the house.”

  “You don’t think he might have had too much as it is?” Nick whispered. “No, I suppose we’d have smelled it on him.”

  Nick spotted an unopened bottle of whiskey on a side table. A little more searching brought to light a juice glass that would serve the purpose. He set both in front of Roger.

  Drew filled the glass about an inch deep and then pushed it over to Roger. “Drink that down.”

  Roger obeyed him mechanically. Then he picked up his smoldering cigarette and began puffing away.

  “All right, Rog, now tell us what’s happened. You said there was a message. Where is it? And the pin, as well.”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I suppose I left them in there.” Roger jerked his head toward the other room, but he wouldn’t look that way.

  “We didn’t find anything,” Nick said. “Anywhere else you might have put them?”

  Drew steeled himself. “You didn’t burn the message or anything.”

  “Of course not.” Roger hesitated, then a look of befuddlement came into his eyes. “I . . . I don’t think I did. It’s all a bit of a blur.”

  Drew tried his best not to scowl. Roger had never had any spine to him. “Think, man. What exactly did you do when you found her?”

  Roger tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette and looked up at the ceiling, his eyes filling with tears. “I touched her arm. To see if she was dead. Then I pulled out the pin and read the note.”

  “What did it say? Do you remember?”

  “Something about being hot-tempered and humbled and a queen or something. Odd stuff. I don’t know what it meant.”

  Drew glanced at Nick and then back at Roger. “All right. Then what?”

  “I suppose I rang up Farthering Place.” Roger wiped his upper lip with the back of his trembling hand. “I tell you, I don’t remember.”

  He’d go off his head in a minute if they weren’t careful. Drew poured him another drink.

  “All right. Take that and think again. You must’ve put the note and the pin down somewhere so you could use the telephone. What would you have done?”

  Roger held the glass in both hands but didn’t drink. “Put it on the end table, I guess.”

  “It’s not there,” Nick said.

  For another moment, Roger stared into the whiskey, as if the answer lay somewhere in its amber depths. “Wait.” He patted down his dinner jacket. “Wait.”

  He pulled from his pocket a crumpled ball of paper and a hatpin adorned with a jeweled dragonfly. Drew took both from him, touching them as delicately as possible.

  “There weren’t any fingerprints on any of the other messages and things. I don’t suppose there are any on these either, besides yours, Rog, but one can’t be too careful.”

  Holding only the corners, Drew tugged until the paper was relatively flat and legible.

  Mismatched, hot-tempered, simply waiting for greatness to be humbled, she, but for the scandal, might have been queen of them all.

  The three of them merely stared at it. No wonder Roger had made nothing of the message. Mismatched and hot-tempered. That could certainly describe the girl herself, but what greatness was to be humbled? Whose greatness was to be humbled? And what had that to do with poor Clarice with her Bohemian ways and her zebra-striped armchair?

  Drew glanced over at Roger. “Was there a scandal of some kind? Involving Clarice, I mean.”

  Roger shrugged and twisted his neck slightly, chafing against his collar. “I never heard of one. I mean, not anything more than the way she did her hair or wore her clothes. Some of the beaux she had. Nothing anyone would murder her for.”

  “Tell me what the two of you did today.”

  “There’s not all that much to tell. We were to come to Farthering Place for dinner, as you know, so we didn’t want to motor up to London or anything like that. Turned out we spent the afternoon in the village.”

  Drew nodded. “Doing what?”

  “Not much of anything really. She liked to look in the shops, but she never did buy much of anything here. Said it was all too bourgeois for her taste. You’ve seen the kind of thing she liked.”

  “And that was all?”

  “Till I came back and found her. Like that.” Again he took a puff of his cigarette, and afterward he became oddly calm. “They’re going to think I did it, aren’t they?”

  Drew glanced at Nick, then turned back to Roger. “Why do you say that?”

  “I found her. No one else was about. I pulled that . . . that pin out of her, so it’s got my fingerprints on it, as you say. And the note.”

  “You’ve explained that,” Drew assured him.

  Roger ground out the stub that was left of his smoke and then patted his pockets for his cigarette case. He fumbled with the thing before he finally got it open and removed another cigarette. Then he slid it across the table toward the two others.

  “Have one if you’d like. Either of you.”

  “No, thanks.” Drew reached for the silver case, meaning to return it, but then he got a better look at it. “I say, Rog? Where did you get this?”

  “What?” Roger managed to strike a match, but Nick had to steady his hand before he could light his cigarette.

  Drew pushed the case closer to him but didn’t relinquish his hold on it. “This.”

  Giving it a glance, Nick’s eyebrows shot up, but Roger only looked at Drew as if he’d lost his mind.

  “What possible difference could that make? It’s a cigarette case. It’s—”

  “Just tell me.”

  “My father gave it to me, ages ago. Birthday or Christmas or something.”

  “Your father thinks your initials are JLC?”

  Roger’s heavy brows came together in puzzlement. “That’s not mine.”

  “I gathered as much.” Drew took it back, examining it. The engraving JLC was unmistakable, but there were no other marks on it. “How do you expect it ended up in your pocket?”

  “I don’t know. Picked it up by mistake somewhere, I suppose. It’s about the same as mine.” He took another puff of the cigarette, but this time the movement was jerky. “Put an ad in the Times, if you like, saying it’s been found. I’ll return it to any reasonable claimant. What the devil does it matter? Clarice is dead and you have to go on about a cigarette case?”

  “This isn’t just any case, Rog. Remember the doctor who was stabbed on the golf course?”

  “What about him?”

  “The police didn’t find his cigarette case when they searched his body. His name was Corneau, if you recall. Joseph Latimer Corneau.”

  “I don’t—” There was terror in Roger’s eyes. “No, no, no . . .”

  “I’d better telephone the police now, don’t you think, old man?”

  Roger blinked three or four times, then wilted in his chair. “I suppose. I’m for it now, no matter what you do.” His voice was a low monotone, and there wasn’t a flicker of feeling in his expression.

  Drew wanted to shake him. “You can’t just chuck it all in now. It’s
likely you’ll be arrested, I won’t deny that much, but they’ll sort everything out.”

  “Everyone saw us together in the village. I haven’t any alibi for when I left her here.”

  “What did you do during the time you were apart?”

  “I changed into my eveningwear.”

  “That whole three hours?”

  “I don’t know what I did exactly.” Roger tugged at his bow tie, tightening the knot. “Read a bit, I suppose. Walked.”

  “You didn’t see anyone? Or telephone anyone?”

  “No.”

  “But see here,” Nick said. “It might be that the police will charge you about Clarice, but surely they can’t think you’ve done the other murders.”

  Roger shook his head. “This one had the note and the pin just the same as the others. They’re sure to think I’m guilty of the whole lot.”

  Drew thought for a moment. “But you must have an alibi for at least one of the other murders, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know when the others happened. How can I possibly remember what I was doing?”

  “Montford was killed on the nineteenth. Where were you that afternoon?”

  “What day was it?”

  “Wednesday before last.”

  “I don’t . . . No, wait. Yes, I do. I remember it because I was going to have to go to Blenheim the next day, Thursday, for Mother’s birthday.”

  “But where were you on Wednesday?”

  “Drove down to Land’s End. Just for a lark, you know.” A little color came back into his face, along with a weak smile. “They’ll have to see I couldn’t have killed Montford because I was driving to Land’s End.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, I was with Clarice.”

  “That’ll hardly be verifiable at this point. Did anyone see you there?”

  “I don’t think so. No one who’d remember.”

  “What about for the doctor’s murder? I suppose that cigarette case will do you in there.”

  “I tell you, I don’t know how that came to be in my pocket. I never even heard of the man until he was in all the papers. After he’d been killed.”

  “That was the following Monday. Do you have any alibi for then?”

  Roger thought for a bit, and then, with a groan, covered his face with both hands. “I was here. With Clarice.”

  Inspector Birdsong’s hound-dog eyes remained neutral. “Rather convenient, isn’t it, sir? I mean, having the one person who could vouch for your whereabouts turn up dead?”

  Roger gave the chief inspector no answer. He just sat there at the kitchen table, rocking slightly, forward and back. His last cigarette had smoldered into ash long since, and Birdsong had taken away Corneau’s silver case and put it on a side table.

  “So you say you and Miss Deschner were in the village this afternoon?” Birdsong consulted his notes. “Shopping?”

  “Yes.” Roger stared at the floor with his chin tucked well down.

  “Did she buy anything?”

  Roger shook his head. “We stopped to look at Bunny’s new motor car. He was at Price’s.”

  “Bunny?” Birdsong turned to Drew, eyebrows raised.

  “Clive Marsden-Brathwaite,” Drew told him. “Son of the Right Honorable Gervaise.”

  “Oh, yes. I have met Mr. Marsden-Brathwaite. I’ll be speaking to him, as well.”

  That overbred twit, Birdsong’s expression added for him. Ah, well, Bunny did rather notoriously fit the type, Drew couldn’t deny it, but he was a good sort all the same and unfailingly sunny. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to help out poor Roger.

  “What else did you do, Mr. Morris?” Birdsong asked.

  “I don’t know. Just chatted and walked mostly. We had tea at the Rose Garden, there across from the church. That was last of all because, after that, I brought her here and told her I’d be back at a quarter till eight. It gave us both time to dress for dinner. Oh, and she wanted a newspaper, so I bought her one.”

  “At the post office or at the bookshop?”

  “Bookshop. I remember because she wanted a book on avant-garde painters, and the lady at the shop said they never had much call for such things in Farthering St. John, but she could have one sent from London if Clarice liked.”

  Birdsong duly noted all this. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Do you happen to know a Thomas Hodges? Goes by Tommy?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Never you mind that for now. Do you know him?”

  Roger merely shook his head, his chin on his chest now.

  “Very well. Roger Earl Morris, I arrest you for the murder of Clarice Deschner. Now, if you’ll be good enough to go with the constable, sir . . .”

  Roger turned to Drew, eyes pleading.

  “Steady on.” Drew put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, then turned to the chief inspector. “You don’t really think he could have killed her, do you? Why would he?”

  “We’ll just have to find that out, now, won’t we, Detective Farthering?”

  Birdsong motioned to one of the constables, who escorted Roger out of the room.

  Drew crossed his arms over his chest. “You know you haven’t any sort of a case here. A jury would acquit him in five minutes for lack of evidence and lack of motive.”

  “There’s the cigarette case for a start.”

  “Oscar Wilde says it’s a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette case.” Nick took the elegant item off the table, admiring its craftsmanship. “This is a very fine one, to be sure, but hardly motive for murder.”

  Drew took it from him, studying it, too. “Any man would be a fool to murder someone and then carry something as easily identifiable as this about with him.”

  Birdsong snatched it back and shoved it into the pocket of his overcoat, scowling at both of them. “That’s not my problem just yet, is it? For the moment, all I have to do is not give a suspicious character a chance to scarper before we’ve got a chance to see what’s what.”

  “Really, Inspector—”

  “Look here, this is the first real break we’ve had in these hatpin murders. Perhaps your friend here did just what he said and has nothing to do with this killing or the others, but I don’t know that. And until I do, Mr. Morris will be holidaying at the expense of His Majesty’s government.”

  Poor Rog was for it. At least for the time being.

  “Is it all right if we get the name of Roger’s solicitor before you cart him off? I’ll get hold of him and let him know what’s happened.” Drew gave the chief inspector a hopeful smile. “You wouldn’t mind if Nick and I stayed behind a bit and had another look round, would you? I promise we’ll lock up tight.”

  Birdsong narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t have a bit of evidence you’d like to see to, would you? Keep your mate out of dutch?”

  “Nothing of the sort, I assure you. Your men have already photographed and dusted everything in sight. And anyway, if there was something to hide, we had plenty of time to see to it before we called you.”

  The chief inspector slowly nodded. “I suppose you did at that. All right, but don’t stay long. And P. C. Patterson will be just outside all night, so mind your manners.”

  “Oh, I say, Inspector.”

  “Well?”

  “Who’s this Tommy Hodges you were asking about?”

  There was a touch of sly satisfaction in the chief inspector’s grudging smile. “One behind me for a change, eh?”

  Drew put his hand over his heart. “Ever and only your humble pupil, sir.”

  Birdsong looked unimpressed. “Our Mr. Hodges is a caddy at your golf course. He carried Dr. Corneau’s clubs every Wednesday afternoon from May of 1927 until his death.”

  “I see. You don’t suspect him, do you?”

  “No, but you remember he was called away that day the doctor was murdered. He had a telegram saying his grandmother was dying up in Inverness and asking him to come at once.”
r />   “A fraud, I suppose.”

  “The old lady was on a cycling tour in the Lake District with several other old-age pensioners from her street. Took this Hodges some time to trace her whereabouts and satisfy himself she was all right. Meanwhile it took our men a while to track him down and make certain he wasn’t involved in Corneau’s murder.”

  “You’re satisfied with that?”

  Birdsong nodded. “He has solid alibis for the other killings, and we know he was on his way to Scotland when Corneau was killed.”

  “And no trace of who may have sent the telegram?”

  “No such luck. It was phoned in. With all the messages they take, the operator couldn’t even remember if it was a man or a woman on the other end of the line. But it was most certainly not phoned in from Inverness.”

  “No surprise there. Did your men find out where the call was made from?”

  “Local call. Winchester. We couldn’t get any nearer than that, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sorry neither of us has made any headway, Inspector, but there has to be some connection here.”

  “That may be, Mr. Farthering, and then again it may not. It’s been my experience that what seems a sound line of reasoning to one man might be pure madness to another.” Birdsong settled his hat on his head and pulled his battered overcoat more snugly around himself. “Good night, sir. Oh, and mind what I said about P. C. Patterson.”

  Soon Drew and Nick were alone in the cottage. Clarice Deschner’s body had been taken away and so had Roger Morris, and Drew had placed a call to a Mr. Barlow, Roger’s solicitor.

  “I don’t suppose there’s much else to be done here, Nick, old man. Still, it couldn’t hurt to have another look round, maybe figure out what she did during the afternoon.” Drew ran his hand over the back of the zebra chair. “Obviously she changed her clothes from what she was wearing earlier in the day.”

  “The outfit Roger described is in a hamper in the bathroom.”

  “Right, she put on her dressing gown and had a cup of tea, but what else did she do?” He scanned the room. “Listen to the wireless? Read? There had to be something. No one takes that long just to dress.”

  Nick turned over a book that lay on the end table next to the chair where the body had been found. “Art and the Avant-Garde: A Survey by Professor A. C. Esterbrooke.” He made a face. “Perhaps she died from boredom.”