When Basil seemed to be under suspicion, the inspector decided, the gang planned to have the last will found, as it would tend to deflect that suspicion. The Daymer woman was to arrange that, but through lack of co-ordination, not knowing where Betty had put the pearls, she messed it up.
The inspector’s thoughts turned back to Mr. Slocomb; probably he’s in the gang; a wily bird, he may well be the brains of it. The footprint might be his—but why in heaven’s name should they need to have three of them on the stairs, unless they thought there was safety in numbers and that the multiplicity of clues would confuse the police hopelessly. Gerry had since advertised his presence there, probably with the deliberate intention of leading the police astray; his rôle may have been to hold the old lady in conversation until the others arrived. He could help the others make an inconspicuous getaway and boldly show himself to Bob and act the innocent man. Slocomb had been very anxious to clear Basil by that volunteered evidence about the leash. The inspector glanced at his notebook. Had Slocomb time to get to Belsize Park? He had informed the police complacently, when questioned, that on Friday morning, as usual, he took a short constitutional before catching his train at Hampstead station at 9.40. The fact that he did travel from Hampstead at that time had been confirmed by acquaintances, but between 9.5 and 9.40 where was he? He walked, he said, down Downshire Hill and along the borders of the Heath, but there had been no definite confirmation of this. That had seemed only natural. He took his walk alone, and why should anyone notice him specially? But suppose he did not take a walk?
Beryl Sanders was slightly involved, too, but probably not seriously. She had certainly tried to conceal that damning note about the pearls, she refused to say where Gerry had gone, and she expected the pearls to be found. She might be fairly deeply implicated, the inspector decided.
As for poor Bob Thurlow, now waiting apprehensively in gaol, Inspector Caird believed that he was less guilty than any of the others who were still at large. The inspector realized that some of his subordinates engaged on the disentanglement of the Pongleton puzzle thought him barmy to ignore the clear evidence of Bob’s guilt and waste time hunting for another criminal. He had a wide experience of guilty men telling lies—cunning lies, stupid lies, and bold lies. He also had a considerable, though less varied, experience of innocent men telling the truth—obvious truth, shameful truth, and almost incredible but nevertheless genuine truth. He had a personal conviction that Bob Thurlow’s own story belonged to the last category, but there was little as yet to persuade a jury to agree with him.
When Basil and the inspector arrived at Hampstead police-station, Basil was set to wait in the outer office under the imperviable gaze of a constable. Another constable followed the inspector to an inner room.
“The Lost Property has rung up, sir, to say that they have a bowler hat answering to our description, which was found in an underground train at Edgware on Friday morning. The train would have stopped at Golder’s Green at ten-fifteen, and it was a City train, sir—not from Warren Street. They’re sending it along.”
“The whole train? Hm! I think we’ve got him.” Inspector Caird became grim. “He’ll find it a bit difficult to explain how he set out from Warren Street at nine-thirty and arrived at Golder’s Green in a train from the other line, and not until ten-fifteen. That gives him ample time. Any news of young Plasher and the Daymer woman?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Damn silly to let them give us the slip! Look here, take these”—he held out, very carefully, the pearls in their tissue-paper wrapping and the will in its envelope, encased in another piece of paper—“to Perrin to examine for fingerprints, especially on the will that’s inside the envelope; then tell him to pass on the pearls to be tested to see if they’re fakes. And—a moment—what about that other Johnny’s time? He may have been there. Send a man to make this test: he starts from the Frampton, goes to Hampstead station and takes train to Belsize Park; there goes up the stairs to the point where the body was found; waits there—mm!—ten minutes; then returns to the down platform and takes a train back to Hampstead, where he crosses to the up platform and waits for a train. He is to move quickly but not so fast as to be conspicuous. He is to time himself carefully from the Frampton until the moment when he could board a Charing Cross train on his return to Hampstead station. He is to report here as soon as he has carried out the test. And now bring in Mr. Pongleton.”
Chapter XX
What Nellie Heard
After Beryl and her uncle, Basil and Inspector Caird, had left the Frampton, Betty retired to her room. She had spent an anxious day, wondering how Basil’s affairs were progressing, and just when it seemed probable that she and Cissie would get away from the office early, Mr. Jamison, her boss, had come in with a long screed which must be typed immediately. Cissie, realizing that Betty was under the weather and also hoping for Mr. Jamison’s favourable consideration of her plans for getting a specially long week-end at Easter, volunteered brightly to do the extra work. So Betty was able to return early and Cissie was not yet home when Nellie brought Betty’s second course up to her room at about a quarter to eight.
Betty had asked for her dinner to be sent upstairs, for her appetite was usually impervious to worry and she had a theory that a headache may be cured by a meal. But she could hardly touch the food.
“Your favourite honeycomb mould, miss,” said Nellie sympathetically, setting down a plate.
“Nellie, I’ve been thinking about you and your young man and that brooch.” Nellie started and blushed.
“Nothing bad,” Betty reassured her. “But there’s something odd about that brooch that hasn’t been explained. I can’t think why Miss Pongleton had it with her on that morning!”
“Queer that you should ast me that,” Nellie commented. “I allus thought it funny meself, seein’ that Mr. Slocomb ’ad that brooch on Thursday night, an’ I’d’ve thought ’e’d’ve kep’ it.”
“Mr. Slocomb had it? But why? I thought he didn’t know anything about it till afterwards.” Betty was so surprised that she forgot the caution she would ordinarily have exercised in remarking to Nellie on matters connected with the other boarders. “Have you told anyone else about this?” Betty asked.
“Why, no, miss; the p’lice didn’t ast that, an’ Mr. Slocomb’s bin very kind, I didn’t ’ardly like to bring ’is name in; an’ besides, I didn’t ought to’ve known.”
A bell rang downstairs. “Oh, miss, I mus’ go—”
“Come back again to take away my plate, and bring me some coffee, very strong, please.”
Betty prayed that Inspector Caird would not return at this moment to see her. Nellie was soon back.
“Tell me why you think Mr. Slocomb had that brooch,” Betty demanded.
Nellie stood twisting her fingers and shuffling her feet.
“I think it’s very important, and it can’t make things worse for Bob,” Betty urged her.
“Well, miss, I know I didn’t ought ever to ’ave done it, but I was that put out about Miss Pongleton ’avin’ got that brooch an’ ’er threatenin’ to tell the p’lice, so I thought maybe I could get ’old of it an’ Bob would send it back to its rightful owner—which ’e would’ve done an’ willin’ by then, bein’ in a proper state about it all. So Thursday night, when she was downstairs, I went up to ’er room an’ ’ad a look. But she took it into ’er ’ead to go to bed early that night, ’cos of goin’ to the dentist’s nex’ mornin’—she went on about that too, how Mr. Slocomb had made the appointment for ten, though she said eleven. Well, she comes up to ’er room jus’ as I was lookin’ in ’er work-basket, an’ she says, quite pleased-like, ‘It’s no good you lookin’ for that piece of stolen joolry, my girl, for I’ve given it to Mr. Slocomb an’ ’e’ll ’ave it locked up safe.’ Oh, miss, you won’t tell on me? Mrs. Bliss would be that wild!”
Betty hardly seemed to notice Nellie’s distres
s. “Mr. Slocomb,” she was thinking. “If he had it…? But, Nellie, you don’t know that he really had the brooch. Miss Pongleton may have said that to prevent you looking for it again.”
“She knew it’d be safe with ’im,” Nellie declared. “Besides, she ast ’is advice about it—she told me so—what she ought to do an’ all. She thought a lot of ’im an’ ’is advice, an’ ’e do know what’s what, now don’t ’e?”
Betty was beginning to think that emphatically he did.
“Well, Nellie, I don’t see exactly how this affects the case, but I’m sure you ought to tell the police about it. We must help them by telling them all we know.” She said this without a blush, but hoped she would not have to follow her own advice. Or would it perhaps be a relief to tell her own story and not to have to make up any further “explanations”?
“I mus’ go down, miss, or Mrs. Bliss’ll be at me,” said Nellie uneasily.
“Very well. But come back again to fetch my coffee-cup and don’t talk to anyone else about this.”
Nellie was back before long and still the inspector hadn’t reappeared—thank heavens! thought Betty.
“Nellie, I’m quite sure the way to help Bob is to tell the police everything. They won’t take any notice of a little thing like your having looked in Miss Pongleton’s work-basket.”
“Are you sure, miss? I thought as ’ow they might get me for that.”
“I’m perfectly certain they won’t. But isn’t there something more—it’s best to get it all over at once, you know. About Thursday night; I thought…”
Nellie became very apologetic. “Oh, miss, I wouldn’t tell about that, not for anyone. Don’t you fear!”
“Nellie, whatever do you mean? I insist on you telling me!” Could Nellie have come down the stairs and seen Basil kissing her? Well, what of it? It wasn’t criminal. But of course she had told the inspector that Basil had not come inside the door; however, Basil might be confessing even now that he had done so. She must get it cleared up. At least she must know what Nellie knew.
“Reelly, miss, I don’ think no wrong, but men are—well, silly, aren’t they? An’ why should Mr. Basil be blamed for bein’ in the ’ouse when that leash was took?”
“I suppose,” Betty began slowly, trying to be dignified and not to feel like a schoolgirl caught in some misdemeanour—“I suppose you mean you saw me and Mr. Basil—come in—on Thursday night?”
“No, miss, I didn’t see nothin’—I was in my room—but I ’eard.”
A wave of relief swept away Betty’s embarrassment. Nellie slept on the second floor in a little room at the top of the stairs, just along the corridor from Betty’s room in which they were now talking.
“But what did you hear?”
“Well, miss, you see, I was layin’ awake. I couldn’t sleep for worry about Bob an’ that brooch. I ’eard the front door when you come in an’ I ’eard steps come along pas’ my door up ’ere, an’ I jus’ thought to meself, ‘That’s Miss Betty goin’ to bed’.”
“And so it was, I suppose. But what else?”
“After a time, I ’eard steps go down agin; it weren’t so very long after. Then they come up agin, a second time. The steps goin’ down I thought was only one person; it was jus’ a step now and agin like, an’ a creak of the boards; but when I ’eard a step comin’ up agin an’ wondered what it all was, I thought of the door—and sure enough it was bolted on the inside when I went down in the mornin’. So I thought to meself, ‘It might’ve bin two comin’ up and two goin’ down, and one comes back alone.’ I couldn’t ’elp guessin’ ’oo it would be, knowin’ you was out with Mr. Basil.”
Betty stared at the girl and deep colour flooded her face and neck as she grasped what Nellie was thinking. Basil’s steps! That was the conclusion Nellie had jumped to.
“Nellie, it’s dangerous to guess and you have guessed wrong. I see now why you didn’t say anything about this before, but what you heard doesn’t mean what you think it means. You say you heard the front door shut when we—I—came in. Didn’t you hear the bolts? You know what a noise they make?”
“That’s the funny thing, miss. I ’eard the door and the bolts shot to when you come in. They do make a noise, you’re right. They ought to be seen to, but it’s my belief Mrs. Bliss likes to be able to ’ear when people come in at night.”
“And later, when you heard the steps go down again, did you hear the bolts again, or the door?”
“No, miss, not a soun’, though I gen’rally ’ear the front door from my room, let alone the bolts, bein’ jus’ above it like, an’ I was list’nin’ too.”
“Nellie, I don’t know whose steps you heard, but the only time you heard me was when I came up to bed. No one came up with me and I didn’t go down again. I shut the door when Mr. Basil left and bolted it.”
“Lor’! Miss Betty! You mean-ter-say it wasn’t you arter all?” Nellie gasped at her. “A-course, I couldn’t reckernize the steps; it was jus’ a sort of little noise like someone creepin’ along, an’ a creak or two.”
“It was only because you imagined so much that you ever thought it was I,” Betty pointed out severely. “Now those other steps—there’s only one other room on this floor occupied now—”
“Mr. Slocomb’s,” said Nellie, almost in a whisper.
“It looks as if you had been making a great fuss about nothing,” said Betty brightly. “Mr. Slocomb may have gone downstairs for something. But I think you ought to tell the police about this.”
Slocomb, thought Betty—what could he want to fetch from downstairs at dead of night? What had been fetched from the hall mysteriously, no one knew when or how? The leash! Could it be possible?
Nellie stood expectantly before Betty, the empty coffee-cup in her hand, waiting for more definite instructions. Steps—not faint, creeping steps in the night, but quick, thumping steps—came along the corridor. Cissie burst in, in her outdoor clothes clutching an evening paper.
Betty thought wildly, “Basil must have been arrested!”
“Betty!” Cissie exclaimed in great excitement taking no notice of Nellie. “The brooch was found in Pongle’s bag, not in her pocket!”
“Good heavens! Have you gone off your chump? What difference does it make?”
“It all came out at the inquest.” Cissie waved the mauled paper. “The judge—no, he wasn’t a judge—well, never mind—he said he wanted to clear this up because wrong statements had been made in the papers—”
“But why shouldn’t it be in her bag? As a matter of fact, I don’t believe she had any pockets.” Betty was exasperated.
“Don’t you see, it wasn’t in her bag when she started!”
“What do you mean? How do you know? It must have been!”
Cissie seated herself violently on the bed. “It wasn’t. I can swear to it! I was going along Pongle’s corridor that morning, on my way to put on my hat and coat, and as I passed her door there was a sort of scuffle and clatter inside and Pongle called out: ‘Cissie, is that you? Please come and help me—so tiresome—I’ve upset my bag!’ You know that mammoth reticule she always lugged about with her? She’d caught it on the door-handle and turned it all upside down, and there were pennies and hankies and notebooks and pencils and veils and goodness knows what, all over the floor. She sat down and emptied what was left into her lap and said—you know her fussy way—‘Now we must pick everything up’—we was me, of course—‘and put them back in their right order.’ I had to pick the things up and hand them to her one by one, and she packed them all in, and I’m absolutely positive there was no brooch!”
“But it was in an envelope, I think,” said Betty doubtfully.
“Yes; with Bob’s name on it. There wasn’t any envelope. It’s about the only thing there wasn’t. She repeated everything she wanted to take, to make sure there was nothing forgotten. I never thought about it before,
when I read that the brooch was found in her pocket, but now I come to think of it, you’re right—she hadn’t any pockets—had she, Nellie?” Cissie realized the existence of the girl who stood behind her, gaping in a dazed way with the coffee-cup still in her hand.
“No,” Nellie agreed, with a little shake of her head as if she were just waking up.
“And Pongle went off as soon as she’d repacked the reticule,” Cissie continued. “I saw her go down the stairs.”
“Yes,” said Betty slowly. “Do you remember, I was waiting for you at the front door and Pongle passed me just before you came down? She certainly didn’t turn back. Do you see what this means?” she continued, very impressively. “Someone must have put that brooch in Pongle’s bag after she was killed. The one who killed her perhaps; the one who had the brooch!”
Nellie gasped and put up her hand to her mouth, as if to suppress her secret knowledge.
“But who—?”
“Have you told anyone else?” Betty enquired severely.
“Not a soul! I simply tore home because I was so hungry—too ravening!—and rushed up here to tell you.”
“But didn’t you tell the police in the beginning about the bag being upset?”
“No, I didn’t. The inspector was so sniffy and kept snubbing me when I wanted to tell him lots of things about the Frumps and Pongle. And, anyway, I didn’t think much about the bag being upset. There have been so many other things to think about—too distracting!”
Betty was on her feet and had seized her hat. She pulled it on decisively with quick, neat fingers.
“You’ll have to come to Hampstead police-station this very minute—and Nellie too—and tell the inspector. Nellie, put on your things, quick!”
“But, I say,” Cissie protested, “I haven’t had any supper. It’s after eight; that typing took me years and years, and I’m starving.”
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