Murder Will Speak

by J. J. Connington

  Cadbury’s ears reddened at this tribute. He was still very much in the dark as to what he had achieved; but at any rate here was the Master Sleuth giving him all the credit, and apparently giving Kitty a reason for being grateful. Splendid! He’d ask her to tea and to the pictures to-night and insist on paying for both, too!

  As Kitty turned to leave the office, Sir Clinton looked at her again, and his memory went back to Mollie Keston’s wedding-day. Beyond a doubt, there was a marked resemblance in figure between Kitty Nevern and Nancy Telford; and at that wedding Nancy Telford had worn a fur which, at a moderate distance, would look very much like the one that Kitty Nevern was wearing now. Then he remembered what Malwood had hinted at when he asked him about Nancy’s illness. That might be a bit of the puzzle, though it was a beastly idea. Then he involuntarily shrugged his shoulders. Telford would be able to clear himself, easily enough. And that being so, the sooner he had an opportunity of doing it, the better.

  In his turn, Sir Clinton was roused from his reflections by a voice. Ruth Jessop was again verging on hysterics. She had seized the opportunity to question Forbury about her bonds and had learned that they had vanished.

  “But they can’t have gone, Mr. Forbury! That would mean that quite a big bite’s gone out of my income, and that’s all I have to live on, Mr. Forbury! Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake? You must have! Oh, I’ll go to law about this. I’ll go straight to my solicitor, Mr. Forbury. I’m not going to be robbed like this, I can assure you. Is there any chance of my getting my bonds back? Oh . . .”

  Sir Clinton intervened swiftly.

  “I think you’d better see your solicitor,” he agreed. “Mr. Forbury can do nothing. It’s no responsibility of his. But Mr. Lockhurst’s executors will no doubt do the proper thing. See your solicitor and don’t worry too much in the meanwhile.”

  “It’s easy enough for you to say ‘Don’t worry,’ Sir Clinton,” Ruth retorted. “You haven’t lost any of your income. But what are your police doing, when this kind of thing happens? Aren’t you supposed to prevent crimes? And yet this man Hyson has been allowed to rob me without anyone lifting a finger. There ought to be a complaint made about it, Sir Clinton. There really ought!”

  “Consult your solicitor about that, Miss Jessop,” Sir Clinton advised, in a rather weary tone. “In the meanwhile, I’m afraid that the inspector and I need Mr. Forbury’s assistance.”

  Forbury was acute enough to see the excuse which had been offered to him to get rid of Ruth. By degrees he edged her to the door and through the outer office; and at last he succeeded in breaking away from her on the doorstep.

  While he was away, Sir Clinton sat down at the desk, drew a sheet of paper before him, and jotted down some notes, which he handed to the inspector as Forbury returned.

  “I’ll leave you and Inspector Craythorn to compare notes about Hyson’s embezzlements,” he said to the clerk. “He has some documents with him that he took from Hyson’s house. They may help to clear up a point or two for you.”

  When he had taken his leave, Craythorn glanced at the note of instructions. As he read it, his face clouded with vexation.

  “Why on earth didn’t I think of that myself?” he demanded mentally. “I ought to have spotted it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Inspector Craythorn’s Suspicions

  INSPECTOR CRAYTHORN had the type of mind which wants to have things cut and dried. He liked, as he said, to have a case where you knew the head from the tail. But this Hyson case still seemed to be completely vague. After a week of routine investigations, alibi-checking and the like, he could not even be sure whether it had been suicide or murder. “Facts, but no forrader,” he summarized the results to himself. And the estimate exasperated him the more because it was correct.

  Was it a case of suicide? Hyson had been up to the neck in these embezzlements, and Lockhurst’s sudden death had meant an immediate investigation by auditors acting for the trustees, whoever they were. Exposure, swift and inevitable, had stared Hyson in the face as soon as he got word of his chief’s collapse. And, as further investigation had proved, Hyson had not put aside any reserve of cash which would have served him in a flight. He had muddled the whole proceeds away in a series of operations which had become more risky as they developed, in the attempt to cover the initial losses by some lucky stroke. No luck had come his way, and the gas-oven might well have been his last resort.

  But that left out of account the bruise on the back of his head which the police surgeon had discovered under the suggestion of the Chief Constable. Not much of a bruise, admittedly, but still it had to be fitted in somehow before one could feel satisfied.

  Call it murder, then, and were you any better off? Craythorn had not wasted his week. He knew now pretty well how various people stood to one another and whether they had any motives for putting Hyson off the board.

  Forbury had plenty of basis for a grudge against Hyson; and what was more, he had the fear of Hyson chucking him out into the street very shortly. There was your motive. But Forbury’s alibi had been checked up and it stood firm. He had actually gone home as he said, and they had managed to fish out an acquaintance who had seen him in the picture-house which he had visited with his wife and child, that night. Forbury was clear.

  As to Effie Hinkley, she had spent the evening at a dance-hall with a girl friend and two men, all of whom were ready to swear to her whereabouts at the critical time. Kitty Nevern and young Cadbury had been checked up, too, as a matter of routine; but it had never crossed Craythorn’s mind to suspect either of them, so he was not surprised to find both of them cleared completely.

  Then there was the maid, Cissie Worgate. She had been able to produce some people who had seen her in the church hall that evening. And there was no motive in sight in her case, anyhow.

  After that, one came to the doubtfuls. Mrs. Hyson had an alibi of sorts, since she could produce her sister to testify in her favour. But Craythorn never regarded close kinsfolk as sound witnesses in a case of this type. Miss Errington was very fond of her sister, he had discovered, and to that extent her evidence might have to be taken with any amount of salt. In fact, they might both have been in the business of knocking Hyson on the head and dragging him to his death at the gas-oven. The two of them could easily have carried him between them from the drawing-room into the scullery. And all that tale about the summons on the phone — that sounded more than fishy. Especially when one coupled it with the cutting of the telephone wire, which was evidently part of the scheme. Why cut the wire except to forestall anyone ringing up? As to a motive, in Mrs. Hyson’s case there was no need to look far. She must have hated Hyson; and then there was this fellow Barsett in the background, evidently keen on her.

  Barsett himself was another “possible.” He had no real alibi. His servants believed he was in his study all evening, working at something or other — as he declared himself — but no one had actually seen him after dinner. Motive? Same as Mrs. Hyson’s.

  And, finally, there was Olive Lyndoch, discarded mistress. And not taking it lying down, either, to judge from that anonymous letter. A big powerful girl like that could have clumped Hyson on the head easily enough and then dragged him to the gas-oven, if she had a clear field.

  Now here was yet another suspect on his hands: Telford. Interviewing him would be an awkward job, and Craythorn wasn’t looking forward to it. A bit stiff, having to tell a man that his dead wife had been playing about with Hyson, deceased. Still, that was a possible motive, if Telford had learned how the land lay. One had to be thorough, and Telford would have to go through it with the rest. So they had got him down from Scotland and he was waiting outside. Better have him in now and get it over.

  Craythorn’s first impression of Jim Telford was of a young man who took pains to keep himself in perfect condition. The inspector had been a gym instructor in his day; and he noted with approval the straight-backed figure, good shoulders, and light movements as his visitor came acr
oss the room to meet him. Sir Clinton had told him about Telford’s club of ragamuffins; and the inspector felt he would like to put on the gloves with him and see how he shaped. Then he glanced at the face, with its powerful jaw and firm lips. A man like that could take a lot of punishment, Craythorn judged. Only the eyes seemed out of keeping with the rest, with their rather brooding expression. But that, the inspector reflected, was probably a result of the loss which Telford had suffered not so long ago.

  “Sorry to have brought you all the way down from Scotland, Mr. Telford,” Craythorn began.

  “There’s no need to apologise,” Jim Telford interrupted, with a smile which was meant to put the inspector at his ease but which only made him feel uncomfortable when he looked forward to his task. “I gather you’re a bit up against it over this Hyson business? I can’t see what I can do for you. But ask anything you please, and I’ll help if I can.”

  “Every little helps,” said the inspector sententiously. “We’ve had to go round asking all sorts of people questions about him, in the hope of something turning up.”

  “Suicide, wasn’t it?” Telford inquired. “I gathered as much from the beginning of the inquest. My father-in-law sent me some local newspapers about it.”

  “You were a close friend of Hyson’s, weren’t you?” inquired Craythorn, dodging the question unobtrusively.

  Jim Telford shook his head.

  “No, hardly that. Mrs. Hyson was an old friend of my wife and myself. When she married Hyson, we got to know him, of course, in a way. But he wasn’t more than an acquaintance for either of us.”

  “Oh, wasn’t he?” commented Craythorn to himself. Aloud, he answered with: “I quite understand. But you were a visitor at his house, sometimes, weren’t you?”

  “My wife and I used to go round at nights to play bridge, when we happened to be down here staying with my father-in-law. But usually Hyson was out, on these evenings. He wasn’t much of a bridge-player at best. We generally had a man Barsett to make up a four.”

  “Do you know anything about the relations between Hyson and Mrs. Hyson?” asked the inspector bluntly.

  “Does one talk about things of that sort?” asked Jim Telford, with a quick frown of displeasure. Then, realising the situation, he made a gesture as he answered: “I’d forgotten that this is official. That makes a difference, of course. Well . . . the gilt was off the gingerbread, obviously, if you take my meaning. She’d found him out and knew she ought never to have married him. We all knew that.”

  “Did Hyson keep up any style, entertain freely, and so forth?” asked Craythorn.

  Jim Telford seemed puzzled by the question. Then he caught at what he imagined the inspector’s meaning to be.

  “You mean did he splash money about? You’re thinking of this embezzling business that my father-in-law told me all about? Oh, no. The cash didn’t go in that way. They lived very quietly. One maid. When she was out in the evening, we fended for ourselves.”

  “So you knew the lie of the house pretty well?”

  Jim Telford seemed puzzled by this question also.

  “Well, I knew the public rooms, of course; and I’ve helped to carry a tea-tray into the back premises now and again, when the maid had her evening off. It was no news to me, reading about the inquest, that they had a gas cooker in the scullery. Is that what you want?”

  “I just asked,” Craythorn explained vaguely. “You mentioned a Mr. Barsett. He used to join you at bridge. Do you know anything about him?”

  “As much as one learns at a bridge table,” said Jim Telford guardedly.

  “Were he and Hyson on good terms, do you know? Close friends?”

  “I’m not sure I ever saw them together,” Jim answered cautiously.

  “Then it was Mrs. Hyson that he was a friend of?” asked the inspector.

  “In much the same way that my wife and I were friends of hers,” Jim agreed. “Hyson wasn’t the attraction in either case.”

  “Right!” said Craythorn. “I understand. Now did you know anything about Hyson? Bit of a Don Juan, wasn’t he?”

  “I’ve heard rumours of the sort,” Jim Telford admitted, though with a certain reluctance, the inspector thought.

  “You don’t know anything definite? No special case? A girl in the office, or anyone like that?”

  Jim Telford shook his head impatiently.

  “No. I tell you he was no friend of mine. He didn’t take me into his confidence about his amours, certainly.”

  “Did his wife know about his doings?” demanded the inspector.

  “Better ask her,” Jim suggested. “I never discussed the point with her, as you may suppose.”

  Craythorn could quite believe it. What he had hoped to get was any information which might have come to Jim Telford through Nancy, who was probably in Mrs. Hyson’s confidence. But clearly Telford was not going to be communicative. The inspector tried a fresh line.

  “We’ve had a lot of bother with anonymous letters in this district lately,” he began. “Lots of people seem to have received them. The Post Office has been on the track but they haven’t caught the culprit yet. You didn’t get any while you were staying here a while ago did you? Or “Mrs. Telford?”

  “I heard some talk about them,” Jim Telford admitted, curtly. “No, I got none.”

  “Nor Mrs. Telford?” the inspector pressed, thinking he had detected an evasion in the answer.

  “If she did, she said nothing to me about it,” Jim said definitely.

  “She might have got one and destroyed it?”

  “Quite possibly,” Telford admitted. “I remember discussing what one should do with such things if one got them. My view was that they ought to go straight into the fire. She knew what I thought about it.”

  The inspector was now coming to the most awkward stage of the interview. He began to wish that he had taken the trouble to frame his opening beforehand, for he had left it to the inspiration of the moment.

  “Now there’s one question I’ve got to put to you, Mr. Telford. It’s in the way of business and you know how we sometimes have to ask awkward questions just to have them contradicted and the answer put on record. You mustn’t be offended by this one.”

  He watched Jim Telford keenly as he dragged out this preliminary, speaking in a reluctant tone to give the words time to carry their full effect.

  “Well, fire ahead,” Jim recommended, with a frown which did not escape Craythorn’s eye.

  “Right! Then this is it in a nutshell. Had you any reason to suspect that Hyson and Mrs. Telford were . . . well, on friendly terms?”

  Jim Telford’s emotion required no keen physiognomist for its detection. He flushed a hot red and Craythorn, noting how his fists clenched, gathered himself together involuntarily to repel a possible attack.

  “What’s that you say?” Jim demanded, raising his voice about its normal tone in his anger. “Damn your eyes! How dare you suggest a thing like that?”

  “Well, since you take it like that, sir,” persisted Craythorn, undismayed by this explosion of rage, “I’ll put it to you straight and be done with it. We’ve had a suggestion of the sort from a certain quarter, and it’s got to be dealt with, one way or the other.”

  Suddenly Jim Telford seemed to get an idea. He relaxed to some extent, though his eye still gave a danger-signal.

  “Oh, your anonymous letter-writer, was it?” he demanded. “What did the letter say?”

  The inspector was now fairly launched and he intended to have the thing clear before he dropped it.

  “It said that Mrs. Telford used to meet Hyson after hours at Mr. Lockhurst’s office.”

  “Oh, indeed,” said Jim Telford slowly. “And when did you get this pack of lies?”

  “Last Friday,” the inspector explained.

  “Last Friday?” Telford seemed to have choked down his anger and his tone had returned to normal. “Ah, I see. Mrs. Telford can’t speak for herself; Hyson’s dead; so it’s safe to put that yarn afloat s
ince neither party’s alive to contradict it. . . . Well, it’s a pretty business, isn’t it? Slandering a girl who’s not long in her grave. Damnation! Can’t you people catch the creature who’s setting these things going? I’d know what to do, if I could lay hands on the writer of them.”

  But the inspector was not going to let himself be led away into side-issues.

  “You haven’t answered my question, sir,” he pointed out.

  “What was your question? If I knew that my wife was Hyson’s mistress? Well, I didn’t. Do you suppose that if she had been that and I had known it, Hyson would have got away with it with a whole skin? You mistake me considerably if you think anything of the sort. I’d have made him more than sorry, you can take that from me. Now is there any shadow of evidence for that slander — apart from your anonymous letter-writer? I’ve a right to know that.”

  Sir Clinton had mentioned to Craythorn the similarity between the costume Nancy Telford had worn at Mollie Keston’s wedding and the costume of the unidentified visitor to Hyson at the office after hours; but the inspector swiftly decided in his own mind that this was not “evidence” for present purposes. He didn’t propose to put anything of the sort into the hands of the angry man. That was a bit of information which could only be used at the right time, if ever.

  “No, we’re going on the letter,” he explained coolly. “We can’t ignore it, you see. That’s why I had to put it to you. It’s all in the way of business. Every little helps. Now we know better what to think of it.”

  “You must have a busy time if you pay attention to every bit of slander that a hound chooses to put on paper,” said Telford, with an undisguised sneer. “Well, are you satisfied now?”

  “You’ve answered my question,” the inspector conceded. “And, you know, Mr. Telford, I hate to ask a thing like that. I know just how you look at it and in your boots I’d feel just as you do about it. But duty’s duty,” he ended sententiously. “We’ve often got to make inquiries that we’d rather not.”