by Evelyn James
Park-Coombs shook his head. Clara paced across the room and back again.
“So, the killer doesn’t know the gun is an almost worthless piece of evidence?” Clara continued.
“What are you thinking?” Park-Coombs watched her curiously.
“I am thinking, inspector, that we might lure the murderer out by convincing them the gun holds the key to the mystery.”
“Tempt them into a trap?” Park-Coombs stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, we could try that. Only, I have sent the gun back to the station.”
“We shall use the second gun from the case,” Clara shrugged. “They are identical, and we can cover the case with a cloth to disguise that both are absent.”
Clara moved to the long table in the library and placed her hand on its polished surface.
“We shall let it slip that fingerprints were found on the gun. All the family will need to be fingerprinted for comparison. We shall make it plain that this will solve the crime.”
“And the gun will be here, in this room,” Park-Coombs followed her line of thought. “We shall say that Oliver is going to take photographs of the fingerprints.”
“By sheer fluke, Oliver will briefly absent the room and the gun will be left unattended for a significant span of time. During which, if our killer has any sense, they will try to steal the gun and remove the one piece of evidence that could convict them,” Clara concluded.
Park-Coombs grinned from ear-to-ear.
“I like it. But we must set to work at once. We shall gather everyone in the dining room, it is opposite the library and will give the suspects a good view of proceedings here.”
“And we must have Betty Howton and the butler Crawley present,” Clara added. “They are suspects too and there will be no harm, if they are innocent, of letting them know it.”
The inspector was keen now.
“Give me an hour to arrange things. I’ll have one of my constables hidden in here to watch the trap,” Park-Coombs glanced about, planning how to arrange the room to suitably conceal his constable. “And I’ll have to brief Oliver.”
“I’ll gather everyone in the dining room,” Clara assured him. “And I’ll pretend to let the cat out of the bag concerning the fingerprints on the gun.”
They went to their respective tasks, eager to set their plan into action.
~~~*~~~
Genevieve clasped her hands together anxiously.
“I don’t understand why they need my fingerprints,” she said for the third time.
“Miss Fitzgerald explained all that,” Richard replied to her crossly. “They found fingerprints on the gun that killed Harvey, and they want to compare them to ours.”
“But, why mine?” Genevieve insisted. “I never touched the gun!”
“Then the fingerprints they take off you will prove that!” Richard growled at her.
“Aren’t you worried, Richard?” Diana turned to her brother. Unlike Genevieve she was acting calmly and unconcerned by the whole affair. “It was your gun. Surely your fingerprints will be on it regardless?”
“And I hope the police are clever enough to see that,” Richard grumbled. “In any case, the newest fingerprints will sit over the older ones. It will be those top ones they are interested in, and since I haven’t handled the gun in years, they will not be mine.”
“Nor mine!” Genevieve squeaked, her terror seemingly mounting.
Clara placed a clean fingerprint card before Betty Howton and explained how she should ink her fingers on an inkpad and then press them onto the card in order. Betty was looking stunned by the whole thing.
“This will tell us who killed Harvey?” she whispered to Clara.
“I hope so,” Clara replied, her uncertainty genuine. The murderer still had to fall for the trap.
“Then I shall gladly give my fingerprints,” Betty inked her fingers and pressed them onto the card.
Mr Crawley was being more recalcitrant. He was standing aloof from the others with a look of disdain on his face.
“Mr Crawley, if you would oblige?” Clara held out a card to the butler.
“I do not see the relevance of all this,” Crawley snapped. “And I do not like the idea of getting my fingers covered in ink. I have my appearance as the most senior servant in the house to think about. I can’t go around with inky fingers.”
“The ink will wash off,” Clara told him. “This is a standard police procedure.”
“It may be that, but I am affronted by the indignity of it all. To be cast under the suspicion of being a murderer is offensive alone, but to be asked to give my fingerprints like a common criminal goes beyond the grain! I am offended on behalf of the family too!”
“We are not bothered, Crawley,” Richard rumbled from his seat at the dining room table. “Better to have the suspicion cleared from us, don’t you think? Unless you have something to hide, old boy?”
“Nonsense, Master Richard!” Crawley looked appalled by the thought. “I must protest at such implications. I have been nothing but loyal to your family.”
“Yes, yes,” Richard brushed off his excuses. “Just give your fingerprints, will you?”
Reluctantly the butler sat at the table and, with great distaste, dabbed his fingers into the inkpad and pressed them onto the card. Clara wondered if his hesitation was purely out of revulsion at being even considered a suspect, or whether he had other reasons for his uncertainty?
Park-Coombs entered the dining room to see how proceedings were fairing.
“How are we doing?” Park-Coombs asked casually.
“I think everyone is done,” Clara replied. “Has Oliver managed to take the photograph?”
“He was just about to,” Park-Coombs answered. “Something about getting the light just perfec…”
Timed to perfection, there was a smashing sound and a hushed voice cursing himself for his clumsiness. Through the open door of the dining room it was possible to get a clear view of the library. Oliver emerged from the far room, leaving the doors wide open. He was carrying shards of glass in his hands.
“Everything all right, Oliver?” Clara called across from the dining room, drawing the attention of everyone present.
“Smashed my last glass plate!” Oliver replied, annoyed with himself. “I’ll have to fetch some more from my studio. Sorry Inspector, I’ll try not to be too long.”
“Never mind Oliver,” the inspector shrugged. “I’ll give you a lift in the police car, that will save time and I wanted to drop by the station.”
Park-Coombs and Oliver conveniently removed themselves from the hall. The library doors were left open, the gun plainly visible on the table with Oliver’s camera mounted on a tripod next to it. Clara shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh well, looks like we will have to be patient a while longer,” she said, then she started to gather up the fingerprint cards, ensuring they were correctly labelled with the names of everyone. Her suspects started to filter out of the room. Crawley walked straight across to the library. Clara had been bending over the dining room table, labelling a card. Now she stood bolt upright and watched the butler. He stopped at the door of the library and peered inside, tutting loudly to himself.
“More broken glass,” he could be heard mumbling then, apparently satisfied that Oliver had left no fragments of the smashed plate behind, he turned and walked back to the servants’ quarters.
Clara relaxed. The trap had not yet been sprung.
She remained in the dining room, pretending to be working on some notes. She had pushed the doors ajar, so she would be invisible to anyone approaching the library. She didn’t want to put off the murderer from stealing the gun by her presence. She had been sat alone for ten minutes, when she heard footsteps in the hall outside. Someone was pacing about.
Clara could not resist. She went to the door and peered through the gap. To her surprise, Genevieve was stood before the library doors, walking back and forth agitatedly. Genevieve had been low on Clara’s list of suspects �
�� until that moment. Now Clara wondered if she had misjudged her. Maybe she had been cunning enough to steal her brother’s gun and murder Harvey?
Genevieve paced for several more moments, then she went into the library. Clara braced herself for the shout of the constable watching over the gun. Any moment she expected the trap to be sprung, but just as she was certain Genevieve must be the culprit, the woman reappeared with a book in her hands. It seemed she had not been after the gun, but after a volume from the shelves of the library. Her reluctance to enter had been a natural response to the room being taken over as the inspector’s domain for the time being. She walked away and Clara could see that the revolver remained exactly where it had always been.
Returning to the dining room table, Clara started to wonder if the killer would walk into the trap at all. Perhaps they were prepared to take a chance with the fingerprints? What if the killer was the one person they had not had into the dining room to take fingerprints from? Angelica was a suspect, but her current state of catatonic shock rendered her incapable of knowing about, let alone stumbling into, the trap Clara and the inspector had set. If she was the murderer, then Clara would have to accept she had already been punished by her own remorse and grief.
Clara glanced at her watch. The inspector and Oliver would return soon. It looked as though the trap had failed. Clara felt a wave of despair come over her. She had no idea how to proceed beyond this point, no idea how to solve the riddle of Harvey’s death. Surely she would not have to leave this case unsolved?
The churning of the gravel on the drive outside told her that the inspector was back. It was over.
She was just rising to her feet, to explain to the inspector that they had failed, when a shout rang out from the library.
“I have them! I have them!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Clara rushed into the front hall. She nearly collided with the inspector, who had just entered through the front door as the cry went up. He muttered an apology without breaking stride. They both entered the library at the same moment.
The constable had emerged from his hiding place. He was holding the arms of the person who had stumbled into the trap. The revolver was lying on the floor, dropped in haste. Oliver’s camera had been knocked over and he gave a cry as he ran to rescue it and check it was not damaged.
Inspector Park-Coombs paused for a moment, confronted with the scene. Then he gave a long, serious sigh.
“Mrs Howton,” he said. “Looks like you need to explain yourself.”
Betty Howton had dropped her head down as the young constable held her arms. She was trembling, knowing that any feeble excuse she might attempt would not be taken seriously. Her lip wobbled and she gave a tiny sob. Clara was reminded of Betty’s youth and couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. She stepped closer.
“Best you come clean Betty,” she said softly to her. “You can only have been picking up the gun for one reason.”
Betty bit at her lip.
“I’ve made a right mess of things,” she groaned to herself. “I couldn’t let them see it was my prints on the gun.”
“You took the revolver from the case,” Park-Coombs joined Clara facing Betty. “Did you know it was loaded?”
“There was a little sign that said as much on the case. The last bullet Richard never got to fire,” Betty sniffed. “I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just so angry.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Clara suggested.
Park-Coombs motioned that the constable could let Betty go, and they sat her in a chair and brought two more for themselves. Then the inspector told the constable to watch the doors to the library, so they were not disturbed. In the calm privacy of the room, Betty slowly relaxed. The reality of her situation was sinking in and, with it, a sense of resignation had come over her. Her fury at Harvey had been spent, now there was only the realisation that she had killed the man she loved.
“Mr Crawley told you Harvey was alive, didn’t he?” Clara asked.
Betty nodded her head.
“Mr Crawley thought I ought to know,” Betty mumbled. “He saw me as I was leaving the hall. I suppose he thought I was going home and didn’t want me to leave without knowing the truth. When he told me I was dazed. I found my way to the inn and rented a room, hardly aware of anything, my mind was spinning!
“I sat in the room and I started to piece things together. Harvey was alive and at first that made me so happy! But then I asked myself why he had not contacted me in all those weeks? Why had he not let me know? The more I thought on it, the more I was convinced he had abandoned me.”
Betty pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped at her eyes.
“I won’t cry for him anymore,” she told them stoutly. “He isn’t worth it. I saw that letter in his room. The one from that other woman, talking about their engagement plans. I realised then how things were.”
Clara said nothing. She had seen the letter too, and on its own it appeared damning, but when you knew the background of the situation between Harvey and his mother things became a little clearer. Not that Harvey was a gentleman for stringing along two women, but he was presumably thrust into a dilemma by the overwhelming power his mother had over him.
“I realised, in that moment, that I knew something secret that only a handful of people knew. That Harvey was actually alive!” Betty had focused her attention on Clara, she seemed happier talking to another woman than the inspector. “I don’t know, but, in that moment it seemed I had a sort of power over Harvey. I was angry and upset, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I thought I would go after him and I would confront him and… and I would tell him that I would reveal what I knew if he didn’t come back to me!”
Betty, despite her previous statement, had tears running down her cheeks. She wiped them again with a hanky.
“I knew about the spare key for the inn door. I could slip out and then get back in without anyone knowing I had been gone. And so I came to the grounds of the hall and I watched for Harvey. I knew the time he would come to the drawing room window. Only, that night, he didn’t come,” Betty pursed her lips together. “I was so confused. I started to wonder if Crawley had told him that I knew he was alive? Maybe he would no longer come at all? I was so upset. I thought maybe he had gone for good!”
“Betty, did you not wonder why he was playing out such a charade?” Clara asked as the girl fell into silence.
Betty hefted her shoulders up and down miserably.
“Harvey was always playing games. I didn’t give it any thought. I was too worried about why he had lied to me, abandoned me,” Betty closed her eyes and gave a shaky sigh. “I was, sort of, paralyzed by my own anger and hurt in that moment. I just stood, hidden in the bushes, my mind revolving over and over again what had happened. I lost track of time, I even stopped noticing the cold. I should have gone back to the inn, everything would have been better if I had done that. But I didn’t move.
“Then, as if I had conjured him up from his hiding place, Harvey was suddenly there, at the drawing room door. I don’t even remember seeing him appear. Maybe I closed my eyes for a bit, I don’t know. But then he was at the drawing room door and he was letting himself in. I hesitated for just a moment, long enough to see him go through into the front hall and then I made my mind up to follow him.
“I was angry again. So very tired and so very angry. I had meant to confront him, ask him for the truth, but suddenly that didn’t seem as important as making him suffer for how he had treated me. I mean, I knew why he had abandoned me, why should I waste time listening to his excuses? I picked up the poker from the fireplace first. It was heavy and I felt such a great desire to hit Harvey, to make him know what it felt like to be hurt that badly…”
Betty’s emotions got the better of her again. She had to stop for a moment to control her tears, she was choking on her own grief – grief for both herself and Harvey. She had never stopped loving him, despite her words.
“When
I got into the front hall, I realised I could not see a thing and the poker suddenly seemed a bad idea. I went to put it back, but I couldn’t see where I was and I went into the gun room rather than the drawing room. My eyes fell on the display case with the revolvers. I remembered what Genevieve kept saying about ‘winging’ the intruder. I thought… I don’t know… in that strange moment, it occurred to me that I could shoot the gun at Harvey to scare him, to make him realise how upset I was. I never meant to kill him…”
Betty opened her eyes and looked first at Clara and then at the inspector.
“Never. I never meant…” she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and made a sort of retching noise, as if she was now truly grasping what she had done and it sickened her.
Without a word, the inspector rose, departed the room and returned moments later with a glass of brandy. Betty sipped the alcohol, slowly recovering herself enough to carry on.
“It was easy to smash the case with the poker. But, oh, it made such a noise! I thought someone would hear me, but I guess I forgot how vast this place is,” Betty looked around her, as if seeing the many corridors and rooms of the hall from where she sat. The enormity of the building seemed to scare her. “I put the poker by the fireplace in the gun room and I took out Richard’s gun, the one with the last bullet…
“After that everything seemed to be happening to someone else, like it was all a dream and I was not a part of things at all. I went upstairs after Harvey. I didn’t really know where he had gone, but I could guess. I came across him in the corridor. I actually startled him. For a moment he didn’t realise it was me.
“I waved the gun at him. ‘You’ve done me wrong, Harvey!’ I told him. He just stood staring at me, he seemed stunned I was there. ‘I want you to know what it feels like to be hurt!’ I said, and I was waving the gun about and he said, ‘Don’t be silly, Betty!’ And it was his tone! The way he patronised me! I just snapped! And it was so dark, I really only meant to graze his shoulder, but I’ve never fired a gun before and I didn’t realise how close he was to me…”
