Hemingway nodded. ‘Just like you do me! What did you make of him?’
‘It is hard to say. There is verra little doubt in my mind he thought I had come to question him about the first murder, for it was of that he talked, until I asked him to tell me what time it was when he reached the Opera House. I am bound to say that he looked scared for his life when I put that to him, and when, later on, I told him what it was I was enquiring about, he gave a sgiamh, and fainted away!’
‘Good God!’ ejaculated Hemingway.
‘You may well say so!’ agreed Grant. ‘When he came round, och, I thought he was going to weep! But a wee dram pulled him together, and he swore to me that all he went to Charles Street for was to ask Mrs Haddington why she had told lies about him to us. Forbye, he remembered that he went past Lord Guisborough on the stairs. He rushed from the house, leaving his walking-stick behind him. There were all sorts of times he gave me, but the truth is he does not know when he left Charles Street. According to his tale, he went home to Park Lane, and changed into his eveningdress, and came in a taxi to Covent Garden just in time to get to his box before the curtain rose on the first ballet. And whether he was speaking the truth to me or not I cannot tell. For there is no knowing how to take him! For all he fainted under my eyes, no sooner did he hear the bell ringing for the end of the interval than he was in a fret to get back to his box for fear he would miss the last ballet!’
‘Might have been in a fret to get away from you,’ Hemingway said. ‘However, it doesn’t seem to me as though he had any reason for killing Mrs Haddington, so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.’
‘It might be that she was killed – though I will not say it was by Butterwick, mind! – because she knew too much about the first murder,’ Grant pointed out.
‘It might,’ Hemingway agreed. ‘Always a possibility.’
‘You do not think it?’ Grant said, eyeing him shrewdly.
‘Who said I don’t think it?’ Hemingway retorted. ‘What you want to do, Sandy, is to keep an open mind! Now, you take a look at Exhibits 1 and 2, and tell me if anything strikes you about them!’
The Inspector frowned down at the lengths of wire on the desk. ‘Picture-wire, both,’ he said. ‘But one is older than the other, for it is tarnished. They got no distin guishable prints from the second one?’
‘None at all.’ Hemingway picked up a short length of twine, and held it out. ‘Just take this, Sandy!’ He set his elbow on the table, holding his forearm vertically. ‘I want you to imitate our interesting murders round my wrist. You can use that ruler for your tourniquet, and there’s no need to go to extremes! Just show me how you’d set about the job, if you were going to bump anyone off like that!’
The Inspector looked faintly surprised, but he obediently slipped the twine round Hemingway’s arm, held the two ends in his left hand, and with his right inserted the ruler above his grip, and gave it a couple of twists. He paused then, glancing enquiringly down at his chief. Hemingway nodded. ‘That’s enough. Let go! Now do it again!’
The Inspector’s brow creased. He said nothing, however, but faithfully repeated his performance.
‘So that’s the way you’d do it every time, is it?’ said Hemingway. ‘So would Carnforth. Young Thirsk, on the other hand, does it my way!’
‘Your way?’
‘We use our right hands for the grip, and our left for the tourniquet. Thus, my lad, we get the twist from left to right, and you get it from right to left – same like Operator Number One.’
The Inspector uttered an exclamation, and looked quickly down at the wires on the desk. ‘Mo thruaighe! I never noticed it! Is one a left-handed man, then?’
‘No, not necessarily. None of us four’s left-handed. It’s all according to taste. Some find it natural to do it one way, some prefer the other. Try doing it my way!’
The Inspector obeyed, but slowly. He said: ‘It is not just natural to me – but I could do it!’
‘Could, but wouldn’t. Well, I think that’s about enough for today – and not so bad, either! You get off home now. I don’t want you at the Inquest tomorrow: once we’re through with Sir Roderick Vickerstown and the doctor, I shall ask for an adjournment. You go to Poulton’s offices, and see what you can discover there! I’ll see you here, after the Inquest: I’m not meeting this Eddleston chap till twelve o’clock, in Charles Street.’
The Inspector picked up his hat, saying with his fugitive smile: ‘You always say, do you not, that when a case becomes so tangled there is no solving it something will break?’
‘I daresay, because it’s perfectly true! Why I wasn’t made a Superintendent years ago I shall never know! These two bits of wire, Sandy, show how the best laid plans of mice and men can gang agley!’
‘Ma seadh! ‘ said the Inspector, his hand on the door-knob. ‘But where you learned that Lowland accent I know not!’ Upon which Parthian shot he circumspectly withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
Eighteen
They met on the following morning. The Inspector made a little gesture of incomprehension. ‘It becomes more and more duilich!’ he said. ‘Unless they lied to me at Poulton’s office, or he to them, they expect him to return this afternoon. I had the particulars of this conference he has gone to attend from his head clerk. Och, I suspected there was no conference, but it is true enough!’
‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me,’ replied Hemingway. ‘Somehow it never seemed likely that a bird like Poulton would have skipped the country for good. Too hard a head, for one thing; and too much at stake for another. Not counting that wife of his. If, as seems the safest bet at the moment, he committed the second murder, I don’t doubt he’s got an unshakeable alibi up his sleeve.’
‘Now, that he cannot have,’ the Inspector said reasonably. ‘For well we know he was the last man to see the poor lady alive!’
‘The murderer was the last man to see her alive, my lad, and don’t you lose sight of that fact! If the murderer is Poulton, I shall find myself up against something, because he hasn’t got where he is without being a very cool customer! Now we’ll get along to Charles Street!’
They reached Charles Street barely five minutes before the younger Mr Eddleston was also set down at the house, and were received by Miss Pickhill. She informed them that her niece was closeted with the dressmaker, who had arrived that morning with the altered black frock, and was making some final adjustments to it. She said, in rather a grudging way, that she had been agreeably surprised in Miss Birtley, who had not only come to the house at the correct hour, but had been helpful in drafting the notice for The Times, and ordering mourning-cards. Of her niece’s activities she said nothing, but from the prim look round her withered mouth it was to be inferred that these had not met with her approval. The sealing of the two rooms seemed still to rankle in her mind; and she said with a good deal of asperity that she would insist upon being present when the Chief Inspector searched her sister’s bedroom.
Young Mr Eddleston was discovered to be a middleaged man with the long upper-lip that was so often to be found amongst the members of his profession. He had been bred in a firm whose chief livelihood derived from Conveyancing; he was always opposed to any form of litigation, invariably advising his clients to keep out of the Law Courts; and, as he informed Hemingway at the outset, he had never before found himself involved in criminal proceedings. He said that he had very little knowledge of his late client’s affairs: he had drafted her Will; he had conducted the negotiations for the leasing of her house; but he had rarely been called upon to advise her in affairs of more moment.
‘I may say,’ he remarked, as the seals on the door of the boudoir were broken, and they entered this apartment, ‘that I was very much shocked by the intelligence you conveyed to me on the telephone last night, Chief Inspector. I was never at all intimate with Mrs Haddington, but, as I told you, I think, it so happens that I had had a telephone conversation with her that very day. Nothing of importance: j
ust a slight question about the repairs to this house; but I had quite a little chat with her, and she seemed to be in good spirits – quite herself ! How little did I think that before nightfall she would be dead!’
‘Did she say anything to you about the murder of Mr SeatonCarew?’ asked Hemingway, moving towards the desk.
‘A few words! Just a few words! She was not a woman who ever wore her heart on her sleeve, as the saying is, and naturally I forbore to question her closely.’
‘Naturally,’ Hemingway agreed. ‘I daresay she was a good deal upset? An old friend, I understand?’
‘So I believe,’ said Mr Eddleston, gravely nodding his head. ‘She was disinclined to discuss the matter, but I should not have described her as upset, precisely. A very unpleasant thing to happen in one’s house!’
‘Was that all Mrs Haddington felt about it?’ Hemingway asked.
‘No doubt,’ said Mr Eddleston, ‘Mrs Haddington was distressed to have lost a friend under such tragic circumstances; but I am quite sure there was no reason for her to feel – um – any stronger emotion! Indeed, I can confidently assert that she did not feel such an emotion. We conversed together perfectly cheerfully for several minutes, first about her landlord’s liabilities; then about possible marriage settlements for Miss Cynthia – poor child, this will have come as a crushing blow to her! Then Mrs Haddington desired me to furnish her with certain information about the Marriage and Legitimacy Acts, for a friend of hers; and I think that was all – no, not quite! Mrs Haddington wished to know what her legal position was in regard to her servants’ wages, two of whom, as I understood, had threatened to leave without the customary notice given.’
As he spoke, he seated himself at the desk; but before he opened it, he cast a glance round the room, and said, with a cough: ‘This, I believe, is the actual room where…?’
‘That chair,’ said Hemingway, indicating it.
Mr Eddleston set his pince-nez on his nose the better to survey the fatal chair. He then said: ‘Terrible! Terrible!’ and turned his attention to the desk.
There was nothing amongst the papers discovered in it to give the slightest indication of who might have killed Mrs Haddington, or from what source she had derived the greater part of her income. She had never consulted her solicitors on the disposal of her property; Mr Eddleston only knew that she was a woman of considerable substance. Pressed, he admitted that he had had reason, during the past years, to assume that her investments had been fortunate; but he was ignorant of the sum bequeathed to her by her husband, a gentleman whose affairs he had not handled. He disclosed to Hemingway that her Will was a very simple document: she had left everything of which she died possessed to her daughter. Until the Will was proved, her trustees, of whom he was one, could not know the size of her estate.
The desk contained such oddments as a ball of string, a pair of large scissors in a leather case, paper clips, visiting-cards, and wrapping-paper. The only documents of possible interest were some Bank Pass-sheets, and an investment book. A cursory glance at this yielded little information, beyond the bare fact that Mrs Haddington’s investments had been many, and, apparently, sound. The Pass-sheets showed a small over-draft: it was plain that Mrs Haddington had been living for some time rather beyond her very large income.
This was shown to be much too large in an epoch when not the largest fortune was permitted to yield its owner more than five thousand pounds yearly, nor did the entries on the credit side bear any relation to certain outgoing sums made payable to the Commissioners of Inland Revenue. This discrepancy was accounted for by the frequent occurrence of the word Cash against some of the sums received. Mr Eddleston, peering at these, looked faintly revolted, but said, removing his pince-nez from his nose and polishing the lenses with his handkerchief: ‘It is regrettable, Chief Inspector, but, I fear, inevitable under our present system of taxation, that more and more people are being forced to evade excessive taxation by employing shifts they would not, I venture to state, have stooped even to contemplate ten years ago.’
‘It might be that, of course,’ Hemingway said, shutting the leather folder which contained the Pass-sheets. ‘I shall want this, sir.’
‘Certainly,’ said Mr Eddleston. ‘You are, of course, entitled to retain whatever you wish.’
‘There’s nothing else I want here, thank you, sir. She doesn’t seem to have kept many papers. We may find some more in her bedroom.’
When they left the boudoir, they found Miss Pickhill hovering outside the drawing-room, on the landing above. She eyed them with some hostility, and informed young Mr Eddleston that she was bound to say she was surprised at his conduct. He very unwisely tried to explain the difficulties of his position to her. Before he had in any way convinced her either that he was power less to prevent the police from searching her sister’s house or that his father would have acted otherwise, a further interruption occurred. Thrimby came up the stairs, bearing, on a silver salver, a large, squarecut emerald, set in diamond claws on a platinum bar. This he presented to Hemingway, saying: ‘Madam’s brooch, Chief Inspector, which she lost yesterday afternoon, and asked to have carefully looked-for. I fancy the safety-catch is defective, for it was found slipped down the side of one of the armchairs in the drawing-room. I thought it best, sir,’ he added, staring over Miss Pickhill’s head, ‘to give it into your charge.’
As Hemingway picked the brooch up, and looked at its catch, which was indeed loose, Cynthia appeared at the head of the stairs, with Miss Spennymoor behind her. Cynthia was clad in the altered black frock. She looked ethereally fair, but her beauty was spoilt by a sullen pout. She exclaimed, on catching sight of the brooch: ‘That’s Mummy’s! What are you doing with it?’
She came running down the stairs, and almost snatched it from Hemingway’s hand. Miss Pickhill, clucking her displeasure, explained the circumstances to her, whereupon she said: ‘I know the catch is loose. It came undone at teatime, and Mummy said she must take it to be mended.’ She began to pin it to the bosom of her frock, adding: ‘Has the chemist sent yet, Thrimby?’
‘No, miss.’
‘Well, Miss Birtley can dam’ well go and collect the stuff ! It’s no use giving me marvellous medicines if they’re not even sent for me to take!’
‘Cynthia, I beg you will take that brooch off at once!’ Miss Pickhill said, her cheeks showing a heightened colour. ‘It isn’t decent! Besides, emeralds for a girl of your age – ! Let alone that you are in deep mourning!’
‘All that sort of thing is hopelessly out-of-date!’ Cynthia declared. ‘I don’t mind wearing this ghastly rag just at first, but I’m not going to stay in mourning for a year! I’d rather die! What’s more, all Mummy’s things are mine now, and I have a perfect right to do what I like with them! Haven’t I?’ she demanded, turning to Mr Eddleston.
This gentleman, finding himself much in sympathy with Miss Pickhill, coughed, and suggested that perhaps it would be more proper if the brooch were put amongst Mrs Haddington’s other jewels, until the Will had at least been read. Cynthia at once displayed a lamentable desire to argue the point, but her aunt, of whom she secretly stood rather in awe, clinched the matter by wresting the trinket from her, and announcing her intention of bestowing it in her sister’s jewel-case with her own hands. Cynthia then complained of the total lack of sympathy she met with on all sides, and added that Mummy always kept her jewel-box locked, anyway, and as nobody knew where her keys were it would puzzle her aunt to put the brooch with the other jewels.
‘I have Mrs Haddington’s keys, miss,’ Hemingway interposed. ‘They were in her handbag – some of them, that is. Perhaps you can tell me what they belong to?’
‘I call it pretty good cheek of you to take my mother’s keys without asking me first!’ said Cynthia. ‘That’s the one to her jewel-box, and the other’s the little desk in her room. And that’s her latch-key. And if you’re going to unlock her room now, I’m coming too!’
‘Cynthia, dear child!’ said Miss Pic
khill, repressing, as a Christian, her strong desire to box her niece’s ears, ‘there is no need for you to do that. I will accompany these Persons. You do not want, I am sure, to go into your poor mother’s room today.’
‘Yes, I do,’ asserted Cynthia obstinately. ‘Of course it’ll practically kill me, but I’ve got to face it sometime, haven’t I? And if I have to wear this dingy frock, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have that marvellous black-and-silver scarf of Mummy’s, to go with it. She’d like me to: I know she would!’
Miss Pickhill found this speech so daunting that she was unable to think of a reply to it that would not violate her own canons of behaviour towards the bereaved. Inspector Grant, averting his grave eyes from the pretty, spoilt face of the orphan, encountered a glance from Hemingway, and went up the stairs, carrying the key to Mrs Haddington’s bedroom in his hand. With the exceptions of Miss Spennymoor and Thrimby, the party followed him.
The room was in darkness, the heavy curtains of brocaded silk still being drawn across the windows. When these had been pulled back, it was seen that Mrs Haddington’s dinnergown of black velvet had been laid out on the bed, her opulent dressing-gown disposed across a chair, and a pair of paper-thin stockings placed ready for her to put on. Miss Pickhill drew in her breath with a hissing sound, and Cynthia burst into tears. However, when it was suggested to her that she should withdraw from a scene so painfully reminiscent of her loss, she stopped crying, very nobly announcing her determination to face facts, and went to powder her face at the dressing-table between the two windows.
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