Bentley is largely known for her bestselling novel Inheritance (1932), which made her a celebrity. Set in the West Riding region of Yorkshire, its sympathetic portrayal of textile workers and mill owners spanning more than a century earned her enormous critical praise. She continued to write significant works about the region, including two more novels in what became known as the Inheritance trilogy, and two short story collections, Tales of the West Riding (1965) and More Tales of the West Riding (1974). Inheritance was filmed for British television in 1967 with Michael Goodliffe, John Thaw (later famous as Inspector Morse), and James Bolam.
Her literary fame earned Bentley numerous honors, notably her being given the Order of the British Empire in 1970. Prior to that, she had the rare distinction for an author of being pictured on a cigarette card, an honor usually reserved for athletes and film stars.
The few forays into crime fiction that Bentley made were mainly the twenty-four stories featuring Miss Phipps (although her West Riding collections featured several crime stories). “The Missing Character” (frequently reprinted as “Author in Search of a Character”) was the first, published in 1937 in Woman’s Home Companion; every other story in the series was first published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
The Miss Phipps stories are cozy detective tales in the tradition of Agatha Christie, in which good triumphs over evil, the crimes solved by a no-longer-young lady novelist, told with gentle humor.
“The Missing Character” was originally published in the July 1937 issue of Woman’s Home Companion; it was first collected in Chain of Witnesses: The Cases of Miss Phipps (Norfolk, Virginia, Crippen & Landru, 2014).
The Missing Character
PHYLLIS BENTLEY
IT WAS HALF-PAST TWO on a warm afternoon in autumn; the passengers in the northbound Pullman had lunched, wisely perhaps but certainly well, and were all ungracefully asleep in their corners, their open mouths and crimson faces cocked roofward at odd angles, like a bed of red dahlias turning to the sun. All, that is, except two persons who faced each other across a table at the far end of the coach. They were awake and indeed their eyes were particularly wide open, for each was staring glassily at a point just above the other’s head. The table between them was strewn with writing materials, which, however, neither seemed inclined to use. That they were engaged in some mental travail seemed probable; with each mile the train rushed northward the woman’s bushy white hair seemed to grow wilder, the young man’s agreeable, plain face more haggard, the eyes of both more distraught.
Miss Marian Phipps, the novelist, was busy with a problem of characterization which had held up her work for the past three weeks. It concerned the heroine of her new novel, who was just about to emerge from her brain onto the written page. The girl had stuck on the threshold so long because Miss Phipps was utterly unable to decide her appearance. It was necessary for the plot that the hero should feel for her, at first sight, a love equally tenacious, respectful, and adoring; now Miss Phipps could not decide what kind of girl, if any, nowadays could command from a contemporary such a passion. She would probably be dark, Miss Phipps had decided; but was she richly rosy, full of life, with flashing eyes, or pale, mysterious, slender? As fast as Miss Phipps pronounced for one type, she revoked the decision in favor of another.
On this, the twenty-second day of the struggle, she had as a last hope booked a seat in the Edinburgh express. She did not in the least wish to go to Edinburgh, but found long train journeys stimulating to the creative faculties. But already a considerable number of miles had gone by, and she was no nearer her solution; she felt hot, tired, cross, and in urgent need of an excuse for ceasing work.
The train took a sudden curve without slowing; Miss Phipps and the large young man found their feet and their papers mixed in consequence. With mutual loathing in their hearts they murmured apologies and disentangled their property. For the first time Miss Phipps observed the young man’s notebook; always avid for human detail, she tried to read it upside down. “S-u-l-l-e-n,” she spelled; “aged 35, sullen and vehement.” At once her large mouth widened to a smile; her eyes beamed behind her old-fashioned pince-nez.
“You are a novelist too?” she exclaimed joyfully.
The young man gave her an unresponsive glare. He did not want to talk to Miss Phipps. He did not admire Miss Phipps. As an object of vision he found her definitely unpleasing. The round pink face, the untidy white hair, the too-glowing smile, the bright blue jumper, the lopsided pince-nez moored by a chain to a kind of bollard on her substantial bosom—these clashed with his notions of female beauty; that she was a “lady novelist” as well was just, he thought, what might have been expected. “Only needs a Peke to be complete,” he decided disgustedly.
“You are a novelist too?” repeated Miss Phipps, beaming.
“Certainly not,” snapped the large young man.
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Phipps in an icy tone. “From a phrase in your notebook, which I confess I took a childish pleasure in deciphering from this angle, I surmised I might be addressing a fellow-craftsman.”
The young man was rather startled. “More in the old girl than meets the eye,” he thought. Coloring, he stammered apologies. “I was thinking of something else,” he explained. “I’m a good deal worried just now by a serious problem.”
Miss Phipps forgave him. “It’s no crime not to be a novelist,” she said. “Rather the reverse, perhaps, nowadays. And whoever we are, we all have our problems.”
There was a hint of question in her last sentence and the young man was caught by it. “I’m a detective,” he blurted. “Detective-Sergeant Tarrant, of the Southshire police headquarters.”
“Really!” cried Miss Phipps, impressed. “A detective! On a murder case, perhaps? Do tell me all about it. My name is Marian Phipps.”
The young man gave a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid I haven’t read any of your novels,” he said gloomily.
Miss Phipps had a stock rejoinder for this remark; she always replied: “No? You prefer the lighter fiction?” and found it not ineffective. But this time, hot on a murder trail, she would forgo her mild revenge. With one plump little hand she waved her novels out of court. “Do tell me about your problem,” she urged. “It will clear your thoughts to put them into words. Besides, I might be able to help. Psychology, you know. Characterization. Do tell me. I’m not a very discreet person, I’m afraid; but I don’t live anywhere near Southshire.”
Detective-Sergeant Tarrant rumpled his hair and sighed again, but more hopefully.
“Will you promise not to write up the story if I tell you?” he inquired.
Miss Phipps considered. “I will promise,” she said, “that I will not use the story for five years, and that when I do, it will be unrecognizable.”
Tarrant laughed. “Now that’s the sort of promise you can believe,” he said heartily. “Well, I’ll tell you. I’d be glad enough of any help; I don’t mind admitting I’m stuck with it myself.”
He sat up, flicked the pages of his notebook, and began in a brisk official tone:
“On Wednesday last, September thirteenth, I was summoned at one-thirty A.M. by the local police to a house on the front in the seaside resort of Brittlesea; house called Lorel Manor, property of a financier named Ambrose Stacey. Large new house, standing in large grounds; newest architecture, modern pool in rose garden. The call was received at the station at one-twenty A.M. from the butler, who stated that he had been awake in bed, reading, when he heard loud screams from Mrs. Stacey at approximately one-fifteen A.M. He went down to investigate, found her in hysterics on the landing, and called the police.”
“But who was dead?” demanded Miss Phipps impatiently.
“I went to Lorel Manor and found the whole household assembled on the upper landing,” continued the detective with a repressive glance. “In their midst was lying Mr. Ambrose Stacey, dead. His neck was broken. It was
plain that he had fallen down the short flight of stairs leading from his bedroom, a large octagonal apartment almost entirely surrounded by windows, to the main landing below.”
“An accident!” exclaimed Miss Phipps, disappointed.
“On the contrary,” said Tarrant grimly. “A piece of strong string was found dangling from the rail of the chromium balustrade at the very top of the stairs. The end was broken; a similar piece of string with a broken end was found attached to the opposite balustrade; on measuring—”
“You needn’t labor the point,” said Miss Phipps. “The string was put there to be fallen over and he fell over it. Go on.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Stacey had entered the house by means of Mr. Stacey’s latchkey,” continued the detective, consulting his notebook, “shortly after one o’clock. They had been dining—with a business friend of Mr. Stacey’s. The butler heard them come in and go straight upstairs to their room. About one-ten Mr. Stacey, desiring a whisky and soda, found that the siphon was not in its usual place on the tray in his room; he went downstairs to find it, with fatal results.”
“Ah,” said Miss Phipps, “the siphon was not in its usual place.”
“The problem is,” said the detective, “who tied that string?”
“Who was in the house at the time?” demanded the novelist.
“Mrs. Eleanor Stacey, the second wife of the deceased; Rachel, his daughter by his first wife; Rachel’s nursery governess, the butler, the cook, the housemaid, the parlormaid. Not, however, Mr. Stacey’s secretary, Jack Thornhill.”
“From your tone, Mr. Thornhill’s absence seems to have a special significance?” queried Miss Phipps.
“His absence was perhaps rather fortunate for Mr. Thornhill,” said the detective. “He has an alibi for the whole night, in Leeds; I’m going now to investigate it. It’s only fair to say, however, that it has been investigated three times already. He was speaking at a birthday dinner in Leeds at half-past nine; I don’t see what you can do against that. It’s more than two hundred miles from Leeds to Brittlesea.”
“Mr. Thornhill is young and handsome. I take it?” said Miss Phipps, her voice warm with interest.
The detective nodded. “If you like that varnished type,” he said.
“And Mrs. Stacey is also young and handsome?”
The detective nodded again, emphatically.
“And Ambrose Stacey was neither young nor handsome?”
“He was fifty-nine,” replied Tarrant consideringly, “but really I’m not so sure about the handsome. A very big powerful fellow, with penetrating blue eyes and thick graying hair which stands up from his head, if you know what I mean.”
“En brosse,” suggested Miss Phipps.
“Very likely,” said the detective. “Mrs. Stacey is prostrate with grief; you’d certainly think she was devoted to him. She is really very beautiful, you know; young and fair and gentle. Early twenties.”
“Poor before she married?” inquired Miss Phipps.
“Yes. Poor and county. Expensive tastes, I daresay. And she gets a pretty fair amount of cash by the will,” said Tarrant. “And young Thornhill dotes on her. From appearances you’d judge she loved her husband. But plainly she’s the first to be suspected.” He sighed.
Miss Phipps gave him a shrewd look. “Was the deceased financier what for the sake of brevity we call a gentleman?” she asked.
“Lord, no!” replied the detective more cheerfully. “No more a gentleman than I am.”
Miss Phipps surveyed him with approval. “Tell me more,” she said.
“Stacey was a thorough rascal, but a dashed interesting chap,” went on Tarrant. “Ambrose Stacey wasn’t his real name.”
“I thought it sounded a little pseudo,” said the novelist.
“Oh, you did?” said the detective, glancing at her respectfully. “Well, he had one of those obscure middle-European names, you know, which may mean anything. He’d been everywhere and done everything, and collected a lot of cash in rather odd ways, and I expect also made a lot of enemies. It may be one of them who’s bumped him off; that’s the trouble, from my point of view. He married his first wife when he was poor, in the middle-European days, and she never quite fitted into his new setting. He was apt to find consolation elsewhere for that, if you understand me; but at any rate he must have been a decent father, for his daughter, Rachel, simply adores him. The first Mrs. Stacey died seven years ago, and he remained faithful to her memory, outwardly at least, till he married Eleanor. That was just the early spring of this year.”
“And Rachel?” said Miss Phipps thoughtfully. “The daughter?”
“Well, of course I thought of her at once,” said the detective. “She’s twelve years old and the door of her room is just at the foot of the fatal stairs; and string tied to banisters—it sounds like a child’s practical joke.”
“A curious set of circumstances, if so,” commented Miss Phipps. “A child chances to seize the only possible five minutes when the joke could bring disaster. For in the morning Mr. and Mrs. Stacey would presumably be called by a maid with tea, going up the stairs.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” said the detective grimly, “for it wasn’t a practical joke. The small landing outside the Staceys’ room is lighted by a wall lamp which turns on by a switch at the bedroom door. The bulb had been removed from it.”
“Tchk!” exclaimed Miss Phipps. “How shocking!”
“The bulb was lying at the foot of the lamp, intact; therefore it had not fallen but been placed there. Nobody admits removing it,” concluded the detective.
“Worse and worse,” said Miss Phipps distressfully. “And the child? Rachel?”
“She’s a pretty little thing, but delicate; thin and pale and as nervy as you make ’em,” replied Tarrant. “Of course, I’ve only seen her in trouble, you may say; she was in despair about her father. But everyone tells me what a nervy delicate child she is; why, Mrs. Stacey had moved her to her present bedroom from a more distant one, so as to be able to hear her if she woke and cried in the night. At twelve years old, you know. Yes, poor kid; she’s clever but nervy.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Miss Phipps, twitching her bushy eyebrows mournfully. “I’m unhappy about this case, very.”
“Why?” said the detective.
“Aren’t you?” demanded Miss Phipps, looking at him shrewdly.
“Yes. But I don’t see how she could have done it,” said Tarrant. “Five past one, light there, no string; ten past one, string there, no light. How could she suddenly leave the bedroom and begin to fidget on her hands and knees just outside the door? What could she say if her husband looked out to see what she was doing? Why didn’t she remove the string and replace the light before screaming to the butler?”
“Oh,” said Miss Phipps slowly, “you’re thinking of Mrs. Stacey.”
“Of course. Aren’t you?”
“Never mind. Go on,” said Miss Phipps firmly. “What steps did you take to solve the mystery?”
“I looked,” said Tarrant, “first for the bulb and then for the siphon.”
“Very proper,” said Miss Phipps nodding. “A good point. You looked for the siphon. And where did you find it?”
“In young Thornhill’s room,” said Tarrant. “That’s why I’m investigating his alibi for the third time. He says, however, that Stacey came into his room that morning as he was packing his case for his journey to Leeds, to have a last word with him; Stacey wanted a drink, pulled out his flask, and sent Thornhill for the nearest siphon, which of course was the one in his bedroom. A silly story, but in view of Stacey’s habits it may be true. Thornhill says that as he returned, siphon in hand, he met Rachel going to her bedroom, and Rachel corroborates this, time and place.”
“Oh, I’m delighted to hear it!” cried Miss Phipps with joy. “It’s a very great relief to me indeed; I’m simp
ly delighted to hear it.”
“But why?” demanded Tarrant in some exasperation. “That doesn’t clear young Thornhill of removing the siphon on his own, for a murderous motive.”
“I never thought it did,” said Miss Phipps. “But he has an alibi. Oh, I am so delighted to hear it, so delighted!”
“What do you see in this case that I don’t, I wonder?” said the detective thoughtfully.
“My dear boy,” said Miss Phipps firmly, “you said yourself that the method sounded childish. Rachel had the best opportunity of placing the string—better than anyone else in the house; her door is just at the foot of the stairs; you said so.”
“But it wasn’t a practical joke, because of the light,” objected Tarrant.
“Exactly. The fall was quite premeditated,” said Miss Phipps, “quite intended. But might it not,” said Miss Phipps sadly, “might it not have been premeditated by Rachel?”
“You mean she meant to murder her father?” cried Tarrant. He paused to consider. “Good God!” He struck the table with his hand. “She knew about the siphon!”
“To my mind,” observed Miss Phipps calmly, “that’s just what clears her of the suspicion of murder and that’s why I was so delighted to hear of it.”
“Miss Marian Phipps,” said the detective, “you’re a very exasperating woman.”
“My dear boy,” observed Miss Phipps very earnestly, “I beg you not to take my criticism unkindly. But, if you will allow me to say so, you’re making a great mistake. You’re paying too much attention to the mechanics of your plot—bulbs and strings and siphons—and neglecting your human element, your characterization. Why should Rachel murder her father?”
“She had no reason on earth,” said the detective. “She adored him.”
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 114
