Jack on the Gallows Tree

by Bruce, Leo

  “Or sacrificing our good health to the vice of nicotine.”

  “No? But she was a very healthy woman, I believe?”

  “She was no more unhealthy than others who have these habits. You are investigating her death, I think?”

  “I’m trying to find out who killed her. I should like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

  “By all means,” said the Colonel. “We are anxious to render every assistance. In many respects we had a strong regard and affection for Sophia.”

  “You have no idea where she intended to go when she left you that evening?”

  “None. It was not her habit to apprise us of her movements. She frequently went to the cinema, for instance, but knowing that the very thought of its smoky and unhealthy atmosphere was painful to us, she rarely mentioned it. That evening she said at dinner that she was going out. That was all.”

  “There was the phone call,” remembered his wife.

  “Ah yes. While we were having our evening fruit cocktail the phone rang and I answered it. The call came from a phone box. I distinctly heard the pennies drop. A high-pitched voice asked for Miss Carew.”

  “Do you mean a woman’s voice?”

  “Not necessarily. It was an artificial and squeaky voice which might have been assumed by a man disguising his own. Sophia went to the phone, which is in the hall, and we did not hear her conversation. But we did hear her a few minutes later shouting into the phone as though she was trying to make a deaf person hear. ‘Can’t you hear me?’ she said several times, then, as though exasperated, put the receiver down. It was shortly after this that she said she was going out.”

  “Did she seem at all worried?”

  “No. Elated if anything. She mentioned that she would take Skylark with her. This referred to her dog, a Kerry Blue. She was extremely fond of animals of all kinds, a taste which we could not share. Sophia was a member of the Royal Zoological Society and frequently spent days at the Zoo. This was unaccountable to us, who cannot bear to see any animal in captivity.”

  “Even a dog?” asked Carolus.

  “There you touch another matter. My wife and I object to domestic animals not on ethical grounds but because we find it unhygienic to share living quarters with germ-carriers and carnivores.”

  “But you allowed Miss Carew to keep Skylark?”

  “There is a yard in which the dog could enjoy a certain liberty and at the same time be isolated from our living-rooms. But Sophia had him to sleep in her room, took him for walks, even fondled him. He invariably occupied the seat beside her in her motor-car, so that when my wife and I drove with her we sat at the back. Even had we wished to sit otherwise I do not think the dog could have been induced to yield his seat, a state of things which I find open to criticism.”

  “But Skylark was a well-behaved dog,” said Mrs Baxeter.

  “Where is he now?” asked Carolus.

  “In this back yard behind the house. He was found in Sophia’s car in the car-park of the cinema on the morning after the murder.”

  “Miss Carew had many friends?”

  “In Buddington very few. She was a member of a London club and had a wide acquaintance in town. But not here.”

  “Who, for instance?”

  “Her cousin, Miss Tissot, for whom you are acting. We have not met her, though it is our hope and intention very shortly to meet her. We are co-beneficiaries under Sophia’s will and I feel that we should become acquainted. Then there was Sophia’s nephew, Charles. We do not care for him, but out of our regard for Sophia we have entertained him here on several occasions.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing, I daresay, if you view life as he does. We found him altogether lacking in idealism.”

  “Materialistic,” added Mrs Baxeter.

  “Of recent years he has deteriorated badly. He was a healthier man when his wife was with him. They were enthusiastic cyclists.”

  “Really? That seems very out of character.”

  “It is with the Charles Carew of today. He has become a gross eater. If not a sot, at least a heavy consumer of alcohol. But we have rather high standards for our friends. I do not condemn the man. I say merely that he was not quite the type we should normally have encouraged.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Sophia was acquainted with a man named Ben Johnson, a painter I believe.”

  This was said in a peculiarly stony manner. It was evident that the Baxeters disapproved far more strongly of the painter than of Charlie Carew.

  “He is a very good painter,” said Carolus.

  “I should prefer not to discuss him. On the only occasion on which we met his language in front of my wife, indeed his whole presence, was most offensive.”

  “Intolerable,” said Mrs Baxeter.

  “Had Miss Carew any visitors lately?”

  “Yes. About a week ago Gabriel Westmacott called.”

  Carolus showed his surprise.

  “I understood that Miss Carew and the Westmacotts were unacquainted.”

  “They were. She had never met Gabriel Westmacott. He called one afternoon and we were present when she received him. In this room, as a matter of fact. It seemed he had come to ask her a favour.”

  “How very odd. What was it?”

  “It appeared that his mother, who does not leave her house very much, is apt to consider her drawing-room as something of a salon. She had through her husband some affiliation with the Pre-Raphaelites and William Morris. For years now, we gathered, she has sought to include this Mr Johnson in her circle. I find it inexplicable, of course, but Mrs Westmacott was a rich woman and accustomed to fulfilling her whims. She was aware that Sophia was friendly with Johnson and all else having failed she had sent her son to make a personal representation to Sophia to assist her. I think Sophia was amused. She shared our distaste for that kind of snobbery and tuft-hunting.”

  “What you tell me is most interesting, Colonel Baxeter. It constitutes almost the only known link between the two cases. Any other visitors?”

  “There was a person buying old gold,” said Colonel Baxeter. “We recommended him to her notice. His assistant called here one morning, a pleasant young woman who gave her name as Moira Long, and when my wife said she might find some pieces of old jewellery she no longer wanted she made an appointment for her principal to call that afternoon. He was a most presentable and reasonable person, who purchased what gold we had at the fixed rate. We were perfectly satisfied and recommended him to Sophia. She too sold him certain articles, but a heavy gold chain which she had always supposed to be gold turned out to be silver gilt.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Mr Ebony, the buyer, scraped the surface with a small file and showed her the silver under the plating.”

  “The whitewash,” said Carolus.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing. Just an old gold-buyer’s trick. When he had filed the surface he rubbed his thumb over it to clear the filings away. But his thumb had just touched the silver nitrate paste under the lapel of his jacket and made the rough surface appear silver.”

  “If that’s the case he succeeded in defrauding Sophia.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You seem to have an intimate knowledge of the subject,” said the Colonel severely.

  Carolus smiled.

  “It happens that I have just looked it up. I was, in fact, caught unawares when it was mentioned to me. A kind of fraud of which I had no knowledge at all. Now, was there anyone else?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t remember anyone.”

  “The chauffeur,” said Mrs Baxeter.

  “Oh yes. Miss Tissot’s chauffeur Wright came a week or two back when Sophia’s car was out of order. Her cousin had sent him to drive Sophia somewhere. I forget where. He wasn’t very pleased when she insisted on taking Skylark in the car, I remember.”

  Carolus’s interrogation and the Colonel’s willing answers were interrupte
d by Mrs Baxeter, who invited them to have some tea.

  “Thank you,” said Carolus and ventured to add, “I suppose we couldn’t have the windows closed for a little while, could we? I’m recovering from jaundice and not quite as Spartan as you in the matter of fresh air.”

  With a suggestion of reluctance the Colonel closed the windows and after the icy air of the last hour the room seemed comparatively warm. Mrs Baxeter produced tea and to Carolus’s relief it appeared to be the normal brew.

  “We sometimes drink mati, a splendid beverage from South America,” said the Colonel, “and sometimes an excellent preparation called Vita-Tea. But we have no objection to tea; we are less severe than many vegetarians and indulge in both milk and butter, though animal products. Have a piece of this fruitarian date cake? No? A nut finger? Oatcake? Wholemeal bread and groundnut butter? You remind me of poor Sophia. She never ate at teatime. It is one of our favourite meals. You should have a sandwich—Mock Salmon paste. That’s homemade jam, carrot and marigold. Can’t tempt you?”

  “A biscuit, Mr Deene? Those are charcoal and hazelnut. Or another cup of tea?”

  “Thank you,” said Carolus. “There’s one thing I want to clear up. It is said that Miss Carew was totally unacquainted with the Westmacott family and that there was no connecting link at all. Except for that call by Gabriel Westmacott, was that the case?”

  “Not quite. For some years it has been our habit to drive from time to time to Dante Westmacott’s farm near Lilbourne, where we purchase fresh produce, uncontaminated by handling in the market. Mr Westmacott has come here on occasion and once met Sophia at lunch.”

  “I see. There was no particular friendship between them?”

  “Oh, none. I am certain that was the only time they met.”

  “You never knew Mrs Westmacott senior?”

  “No.”

  “You did not for instance attend St Augustine’s church?”

  “We are Pantheists,” said the Colonel severely. “We do not believe in individual substantial souls but in one universal vital sensitive force permeating the world like an all-pervading breath. The hotch-potch of obscurantism and superstition which would be found in the place you mention would be poisonous to us. Our cathedral is the open air.”

  “Very pleasant,” said Carolus absently. “And Miss Carew?”

  “Her attitude was a negative one. She certainly attended no church.”

  “If she had met Mrs Westmacott you would have known?”

  “Undoubtedly. She was most communicative about anyone in the town she knew. When Gabriel came here she told us that she had never seen him before and knew none of his family.”

  “Did anything come of his visit and the request he made?”

  “Nothing. Only on that last night at dinner she said lightly that she would have to mention it to the man Johnson, to whom she referred as ‘Ben’, unaware that such familiarity pained us.”

  “One other point, Colonel Baxeter. Miss Carew’s will. You know the terms of it?”

  “Yes. Her solicitor has communicated with me. It came as a surprise. We were very old friends; in fact it might be said that we were brought up together. My father was a doctor in Colchester when her father held a living in the neighbourhood. It was very gratifying to us both when Sophia came to share our home and I think I may say that she was happy with us. But that she should leave us so large a portion of her estate has astounded us. Naturally, we could wish that it had not come to us through such a tragic event and we are as shocked as anyone at the manner of her death. Nonetheless it would be hypocritical not to admit that the money will be useful.”

  “It always is,” said Carolus and was silent.

  “Have no hesitation if there is anything else you wish to ask.”

  “Nothing factual, Colonel Baxeter. But surely you who knew Miss Carew so well must have some suspicion?”

  For the first time the Colonel seemed at a loss. Presently he answered in his usual unruffled manner.

  “My wife and I do not allow ourselves to indulge in suspicion at the expense of other human beings,” he said. “Our creed is of brotherhood.”

  “Yes, yes, but somebody deliberately strangled your friend.”

  “I cannot allow myself to suppose that it was deliberate, Mr Deene, at least in the sense you use the word. No one sane, no one of healthy mind, could have done such a thing.”

  “I see what you mean. Those lilies.”

  “We disapprove of cutting flowers. We do not allow the air in our home to be polluted by the fumes that rise from decaying vegetation. It seems to me that the placing of those flowers on the dead body was consistent with the act of murder itself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Quite consistent. It is the murder which seems to us the work of a mind unhinged. Once that is recognized the details follow. You surely agree that the murders were committed by a homicidal maniac?”

  “No, I do not. And I don’t think the police accept that idea.”

  “You surprise me.”

  Carolus rose to go.

  “Sophia had no troubles that we knew of, no anxieties. No problems,” volunteered the Colonel.

  “That makes it very baffling. Thank you so much for all your information.”

  Colonel Baxeter came with him to the door and Carolus hurried out to his car and drove straight to the Royal Hydro. He felt chilled to the bone. The hygienic air of Dehra Dun had, he thought, brought him near to a relapse. He ruthlessly pushed his way to a seat near one of the great log fires in the lounge and after removing a magazine and bag left to reserve it sank into its cosy depths. He then lit a cigarette, drew the smoke into his lungs and ordered a large whisky and soda. He wondered contentedly how many of the Colonel’s rules of health he would break that evening, and began to feel comfortably warm again. At dinner, he thought, he would drink a bottle of Burgundy, eat a Beefsteak Tatar, order coffee and brandy and smoke to its butt the largest and best cigar in the hotel. Blast Baxeter!

  6

  NEXT day the sun suddenly appeared grinning, as if to say he had only been hiding for fun. Carolus had breakfast in bed, but was down in the lounge before any of the principals had yet appeared and only a small group of companions and dependants was in evidence. Rupert Priggley rose from an armchair and came over to him.

  “I know,” he said, “the scene of the crime! That’s where you’re going this bright morning, isn’t it?”

  It was, and Carolus admitted it.

  “Couldn’t be cornier, could it? I suppose if you’d gone out on the day after the murder you’d have been looking for footprints.”

  “Quite likely. The police were. And found them. I’m not going to look for anything in particular, but I would like to see the place. It’s four miles out on the Lilbourne road.”

  They climbed into the Bentley Continental and left the Royal Hydro, grey and grandiose even on that cheerful morning.

  “I must say I’ve never known you take a case so casually,” remarked Rupert. “It must have been days before you began at all and now you don’t seem properly steamed up. Yet it’s a pretty brutal thing.”

  “I don’t feel any responsibility, this time,” said Carolus.

  “John Moore’s in charge and he’s perfectly able to do the job. At present I’m almost dabbling.”

  The banks between which they ran were yellow with primroses and at one point they could see stretching between the trees the haze of bluebells.

  After three miles Carolus began to drive slowly, looking for the quarry on his left. They nearly missed it, for the cart-track leading to it was half-hidden by the bursting bushes.

  “This is where the car must have stood—just off the verge, because it left no tyre-marks.”

  “Do you suppose it was her car?”

  “Probably but there’s no certainty of that. No one seems to have seen it. Yet that cottage overlooks the spot.”

  “So the body was dragged from here to the quarry?”

  �
�Apparently, yes. Quite a distance, but she wasn’t a heavy woman. One thing is quite certain—it was carefully planned. The murderer must have brought his props with him unless … let’s go across to that cottage.”

  It was a small double-fronted cottage and a brick path led up to its front door. This did not look as though it had been opened for years and the windows to right and left of it, with lace curtains and plants in them, looked hermetically sealed. Carolus knocked, but there was no response. He tried again, and was about to turn away when he saw that a tall angular woman had appeared from the back of the premises and was watching him in sullen silence.

  “Yes?” she said.

  Her dark hair hung untidily round her face and she wore an apron of sacking. A forbidding-looking woman.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you …” began Carolus.

  “It’s the murder again, is it? I thought I’d done with that. What do you want this time? I’ve got my washing to do.”

  She spoke in a raw aggrieved voice, yet there was something suggesting that under her surly manner she was not as unfriendly as she seemed.

  “I wondered if I might ask you a few questions, Mrs …”

  “Goggs. I suppose you can. There’s no law against asking questions, is there? You better come in, only you’ll have to come the back way. Mind that bucket.”

  She led them into one of the front rooms, which was so dark that it took Carolus a few moments to find his way to the chair she indicated. The room smelt of cheese, soap, damp and flower-pots, with a faint faraway odour of ancient meals.

  “Yes, I didn’t think I’d have any more of it,” said Mrs Goggs, “not after the questions they asked last time. Anyone would think I’d done for the poor woman myself or my husband had. What is it you want to know?”

  “First of course, did you hear anything that night?”

  “No. Only the dog.”

  “The dog?”

  “Yes. Don’t you know about that? I told all the others. We were sitting in the kitchen at the time …”