Murder at the Manor

by Martin Edwards

  It was not until a year had passed that Scarsdale decided that the time had come to murder Sir George. During the interval he had come to regard the matter with something of the detachment of the chess player; indeed, the problem had rather comforted than worried him amid the botherations of a secretary’s life. He had always, since his school days, been interested in the science of crime, and never for a moment did he doubt his own capacity to do the job; it was merely a question of waiting until the perfect moment offered itself. That moment seemed to him to be arriving in February 1931—his choice being determined by two fortuitous circumstances—(1) that at 8 p.m. on Saturday the 22nd, Sir George was to deliver a broadcast talk on “Post-War Monetary Policy,” and (2) that immediately after the talk, which was to be given from the London studio, he intended to travel to Banbury to spend the weekend with his brother Richard.

  On the morning of the 22nd Scarsdale awoke at his usual time at Bramstock Towers, Berkshire. It was a pleasant establishment, surrounded by a large and well-wooded estate, and Scarsdale, glancing through the window as he dressed, was glad to see that there had been no rain during the night and that the weather was fine and cold.

  Sir George always breakfasted in his bedroom, and did not meet his secretary until ten o’clock, in the library. By this time Scarsdale had, as usual, been at work for an hour or so opening letters and typing replies for Sir George’s signature. After an exchange of good mornings, Sir George made a very customary announcement. “I’ll just look through these letters, Scarsdale; then we’ll take a turn round the garden while I tell you about my wireless talk tonight. I want you to prepare a few notes for me….”

  “Certainly, Sir George,” replied Scarsdale. A great piece of luck, for the after-breakfast tour of the estate, though almost an institution in fine weather, might just, for one reason or another, have been foregone.

  The men were soon dressed for outdoors and strolling briskly across the terrace towards the woods—the usual gambit, Scarsdale observed, with continuing satisfaction. Sir George meanwhile divided his attention between the garden and his impending radio talk. “You see, Scarsdale, I want those figures about the American Federal Reserve note issue…. Ah, that cupressus macrocarpa seems to be doing nicely…. And a month-to-month table of Wall Street brokers’ loans….” And so on, till they were deep in the woods, over half a mile from the house. The thickets, even in mid-winter, were very dark. “I want your notes by three at the latest, so that I can catch the 3:50 from Lincott and work up my talk in the train…. Ah, just look at that—Fanning really ought to notice these things. Confound the fellow!”

  Fanning was the head gardener, and “that” was nothing more dreadful than an old kettle under a bush. But to Sir George it was serious enough, for if there were one thing that annoyed him more than another it was the suggestion of trespassers on his land. “Why the devil don’t Fanning and his men keep their eyes open?” he exclaimed crossly; but in that he did Fanning an injustice, since the kettle had not been there more than a few hours; Scarsdale, in fact, had placed it there himself the evening before.

  Suddenly Scarsdale cried: “Why, look there, sir—the door of the hut’s open! A tramp, I suppose. Wonder if he’s still inside, by any chance.”

  At this point Sir George began to behave precisely as Scarsdale had guessed and hoped he would. He left the path and strode vehemently amid the trees and undergrowth towards the small square erection just visible in the near distance. “By Jove, Scarsdale,” he shouted, “if I do catch the fellow, I’ll teach him a lesson.”

  “Yes, rather,” agreed Scarsdale.

  Striding together through the less and less penetrable thickets, they reached the hut at last. It was built of grey stone, with a stout wooden door—the whole edifice intended originally as a sort of summerhouse, but long disused. For years it had functioned at rare intervals as a store place for sawn-up logs; but now, as Scarsdale entered it, it proved empty even of them. Nor was there a tramp in it, either. “He must have gone, sir,” said Scarsdale, pulling wide open the half-gaping door. “Though it does look as if he’s left a few relics…. I say, sir, what do you make of this?” He waited for Sir George to enter. “Damnation, that’s my last match gone! Have you a match, Sir George?”

  As Sir George began to fumble in his pocket in the almost complete darkness Scarsdale added: “I say, sir, you’ve dropped something—your handkerchief, I think.”

  Sir George stooped, and at the same instant Scarsdale shot him neatly through the head with a small automatic pistol which he had that very morning abstracted from the drawer of the Boule cabinet in Sir George’s private study.

  Afterwards, still wearing gloves, of course, he placed the weapon by the side of the dead man, closed the door carefully from the outside, and walked away.

  All murders—all enterprises of any kind, in fact—carry with their accomplishment a certain minimum of risk; and at this point, as Scarsdale had all along recognized, the risks began. Fortunately, they were very small ones. The hut was isolated and only rarely visited; Fanning and his men were not interested in it at all and the whole incident of the visiting tramp had been a mere invention to lure Sir George to the spot. Scarsdale felt reasonably sure that the body would remain undiscovered until a deliberate search were made.

  Leaving the woods, he returned to the house by way of the garages. There he took out his two-seater car, drove it round to the front of the house, and had a friendly chat with Wilkes, the butler. “Oh, Wilkes, would you mind bringing down Sir George’s suitcase? He’s decided to go right on to town immediately, so he won’t be in to lunch. He’s walking over to Lincott through the fields…. Oh, and you might label the bag for Banbury—I’ve got to get it sent off at the station.”

  “Will you be returning to lunch yourself, sir?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Lincott, which Scarsdale reached through winding lanes within a quarter of an hour, was a middle-sized village with a large and important railway junction. There were three facts about Lincott that were, from Scarsdale’s point of view, fortunate—(1) its railway station was large, frequented, and badly lit; (2) there were convenient expresses to London, as well as a late “down” train at night; and (3) Sir George’s estate offered a pleasant short cut to the village, a short cut which Sir George was fond of traversing on foot and alone, even after dark.

  Scarsdale drove direct to the junction and left the suitcase for despatch to Banbury, whence it would be forwarded immediately to the house of Sir George’s brother. Then he proceeded to a neighboring garage, arranged to leave his car until called for, and asked to use the telephone. Ringing up the Towers, he had a second amiable talk with Wilkes. “Oh, hullo, Wilkes—this is Scarsdale speaking—from Lincott. Sir George has slightly changed his plans again—or rather my plans. He wants me to go along to town with him right away. Yes…. Yes…. I’m leaving my car here.…Yes, that’s what I want to tell you—I’ve decided that as I’m going to town I may as well spend the weekend there at my club…. I’ll be back on Tuesday, you know…. Yes…. Good-bye….”

  Scarsdale then walked to the junction, booked a third-class single ticket to Paddington, and caught the 1 p.m. train. At Paddington he did several things. First he went to the local booking-office and purchased a third-class single ticket to Ealing. Then he took a snack at a nearby A.B.C. shop, and about 3 p.m. travelled by omnibus to the bank, whence he walked to the Anglo-Oceanic offices in Bishopsgate. There he met several people whom he knew very well, chatted with them affably, and busied himself for some time in Sir George’s private office. “Yes, Sir George is in town, but he’s very busy—I don’t suppose you’ll see him here today.” Williamson, one of the head-office people, grinned. “Yes, he’s busy,” Scarsdale repeated, faintly returning the grin. They both knew that there were aspects of Sir George’s life that had nothing to do with the Anglo-Oceanic companies. “Taking her
to the theatre, eh?” queried Williamson.

  “More likely to the cinema,” returned Scarsdale. “He’s not free tonight, anyhow—he’s got a date at the B.B.C.—and left me the devil’s own pile of work to finish, too.”

  It was quite natural, therefore, that Scarsdale should still be at work in Sir George’s private office when Williamson and the rest of the staff left. At 6 p.m., by which time the huge office building was tenantless, Scarsdale, having previously made fast the door on the inside, turned to a little job that he had not cared to tackle before. Opening the safe by means of the combination, he carefully abstracted certain documents—to be precise, South American bearer bonds to the value of between thirty and forty thousand pounds. How odd, he reflected, that Sir George, who would not give him a simple testimonial of honesty, had never scrupled to leave the keys and combination of his private safe in an unlocked bureau drawer at the Towers!

  Leaving the Anglo-Oceanic offices about 6:30 p.m., Scarsdale took an omnibus to Piccadilly Circus and entered a cinema that was showing a film so remarkably bad that in the five-and-ninepenny seats he had almost an entire row to himself at that early hour of the evening. There and then, in the surrounding gloom, he managed to transform himself into a fairly credible impersonation of Sir George Winthrop-Dunster. In build and dress they were rather similar: nothing else was required but a few touches of grease-paint, a false moustache, and the adjustment of Sir George’s characteristic type of horn-rimmed spectacles. The disguise would have deceived anyone who did not know Sir George intimately.

  Scarsdale left the cinema about 7:30, choosing the middle of a film. A few moments in a telephone booth enabled him, with the help of a pocket-mirror, to make good any small deficiencies in his quick change. It had all, so far, been delightfully easy. At 7:55 he took a taxi to the old B.B.C. headquarters in Savoy Hill.

  Neither he nor Sir George had ever broadcast before, and Scarsdale was quite genuinely interested in the experience. In the reception room he had an amiable chat with one of the studio officials, and found no difficulty at all in keeping up the character and impersonation of Sir George. Indeed he not only talked and behaved like Sir George, but he found himself even thinking as Sir George would have thought—which was rather horrible.

  At eight o’clock he took his place in the thick-carpeted studio and began to read from his typed manuscript. It was a cosy and completely restful business. With the little green-shaded lamp illuminating the script and the perfectly silent surroundings, it was a comfort to realize that, by such simple means, he was fabricating an alibi that could be vouched for afterwards by hundreds of thousands of worthy folk all over the country. He read Sir George’s views on monetary policy with a perfection of utterance that surprised even himself, especially the way he had got the high-pitched voice.

  Leaving the studios half an hour later he asked the commissionaire in the hall to get him a taxi, and in the man’s hearing told the driver “Paddington.” There he commenced another series of operations. First he put through a long distance call to Richard Winthrop-Dunster, of Banbury. “That you, Richard?” sang out the high-pitched voice, still functioning. “I’m extremely sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to spend the weekend at your place after all. Fact is, I’ve got a rather worrying piece of business on hand at the moment, and I can’t spare the time…. Yes, things are infernally worrying just now…. Next week I might come—I’ll try to, anyhow, so you might keep my bag, if it’s arrived—oh, it has, has it? Yes, I told young Scarsdale to send it.…Yes, that’s right—keep it till next week.…I’m at Paddington, just about to catch the 9:15 home—yes, I’ve just come from the studio—were you listening?…Yes.…Yes.…Goodbye, then—next week, I hope.…”

  Then Scarsdale went to the booking office and purchased a first-class single ticket to Lincott. Passing the barrier, he even risked a word or two with the man who snipped his ticket, and who knew Sir George very slightly. “Cold evening, Sir George,” the man said.

  Scarsdale found an empty first-class compartment and as soon as the train moved out from the platform, opened the small nondescript attaché-case which he had carried with him all day. With the help of its contents, he began to make sundry changes in his personal appearance; then taking from his pocket the single ticket to Ealing purchased earlier in the day, he cut out of it a triangular section similar to that snipped from his Lincott ticket. Finally, at Ealing, a slim, clean-shaven fellow in a cloth cap might have been seen to leave the train and climb the steps to the street. He carried a brown-paper parcel which, if examined, would have been found to contain (rather oddly) an attaché-case.

  Scarsdale boarded a bus going east, and at Ealing Common changed to an Underground train. At 10 p.m.—long before the train from Paddington would have reached Lincott—Scarsdale, himself again, was entering a West End restaurant and exchanging a cordial good evening with a head waiter who knew him well by sight.

  Throughout the weekend Scarsdale stayed in London, visiting numerous friends—indeed, there was scarcely an hour from morning to midnight which he did not spend in company. His nights at the club were conveniently preluded by friendly chats with the hall porter, and in the mornings, at breakfast, he was equally affable to the waiter.

  On Tuesday afternoon he returned to the Towers, collecting his car at Lincott on the way, and got to work immediately on Sir George’s accumulated correspondence. “I know Sir George will expect to find everything finished,” he explained to Wilkes.

  But dinner time came and Sir George did not arrive. It was peculiar, because he was usually back by the six o’clock train when he visited his brother.

  At nine Scarsdale decided to have dinner without further waiting; but when ten o’clock came and it was clear that Sir George had not caught the last train from Banbury, Scarsdale agreed with Wilkes that Richard Winthrop-Dunster had better be informed of the situation. “Maybe Sir George is staying there an extra night,” said Scarsdale, as the butler hurried to the telephone.

  Five minutes later Wilkes returned with a pale and troubled face. “Mr. Richard says that Sir George never visited him at all, sir,” he began falteringly. “He says Sir George rang him up late on Saturday night from Paddington cancelling the visit and saying he was on his way back here.”

  “Extraordinary!” exclaimed Scarsdale. “Why isn’t he here then? Where the devil can he be?”

  They discussed the problem with an increasing degree of consternation until midnight, and went to bed with mutually expressed hopes that some message might arrive by the morning’s post. But none came. At noon, after consultation with Scarsdale and further telephoning to Banbury, Wilkes notified the police. Inspector Deane, of the local force, arrived during the afternoon, and after acquainting himself with the known details of the situation, motored over to Banbury to see Mr. Richard Winthrop-Dunster. All that was on Wednesday.

  On Thursday morning enquiries began at Paddington station, with immediate and gratifying result. As Inspector Deane put it: “Well, Mr. Scarsdale, we’ve traced Sir George as far as the Lincott train on Saturday night—there’s a ticket inspector at Paddington who remembers him. We’re not quite sure of him at Lincott, but no doubt he must have been seen there too.”

  Everything, Scarsdale was glad to perceive, was still working out perfectly according to plan. From Paddington the trail had already led to Lincott; soon it would lead from Lincott to the Towers—and on the way, to be discovered inevitably when the constabulary intelligence had progressed so far, was that little hut in the woods. But it was not part of Scarsdale’s plan to anticipate this inevitability by any hint or suggestion. He merely said; “Perhaps you could advertise for information. The taximen in the station yard may have noticed him, or one of them may have driven him somewhere. Of course, if it was a fine night he may have walked. He often walks. It was a fine night in London, I remember.”

  “Quite so, sir,” agreed Inspector Deane. “I’m sure I’m
greatly obliged to you for the idea.”

  It was queer how the two men “took to” each other; Scarsdale had a delightful knack of putting people at their ease. But for the mischance of working for Sir George, he would probably never have murdered anybody.

  The plan remained perfect—indeed, he thought, as he settled for sleep that night, he could afford almost to be indifferent now; the dangerous interval was past, and it no longer greatly mattered when or how the body was discovered. Perhaps it would be tomorrow, or the next day, or the next week even, if the police were exceptionally stupid. He had in mind exactly what would happen subsequently. The medical evidence would, of course, be vague after such a lapse of time, but fully consistent with Sir George’s death having taken place late on Saturday night, at an hour (if the matter were ever called into question) when he, Scarsdale, had several complete alibis sixty miles away. Then would come the question: How had it happened? At such a juncture the dead man’s brother would probably recall that Sir George had stated over the telephone on the fatal night, that he was “worried” about some business affair. Scarsdale would then, with a little reluctance to discuss the private affairs of his late employer, admit that Sir George had had certain financial troubles of late. The next stage of revelation would doubtless be enacted at the Anglo-Oceanic office, when and where the disappearance of the bonds would be discovered. That would certainly cause a sensation, both in the City and beyond. Clearly it would suggest that Sir George, having monkeyed with the assets of his companies, had taken his life rather than face the music.

  All this, of course, was according to Scarsdale’s plan, and when, on Thursday morning, the police found the body of Sir George in the little hut in the woods, Scarsdale might have been excused for reckoning his plan ninety-nine per cent infallible. Unfortunately for him, the remaining one per cent took a hand, with the rather odd result that a man named Hansell was arrested a few hours later and charged with the murder of Sir George.