by Bruce, Leo
To our surprise the old man passed the doors of one public-house and walked some hundreds of yards on to another. But my interest was rekindled when I perceived that it was the one kept by the ex-gardener of the Ferrers; the man we had tentatively identified with Omar Khayyám’s “surly tapster.”
“Now,” said Beef, when we were all settled with our drinks, “tell us what you remember about that night.”
Old Fryer stared at his glass without answering for a minute or so, then he looked up and I thought there was a more intelligent look in his rheumy eyes. “It was dark,” he said, and then stopped.
“Here,” said Beef, “have another. Now, what were you saying? It was dark, and then what?”
The old man mumbled to himself for a while and I couldn’t catch any of it until suddenly he said, “Like walking in a dream. Went on for days it seemed, then suddenly I saw a light, and made for it.” There were more mumblings until he fell silent again.
“Did you reach it?” I asked.
“I just stood there looking,” said Fryer, with a puzzled expression on his face, “and I saw…” He paused again, and then his face cleared, and he went on quickly, “And there was Lord Roberts. ’I’ve got great news for you,’ he said…”
“We shan’t never get nothing out of him,” said Beef despondently. “What sort of a figure would he cut in the witness-box, anyway?”
“How do you know he’s not just tricking you?” asked the antique-dealer’s wife. “I wouldn’t mind betting he knows all about the murder and he’s been paid to keep quiet about it. Why don’t you answer the Sergeant properly?” she said, suddenly turning on the old man and prodding him sharply with the ferrule of her umbrella.
The old man lurched to his feet with a horrified look on his face. “The Matabele have surrounded the stockade,” he shouted, and then sank back on to the form and closed his eyes.
“No, that’s no use,” said Beef. “I’ve got to think, I have. Do you play darts?” he said sullenly to Ed Wilson. “Of course you do. Well, come on then. I always think better when I’m playing darts. You’d better sit by old Fryer,” he said to me, “just in case he does say anything that might come in useful.”
I did not think much of the arrangement, which I took to be merely a manoeuvre on Beef s part to get to the dart-board, but nevertheless I did what he told me. For a time I continued to prod him with short questions, but he only carried on a continuous mumbling to himself as he absorbed the beers I brought him. When I noticed Rose looking amusedly at me I gave up the attempt altogether.
“What do you expect to get out of him, anyway?” she asked.
I explained that as far as we could guess he had been in the summer-house of the Cypresses on the night of the murder and that it was quite possible that he had seen something which would be considered as evidence. In any case we wanted to find out if he had actually picked up the swordstick in the grounds of the Cypresses, or if he had had it with him when he went in there.
“But where does the swordstick come in?” asked Rose. “Doctor Benson was stabbed with that knife, wasn’t he?”
“You’d better ask Beef about that,” I said. But Beef was concentrating on the double seven in what looked like a losing game, so she did not interrupt him.
“Do you think Mr. Stewart did it?” she asked me; “I don’t. Not with a knife he wouldn’t have done. He wasn’t that sort of a man. Of course he was a cold sort of man, you didn’t ever know what he was thinking. But I don’t think he could have done a thing like that.”
“But there’s no special sort of man who is a murderer,” I said. “It’s something anyone might do without knowing they were going to.”
“I didn’t mean that I didn’t think he was a murderer,” said Rose sanely; “I haven’t ever seen a murderer, so I wouldn’t know. What I meant was that he couldn’t have killed Doctor Benson with that knife. He just couldn’t have.”
Our conversation was interrupted by Beef, who had apparently lost the game to Wilson. “I don’t know,” he said disgustedly, “I don’t seem to be able to do either. My darts game’s all gone to pieces, and I can’t think what to do next.”
“What about taking old Fryer down to the Cypresses?” suggested Ed Wilson helpfully.
“What good would that do?”
“Why, you know, might remind him and all that. We could take him into the summer-house and see what he’d do.”
We had some difficulty persuading Fryer to leave with us, for he was by now in no condition to be trusted to his own legs. In the end we walked on either side of him as supports. The car had to be left outside the public-house, but it was no great distance to the Cypresses, so that in a few minutes we were standing on the lawn before the summer-house.
“All right,” said Beef, “let go of his arm and let’s see what he does.”
As far as I could see, the plan succeeded splendidly, for as soon as we had released Fryer’s arms he stumbled straight into the summer-house and made for the far corner. There he slumped down on a heap of old sacks and went straight to sleep, refusing to wake up however much we shook or shouted at him.
“Well, that’s that,” said Beef; “I suppose we shall have to leave him there now. Anyway, we shan’t get anything more out of him.”
Ed Wilson promised to see to him in the morning, and at that we had to leave it. Rose and Ed Wilson went back to their flat over the garage, and the antique-dealer’s wife left us in a more dampened mood than that of half an hour before. Beef and I walked slowly down the drive and out into the road in silence.
“Well,” said Beef at last when we had almost reached the car, “I’ve finished my investigations. I know all I ever shall know about this case.”
“Then you know who did the murder?” I asked quickly.
Beef thought for a minute as if arranging his thoughts. “I am not in a position to say who done it,” he said at last, “but I know who hasn’t done it.”
I was disappointed, and said rather slyly, “You’ll have to convince Sir William Petterie of that, then. They’ve got a meeting at the solicitor’s office tomorrow to decide whether they’re going to use your evidence or not.”
“No need for you to worry about that,” said Beef with dignity, “I’ve got my notes.”
Chapter XXV
THE next day was, perhaps, the blackest in my association with Beef. I had known all along that the real test of the value of his investigations would come when he had to convince Sir William Petterie, Stewart’s counsel, that he would be worth while as a witness. I knew Sir William’s reputation; a great humanitarian, but a shrewd one; and I knew that no bluff would be much use here.
Sir William was a fine lawyer, immensely eloquent and persuasive, but at the same time a man to whom facts were everything. Useless to go to him with vague, tumbledown theories of who might have done this thing—the only revelation that would make much impression on him was either a clear-cut case against someone else, or a definitive reason why it could not have been Stewart.
Beef, it seemed to me, had fumbled clumsily with a great deal of evidence, had chased a number of red herrings, and although he had brought certain matters to light which were apparently unknown to the police, I did not believe before the interview that he would be able to cut much of a figure. In that I suppose I was wrong, although my preconceptions were not unfounded.
I called for Beef as usual after breakfast, and we set off for Sir William’s chambers, where we were to meet Nicholson and Peter. Beef was silent during the journey, his face set in lines that might almost have been described as grim. I did not encourage him to talk, for I wanted him to have all the opportunity possible to think out his case.
We were shown into the chambers, and found it a large comfortable room with deep chairs and mahogany book-shelves, in which seemed to cling a faint atmosphere of other conferences. Nicholson and Peter were already there, and Sir William rose to greet the Sergeant. His manner was friendly, and I wondered at first if there was i
rony in the consideration he showed to Beef, for I had become accustomed to seeing my old friend treated as something of an amiable buffoon. But I soon realized that this lawyer regarded Beef with genuine interest.
He was a tall, handsome man, in his late fifties, with thick white hair, almost boyish in its straightness and cut such as is more usual in elderly Americans than in Englishmen. He had clear straight features, shrewd honest eyes, and the figure of an athlete. He was wearing plus-fours, for it was a Saturday and he had only come up to his chambers for this conference before playing golf. Peter introduced us without explanations, and Sir William invited us to sit down.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Sergeant,” he said, “and I’m very anxious to know your views of this case.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Beef quietly. “I’m afraid you may find them a bit disappointing. I haven’t anything really what you might call final to tell you, but I’ve found out a good deal and I hope it may be of some use.”
“Splendid,” said Sir William, offering Beef a cigarette, which he accepted. “I’ve studied the whole thing pretty closely and I have gathered the police’s case. I think I should tell you at once that I regard it as a very strong one, though circumstantial at times.”
Beef nodded. “So do I, sir,” he said. “Uncomfortably strong. In fact I’ve realized from the very first that the only thing that would break it for certain would be finding out who did murder Doctor Benson.”
“You’re perfectly sure, then, that Stewart Ferrers didn’t?”
“Yes, sir, I’m perfectly sure of that.”
“Well, let’s have your reasons.”
Beef smiled. “I can’t exactly put my case in that way, sir. I can tell you what I discovered, but I don’t know how much of it can be considered reasons for thinking Stewart innocent.”
“Very well,” said Sir William, “tell us what you have discovered.”
“First of all the whisky that was left standing on the table in the library. As soon as I saw that there I had a sniff at it. I took a sample and I’ve just had it analysed. By the way,” he said, turning aside to Peter, “I must thank you for that analyst’s address. I went to see him, and he did it most satisfactory. Most satisfactory. That whisky contained arsenic.”
“But—” began Nicholson, leaning forward from his chair.
Beef held up his massive hand. “I know what you’re going to say,” he admonished. “You think that only makes the case worse. Well, you may be right. All I can say definitely about it is that someone in that house was trying to poison someone else. Since the whisky was produced only after Mr. Peter Ferrers and Mr. Wakefield had gone, you might guess that they weren’t the intended victims, but even of that you couldn’t be certain. There are half a dozen people who might have put it in, and half a dozen who might have been meant to drink it. Wilson, Duncan, Mrs. Duncan, Rose, Freda, Mr. Stewart, Mr. Peter, Mr. Wakefield, Doctor Benson, any of those could in fact have poisoned that whisky, and it might have been intended, if circumstances had gone any other way, for Mr. Stewart, Doctor Benson, Mr. Peter, Mr. Wakefield, and Duncan himself, or even Mrs. Duncan if she liked a nip before she went to bed. So that that doesn’t help us much. I can only say that the whisky was poisoned.”
Sir William was listening intently. “You say that the police never knew this?” he said.
“No, sir. I found that out by myself. You see, it’s like this. When the police are investigating a death by stabbing they don’t look for poison. Just as in that last case of mine they were trying to find out who’d been murdered, and they never stopped to think who’d done the murder.”
“That’s interesting,” said Sir William, “and certainly a feather in your cap, Sergeant.”
“Then there was that bloodstain on the cushion in the library. Someone had run a blade through it to clean it on that. I can’t see how that can come into the police’s case. If, as they maintain, Stewart had picked up that knife, stabbed Doctor Benson in the throat, and put the knife down on the table again where it was found with the bloodstains on it, what did he stop to clean it for? And did he stick it in twice? It doesn’t make sense in accordance with their theories.”
“But how do you account for it?” asked Sir William.
“I can’t exactly account for it,” admitted Beef, “but there’s circumstances which we come to in a minute which might help to account for it.”
Nicholson gave a loud, exasperated sigh.
“Then again, these rumours about Stewart Ferrers and Sheila Benson. I tried to trace those to their source, but they don’t seem to have a source. Everybody’s heard them, everybody’s repeated them, but nobody, as far as I could make out, had any grounds for them. Benson and his wife had agreed to separate. There seemed to be a perfectly good understanding between them on this point. But the reason for their separation, as Mr. Peter will admit, wasn’t anything there was between Mrs. Benson and Stewart Ferrers.”
“I’m engaged to Sheila Benson,” put in Peter quietly.
Sir William nodded. “How do you account for the rumour, then?” he asked Beef.
“Someone put things about,” Beef replied, “and I shouldn’t put it past that Vicar. He looked the talking sort to me.”
I felt it was time to put a check on Beef’s eloquence in this direction. “My friend Beef,” I said, “has a quite unreasonable prejudice against the clergy. He never seems to recognize the sterling qualities which many of our hard-working parsons possess, and only sees in them gossip-mongers, spoil-sports, and enemies of Sunday darts.”
Sir William smiled gently. “Perhaps we have some of our tastes in common, Sergeant,” he said amiably.
“But seriously, sir,” said Beef, returning from such remote trivialities as the Church of England to matters more immediate, “I believe these rumours were fabricated. But I believe it was done deliberately by someone who wished to involve Mr. Stewart Ferrers. I ask you to consider this. If it was going to be made to look as though he had murdered Benson, there would have to have been some motive for it, and what could be more handy?”
“What, indeed?” remarked Sir William good-humouredly.
“Then we come to Duncan,” said Beef. “Why should he have hanged himself? Nobody’s been able to answer me that. It takes something to make an old fellow hang himself, you know, even when he had got a wife like that. You’d be surprised how people cling on to life…”
“I shouldn’t,” said Sir William.
“No, well, of course you know,” admitted Beef, “it’s supposed he knew too much. But what did he know that was so horrible as to make him string himself up? He’d been with the family, and seemed to have been devoted to them. There’s more in that than meets the eye.”
“Yes,” said Nicholson impatiently, “but how can it help our case? If he knew anything in favour of Stewart the assumption is that he would have wished to have given evidence. The more you emphasize this point, the more you make it look as though he knew something against Stewart.”
“Ad-mitted,” said Beef grandly, “ad-mitted. But I’m just putting forward these little things that the police don’t seem to have taken account of.”
“Then there’s a lot of funny business over money,” he went on. “Look for the woman is supposed to be the way to get at the truth of things. Only they always say that in French. Look for the money when you’re dealing with English people. Stewart seems to have been an extraordinary man where money was concerned. We know he was in the hands of a moneylender once….”
“Pardon me,” said Nicholson tartly, “we know nothing of the sort. We know that a man who lent money was once a visitor at the house.”
“Well, all right. But we do know that he had these sums of five hundred pounds in one-pound notes about the place. Whatever would a man want those for? He says it was for horse-racing, but I’ve successfully exploded that theory. The police say he was being blackmailed by Benson, but there’s no proof of that. He may have been blackmailed by half a dozen pe
ople.”
“What about that curious receipt?” asked Sir William.
“Yes, well, that does look bad,” admitted Beef, “but how do we know that Benson didn’t really mean to commit suicide? It’s not final, you know. That’s where Stewart Ferrers is silly. He won’t speak up about this money.”
“What Mr. Ferrers is prepared to tell you, and what he is prepared to tell his solicitors, may be two different things,” said Nicholson stiffly.
“I daresay,” said Beef, “but it’s not the way to help an investigator.”
“Investigator!” snapped the solicitor.
But Sir William intervened. “I think Sergeant Beef has already given proof of his energy and ability.” he said blandly, “even if he hasn’t made our position much easier.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Beef again, “but that’s not all. There’s Freda.”
“Freda?” repeated Sir William
“Yes, the second housemaid. A noisy little piece, if ever there was one. But she told me something most interesting.” And Beef proceeded to outline Freda’s story of the stranger in the drive.
“That’s extremely good,” said Sir William; “that is of real material assistance to us. We must certainly call this girl, and the mechanic. What do you say, Mr. Nicholson?”
“Yes,” agreed Nicholson grudgingly, “that is constructive, though of course a little contradictory. So far Sergeant Beef has seemed to infer that this murder was done by someone inside the house other than Stewart. Now his evidence is suggesting that it was someone outside.”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Beef. “I’ve told you I can’t make out who’d done it. It’s one of these cases where you’ve got two and two, and can’t put them together. But there you are. There was someone in the bushes that night, and what’s more there’s further evidence of it. What about this?” he asked. And delving into his pocket he pulled out the latch-key which Ed Wilson had found in the shrubbery that morning. “How did this come to be lying about in the garden? All the locking and bolting that Duncan did doesn’t make any difference to the case against Mr. Ferrers while someone else had a latch-key to walk straight in with. That someone else may have been the man Freda saw walking up the drive, it may have been the man who slept in the summerhouse…”
