Tenant for Death

by Cyril Hare

  Roach had of course given his statement to the police and been warned that he must attend the inquest. In the meantime, he had been told to keep his mouth shut. But it wasn’t in human nature to keep one’s mouth shut when there were so many temptations to open it for the admission of free beer, and Jackie was too honest a man not to do his best to give value for his entertainment. It was wonderful, too, what questions they thought of asking. Things that the police had never bothered him about. For instance, he just happened to mention that he knew Crabtree, Mr. James’s servant, and they fairly buzzed with excitement. When had he seen him last? Where was he now? Jackie was blest if he knew. But his very ignorance, it seemed, was news enough, and on the morning after the discovery of Ballantine’s death, “WHERE IS RICHARD CRABTREE?” was a question which was worth a headline to itself in some newspapers.

  Crabtree, in fact, about the time that these same papers were being read at countless breakfast tables throughout the country, was standing rather forlornly in the main street of Spellsborough, a small market town in Sussex. At his back was a gaunt ugly building with the words “County Police” on the lamp over its main entrance. Across the road, in the direction in which he was looking, was a garage, where a heavy motor lorry had just pulled up to refuel, and towards this he directed a look of hopeful interest.

  The lorry driver paid for his petrol, cranked the engine and climbed up into his seat. As he did so, Crabtree crossed the road and came up on his near side.

  “Going to London, mate?” he asked.

  The driver was a pale-faced, fleshy man with a permanent frown of discontent. He looked down at Crabtree with eyes that seemed to twinkle with malice.

  “Ye’re just out o’ the lock-up, ain’t yer?” he said, jerking his thumb at the building across the road.

  “What’s that got to do with you?” said Crabtree defensively.

  “That’s all right,” was the answer. “I’ve suffered from the so-called justice of the ruling classes meself. We of the proletariat ’ave got to stick together. Jump in, comrade. Ye’re welcome to a lift to London—if this perishing box o’ tricks will get so far.”

  He crashed the engine into gear and the lorry crawled slowly up the steep street and on to the open downs beyond.

  “In Soviet Russia”, observed the driver, “the output of motor trucks ’as increased three ’undred per cent in the larst five years. That makes yer think a bit, don’t it?”

  Crabtree, who, if he thought at all, was not accustomed to think of such subjects, contented himself with a non-committal grunt. They continued to drive in silence for several miles before his companion spoke again.

  “If yer don’t believe me,” he said, as though the one-sided conversation had never been interrupted, “just take a look at this.” He pulled a newspaper from his pocket. “The Daily Toiler,” he added with reverence in his voice. “Yer can believe what yer reads in the Toiler. It’s the truth, comrade—not just lying capitalist propaganda, like some I could mention.”

  An emphatic spit over the side emphasized his contempt for the lords of Fleet Street.

  Crabtree took the paper, and glanced without much attention at the small print to which the driver’s grubby finger pointed. The statistics of the special correspondent in Moscow promised little entertainment, and it was not long before he turned to the front page. What he saw there interested him a good deal more. Whatever the differences between The Daily Toiler and its capitalist competitors, its standard of news values was fundamentally the same. Politics may differ, but a murder is a murder all the world over.

  “’Ere, ’ullo! What’s this?” he exclaimed.

  “That? One of these blarsted millionaires gone to ’is account,” said the driver with gloomy relish. “And serve ’im right, I say! Bloodsuckers, every one of ’em! Each for ’imself and the weakest goes to the wall—that’s capitalism for yer!”

  He swung the heavy vehicle round a bend, forcing a cyclist into the hedge. Crabtree, hanging on with difficulty, neither saw nor heard. His whole attention was focused on the printed words before him.

  “Twenty-seven Daylesford Gardens!” he murmured incredulously.

  He read with difficulty, the words dancing up and down before his eyes to the jolting of the road. Then he saw something which almost caused him to tumble from his seat. From the mass of print one name stood out in heavy, accusing capitals—his own.

  “’Strewth!” said Crabtree.

  He was still staring at the paper in incredulous dismay when the lorry pulled up with a jerk. Looking up, he saw that they were on the crest of a steep hill. From the radiator cap came a thin jet of steam. The driver switched off the engine.

  “Boiling again, as per usual,” he announced philosophically. “Now we’ll just ’ave to wait till ’er ’ighness is pleased to cool off. What’s the matter, comrade?”

  Crabtree handed him over The Daily Toiler.

  “Just look at that there,” he said. “Twenty-seven Daylesford Gardens—where I was in service. Colin James—the gent I was doing for. And me—the blighters have got me in it too!”

  The driver studied the page for some time in silence. Then he took a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it.

  “The perlice are anxious to interview”, he quoted, “Richard Crabtree. That you?”

  “Yes, that’s me all right, mate, but——”

  “Ar!” He pondered in silence for a while, and then: “The perlice, indeed! Well, sooner you than me. We’d best be getting on.”

  A few hundred yards farther on the road crossed a small stream. Here he stopped the machine again, and produced a small tin jug, which he handed to Crabtree.

  “Just get down and fill ’er up with water, will yer, comrade?” he said.

  Crabtree was down at the waterside when he heard the roar of the engine being accelerated. He ran back just in time to see the lorry mount the bridge and disappear in a cloud of exhaust smoke. A voice floated back to his ears:

  “I don’t want no dealings with the perlice, thank you, comrade!”

  It had begun to rain. He was five miles from the nearest village, and his only possession in the world was an empty half-gallon tin jug.

  9

  INQUEST ON A FINANCIER

  * * *

  * * *

  Wednesday, November 18th

  “The inquest will be held on Wednesday.” This simple statement, which concluded every newspaper account of the mystery of Daylesford Gardens, had at least the merit of being accurate and readily understood. Not unnaturally, those of the public who had time on their hands regarded it as an invitation to be present at what promised to be a sensational enquiry. The niggardly spirit in which the architect had interpreted his duty when designing the court made this invitation a useless one to nine out of ten of those who endeavoured to accept it; but with a truly British determination they continued to skirmish outside the doors long after the last hope was gone.

  On Wednesday morning, therefore, the coroner took his seat in a court which was crowded to suffocation. Inspector Mallett sat close at hand, his moustache bristling with disgust at the jostling mob of sensation-hunters. He disliked inquests. They did no good, he considered, and only wasted time which might have been spent in more profitable ways. Still, they were part of the machinery of the law, of which he was the servant, and as such he accepted them with resignation. Their only useful function, in his experience, was to focus public attention on a case, and so to induce witnesses to come forward who otherwise would have remained in ignorance of the value of their evidence; and on this case, he reflected, blowing out his cheeks in the already vitiated atmosphere, there had already been public attention enough and to spare. Fortunately, he knew this coroner to be an amenable individual, who would not do more than discharge the necessary duties of his office, without pushing the enquiry further than he, Mallett, thought necessary at this stage.

  The proceedings were opened and the coroner briefly addressed the jury. They were met, he to
ld them, to enquire into the death of Mr. Lionel Ballantine. Certain evidence would be put before them from which it would be clear that the deceased had met with an unnatural death. It was impossible for them in the present state of the investigations to complete their enquiry, and an adjournment would be necessary to give time for the police to clear the matter up fully. It would depend upon the result of the work of the police, he added, whether or not it would be his duty to call the jury together again.

  “That means, whether they catch the man or not,” whispered Lewis knowingly. Harper, sitting reluctantly at his side, felt slightly sick. But his attention was soon diverted as the evidence began.

  “Mrs. Ballantine,” cried the coroner’s officer, and a slender figure in black stepped forward. Those in the witnesses’ seats near the front of the court could discern a composed face, level brows and a thin, inflexible mouth.

  “You are Evangeline Mary Ballantine?” asked the coroner.

  “Yes.”

  “And you live at 59 Belgrave Square?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you identified the body of your husband, shown to you in the mortuary at this court?”

  “I have.”

  “When did you last see your husband alive?”

  “Last Wednesday—a week ago today.”

  “Was he then in his usual health?”

  “So far as I could see—yes.”

  The coroner consulted the papers before him, cleared his throat, and went on in a slightly different tone.

  “You and your husband were not living together, I think?”

  “We were not formally separated,” said Mrs. Ballantine in a voice from which all expression seemed deliberately excluded. “My house was open to him whenever he cared to use it.”

  “And did he use it, from time to time?”

  “From time to time—yes. I cannot say exactly how often. It is a large house, and I did not question him as to his movements.”

  “On this occasion, a week ago, did you see him at Belgrave Square?”

  “Yes, I asked him to come and see me. I had to discuss money matters with him.”

  “Did——?” the coroner began another question, but thought better of it. Instead he turned to the barrister who represented Mrs. Ballantine.

  “Have you any questions?” he asked.

  Counsel had only one question. “Did your husband ever mention to you the address, 27 Daylesford Gardens?”

  “No.”

  He turned to the coroner. “Will this witness be required any longer?” he asked. “If not, she would be obliged if——”

  “By all means,” was the answer. “She may go at once.”

  Counsel sat down with the easy conscience of one who has earned his fee, and Mrs. Ballantine nodded her thanks to the coroner and turned to go, as composed as she had come. Neither then nor at any time did she display any sign of emotion. She passed through the throng as though it had not been there and was gone. Mallett was not an impressionable man, but as she left the court he found his eyes following her with admiration and respect. “A hard nut, that woman,” he thought. “No wonder Ballantine went elsewhere for his fun! But she’s got character—and courage. A woman like that would do—anything!”

  The police surgeon was the next witness. He brought an air of businesslike efficiency into the court, giving his evidence with a matter-of-fact taciturnity that made it seem positively ordinary. Many of his audience, agape for thrills, felt that they had been in some way cheated. Later in the day, when they opened their evening papers and read the same evidence in all the glory of headlines and leaded type, they were able to recapture the sensations and the drama which had been so oddly missing in the original.

  The surgeon briskly gave his name, address and qualifications. He had been called to 27 Daylesford Gardens. There he had seen the body of the deceased. Rigor mortis had already set in. It was impossible to say accurately how long he had been dead, but he estimated from two to three days. That would place the time of death between midday on Friday and midday on Saturday. If anything, he thought it would be rather towards the beginning of that period. Asked specifically whether appearances were consistent with death on Friday afternoon or evening, he agreed that that was so.

  “Did you find anything to account for the death?” asked the coroner.

  “Yes—a thin piece of cord was passed twice round the neck and tightly knotted at the back.”

  “Was this the piece of cord in question?”

  For the first time in his recital there was a stir of interest in court, as an impassive officer placed the exhibit before the witness. The surgeon glanced at it, said “Yes”, and plunged into medical details. He had conducted a post-mortem. The body was healthy and well nourished. There was no trace of organic disease. Death was due to strangulation. Great force must have been used, suicide was out of the question. He gathered up his papers and left the box with the same air of dreary efficiency that he had displayed throughout.

  Harper and then Lewis were next called to give their account of the finding of the body. The inspector, listening idly to what was for him a twice-told tale, took a certain grim amusement in noting the difference in their attitude. Harper was before the coroner as he had been to the detective, aloof, detached and cool; Lewis, on the contrary, was flustered and excited. He evidently took a vulgar delight in being for once the centre of interest, and was much more concerned to describe his own sentiments of horror and amazement at what he saw than to add anything useful to the enquiry. He had already, Mallett knew, allowed himself to be interviewed and photographed by press reporters, unlike Harper, who had done all in his power to avoid publicity. Altogether the pair made a contrast which to a psychologist—and every good detective must be something of a psychologist—was not without interest, and, possibly, profit.

  The coroner looked at the clock. He had been satisfactorily expeditious so far, and he was anxious to finish the case before lunch.

  “There are only two more witnesses,” he told the jury. “We will deal with them now.”

  The jury, aching on hard wooden benches, and longing to escape from the fetid air, wriggled impatiently but made no protest.

  “Mr. Du Pine,” called the coroner’s officer.

  Du Pine, looking haggard and careworn, came forward. He took the oath in a nervous fashion, holding the Testament as though he were afraid it would bite him, and breathed deeply two or three times before he answered the questions put to him.

  “Your name is Hector Du Pine?” asked the coroner.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you live at 92 Fitz-James Avenue, St. John’s Wood?”

  “I do.”

  “Are you the secretary of the London and Imperial Estates Company?”

  “Yes—that is—yes, I am.”

  “Of which the deceased was the chairman?”

  Mr. Du Pine cleared his throat, bared his teeth in a nervous grin, and sighed rather than said: “He was.”

  “When did you last see the deceased?”

  “About five o’clock in the afternoon of last Friday.”

  “Was that at the offices of the London and Imperial Estates Company?”

  “Yes, I should say,” Mr. du Pine hastened to correct himself, “it was just outside the offices. On the pavement.”

  “You were outside the offices on the pavement with him?”

  “No. I was inside, at my window.”

  “You were watching out of your window and saw him go?”

  “Just so.”

  “Did you see which way he went?”

  “No, I don’t think I did. . . . No, decidedly no.”

  “You had no particular reason for watching, I suppose?” suggested the coroner.

  Mr. Du Pine’s eyelids flickered once or twice before he answered: “No—no particular reason.”

  “Was he alone then?”

  “He was.”

  “Had he anything with him?”

  “Just an umbrella—n
othing else.”

  “Had you been talking to him before he left?”

  “Oh, yes—just before.”

  “And did he seem in normal health and spirits then?”

  “Quite normal, so far as his health went,” answered the secretary. Then in lowered tones he added: “He was, of course, rather worried about business matters.”

  “And I suppose he had been discussing these business matters with you?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, he had.”

  “Did he tell you where he was going when he left?”

  “No. Oh, no. He was not—not a very communicative man, apart from business.”

  “Did he ever mention No. 27 Daylesford Gardens to you at any time?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Thank you,” said the coroner, with a nod of dismissal. But Mr. Du Pine had still something to say.

  “I think I ought to mention,” he said breathlessly, his thin hands clutching the rail of the witness-box as though he were afraid he might be forcibly removed before he had finished, “I might say, that Mr. Ballantine had expressed himself that morning as being very much concerned, alarmed indeed——”

  “About business matters. You have told us that already,” interjected the coroner.

  “No, not about business,” persisted the witness, “there was that, of course, as well. But I mean he seemed to be alarmed in a personal way.”