Roger Sheringham and the Vane Mystery

by Anthony Berkeley

  Fifty yards ahead of him the ground rose to form a little hillock; once over that Roger felt that it would be safe enough to examine his find without fear of interruption. His hand was actually inside his pocket as he breasted the rise when the figure of Anthony appeared suddenly over the top. On seeing him Anthony broke into a run.

  “Hullo, Anthony!” said Roger mildly. “You seem in a hurry.”

  “Look here,” Anthony began breathlessly and without preamble. “Look here, I’ve seen Miss Cross and it’s jolly serious. That infernal inspector’s been up there and nearly frightened the life out of her. I want you to come along and speak to her. And let me tell you, Roger, that things are getting a bit thick. Anybody who’s hinting things about that girl ought to be taken out and shot. The poor kid’s –”

  “Here, wait a minute!” Roger interrupted. “Let’s get this straight. You’ve seen Miss Cross, have you?”

  “Yes, and she’s –”

  “And she’s a remarkably pretty girl, isn’t she?”

  Anthony stared. “How the devil did you know that?”

  “Merely a simple piece of deductive reasoning,” replied Roger modestly. “Now then, start at the beginning and tell me exactly what happened.”

  Rather more coherently this time, Anthony complied. He gave an account of his meeting with the girl, told how she had broken down (glossing as delicately as possible over the subsequent proximity of her dark head and his shoulder) and went on to give his highly interested listener a detailed synopsis of the story she had told him in order to spare her the pain of having to recount it a second time. This recital lasted them almost to the very spot where she was waiting, and Anthony had only just time to reiterate in a fierce undertone the promise he had given that they would do all in their power to help her and to demand that a similar promise should be given by Roger himself within the first five minutes of the interview, before her black dress sprang into view on the little ledge just below them.

  Roger was conducted down the bank and ceremoniously introduced and the three of them disposed themselves on the soft turf to discuss the situation.

  “Now I want you to understand, Miss Cross,” Roger said briskly after a few general remarks had been made, “that my cousin and I are entirely on your side.” Roger had been as favourably impressed at first sight with this slender, courageous-looking, proud-spirited girl as had Anthony, and he was at no pains to attempt to disguise the fact. “There’s no use pretending that this isn’t a bad business. It is – more so than you know: and it may become even worse than that in the very near future.”

  “What do you mean, Mr Sheringham?” asked the girl with anxiety. “How more so than I know?”

  Roger deliberated. “Well I don’t see that there can be any harm in telling you,” he said gravely. “You’re bound to know sooner or later. But please don’t tell anybody else just yet awhile – I’m afraid there can be very little doubt that your cousin’s death was not an accident.”

  “You don’t mean that – that –?” The girl broke off, white to the lips.

  “I’m very much afraid so,” Roger said gently. There was no need to mention the ugly word ‘murder’; its implication was sufficiently obvious.

  “Good God!” Anthony breathed, aghast. “Has that been definitely proved?”

  “As definitely as matters. She wasn’t alone when she met her death, for one thing, though it isn’t known who was with her. And there are one or two other details too into which I needn’t go now, small enough in themselves but uncommonly convincing in the mass. Anyhow, you can see that it’s a really bad business. So if I put one or two questions to you, Miss Cross, you won’t think me unnecessarily impertinent, will you?”

  “Of course not,” said the girl earnestly. “And I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your kindness. But you won’t – you won’t put too much about me in the Courier, will you?”

  “You can rely on my discretion,” Roger smiled. “I’ll see that you’re not worried in that sort of way so far as I’m concerned at any rate; and I’ll drop a word or two in season to any others of my kidney who follow me down here. Well now, first of all I want you to tell me exactly what happened on this walk you had with your cousin. Can you do that?”

  The girl frowned in an effort of memory. “Yes, I think so. It was quite simple. We walked along the cliffs about a mile toward Sandsea and then turned round and came back; just before we got as far as this Elsie said she wanted to go over and speak to a Mrs Russell, a neighbour, about some treat for the village children that they were getting up between them. She knew this was a favourite place of mine, so she asked me to wait for her here, and we could go back to the house for tea together.”

  “One minute,” Roger interrupted. “Where does Mrs Russell live?”

  “About halfway between our house and the village.”

  “I see. So it was really out of her way to come back and pick you up here?”

  “Yes, it was a little; but Elsie always liked walking along these cliffs. She nearly always went into the village this way instead of by the road.”

  “The road lying on the other side of the house from here, of course. Then is the Russells’ house on the same road?”

  “Yes, but the road winds toward the cliffs farther along, so it wouldn’t take her so much out of her way to come back to me here as if it didn’t.”

  “No, I see that. Yes?”

  “Well, she didn’t come back. I must have waited for nearly an hour and a half. Then, as it was past teatime, I walked over to the house alone.”

  “Now, sitting down here, you couldn’t see anybody walking along the clifftop, or they you, unless they happened to walk right over the top of this bank at the back here?”

  “No.”

  “As a matter of fact, did anybody pass while you were here?”

  “No, not a soul.”

  Roger frowned. “That’s a pity. That means you can’t actually prove that you were here during that time, can you?”

  “If Miss Cross says she was here,” Anthony put in warmly, “then she was here. That ought to be good enough for anyone.”

  “Except a court of law, Anthony. Courts of law are nasty, suspicious things, I’m afraid. By the way, did Mrs Vane ever get to the Russells’ house, Miss Cross?”

  “No, she didn’t; that’s the extraordinary thing. In fact nobody seems to have seen her at all from the time she left me to the time her body was found.”

  “It’s a nasty gap,” Roger commented thoughtfully. “Isn’t it rather curious that she should have been about here all the time without being seen? Aren’t there usually plenty of people in the neighbourhood?”

  “No, as a matter of fact there aren’t. It’s usually fairly deserted up here. Ours and the Russells’ are the only two houses out this way, you see. And there’s another point about that; anybody walking along the edge of the cliff can’t be seen from the road except in one or two places, because of the high ground between, if you remember noticing it.”

  “Yes, that is so; you’re right. Hullo, what’s that bell?”

  “That will be our dinner-bell,” said the girl with a faint smile. “A most efficient one, isn’t it?”

  “Highly. Well, Miss Cross,” Roger said, scrambling to his feet, “I don’t think there’s any need to keep you any longer just now, though there are one or two more things I shall want to ask you. Could you meet us here at say half past ten tomorrow morning for more cross-examination, do you think?”

  “Of course, Mr Sheringham. I shall be only too pleased. And you will try to – to –”

  “To throw a little fresh light on that hour and a half?” Roger suggested as he shook hands. “I promise you I will. That’s the crux of the whole thing, isn’t it? I’ll do all I can, Miss Cross, you can be sure.”

  They climbed the little bank and Anthony, by a curious lapse of memory, appeared to forget that he had already shaken hands on the lower level; at any rate he did so again, even more warmly than
before.

  “It’s a nasty business,” Roger remarked as the two of them set out on their walk back to the inn. “Nastier than I let out. I didn’t tell the little lady that the other person with Mrs Vane was a woman, by the way.”

  “Was she?” said Anthony gloomily. “Hell!”

  “Yes, I’ll tell you what I managed to find out down there. Not much, but decidedly interesting. Mrs Vane must have... By jove, I was forgetting!”

  “What?”

  “Something I picked up near where the body was found – a bit of writing paper. I haven’t been able to look at it yet. It may be nothing, but on the other hand it may be something uncommonly important. Anyhow, let’s have a look at it.” And digging into his breast pocket, Roger drew out his handkerchief and its precious contents.

  “Looks a bit sodden,” Anthony remarked, as the little ball of bluish-grey paper emerged from its covering.

  “Naturally, as it’s been in the water off and on for sixty odd hours or so,” said Roger, straightening out the sodden little tangle with infinite care. It was a ticklish business, for the least false move would tear the flimsy stuff and it had to be unwrapped half an inch at a time.

  “Can you make anything out?” Anthony asked eagerly, as the sheet was at last laid out flat on the palm of Roger’s hand.

  “It’s a bit of ordinary notepaper,” Roger murmured, peering down at it intently. “Good quality. Watermark a big crown and some kind of inscription. Ought to be easy enough to trace.”

  “Yes, but is there any writing on it?”

  “There has been, but that’s about as much as one can say. See these faint pen-marks? But I should think it’s pretty well impossible to make out what was written on it.”

  “Then it’s no use?” Anthony asked disappointedly.

  “I wouldn’t say that. An expert might be able to make them out. I suppose there are ways of testing this sort of thing. We’ll see, anyhow. But we mustn’t build any hopes on it. Ten to one it had nothing to do with Mrs Vane at all, and even if it did it’s another ten to one that it had nothing to do with what we’re after. However, we’ll take it back and see if it’s possible to do anything with it.”

  Roger took off his hat and laid the paper carefully inside to shield it from the wind, and they resumed their journey.

  “What did you think of Miss Cross?” Anthony asked very airily, gazing at the easy feats of a neighbouring gull with an appearance of intense interest.

  “Oh, all right,” Roger said with malicious indifference. “Perfectly ordinary sort of girl, I thought, didn’t you?”

  “Personally, she struck me as being rather an exceptional one,” Anthony said coldly.

  “Did she? Ah, well! Bit long in the nose, wasn’t she?”

  “Long in the nose!” exclaimed the indignant Anthony. “Why, her nose is absolutely –” He caught sight of Roger’s grin and broke off abruptly. “Damn you!” he growled, flushing vividly.

  “Ah, you young people!” Roger continued to grin. “Ah, youth, happy youth! Ah –”

  “Roger, you ass, be serious for a minute. Do you think that girl’s in any danger?”

  “I do indeed,” Roger said with a quick change to gravity. “At least, I don’t know about danger, but I certainly think she’s in a very awkward position. Very awkward indeed.”

  “But you don’t think – you don’t think there can be anything in – well, what the inspector seems to be thinking do you?”

  “You mean, that she pushed her cousin over the cliff?” amplified Roger, who was not a person to mince matters. “No, I don’t think I do. I liked her, I must say – though that isn’t anything to go by, is it?”

  “It’s a devil of a lot. And you really will do all you can to help clear her, Roger?”

  “Of course I will. Haven’t I told her so half a dozen times over?”

  “Thanks, old man,” said Anthony simply.

  It was a slightly awkward moment. To tide it over Roger embarked upon a voluble account of his conversation with Inspector Moresby, what he had discovered and what he had not, which took them right up to the door of their inn.

  “And that’s the first thing we’ve got to discover, fair coz,” he was saying vehemently as they crossed the threshold. “What old Moresby’s got up his sleeve. And that’s what I’m jolly well going to get out of him somehow, by hook, or even, if it comes to the point, by crook. And what’s more, I think I see a way of going about it. So now for our four bedrooms and a little cold water. By Jove, Anthony, it’s hot, isn’t it? What about a tankard apiece before we go upstairs?”

  “How you do think of things!” was Anthony’s strongly approving comment.

  They adjourned briskly into the cool little bar.

  “Mr Moresby back yet, do you know?” Roger asked the landlord in a casual voice as he set the mighty tankard down on the counter after an initial gulp at its contents.

  “No, sir,” replied that mountainous man. “He said he’d be back for ‘is supper round about eight o’clock.”

  “Well, we shall be ready for ours about that time too. You might as well serve all three in our sitting-room. And send me up a bottle of gin, half a dozen bottles of ginger beer, a bottle of whisky, a couple of syphons of soda and a corkscrew. Can you manage that?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the landlord benevolently. “That I can.”

  “Excellent! I suppose it would be too much to ask if you’ve got any ice as well?”

  “I have an’ all, sir,” replied the landlord with conscious pride. “I gets it three times a week from Sandsea in this ‘ot weather. There’s some come in this morning you can have, and welcome.”

  “But this is sheer Epicureanism!” Roger cried.

  “Yes, sir,” said the landlord. “There’s been two gents in this evening asking for rooms. London gents, by the look of ‘em. I told ‘em I ‘adn’t got any.”

  “That’s right, landlord,” Roger said with approval. “Speak the truth and shame the devil, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the landlord, and turned away to serve another customer.

  “I say,” Anthony asked hopefully as they climbed the stairs a few minutes later, “I say, are we going to make old Moresby tight?”

  “Certainly not,” said Roger with dignity. “I’m surprised at you, Anthony. Do I look the sort of person to interfere with the sobriety of the police in the execution of their duty?”

  “Well, what’s all that gin and stuff for, then?”

  “To pour libations to the great and puissante Goddess of Bluff! Now then, Anthony, how many bedrooms would you like to sleep in tonight? One, two or three?”

  chapter six

  An Unwelcome Clue

  Inspector Moresby, it has been said, was a genial man. He had no hesitation in falling in with Roger’s suggestion that the three of them should sup together. Even a Scotland Yard detective is human, and Inspector Moresby very much preferred to spend his moments of leisure in the congenial company of his fellows than alone.

  In the same way he had no hesitation in accepting a little gin before a meal. In yet once more the same way he had not the slightest hesitation in drinking some gin and ginger beer with his supper because, as anyone knows, gin and ginger beer with a lump of ice clinking invitingly against the glass is the greatest of all drinks on a hot day and has the Olympian nectar beaten to a standstill; thus far has civilisation progressed. And after a meal when, pleasantly tired and a pleasant hunger pleasantly allayed, one sprawls in a horsehair armchair and contemplates a case of stuffed birds, an iced whisky and soda by one’s side is almost a sine qua non. Inspector Moresby was a genial man.

  Roger had behaved with exemplary tact. Not a word about their common mission to Ludmouth had passed his lips. Instead, he had set out to be as entertaining as he possibly could; and when Roger set out to be entertaining he could prove a very good companion indeed. He had recounted numberless anecdotes about the humours of his own early struggles and experiences, and the inspector had
been amused; he had recounted further anecdotes of the great people he had met and knew, all of whom he called by their Christian names, and the inspector had been impressed; he had kept a judicious eye on his victim’s glass – or rather, succession of glasses, and the inspector had become mellowed. Roger loved the inspector, and the inspector loved Roger.

  Roger chose his moment and struck.

  “Look here, Inspector,” he said quite casually, “about this Mrs Vane business, by the way. I wish you’d look on me not as a reporter but as an amateur criminologist, extraordinarily interested in the way the police go about the solving of a mystery like this and only too ready to put any small brains I may have at their assistance. I do happen to be writing this thing up for a newspaper, it’s true; but that’s only by the way. I’m not a reporter by instinct or profession or anything else, and I only jumped at the chance of becoming one because it would give me first-hand information about a very interesting little mystery. Do you see what I mean?”

  The inspector’s eyes twinkled. “I think so, sir. You want me to take you into my confidence, don’t you?”

  “Something like that,” Roger agreed. “And I must tell you that the balance won’t be entirely on your side. I’ve got something rather important to offer you – a clue I found this afternoon under your very nose down among those rocks. I don’t want to hold it up or anything like that; but candidly, I don’t want to give it away for nothing either. Can’t we arrange a swap, so to speak?”

  The inspector’s eyes twinkled more merrily than ever. “I’ve been waiting for something like this ever since I came here, Mr Sheringham; though I didn’t expect you to put it quite that way. I thought you’d just got me here to try to pump me in the ordinary way, as hundreds of new journalists have tried already before they found out it wasn’t any use.”

  “Oh!” said Roger somewhat crestfallen. “Did you? But about this clue, I –”

  “Lord, the number of clues I’ve had offered me in my time!” observed the inspector reminiscently. “Thousands of ‘em! And not a single one worth a twopenny rap.”