There was a hiss of indrawn breath followed by a spluttering protest.
Jack raised his hand for silence. ‘You were employed by Daniel Lythewell in New York. One of your fellow servants was the woman known to us as Joan McAllister. You had an affair with her, didn’t you? And many years later, she recognised you and called you Art. You travelled with Daniel Lythewell to England on the SS Concordia. Your name, occupation and employer are listed in the shipping records.’
‘This is absolute nonsense!’
‘Is it? When you arrived in England, you realised – realised very quickly – that John Askern had a guilty secret. He’d murdered Josiah Lythewell. Perhaps Daniel Lythewell realised it, too.’
Croft drew his breath in sharply. ‘It’s not true,’ he said unsteadily.
‘Yes, it is. John Askern confessed what he’d done in letters to his wife.’
‘The bloody fool!’
‘You could say that. He was lucky. His wife returned the letters unread. Mrs Daphne Askern’s got them. However, it’s an interesting fact that young John Askern, with no money and no influence, was suddenly made a full partner in the firm. I believe you kept silent about his guilty secret, just as he kept silent about yours.’
‘Silence? Guilty secrets?’ Arthur Croft laughed. ‘I’ve never heard such rubbish. Why should I need his silence?’
‘Because you murdered Daniel Lythewell.’
The automatic pistol came up. ‘I think you’d better prove that statement before you say another word. There wasn’t any fortune. You know damn well there wasn’t any fortune. There was no motive to kill Daniel Lythewell and all this rigmarole is a complete fairy tale.’
‘You want proof?’ Jack stepped forward and was stopped by a gesture from the gun. He put his hands wide. ‘I was going to show you something interesting, Mr Croft.’
‘My name’s Lythewell, damnit! Go on. Show me something interesting.’
Jack knelt down beside the inlaid chantry slab and, reaching out, tapped the metal. ‘This is aluminium.’
‘So what?’
‘Aluminium was once more precious than gold or silver. Old Josiah Lythewell could have made this slab of platinum but chose, instead, to use the more valuable aluminium. Then, in 1886, an American called Charles Hall and a French bloke called Héroult extracted aluminium from bauxite. The price of aluminium dropped through the floor. I think the knowledge that his fortune, his wonderful treasure, was worthless, added to Lythewell’s madness. So you see, Mr Croft, it was all for nothing.’
Arthur Croft licked very dry lips. ‘The bloody fool,’ he said again, his voice a croak.
‘Unfortunate, certainly.’
Jack picked up the hammer he had used to take the nails from the crate.
‘Put that hammer down!’ Croft said sharply.
‘Relax,’ said Jack with a smile, still kneeling on the floor. ‘I’ve got something else to show you.’
He swung the hammer and brought it down with a thunderous smash on the leg of the grieving man. A white leg bone showed through in the gleam from the oil lamp.
‘That’s Daniel Lythewell!’ yelled Jack.
He hurled himself to one side as Croft fired. He lay on the floor, hands scrabbling backwards as Croft, laughing, advanced. His eyes were wide and staring. He looked completely mad. ‘You can’t hide forever, Haldean. You’re right. That is Daniel Lythewell and I put him there. How much do you know, I wonder? Does my name mean anything to you?’
‘Croft,’ said Jack, desperate to keep him talking. ‘One of the men Lythewell used in his museum forgeries was called Croft.’
‘Well done,’ purred Croft. ‘Cornelius Croft was my father. He taught Josiah Lythewell everything he knew about electroplating. Josiah Lythewell used him, cheated him, and left him to rot in Dartmoor. My father died, a broken man, and the money that should have been mine was stolen by Lythewell for his precious son. That’s why I took employment with Josiah Lythewell’s son. I wanted to get to Josiah Lythewell. My only regret is that he was killed before I could do the job. When I heard that Josiah Lythewell had escaped me, his son was doomed.’
‘What about John Askern? He was supposed to be your friend.’
A flicker of regret crossed Croft’s face. ‘I was truly sorry to have to kill poor John. He remembered, you see? He remembered who we were and what we’d done before we became respectable. It was our shared secret, the thing we had in common. I felt lost without John, but he had to go. He was getting dangerous. He knew too much, just as you know too much.’
He raised the pistol to fire, then his eyes rolled backwards in his head and he fell in a crumpled heap to the floor.
‘Blimey, Bill,’ said Jack with a shaky laugh as he got to his feet. ‘Did you have to leave it so late? He’s not dead, is he?’
Bill put down the candlestick he had walloped Croft with and rolled the unconscious man over. ‘No, he’s still breathing,’ he said. ‘I realised, once you were cornered, that you wanted to draw a confession out of him and, quite honestly, Jack, I wanted to hear it.’ He looked at the statue of the grieving man with the white leg bone clearly visible and shuddered. ‘Daniel Lythewell’s body’s in there? That’s disgusting.’
‘Yes it is, the poor beggar,’ said Jack. ‘The tomb wasn’t so empty after all.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Betty Wingate blankly. ‘I just don’t see how Uncle Daniel can be guilty.’
She had been released from prison that morning and was now with Jack and Bill in the sun-filled private room of the Brown Cow, where they had invited her and a bewildered Colin Askern to join them for breakfast.
‘He’s guilty sure enough, Miss Wingate,’ said Bill. ‘He confessed what he’d done last night in the chantry before he tried to kill Haldean.’
Betty shuddered and looked at Jack. ‘You’re all right now though, aren’t you?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Jack, uncovering a dish of bacon and eggs and filling his plate. ‘My word, I’m hungry. Come and have something to eat, Askern.’
Colin Askern reluctantly came and stood by the table. ‘I don’t understand!’ he broke out, ignoring the dishes before him. ‘When I went to bed last night it all seemed so hopeless, and now …’ He shrugged. ‘You tell me Mr Lythewell’s guilty of everything, but I just don’t understand.’
‘I think you’d better explain things, Jack,’ said Bill. ‘Both Askern and Miss Wingate need to know what really happened.’
‘Before I do that,’ said Jack, glancing at Colin Askern, ‘I think an apology is due to Miss Wingate.’
Colin Askern started guiltily. ‘Eh?’ He looked at Betty and rubbed his hand across his face. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. Betty, I’m sorry. I was a fool to think you could be mixed up on the wrong side of this business, but I was so worried, first of all by my mother and then poor Dad, that I couldn’t think straight.’
‘You could’ve trusted me, Colin,’ said Betty.
‘I did!’ he said desperately. ‘I did really, but after poor Dad died, I didn’t know what to think. When your fingerprints were found on that vase, it seemed like a nightmare. None of it made any sense. I believe you now,’ he said, with the ghost of a smile on his handsome face. ‘I always did, deep down, you know.’ He reached out his hand to her. ‘I’ll never doubt you again.’
Betty hesitated.
Jack couldn’t help feeling a sudden surge of hope at her hesitation. It was one thing for Betty to accept Askern’s apology, but surely things couldn’t just go back to how they were before. Could they?
Betty reached out and took Colin’s hand. ‘You promise?’ she asked. ‘You’ll never doubt me?’
‘Absolutely not,’ he said earnestly. ‘We can start again.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘You’d better tell us what happened, Haldean,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I can’t make head or tail of it.’
Jack avoided his eyes. This was Betty’s choice, he told himself. It was up to Betty to decide, but … He’d believed her. Askern hadn’t. Y
es, Askern had his reasons, but he, Jack, had believed her. That should count for something.
‘You’ve told us how old Lythewell made a mint from electroplating forgeries of antiques he’d stolen from museums,’ went on Colin, pulling the dish of sausages towards him. ‘That’s clear enough. I also understand about the aluminium plate in the chantry. I know that his famous treasure is worthless, worse luck, but what about the rest of it? Where did it all start?’
Jack swallowed hard. For the sake of his own self-respect he was damned if he was going to let Askern – or Betty, for that matter – have the slightest hint of how he felt.
‘It started years ago, when Daniel Lythewell came back from America together with his valet, Arthur Croft,’ he said, his voice as even as he could make it. ‘You remember the dance band at the Cafe de Bologna, Betty? The singer was called Art Burrell. It was then I realised that art wasn’t necessarily art, but could be a name as well. I was convinced that Mrs McAllister had recognised someone at the exhibition and, what’s more, that their name was Art or Arthur. The name, together with Mrs McAllister’s past, suggested an American connection. Daniel Lythewell, I knew, had sailed from New York on the Concordia, and when I checked the records and found Lythewell’s valet was one Arthur Croft, I knew I’d struck gold. Art explained what Mrs McAllister said, but the surname Croft gave me the connection with the loot stolen as part of the Great Museum Scandal. I knew I was on the right track.’
He swallowed hard. It was no use. If he carried on speaking, somehow or other he’d give himself away. ‘Bill, why don’t you tell the story? I want to finish my breakfast,’ he said, rather too heartily. ‘You know what happened.’
‘All right,’ said Bill, with a sideways glance at his friend. ‘I don’t mind if I do. The thing is, Askern, Croft wanted revenge on the Lythewells. He knew Josiah Lythewell had amassed a fortune.’ He paused awkwardly. ‘Before I tell you this, Askern, can I say that we’ve got absolute proof of what I’m about to say? The thing is, Croft also discovered – I’m not sure how – that your father killed old Mr Lythewell.’
Colin drew a long breath. ‘I wondered if you knew about that.’
Jack, Bill and Betty gaped at him.
‘Dad never intended to kill old Lythewell,’ said Colin quickly. ‘It just sort of happened. It was an accident. He should’ve owned up, I suppose, but it was much better for everyone to let sleeping dogs lie. I told you he wasn’t good at covering things up. It wouldn’t take much for Mr Lythewell – Croft, I mean – to get the truth out of Dad.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ muttered Bill. There was a long pause.
Colin, avoiding Bill’s gaze, concentrated on his breakfast.
‘Anyway, Arthur Croft saw his chance,’ Bill continued eventually. ‘Your father must’ve covered up for him, Askern, because no one ever suspected that the real Daniel Lythewell was dead and Croft had taken his place. Granted what happened to Croft’s father, electroplating Daniel Lythewell’s body had a horrible symmetry to it. And then, of course, the awful truth must’ve dawned, that old Mr Lythewell’s treasure was well and truly hidden and the murder hadn’t gained him a fortune but only a business.’
‘It was a very lucrative business in those days,’ said Colin. ‘He did very well out of it.’
Bill nodded. ‘Anyway, as we know, things continued until he had the misfortune to run into Mrs Joan McAllister at the exhibition. Jack put this part of the story together. A Miss Sharpe, who knew Mrs McAllister, told Jack that Mrs McAllister had been involved with a man who’d let her down badly before her marriage.’
‘She’d been a servant in New York,’ said Jack. He was relieved to hear his voice sounded normal in his own ears. ‘Putting two and two together with what else we knew, that man had to be her fellow-servant, Arthur Croft.’
‘I feel sorry for her, of course,’ said Betty, ‘especially when I think what happened to her, but, even so, she doesn’t sound a very nice person.’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ agreed Jack. ‘I’m not sure who contacted who, but she was certainly looking forward to a spot of blackmail. She virtually told me so that day I met her on the Strand. It wouldn’t take her long to find out that the man she knew as Arthur Croft was calling himself Daniel Lythewell. Arthur Croft, of course, was anxious to keep her quiet. I think he initially paid up – she moved out of Purbeck Terrace pretty quickly – and, perhaps lulled into a sense of false security, she must’ve agreed to come down to Whimbrell Heath.’
Betty swallowed. ‘This is my night in the cottage, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Jack agreed. He looked at Colin. ‘He knew about your mother, of course, and knew she was away. Her cottage was the perfect place to stage a murder. I think he met Mrs McAllister at the station and drove her to the cottage. God knows what tale he told her to get her into the cottage, but he chloroformed her and strangled her. And then, just as everything was going according to plan, Betty, you walked in on him.’
‘I’ve never been so frightened in my life,’ she said. ‘But Jack, why didn’t he kill me?’
‘Don’t you see, Betty?’ said Jack. ‘He couldn’t. He knew what he was going to do with Mrs McAllister’s body. He’d planned it all in fine detail, even down to poisoning the watchman’s dog. But two bodies? That’s a very different kettle of fish.’
‘He was fairly safe with Mrs McAllister,’ put in Bill. ‘It was no one’s business to find out what had happened to her. You, on the other hand, Miss Wingate, would be missed. Anyway, when you said what had happened, no one believed you, did they?’
Colin Askern looked very sheepish. ‘It all seemed so incredible,’ he said. ‘When you wouldn’t let the matter drop, I got really worried.’
‘That’s why I went to Scotland Yard,’ said Betty tartly. ‘I was desperate for someone to believe me. I didn’t realise who Signora Bianchi was, of course.’
‘It went really wrong for Dad when my mother turned up,’ said Colin. He put down his knife and fork and looked at Jack squarely. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I can’t excuse what my father did, but he really cared for my stepmother. He fell to pieces when she cut up rough, poor beggar. He wasn’t really rational the last few days of his life. I realise now that you’d started to put two and two together about what had happened to old Mr Lythewell. I suppose that’s why that devil killed him, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Jack. ‘If your father had been arrested or even properly questioned about Josiah Lythewell’s death, then the whole truth would’ve probably come out. Arthur Croft couldn’t risk it.’
‘Why did he pretend to be Mrs McAllister?’ asked Betty. ‘I still can’t get over the idea that Uncle Daniel dressed up as a woman. He must’ve been a very convincing woman,’ she said wonderingly. ‘No one seemed to suspect him.’
‘Just think of the female impersonators on the music halls,’ said Bill. ‘They can be very convincing. With the right dress, make-up and hair, Arthur Croft obviously did a very good job. And, of course, to have Mrs McAllister apparently rent a flat in Dorian House after he’d murdered her did make it seem as if she wasn’t dead. I suppose you had mentioned to him that you thought the woman in the cottage could be Mrs McAllister, hadn’t you?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ said Betty slowly.
‘That put you in danger,’ said Jack. ‘He didn’t want any connection between Mrs McAllister and the body in the cottage, so he arranged for you to discover John Askern. He hoped we’d think of you as a liar and a murderer. That was certainly his intention when he killed Henry Cadwallader.’
‘That was just cold-blooded,’ said Colin in disgust. ‘But why kill Cadwallader? I can’t believe he knew a thing.’
‘Can’t you?’ asked Jack. ‘Cadwallader was doing a series of drawings of the chantry. He showed me the statue of the grieving man. He pointed out that the grieving man’s ear was identical to that of Josiah Lythewell’s. The shape of an ear is very distinctive and often identical in fathers and sons. Th
at’s a fairly well-known fact. Cadwallader was convinced that the statue was nothing more than a tribute, as he put it, by Daniel Lythewell to his father, but, looking at the shape of that ear and comparing it to the drawing I had of Josiah Lythewell, I was convinced, on top of everything else we knew, that there was a far more straightforward and sinister explanation. Cadwallader would’ve told anyone who’d listen about the similarity between the statue and Josiah Lythewell. Arthur Croft couldn’t risk it. All it needed was one tap with a hammer and the truth would be revealed. And, of course, it was.’
Betty pushed her plate away in disgust. ‘I can’t bear to think of it. It’s horrible!’ She looked at Jack. ‘When I was arrested, I knew I was innocent, but, once again, no one seemed to believe me.’ Her blue eyes met his. ‘You said, “Trust me”,’ she said wonderingly. ‘I did.’
There was something in her look that suddenly made hope surge once more, then Colin Askern broke the moment.
‘Betty, you’re Daniel Lythewell’s niece, aren’t you? The real Daniel Lythewell, I mean.’ He looked at Betty with a new respect in his eyes.
‘Of course I am,’ she said puzzled. ‘I’ll have to see that he’s properly buried, poor man. We can’t leave him in the chantry in that hideous statue.’
‘He died without marrying though, didn’t he? I mean, your Aunt Maud isn’t really your aunt, even by marriage. Your uncle – your real uncle – died without having children. Josiah Lythewell doesn’t have any other living descendants, apart from you. Don’t you see, Betty? You’re Lythewell’s heir. The firm belongs to us. You and me. We’re partners.’
‘Colin,’ she said, shocked. ‘You can’t possibly think of things like that now!’
‘Why not?’ he asked with a shrug. ‘It’s how things are. We might as well be practical.’
‘But …’ Betty stopped, lost for words. ‘I don’t want anything to do with the firm, Colin, and I know you don’t. You only worked there because it’s what your father wanted.’ Her eyes were suddenly bright with excitement. ‘Why don’t you go to Hollywood with your mother? It’s what you’ve always wanted.’
After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) Page 27
