by Clara Benson
This seemed reasonable.
‘Perhaps I should speak to her alone?’ suggested Dr. Carter. ‘Since it seems she was very upset this morning, if she is questioned by five people at once it may prove too much for her.’
This was agreed to and the doctor went off, leaving the four of us to gaze round the room and at one another. I stared at one of the African artefacts that Sir Neville had proudly shown me only two days ago, a statue of an elongated kneeling woman, and remembered our mysterious conversation. Sylvia was the first to speak, voicing my own unspoken question.
‘What if the housemaid confirms Rogers’s story? What then?’
Mr. Pomfrey coughed.
‘Er—I must confess that I am not entirely sure. I expect her to support the butler’s story, of course. Indeed, I should be astonished if she does not, given Rogers’s position of authority among the servants. However, if she does confirm it—ahem—yes, the fact that Dr. Carter is here makes things rather more difficult,’ he finished obliquely.
‘You mean that he will insist on sending for the police, I suppose,’ said Sylvia.
‘But of course we want the criminal to be caught,’ I said, ‘if there is indeed a criminal at large. Other houses in the neighbourhood may be in danger.’
Nobody replied. A few minutes later, Dr. Carter returned.
‘It’s no go I’m afraid,’ he said briefly. ‘The housemaid—Ellen is her name, by the way—is quite certain that neither she nor Rogers touched the body. She says when they finally entered the study, the lamp was still on and Sir Neville was lying by the fireplace exactly as we saw him. The butler then ushered her out of the room and locked the door, as we have already heard. She says she saw him speaking to Mr. Pomfrey almost immediately afterwards.’
‘What now?’ asked Angela.
‘I don’t pretend to know what happened but I’m afraid I must insist on this room being locked for the moment.’ replied the doctor. ‘Pomfrey, you and I must decide what to do. I think we have no choice but to call in the police, or at least the coroner. I wonder—you know Colonel Tremayne, the chief constable, don’t you? A friend of Sir Neville’s too, I believe. Let us start with him. He will send someone discreet. We don’t want a crowd of yokels gawping outside.’
‘Yes, Tremayne is a good man,’ murmured Mr. Pomfrey. ‘Let us hope that he decides this is all a mare’s nest.’
Carter saw us out of the room, locked it and disappeared down the passage, deep in conversation with the solicitor. It was clear that we had been dismissed and that the forces of officialdom were about to take over.
‘I must go and see Rosamund,’ said Angela and left us.
‘Come into the conservatory,’ said Sylvia. We found the room unoccupied and sat down to reflect on the astonishing revelations of the past hour or two. Sylvia bit her lip in thought.
‘I wonder if it was Neville who opened the French windows, or someone else,’ she said.
‘I expect it was Sir Neville himself,’ I said. ‘I must say that on reflection I am not entirely convinced by this foul play theory. It seems to rest on so little. If somebody did come from outside to see Sir Neville, then who was it? And why visit at so late an hour? Was it a secret visit? In that case, what was the reason? And how on earth did it end in murder?’
‘Perhaps it was someone who bore a grudge against him,’ said Sylvia. ‘Neville was a magistrate you know.’
‘But then why should he open the French windows and let them in?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps the visitor knocked and asked to be admitted and Neville had no reason to suspect that any harm would come to him.’
An idea struck me.
‘What if it wasn’t Sir Neville who opened the French windows at all but a servant with evil intentions? Let us say he had an accomplice or accomplices outside the house and the intention was burglary. Now, what happens? The servant informs his associates that the French windows on the ground floor will be unlocked and that the way will be clear, let’s say after midnight. But the plans go awry—the household not only stays up later than expected but one member of it has also locked himself firmly in the study. The gang arrive, are confronted by the owner of the house and silence him. They arrange the body to make it look like an accident and flee empty-handed.’
‘I can think of several objections to that,’ replied Sylvia. ‘If they wanted to get away quickly and quietly, why should they bother making it look like an accident? And if the motive was burglary, then why didn’t they take anything? One would think that if they were desperate enough to resort to murder, then they would at least have stolen something to make it worth their while. There are one or two rather valuable paintings on the walls in the study, yet they were left untouched. And,’ she finished, ‘we didn’t stay up late at all, if you remember. The row between Gwen and Joan rather spoilt things and we all went to bed.’
I had been warming to my theory but I was forced to concede that Sylvia had a point.
‘Well, we shall have to wait and see what the police say, I said. ‘Who knows, perhaps they will find conclusive proof that it was an accident. God knows, it will be hard enough on Rosamund having to deal with her husband’s death but even more so if it turns out that it was murder.’
‘Oh yes, poor Rosamund,’ said Sylvia suddenly. ‘How awful of us. Here we are having a high old time debating who may or may not have killed Neville as though it were some sort of detective game, while she is having to face the fact that she has lost her husband and is now a widow.’
I started. Sylvia was right. That was exactly what we had been doing. It was not a game though but a ghastly reality. We looked at each other guiltily.
‘I feel rather a worm,’ she said.
‘So do I,’ I said.
‘Let’s go in to tea.’
I laughed.
‘Tea!’ I said. ‘Our comfort and our joy. If England should ever fall and the race be all but wiped out, it is certain that the last few surviving Englishmen will be found at some faraway outpost, drinking tea as though nothing had happened!’
It was not until we were all seated at dinner that the chief constable arrived, accompanied by an inspector. Rosamund had remained in her room and her place had been taken by Angela Marchmont, who attempted to keep us all as cheerful as possible. Nonetheless, we were all horridly conscious of the empty place at the other end of the table, in which Sir Neville had sat only the evening before.
We were all toying listlessly with our soup when Rogers came in and informed Mrs. Marchmont in a low tone that the chief constable had just arrived and was in conference with Lady Strickland. The surprise of some of the party at the arrival of the police was nothing to the surprise of three of us in particular on finding out that, instead of bringing with him a local inspector, the chief constable had in fact wired to Scotland Yard to send one of their best men, one Inspector Jameson.
‘The police?’ cried Gwen MacMurray. ‘Why on earth are the police here?’
Angela, Sylvia and I looked at each other in astonishment, all clearly thinking the same thing: Scotland Yard! It must indeed be a serious case! Angela was so distracted for a moment that she accidentally laid her napkin down in the soup and there was a brief interlude as Rogers fussed over her. However, she was soon called upon to reply to the urgent questioning of those who had not been present in the study earlier.
‘Come on, Angela,’ said Bobs. ‘No secrets now. What’s all this about?’
Mrs. Marchmont recounted the events of that afternoon, to the general astonishment and consternation of the table.
‘What! You’re saying that a gang of vile murderers got into the house and bashed poor old Neville on the head!’ exclaimed Hugh MacMurray. ‘I don’t believe it. How could they have got in without being seen or heard by someone?’
His wife gave a little shriek.
‘We could all have been murdered in our beds!’ she cried. ‘Hugh, we must leave at once. This house isn’t safe.’
Joan ga
ve her a withering look.
‘They can’t get away with it, surely,’ she said. ‘The police must catch them soon. After all, this house is practically in the middle of nowhere. They must have been spotted by somebody. Any strangers would stick out a mile.’
‘They might not have been strangers,’ said Sylvia. ‘It might have been an attack by somebody whom Neville encountered as a magistrate, out for revenge.’
‘I can’t think who could have borne such a grudge,’ said Joan. ‘Tivenham is hardly the East End of London, you know. It’s the most peaceful place you can imagine. Why, the most serious crimes to happen around here are poaching and public drunkenness. We had a case a few years ago where a local farmer shot his wife but there was no mystery to that and it was all cleared up very quickly.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if there is anything untoward about Sir Neville’s death—which I am not convinced of myself—the police will solve the mystery.’
‘Will they want to ask us any questions?’ asked Gwen. ‘That’s what happens in detective stories. Oh! I’m sure I shall be much too frightened to think properly and when they ask me where I was at the time of the murder I shan’t know what to say, or give the wrong answer, or something and that will make them suspicious, even though I know nothing about it.’ Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. ‘What if they arrest me? Boopsie, you must stay with me when they are questioning me. You mustn’t let them try to trick me or trap me.’
‘Do shut up, Gwen, there’s a good girl,’ said Bobs.
Just then, a message arrived to say that Colonel Tremayne, the chief constable, would be grateful if the party could spare him a few minutes in the drawing-room after dinner. Gwen MacMurray gasped and opened her mouth to speak but caught Bobs’s eye and thought better of it.
Dinner was finished very quickly after that. Whether or not we wished to admit it, I think we were all eager to hear what the chief constable had to say. Of one accord, ladies and gentlemen alike rose and hurried into the drawing-room. We found it already occupied by two people: a large military type who looked like nothing so much as a chief constable and Rosamund, who waved away our expressions of concern and sympathy. She was pale and had dark circles around her eyes but otherwise seemed to be dealing with the shock bravely.
‘Please, I’m quite all right, really,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me. The most important thing now is to find out what happened to poor Neville. I can hardly believe that it wasn’t an accident but it must be true because Colonel Tremayne and Inspector Jameson tell me so.’
‘Now now, Lady Strickland,’ said Colonel Tremayne, ‘we have not yet reached any conclusion. Jameson and a couple of my men are examining the study closely and I expect we shall hear from them shortly.’
‘Why have you called in Scotland Yard?’ asked Joan.
‘A mere matter of routine, my dear,’ replied Colonel Tremayne airily. I saw Angela Marchmont wrinkle her brow in puzzlement.
‘I think all of us would like to know what exactly is going on,’ said Bobs, to several nods of agreement.
‘Certainly,’ said the chief constable. ‘That is why I wished to speak to you all. At present, we have reason to believe that Sir Neville’s death was not an accident. Sir Neville has now been removed from the house and Dr. Carter will perform a closer examination, which should give us a better idea of what happened to him. It is a pity that so many people have visited the scene of the—er—occurrence and perhaps destroyed valuable evidence but since no suspicion arose at first I suppose it can’t be helped.’
I glanced guiltily at Sylvia and Angela.
‘One thing I should like to request,’ continued Colonel Tremayne, ‘is that you all remain here in this house, at least for the next day or two.’
‘But why?’ asked Gwen. ‘None of us saw or heard the thieves.’
‘And surely the fewer people there are in the house the easier it will be for your men to conduct their investigation.’ added Joan.
The chief constable smiled blandly.
‘Oh, don’t worry about them: you will hardly notice they are here,’ he said. ‘But all the same, I should be grateful if you would all remain here. Once the examination of the scene of this unfortunate occurrence is complete, Inspector Jameson will no doubt wish to speak to you all, in order to get an idea of the sequence of events last night. You say you all saw nothing. However, it is possible that one or more of you may hold a clue to which you yourself attach no importance but which may prove highly significant. We cannot tell until we have spoken to you all tomorrow and ascertained the full facts of the matter.’
He then rose and excused himself, saying that he wished to speak to the inspector.
‘After that, I shall leave the case in his capable hands,’ he said. ‘Scotland Yard think very highly of him and—what is almost as important—we can rely utterly on his discretion.’
It was the second time I had heard someone mention discretion in connection with Sir Neville’s death. But where was the need for it? If a crime had been committed, then it was essential that the criminal be brought to book as soon as possible. I was perplexed.
The rest of the evening passed in a desultory fashion. Nobody wanted to play at cards and it was hardly seemly to put on the gramophone. Rosamund sat by the window, staring out into the darkness, while Bobs, annoyed at having been left out of the events of the afternoon, went out to see if he could find out what was happening. He soon returned.
‘No luck,’ he said. ‘Our worthy constabulary have positioned a large, impassive slab of granite in the shape of a policeman at the entrance to the study passage. “Good evening, sir”, it said. “I’m afraid I’m under orders not to let anybody past at the moment.” So I was forced to give up and come back here.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I tried the same thing myself earlier but got no further than the hall before I was politely sent on my way.’
‘I wonder if they will find anything,’ said Sylvia. ‘After all—’
She broke off as the drawing-room door opened and a spare man with an alert expression entered. He introduced himself as Inspector Jameson.
‘I must apologise to Lady Strickland and the rest of you for keeping you out of part of the house,’ he said. ‘However, I’m afraid procedures must be followed and I would like to ask you to be patient while we complete our investigation.’
‘Of course you must do your duty,’ said Rosamund. There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘Have you found anything?’ asked Joan bluntly.
‘I won’t be able to tell you that for definite until we’ve finished and we won’t do that until tomorrow. It’s too dark to examine the grounds in detail now, so that will have to wait until the morning. I am also going to try your patience a little further by asking to speak to each of you, to try and build up a picture of the events of last night. I shall leave you now but I’ll be back early tomorrow. In the meantime, I have left a constable stationed here—we can’t be too careful, after what has happened.’
He smiled round pleasantly at the assembled company and departed. Bobs looked after him approvingly.
‘Seems like a sound enough chap,’ he remarked. ‘One of our sort. Wonder if he’s any relation to old “Topper” Jameson. You remember him, don’t you, Charles? He was in the form above us at Eton. I think he went into the Foreign Office.’
I remembered the boy in question but had no idea whether he had any relatives who had gone into the police force.
Sylvia went across to where Rosamund was sitting.
‘You look very tired, darling,’ she said. ‘It’s been a simply ghastly day, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosamund. ‘Yes, I am tired, now you mention it. I hadn’t realized it before. And I’m cold and stiff and aching all over. Perhaps I shall go to bed.’
‘I hope you’re not going to be ill,’ said Joan, with concern.
‘No, no, I’m not ill but I should like to sleep. Don’t worry about me, darlings,’ she said, addressi
ng the sympathetic faces that were turned towards her. ‘The doctor has given me something to make me sleep. A night’s rest and I shall be ready to face whatever lies ahead tomorrow.’
She lifted her chin up in determined fashion and left the room. I felt rather tired myself after the happenings of the day and soon afterwards headed off to bed myself.
That night, however, sleep eluded me. The events of the day whirled round and round in my head and kept me wide awake. It seemed incredible that so many extraordinary things could have happened in less than twenty-four hours. That my host had been found dead in his study was bad enough but that he was suspected of having been murdered and the police called in was still worse! Thoughts rushed headlong through my mind in chaotic fashion and made sleep impossible.
At last, in desperation, I got up, with some intention of fetching a book from the library to while away the small hours. Leaving my room, I made my way down the stairs with the help of the dim light that was left burning all night in the hall. At the bottom of the stairs I hesitated for a moment.
‘Good evening, sir, may I help you?’ came a voice to my right. I jumped guiltily and turned to look into the placid face of the police constable who had prevented me from entering the study passage earlier in the evening.
‘Ah, good evening,’ I said. ‘I was just going to look for a book in the library. I couldn’t sleep, you see. It’s been rather an odd day,’ I concluded somewhat feebly.
‘Very understandable,’ said the constable. ‘I always find that a cup of hot milk does the trick, myself.’
‘Ah—is that so?’ I replied. ‘But I think I shall try the book first.’
‘Each to his own, sir,’ said the policeman comfortably.
Feeling rather foolish, I went into the library, picked up a book without much regard to its contents and hurried back upstairs, bidding the man goodnight as I passed. After trying to concentrate on the book for a few minutes, however, I soon found my eyes feeling heavy—whether because of the book itself or my foray downstairs, and after persevering unsuccessfully for a few more minutes I thankfully turned off the lamp and fell asleep.
