“Mr. Averill’s note? I didn’t know he had written.”
“Yes, he wrote to say that he hoped he was not presuming on an old friendship in asking me whether I would invite Ruth to spend a day or two. He explained that she had recently been rather run down and depressed, and that the one thing she wanted—a day or two of cheerful society—was just the thing he couldn’t give her. If I would condone a liberty and take pity on her he did not think I would regret my action. He went on to say that Ruth was greatly interested in roses, and as he was sure I was going to the flower show, he wondered if I would add to my kindness by allowing her to accompany me. He said that Ruth was longing to see it, but that he had no way of arranging for her to go.”
“I’m quite interested to hear that,” French returned. “It rather falls in with a theory I have formed. Had you often had Miss Ruth to stay with you?”
“Never before. In fact I had only seen her three or four times. Some twelve years ago I spent a day at Starvel and she was there. Besides that I met her with Mr. Averill a couple of times in Leeds.”
“But you were pretty intimate with Mr. Averill, surely? I don’t want to be personal, but I want to know whether your intimacy was such that you might reasonably expect him to ask you to put his niece up?”
Mrs. Palmer-Gore seemed more and more surprised at the line the conversation was taking.
“It’s a curious thing that you should have asked that,” she declared. “As a matter of fact, I was amazed when I read Mr. Averill’s letter. He and I were friendly enough at one time, though I don’t know that you could ever have called us intimate. But we had drifted apart. I suppose we hadn’t met for five or six years and we never corresponded except perhaps for an exchange of greetings at Christmas. His letter was totally unexpected.”
“You thought his asking for the invitation peculiar?”
“I certainly did. I thought it decidedly cool. So much so, indeed, that I considered replying that I was sorry that my house was full. Then when I thought what a terrible life that poor girl must have led I relented and sent the invitation.”
“It was a kind thing to do.”
“Oh, I don’t know. At all events I am glad I did it. Ruth is a sweet girl and it was a pleasure to have her here and to let my daughters meet her. I would have given her as good a time as I could if she had not been called away.”
“You haven’t kept Mr. Averill’s letter?”
“I’m afraid not. I always destroy answered letters.”
“You recognised Mr. Averill’s handwriting, of course?”
“Oh yes. I knew it quite well.”
“Now, Mrs. Palmer-Gore, I am going to ask you a strange question. Did you ever suspect that that letter might be a forgery?”
The lady looked at him with increasing interest.
“Never,” she answered promptly. “And even now when you suggest it I don’t see how it could have been. But, of course, it would explain a great deal. I confess I can hardly imagine Mr. Averill writing the note. He was a proud man and the request was not in accordance with my estimate of his character.”
“That is just what I wanted to get at,” French answered as he rose to take his leave.
What he had learned was extraordinarily satisfactory. It looked very much as though his theory about Roper was correct. The great snag in that theory had been Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s invitation, and now it was evident that Roper could have arranged for it to be given. Some remark of Mr. Averill’s had probably given the man Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s name, and by skilful questions he could have learned enough about her to enable him to construct his plot.
As French sat in the smoking room of his hotel, not far from the great west front of the minster, he suddenly saw a way by which he could establish the point. The letter Mrs. Palmer-Gore had received had stated that Ruth was longing to see the flower show. Was she? If she was, the letter might be genuine enough. If not, Averill could scarcely have written it, and if Averill had not written it no one but Roper could have done so.
It was with impatience at the slowness of the journey that French returned next morning to Thirsby to apply the final test. He was lucky enough to catch Ruth as she was going out, and she took him into the drawing-room.
“I was talking to a friend of yours a little while ago, Miss Averill,” French said when they had exchanged a few remarks: “Mrs. Palmer-Gore, of York.”
“Oh yes?” Ruth answered, her face brightening up. “How is she? She was so kind to me, especially when the terrible news came. I can never forget her goodness.”
“I am sure of it. In the short time I was with her I thought she seemed most attractive. You went to York to see the flower show?”
Ruth smiled.
“That was the ostensible reason for her asking me. But, of course, show or no show, I should have been delighted to go.”
“I dare say; most people like to visit York. You hadn’t then been looking forward to the show?”
“I never even heard of it until Mrs. Palmer-Gore mentioned it in her letter. But naturally I was all the more pleased.”
“Naturally. You’re a skilful gardener, aren’t you, Miss Averill?”
She smiled again and shook her head.
“Oh, no! But I’m fond of it.”
French, in his turn, smiled his pleasant, kindly smile.
“Oh, come now, I’m sure you are not doing yourself justice. Mr. Averill thought a lot of your gardening, didn’t he?”
“My uncle? Oh, no. I don’t think he knew anything about it. You remember he was an invalid. He hadn’t been in the garden for years.”
“But do you mean that you never discussed gardening with him? I should have thought, for example, you would have talked to him of this York flower show.”
“But I thought I explained I didn’t know about that until Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s letter came, and after it came my uncle was too ill to speak about anything.”
Here was the proof French had hoped for!
With some difficulty keeping the satisfaction out of his voice, he continued his inquiries.
“Of course I remember you told me that. But I must get on to business. I’m sorry to have to trouble you again, Miss Averill, but there are one or two other questions I have thought of since our last meeting. Do you mind if I ask them now?”
“Of course not.”
French leaned forward and looked grave.
“I want to know what kind of terms Roper was on with his wife. You have seen them together a good deal. Can you tell me?”
Ruth’s face clouded.
“I hate to say anything when the two poor people are dead, but if I must tell the truth, I’m afraid they were not on good terms at all.”
“I can understand what you feel, but I assure you my questions are necessary. Now, please tell me what exactly was the trouble between those two?”
“Well,” Ruth said slowly, and an expression almost of pain showed on her face, “they had, I think—what is the phrase?—incompatibility of temperament. Mrs. Roper had a very sharp tongue and she was always nagging at Roper. He used to answer her in a soft tone with the nastiest and most cutting remarks you ever heard. Oh, it was horrible! Roper really was not a nice man, though he was always kind enough to me.”
This was really all that French wanted, but he still persisted.
“Can you by any chance tell me—I’m sorry for asking this question—but can you tell me whether Roper was attached to any other woman? Or if you don’t know that, have you ever heard his wife mention another woman’s name in anger? Just try to think.”
“No, I never heard that.”
“Have you ever heard them quarrelling?”
“Once I did,” Ruth answered reluctantly. “It was dreadful! Roper said, ‘By ——,’ he used a terrible curse—‘I’ll do you in some day if I swing for it!’ And then Mrs. Roper answered so mockingly and bitterly that I had to put my hands over my ears.”
“But she didn’t make any definite accusation?�
�
“No, but wasn’t it dreadful? The poor people to have felt like that to one another! It must have been a terrible existence for them.”
French agreed gravely as he thanked Ruth for her information, but inwardly he was chuckling with delight. He believed his theory was proved, and once it was established, his case was over. If the murderer lost his life in the fire Scotland Yard would no longer be interested in the affair and he, French, could go back to town with one more success added to the long list which already stood to his credit.
He returned to the Thirsdale Arms, and getting a fire lighted in his room, settled down to put on paper the data he had amassed.
CHAPTER X
WHYMPER SPEAKS AT LAST
By the time French had completed his notes the theory he had formed had become cut and dry and detailed. He was immensely delighted with it and with himself for having evolved it. Except for the failure to explain Roper’s death it seemed to him flawless, and for that one weak point he felt sure that a simple explanation existed. In the hope of lighting on some such he decided before putting away his papers to go once more in detail over the whole case as he now saw it.
First there was the character of Roper. Roper was a clever and unscrupulous man with a cynical and discontented outlook on life. He was, in fact, the sort of man who might have planned and carried out the Starvel crime.
His anxiety to get the job at Averill’s was an interesting feature of the case. It must have been a poor job for a man who had been male nurse in the Ransome Institute. It was not only a hard and thankless job in itself, but it meant being buried in one of the bleakest and most barren solitudes of England. Moreover, such a job would lead to nothing, and as Averill was paying, it was unlikely that the salary was other than miserable. Of course after dismissal from the Institute Roper might have been glad of anything, but French did not feel satisfied that this really explained the matter. His thoughts took another line.
The belief in Averill’s wealth was universal and Roper could scarcely have failed to hear of it when inquiring about the place. The feebleness of the old man and the isolation of the house were, of course, patent. Was it too much to conclude that the idea of robbery had been in Roper’s mind from the first? If so, a reason why he had ceased to blackmail Philpot might be suggested. The doctor was the one person in the neighbourhood who knew his real character. If anything untoward happened at Starvel, the doctor would immediately become suspicious. It was, therefore, politic to suggest a reformation of character to Philpot, and the best way in which this could be done was undoubtedly the way Roper had chosen. But he was not going to spoil the affair by haste. This was the one great effort of his life and he was out to make a job of it. No time or trouble or inconvenience was too great to devote to it. So he waited for over a year. How many a wife murderer, thought French, has aroused suspicion by marrying the other woman within the twelve months. Roper was not going to make the mistake of acting too soon.
During this time of waiting the man had doubtless been perfecting his scheme. And then another factor had entered into it. He had come to hate his wife. Why not at one fell stroke achieve both wealth and freedom? The same machinery would accomplish both.
In the nature of the case French saw that all this must necessarily be speculative, but when he came to consider the details of the crime he felt himself on firmer ground.
The first move was to get Ruth Averill out of the way, and here the modus operandi was clear. Roper had evidently either heard enough about Mrs. Palmer-Gore from Mr. Averill to give him his idea, or he had discovered her existence from old letters. He had forged the note to her from Averill, and intercepting its reply, had used its enclosure to induce Ruth to go to York. As he couldn’t prevent the girl from visiting her uncle, he had drugged the old man so that the fraud would remain hidden.
His next care was to make sure that Averill’s bank notes could be passed without arousing suspicion; in other words, that their numbers were unknown. To this end the fraud on Whymper was devised. Whymper was to be used to test the matter, and in the event of the theft being discovered, Whymper was to pay the penalty. So Whymper was brought out to the house on the night of the crime and there given the fateful money, being told some yarn which would make him spend it in a mysterious way for which he would be unable to account. That that yarn was connected with something discreditable about Ruth’s parents French shrewdly suspected; and he determined to see Whymper again and try to extract the truth from him.
Whymper duped and sent away from Starvel, French thought he could picture the next sinister happenings in the lonely old house. Averill first! The frail old man would prove an easy victim. Any method of assassination would do which did not involve any injury to the skeleton. A further dose of the drug, smothering with a pillow, a whiff of chloroform: the thing would have been child’s play to a determined man, particularly one with the training of a male nurse in a mental hospital.
Then Mrs. Roper! How the unfortunate woman met her end would probably remain for ever a mystery. But that she died by her husband’s hand French was growing more and more certain.
Witnesses to the theft removed, the safe must have claimed Roper’s attention next. French in imagination could see him getting the keys from under their dead owner’s pillow, opening the safe, and packing the notes in a suitcase. How it must have gone to Roper’s heart to leave the gold! But obviously he had no other course. Gold wouldn’t burn. It must therefore be found in the safe. Then came the substitution and burning of the newspapers. Here Roper made his first slip. Doubtless he was counting that the safe would fall to the ground level when the floor it stood on burned away and the churning of the sovereigns would reduce the paper ashes to dust. But there he had been wrong. Enough was left to reveal the fraud.
There was plenty of petrol and paraffin in the house and Roper’s next step must have been to spill these about, so as to leave no doubt of the completeness of the holocaust. In that also he was only too successful.
So far, French felt he was on pretty firm ground. He was becoming convinced that all this had happened, substantially as he had imagined it. But now came the terrible snag. Or rather two snags, for the one did not entirely include the other. The first was: What had happened to Roper? The second; Where was the money?
The more French puzzled over the first of these problems the more he came to doubt his first idea that some quite simple explanation would account for it. That nearly every criminal makes some stupid and obvious blunder during the commission of his crime is a commonplace. Still French could not see so astute a man as Roper making a blunder so colossal as to cost him his life. What super-ghastliness had happened upon that night of horrors? Had Roper started the fire before killing his wife and been overcome by fumes while in the act of murder? Had he taken too much drink to steady his nerves and fallen asleep, to meet the fate he had prepared for others? French could think of no theory which seemed satisfactory.
Nor could he imagine where the money might be. Was it burned after all? Had the receptacle in which it had been packed been left in the house and had its contents been destroyed? Or had Roper hidden it outside? Here again the matter was purely speculative, but French inclined to the former theory. All the same he determined that before he left the district he would make a thorough search in the neighbourhood of the house.
There was still the matter of the Whymper episode to be fully cleared up, and French thought that with the help of his new theory he might now be able to get the truth out of the young man. Accordingly he left the hotel and walked up the picturesque old street to the church. Whymper was busily engaged with a steel tape in giving positions for a series of new steps which were to lead up to the altar and French, interested in the operation, stood watching until it was complete. Then the young fellow conducted him for the second time to the vestry room, and seating himself, pointed to a chair.
“As no doubt you can guess, I’ve come on the same business as before,” French explained
in his pleasant, courteous tones. “The fact is, I’ve learned a good deal more about this Starvel business since I last saw you. and I want to hear what you think of a theory I have evolved. But first, will you tell me everything that you can of your relations with Roper.”
“I really hadn’t any relations with Roper except what I have already mentioned,” Whymper returned. “Of course I had seen him on different occasions, but the first time I spoke to him was the first time I called on Miss Averill. He opened the door and showed me into the drawing-room. The next time I went we spoke about the weather and so on, but I had no actual relations with him until the night of the tragedy, when he gave me Mr. Averill’s message at the church gate.”
“It never occurred to you to doubt that the message did come from Mr. Averill, I suppose?”
“Of course not,” Whymper answered promptly. “You forget the note Mr. Averill sent me when I got to Starvel.”
“I don’t forget the note. But suppose I were to suggest that Roper had forged the note and that Mr. Averill knew nothing whatever about it? I should tell you that it has been established that Roper was a very skilful forger.”
“Such an idea never occurred to me. Even if Roper was a skilful forger I don’t see why you should think he forged this note. What possible motive could he have had?”
“Well, I think we might possibly find a motive. But let that pass for the moment. Go over the circumstances again in your mind and let me know if you see any reason why Roper should not have arranged the whole business himself.”
Whymper did not at once reply. French, anxious not to hurry him, remained silent also, idly admiring the pilasters and mouldings of the octagonal chamber and the groining of the old stone roof.
“I don’t see how Roper could have done it,” Whymper said presently. “There’s the money to be considered. The £500 couldn’t have been forged.”
“No. But it could have been stolen, and I have no doubt was.”
Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy Page 13
