“It must have been lonely for you,” French said sympathetically.
“It was lonely. I didn’t realise it at the time, except just after coming back from school, but now that I have plenty of people to speak to I see how very lonely it was.”
“You didn’t feel able to make confidants of the Ropers? Of course,” French went on hastily, “I know they were only servants, but still many servants are worthy of the fullest confidence.”
Ruth shook her head.
“No, I didn’t feel that I could make friends with either. It was not in the least because they were servants. Some of the cottagers were even lower socially, and yet they were real friends. But there was something repellent about the Ropers, or at least I thought so. I was never happy with either of them. And yet both were kind and attentive and all that. Of course, there was Mr. Giles. He was always friendly, and I enjoyed seeing him with his insects. But I didn’t really see a great deal of him.”
French felt sorry for the young girl, as he thought of the unhappy life she must have led.
“I think I understand how you feel,” he returned gently. “Personality is a wonderful thing, is it not? It is quite intangible, but one recognises it and acts on it instinctively. And that Mr. Giles whom you mentioned. Who is he, if it is not an impertinent question?”
“Oh, he is dead,” Ruth answered sadly and with some surprise in her tones. “Did you not hear about him? He lived close to Starvel—at least, about half a mile away—but his cottage was the nearest house. He was dreadfully delicate and, I am afraid, rather badly off. He was wounded in the War and was never afterwards able to work. He was interested in insects and kept bees. He collected butterflies and beetles and wrote articles about them. Sometimes I used to help him to pin out his specimens. He taught me a lot about them.”
“And you say he died?”
“Yes, wasn’t it tragic? The poor man died just at the time of the Starvel affair. It was too terrible. When I came back from York I found he had gone too.”
French almost leaped off his seat as he heard these words. Was it possible that in his careless, half-interested inquiries he had blundered on to the one outstanding fact that he needed? Could it be that Mr. Giles’ death represented Roper’s search for a body? That he was his third victim?
Crushing down his eagerness French did his best to simulate a polite and sympathetic interest.
“How terrible for you, Miss Averill!” he said with as real feeling in his tones as he could compass. “One shock added to another. Tell me about it, if it is not too painful a recollection.”
“Oh no, I’ll tell you. He fell ill a few days before I went to York—influenza, Mrs. Roper thought, but he must have been fairly bad as he had Dr. Philpot out to see him. Both the Ropers were certainly very good to him. They went up and nursed him, for the woman who usually looked after him had not time to stay with him for more than an hour or so in the day. I went up and sat with him occasionally, too. On the morning I went to York he seemed much worse. I called on my way into Thirsby, and he was lying without moving and was terribly white and feeble-looking. His voice also was very faint. He just said he was comfortable and had everything he wanted. Mrs. Roper said that if he didn’t soon get better she would send Roper in for Dr. Emerson. Dr. Philpot, I should explain, had just gone down with influenza.”
“And what was the next thing you heard?”
“Why,” Ruth made a little gesture of horror. “the next thing I knew of it was that we met the funeral. It was awful. It was the second day after the fire. I wanted to go out and see Starvel, and Mrs. Oxley drove me out in their car. When we were coming back, just as we reached the point where the Starvel road branches off, we saw a funeral coming in along the main road. It was trotting and we waited to let it pass on. Mr. Stackpool—that’s the vicar—and Dr. Emerson were there and they told us whose it was. Of course we joined them. Poor Mr. Giles. I was sorry for him. But nothing could have been done. Dr. Emerson said he became unconscious the same day that I saw him, and passed away without suffering. That was something to be thankful for at least.”
“Indeed, yes,” French agreed with feeling. “I wonder if I haven’t heard about Mr. Giles. He was a very tall old man, wasn’t he, and walked with a stoop?”
“Oh no, he wasn’t specially tall or old either. Just medium height and middle age, I should say. Nor did he walk with a stoop. You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I suppose I must,” French admitted, and as soon as he reasonably could he took his leave.
That he now held in his hand the solution of the mystery he no longer doubted. He would have wagered ten years of his life that this Giles’ remains had been taken from the wreck of Starvel and interred under the name of John Roper. Such a supposition, moreover, was consistent with the medical evidence. Dr. Emerson had stated at the inquest that the third body was that of a man of middle height and middle age. This, of course, had been taken as applying to Roper, but it might equally apply to Giles. It was certainly a lucky thing for Roper’s scheme that a person so suitable for his diabolical purpose should happen to live so near to the scene of the crime. Or more probably, it was this very fact that had suggested the idea of the substitution to Roper.
But if Giles had been murdered, what about Dr. Emerson’s certificate? In this wretched case the solution of one problem only seemed to lead to another. French felt that he had still further work before him ere he could begin the second stage of his case—the search for Roper. Lost in thought he returned to the Thirsdale Arms for lunch.
CHAPTER XII
A SOMEWHAT GRUESOME CHAPTER
To inquire of a fully fledged and responsible medical man whether he has or has not given a false death certificate, without at the same time ruffling his feelings, is an undertaking requiring a nice judgment and not a little tact. As French once again climbed the steps to Dr. Emerson’s hall door early that same afternoon, he felt that the coming interview would tax even his powers of suave inquiry. In a way, of course, it didn’t matter whether the doctor’s feelings were ruffled or not, but both on general principles and from a desire to prevent his witness becoming hostile, the detective was anxious to save the other’s face.
“How are you, doctor? Here I am back to worry you again,” French began pleasantly as he was shown in to the consulting room. They chatted for a few moments and then French went on: “I wanted to ask you in confidence about an acquaintance of Miss Averill’s, a Mr. Giles who died recently. You knew him?”
“I attended him. I attended him for some years until Dr. Philpot came, then he took him over as well as most of my other country patients. I am not so young as I was and the arrangement suited us both. He died while Dr. Philpot was ill, and I went out and gave the necessary certificate.”
“So I gathered, and that’s why I came to you. What a curious coincidence it was that this man should pass away at the very time of the fire. That all four of Miss Averill’s closest acquaintances should die at practically the same time is, you must admit, as strange as it is tragic.”
Emerson looked at his visitor curiously.
“Strange enough and tragic enough, I admit,” he answered, “but such coincidences are not infrequent. It is my experience that coincidences which would be deemed too remarkable for a novel constantly occur in real life.”
“I quite agree with you. I have often said the same thing. Mr. Giles was an invalid, was he not?”
“Yes, from what he told me the poor fellow had a rather miserable life. He was always delicate, and when he volunteered in 1914, he was rejected because of his heart. As the war dragged on the authorities became less particular and in 1917 he was re-examined and passed for foreign service, wrongly, as I think. However, that’s what happened. He went to France and in less than a month he was in hospital, having been both gassed and wounded. As a result his heart became more seriously affected. Even five years ago he was in a state in which death might have occurred from a sudden shock, and myocarditis
is a complaint which does not improve as the years pass.”
“Then it was myocarditis he died of?”
“Yes. He had an attack of influenza on the previous Thursday. When Dr. Philpot got laid up and asked me to take his patients over he told me he had seen Mr. Giles and that he was in a bad way. The influenza made an extra call on the poor man’s heart which no doubt hastened his end, but the actual cause of death was myocarditis.”
“Does this disease leave any infallible signs after death? I mean, can a doctor say definitely from the mere inspection of the remains that death was due to it and to no other cause? Don’t think me impertinent in asking. I told you we inspectors were always out after first-hand information.”
Dr. Emerson raised his eyebrows as if to indicate delicately that the question was perhaps not in the best taste, but with only the slightest hint of stiffness he replied:—
“In this case the question does not arise. This man was in a serious condition of health; his heart might have failed at any moment. Moreover, he was suffering from influenza, which puts an extra strain on the heart. Dr. Philpot gave it as his opinion that he would not recover. When therefore I learned that he had died suddenly I was not surprised. It was only to be expected. Further, when I examined him he showed every sign of death from heart failure.”
“But that is just the point, doctor. Excuse my pressing it, but I really am interested. For my own information I should like to know whether these signs that you speak of were absolutely peculiar to a death from heart disease. I understood, please correct me if I am wrong, but I understand that only an autopsy could really establish the point beyond question.”
Dr. Emerson hesitated.
“These are very peculiar questions,” he said presently. “I think you should tell me what is in your mind. It seems to me that I am equally entitled to ask how the death of Mr. Giles affects the cause of the Starvel fire?”
French nodded, and drawing forward his chair, spoke more confidentially.
“You are, doctor. I had not intended to mention my suspicion, but since you have asked me, I’ll answer your question. I will ask you to keep what I am about to say very strictly to yourself, and on that understanding I must tell you that I’m not connected with an insurance company: I’m an inspector from Scotland Yard. Certain facts which I do not wish to go into at present have led me to suspect that Mr. Giles may have been murdered. I want to make sure.”
Dr. Emerson stared as if he couldn’t believe his ears, and his jaw dropped.
“God bless my soul!” he cried. “Murdered? Did I hear you say murdered?”
“Yes,” said French, “but I am not sure about it. It is only a suspicion.”
“A pretty nasty suspicion for me, after my certificate! But you couldn’t be right. The very idea is absurd! Who could have murdered such a harmless man, and badly off at that?”
“Well, I think it might be possible to find a motive. But if you don’t mind, I’d really rather not discuss what may prove to be a mare’s-nest. However, you see now the object of my questions. I want to know the possibilities from the medical point of view. Perhaps you will tell me about that autopsy?”
Dr. Emerson was manifestly disturbed by French’s suggestion. He moved uneasily in his chair and gave vent to exclamations of scepticism and concern. “Of course,” he went on, “I’ll tell you everything I can, and I needn’t say I most sincerely hope your suspicion is unfounded. You are perfectly correct on the other point. Only an autopsy can establish beyond question the fact of a death from myocarditis. If I had had the slightest doubt in Mr. Giles’ case I should have required one before giving a certificate. But I had no doubt, and with all due respect to you I have none now.”
“You might be right, doctor. I’ll tell you as soon as I know myself. In the meantime thank you for your information, and not a word to a soul.”
French left the house with a deep satisfaction filling his mind. Dr. Emerson’s admission was what he had hoped for, and it very nearly banished his last remaining doubt. But he felt that he ought to get Dr. Philpot’s views also. Philpot had seen the man before death and his evidence would certainly be required if the matter went further.
Accordingly, he turned in the direction of the younger man’s house, and a few minutes later was entering a consulting-room for the second time that day.
“Good afternoon, doctor,” he said, with his usual cheery smile. “I’ve come on my old tack of looking for information. But it’s a very simple matter this time: just one question on quite a different subject.”
Dr. Philpot was looking changed: old and worn and despondent. French was rather shocked at his appearance. He was sitting forward in his chair, hunched over the fire, with his head resting in his hands and a look of brooding misery on his features. He looked like a man upon whom a long expected blow had at last fallen; a man at the end of his tether, who does not know which way to turn for relief. And then, somewhat to French’s surprise, the cause came out.
“Of course, of course,” the other murmured, rousing himself as if from an evil dream. “If you want to know anything from me, ask it now, for I’m leaving the town almost at once.”
French was genuinely surprised.
“Leaving the town?” he repeated. “You don’t mean——? Do you mean for good?”
“For good, yes. And I don’t want ever to see the cursed place again. But it’s my own fault. I may as well tell you, for you’ll hear it soon enough. I have failed.”
“Financially, you mean?”
Philpot glanced at his visitor with sombre resentment.
“Financially, of course. How else?” he growled. “It was never a land flowing with milk and honey, this place, but for the last few months my position has been getting more and more impossible. The only things I get plenty of are bills—bills everywhere, and no money to meet them. I’ve struggled and fought to keep my end up, but it has been no good. When I came, I couldn’t afford to buy a practice, and though I’ve not done so badly owing to Dr. Emerson’s giving up his more distant patients, I haven’t built up quickly enough and my little capital couldn’t stand the strain. Another three or four years and I might have got my head above water.” He made a gesture of despair. “But there it is and complaining won’t help it.”
French’s natural reaction was to show sympathy with anyone in trouble, and he could not help feeling sorry for this doctor who had made a mess of his life and who now, nearing middle age, was going to have to begin all over again. But when he remembered what the landlord of the Thirsdale Arms had told him of the man’s gambling proclivities, his sympathy was somewhat checked. To continue gambling when you know that your indulgence is going to prevent your paying your just debts is but a short way removed from theft. Of course, French did not know how far the landlord’s story was true, so it was with relief that he reminded himself that he was not Philpot’s judge, and that his business was simply to get the information he required as easily and pleasantly as he could.
“I am exceedingly sorry to hear what you say,” he declared gravely, and he was not altogether a hypocrite in making his manner and tone express genuine regret. “It is a terrible position for anyone to find himself in, and I can well understand how you feel. But, though bad, you must not consider it hopeless. Many a man has passed through a similar trouble and has come out on top in the end.”
Philpot smiled faintly.
“I appreciate your kindness,” he answered. “But don’t let us talk about it. I told you in order to explain my departure and because you would hear it in any case. But if you don’t mind, I would rather not speak of it again. You said something about a question, I think?”
“Yes, but first I must ask just this. You say you are leaving here. Suppose through some unexpected development in this Starvel case you are wanted to give evidence. Can I find you?”
“Of course, I am going to a friend in Glasgow who says he can find me a job. I shall be staying with Mrs. MacIntosh, of 47, Kilgore Street,
Dumbarton Road.”
French noted the address.
“Thanks. I do not think I shall want you, but I should be remiss in my duty if I failed to keep in touch with you. The other question is about a friend of Miss Averill’s, a man named Giles, who died about the time of the fire. I wish you would tell me what he died of.”
Dr. Philpot looked at him in surprise. Then something approaching a twinkle appeared in his eye.
“Hullo! Another—er—unexpected development? Is it indiscreet to inquire?”
“It is,” French answered, “but I’ll tell you because I really want my information. It may be a very serious matter, Dr. Philpot, and I am mentioning it in strict confidence only. I have certain reasons to suppose that Mr. Giles may have been murdered, and I want to get your views on the possibility.”
Dr. Philpot’s astonishment at the announcement was quite as marked as that of his confrère, but he made less effort to conceal his scepticism.
“My dear Inspector! You’re surely not serious? Giles? Oh, come now, you don’t expect me to believe that? What possible motive could any one have for doing such a thing?”
French did not explain the motive. He said he didn’t claim infallibility and admitted he might be wrong in his theory. He was simply collecting facts and he wanted any the other could supply.
“Well,” Philpot declared, “these are the facts so far as I know them.” He crossed over to an index, and rapidly looking through it, withdrew a card. “This is the man’s record. He was seriously ill to begin with: he had a heart affection which might have killed him at any moment. I have attended him for years and his disease was growing worse. His life in fact was precarious. That is your first fact.
“The second is that during the week before his death he developed influenza. I went out and saw him on the Thursday. I believed that his days were numbered and I expected to hear of his death at any time. He did die, if I remember correctly, on the following Tuesday. I did not see him then as I was myself down with ’flu, but Dr. Emerson saw him and he can tell you if his death was natural. I don’t know, Inspector, what you are basing your opinion on, but I can say with certainty that I shall be surprised if you are right.”
Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy Page 16
