Abbey Court Murder: An Inspector Furnival Mystery: Volume 1 (The Inspector Furnival Mysteries)

by Annie Haynes

  THE ABBEY COURT MURDER

  “The extra inactivity, not to say stupidity, which the police are exhibiting with regard to this case is exciting universal comment. It is an open secret that the lady who visited the flat on the night of the murder was very shortly afterwards identified, and yet no steps whatever in the matter appear to have been taken by the authorities. A feeling is gaining ground that this is not entirely owing to official incapacity, but that strong social influence has been brought to bear in order to have the matter hushed up. True or not, this impression is greatly to be regretted inasmuch as it introduces a new and disagreeable element into our public life. Hitherto, English justice has been deemed to be beyond and above corruption; it is to be hoped that speedy action in the Abbey Court case may show that the tradition remains with us that retribution, though slow, is sure.”

  Furnival threw the paper down contemptuously. “Who would notice a rag like that?”

  “No one, perhaps; if it were an isolated case!” Frank Lawrence said in his lazy drawling tones. “But the whole press has been full of such innuendoes lately. You must have seen them, inspector?”

  Furnival nodded. “Oh, yes; I have seen them, as many as I have time for. So the chief thinks I have been negligent?”

  “Scarcely; or I should not have been sent down,” Frank Lawrence corrected softly. “But he does not understand why the warrant has not been applied for and the arrest made before now.”

  “I didn’t want to make a fool of myself!” The inspector’s face was very grim. “But the warrant is applied for now. You are just in time to be in at the finish, Mr. Lawrence. You will be able to tell the chief it isn’t quite such plain sailing as he fancies.”

  Mr. Lawrence raised his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

  The inspector glanced at the clock. “It is a long story sir. And I am due at Heron’s Carew in half an hour. I went up there earlier this afternoon. And perhaps I need hardly tell you my men are on guard there now.”

  Mr. Lawrence looked momentarily astonished.

  “Really! Then you may as well say the end is at hand. I shall stay here until the arrest.”

  Inspector Furnival smiled meaningly. “I expect the arrest to take place to-night or to-morrow morning at the latest.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Mr. Lawrence said hastily. “It was time it was made, Furnival, quite time. Between ourselves, I have never known the chief so impatient. And now I suppose we shall have what the papers call a cause célébre.”

  The inspector’s smile deepened a little. “I suppose we shall,” he assented.

  The younger man did not speak again for a minute or two. “It will be a nine days’ wonder, the trial,” he said at last. “And no knowing how it will end after all, in spite of our evidence. For she will fight to the bitter end of course, and the Carew influence and the Carew money will go far—”

  The inspector pulled his sandy beard and watched the dark clear face.

  “Lady Carew will make no fight, sir; she confessed to me this afternoon.”

  “What!” Young Lawrence stared at him, for once thoroughly taken aback. “Lady Carew confessed to you that she had committed the Abbey Court murder! Impossible!”

  “Quite possible and quite true!” the inspector affirmed. He looked across at the grandfather clock in the corner. Very soon Sir Anthony would be expecting him up at Heron’s Carew. “As a matter of fact,” he added, his mouth twisting in a curious smile, “Lady Carew’s is not the only confession of guilt I have had today in the matter of the Abbey Court murder!”

  Mr. Lawrence took off his pince-nez and stared at him. “I can’t understand you to-night, Furnival. Can’t you be a little more explicit? It is impossible that you can mean that two people can have told you that they committed the murder in Abbey Court?”

  The inspector nodded. “That is just what I do mean. Lady Carew says that Warden forced her by some power he had over her to come to his flat, that she took her husband’s revolver for her protection, and that, stung by Warden’s insults, she shot him with it.”

  Lawrence’s interest manifestly quickened. “Much as the chief has always surmised. But you said—”

  “On the other hand,” the inspector went on very deliberately, “Sir Anthony Carew states that he discovered his wife was going to Warden’s flat, that he followed, and watched her, and that when Lady Carew had gone he went in, quarrelled with the fellow and in his rage—I dare say you have heard of the Carew temper, sir—he shot him. Sounds a likely story, doesn’t it, Mr. Lawrence? And it is by no means incompatible with our evidence.”

  “But—but—” objected Lawrence, wiping his brow. “They can’t both be telling the truth.”

  Again that curious smile came into the inspector’s eyes.

  “So much is self-evident, sir. The only question to my mind now is—is either of them?”

  Young Lawrence’s astonishment deepened.

  “You mean—”

  The inspector leaned forward confidentially.

  “Lady Carew fancied that I was about to arrest Sir Anthony when she came forward with her confession. Sir Anthony, on his part, was beside himself with fear at the peril in which his wife was placed, when he took the responsibility of the crime on his own shoulders. Therefore the situation stands thus: Lady Carew says that she is guilty; Sir Anthony says he is—each, as far as I can judge, believing the other to be. Now do you see the position of affairs? Each is trying to save the other.”

  “But—” Mr. Lawrence rubbed his hand through his hair. “I don’t understand, Furnival. Which of them is guilty?”

  The inspector looked at him. “Neither of them,” he said curtly. “If each of them thinks the other is, doesn’t that prove to you that both of them are innocent? Oh, it hasn’t been as easy a task as you folks at Scotland Yard expected, to get to the bottom of the Abbey Court murder.” He got up, looked at his watch, and compared it with the grandfather’s clock. “I am afraid I must be starting, sir. I promised to be at Heron’s Carew, by eight, and I don’t want to keep Sir Anthony waiting.”

  Mr. Lawrence rose too. “I will walk up with you. If this is your opinion, inspector, how is it that you told me just now that you were about to apply for a warrant for the arrest of the Abbey Court murderer?”

  “That I had applied,” the detective corrected, as he opened the door leading into the garden, and they went down the path.

  “But whose arrest have you applied for?” Lawrence questioned, as they unlatched the garden gate, and let themselves out into the village street.

  “Whose?” The inspector glanced on either side of him, behind and before. “Ah, that is my little secret for the present, sir. You will soon know all.”

  They walked on briskly. The church clock chimed eight, the inspector quickened his step. “I was afraid we were late. We will take the short cut through the Home Wood if you don’t mind, Mr. Lawrence.”

  As they passed the Dower House they heard voices, and caught a momentary sight of Peggy and Crasster pacing up and down the drive together. The inspector’s face brightened as he looked after them.

  It was fairly light in the street, but in the Home Wood it seemed almost dark. The two men walked along quickly, their feet making little sound on the pine-needle covered path.

  As they came near the Heron’s Moat they became aware of footsteps coming from the opposite direction. A man was running, sprinting as if for dear life, towards them; at the same moment Inspector Furnival caught sight of a tall figure in a dark gown on the other side of the pool. He started forward with a quick exclamation of dismay.

  Simultaneously, there was a splash, a loud cry rang out. The tall figure had disappeared beneath the waters of the pool. Inspector Furnival ran for all he was worth, the man who had been racing down the path towards them ran too. But some one was before them, some one who sprang into the pool, and, as they reached the spot, reappeared, holding an inanimate burden, endeavouring to keep her head above water.

  W
ith a sharp cry the man who had been running, tossing off his coat as he ran, threw himself into the water, and swam to the other’s help. Inspector Furnival and Mr. Lawrence, racing their hardest, arrived on the scene in time to assist at the landing.

  The two men who had been in the water, and whom Furnival now recognized as Sir Anthony Carew and his own subordinate, Barker, laid their inanimate burden on the bank. Judith’s face was white, her eyes were closed, her golden hair lay dank on the grass. Sir Anthony bent over her in agony.

  “She—she can’t be dead!”

  “No, no!” the inspector said soothingly. “She was not under the water a minute. I have had some experience of first aid. If you would let me come nearer.” He stooped over her. “She has fainted from the shock, that is all,” he said quietly. “There is a keeper’s cottage close at hand, Sir Anthony, we had better take her there, and the man can fetch Dr. Bennett.”

  Sir Anthony assented dumbly. His heart had given a great suffocating twist of relief at hearing that Judith lived. And yet assuredly, Anthony Carew said to himself, as he gathered her unconscious form in his arms and, refusing all other help, strode off with her to the cottage, it would have been well for Judith if by any means she could have escaped the calamity that was coming upon them.

  As they neared the gamekeeper’s he felt the fluttering of her breath, her eyelids wavered, then opened, the lovely eyes looked up into his.

  “Anthony!” she said.

  Spite of all his dread of the future, his horror of the past, his heart leapt with thankfulness to hear the beloved voice again. He bent his head lower.

  “Judith, my darling.”

  A faint colour flickered for a moment in the white cheeks. “Am—am I dead?” she questioned. “Is this heaven, Anthony? Do you forgive me for—”

  Anthony pressed his lips to the fair hair. “Everything, my darling.”

  “It is my fault—all of it. If I had not dropped the paper that told you where I was going; if I had not taken your pistol,” the weak voice went on, unheeding the look of astonishment that spread over her husband’s face as she proceeded, “you would not have been tempted; you could not have used it against him!”

  A strange sound burst from Anthony Carew as he laid her on the couch in the keeper’s front room.

  “Judith! Does this mean that you think I was guilty?”

  “I—I never blamed you,” she returned incoherently. “Oh, Anthony!”

  There was a strange glad light in Sir Anthony Carew’s face as the gamekeeper’s wife, with her willing helpers, took possession of Judith. “She thought I was guilty,” he repeated to himself. “Then surely she, she was—she must be innocent.”

  CHAPTER XXX

  It was one of those chilly mornings that come sometimes in early autumn. The white mist from the park seemed to rise like a pall right up to the window of the morning-room at Heron’s Carew; a bright fire burned in the grate, making the weather outside look more damp and cheerless by contrast. Lady Carew was leaning back in her favourite low reclining chair near the fire-place; Sir Anthony was standing on the hearthrug. The front door bell rang, their eyes met in a smile of perfect confidence. Then Judith began to shiver.

  “Oh, Anthony, I am frightened! Do you think they really know who shot Cyril? I don’t see how they can! Suppose—suppose they are only trying to make us incriminate ourselves?”

  Sir Anthony’s face was a little overclouded. “I can’t tell, dear. But I feel inclined to trust Inspector Furnival, and he tells me that if we speak out we have nothing to fear. Anyhow, the truth must be the best policy, and, at any rate, we both know that the worst dread of all that has haunted each of us these past terrible months has been only a delusion; don’t we, Judith?”

  “Yes, yes!” she whispered, looking up at him with dewy eyes. “Oh, Anthony! How could I have been so foolish?”

  He caught his breath. “You couldn’t help it. How I—” He broke off as three men were ushered into the room: Stephen Crasster, Inspector Furnival, and Mr. Lawrence.

  Sir Anthony greeted them all courteously, and invited them to be seated.

  “Lady Carew and I have decided to take your advice,” he began, addressing Furnival. “We will tell you our story—our stories, rather—without any reservation. And, if you can find any loophole to help us; I am sure we need not assure you of our boundless gratitude. I think we are all here now—except Mrs. Rankin. Ah, here she is!” He opened the door.

  Mrs. Rankin’s comely face was pale and anxious. She went over and took the seat Sir Anthony drew up for her, near Lady Carew, and clasped Judith’s hand in hers. Crasster stood by Sir Anthony on the hearthrug. Furnival and Lawrence occupied seats nearer the door, placed so that they had a good view of the faces of the other three.

  “If Lady Carew will begin—” Furnival said, glancing at Sir Anthony.

  The firelight gleamed on Judith’s delicate face, shone on the masses of pale gold hair, gave for a moment a fictitious colour to the transparent skin. She drew herself up among her cushions, bracing herself for the ordeal that awaited her. Her fingers caught convulsively at Mrs. Rankin’s hand, her eyes sought Anthony’s. It was to him she was telling the tale, it was to him that she must vindicate herself! Her voice was very low and trembling when she began, it gathered strength as she went on.

  “I was very young when I married Cyril Stanmore, entirely in ignorance of his real character, and so friendless that I had no one to warn me that he was only a professional gambler. Our quarrels arose from the fact that when I did discover how his money was obtained I refused to help him to be a party to his schemes.

  “Everything culminated on the night he told me I had never been his wife at all, that our marriage had been illegal. That night I left him for ever. Chance had made me acquainted with Canon Rankin. I knew his kindly character. I told him my miserable story, and appealed to him for help. He took me to his own home, placed me in Mrs. Rankin’s care, and promised to find me work.

  “Finally he suggested that I should act as his daughter’s governess until I had had time to live down the past, to obtain a satisfactory reference for the future. How kind both he and Mrs. Rankin were to me in that terrible time no words of mine could ever tell! Finally, when there was no more work for me with them, they procured me an engagement at Heron’s Carew. When I was going to marry Sir Anthony Carew, I did not tell them, because I knew that they would want me to tell him the secret of the past, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t put my happiness away from me with my own hands. I had heard, as I believed, of Cyril Stanmore’s death before I left Canon Rankin’s, therefore, his sudden appearance on the steps of St. Peter’s, was a double shock to me. When he ordered me to come to his flat I was too bewildered to know what I ought to do—too overwhelmed to do anything but obey. When I got there—I had taken my husband’s pistol to protect myself with—he, Stanmore, mocked at me, took it from me, and threw it down. Then I rubbed against the switch, and put out the electric light. In the darkness a shot was fired, I heard a fall and a groan. It was a long time before I could find the switch, but I could hear some one in the room, some one breathing heavily—”

  She paused and drank feverishly some water that Mrs. Rankin handed to her. Then with a shuddering glance round the circle of expectant faces, she went on.

  “When I did find the light,” she whispered, “there was no one there but Cyril Stanmore and myself. When I saw that he was dead I was too terrified to do anything, or give the alarm. No one would believe me, I thought; everybody would think I had shot him. I hurried away.”

  Her voice sank into silence.

  Inspector Furnival had been busy making notes in his pocket-book; he looked up now.

  “You were not alone when you left the block of flats, Lady Carew; a man came down the stairs with you?” he paused suggestively.

  Judith looked at him with wide-open, amazed eyes. “You know that too. But he—I met him on the stairs outside the flat; he had known me in the old time—and he tu
rned with me and walked with me to the entrance.”

  A spasm of fear that momentarily contorted her face, that caught her throat, making her voice husky and dry, did not escape the sharp-witted inspector’s notice.

  “Will you tell us his name, Lady Carew. Can you say why, when the police were searching high and low to discover the identity of the visitor to the flat, he did not come forward to say he had met you?”

  There was a long pause. Judith’s eyes turned about from side to side. The inspector waited, holding his pencil pointed over his notebook. Mrs. Rankin’s mouth quivered painfully as she chafed the cold hand she held. At last Lady Carew spoke.

  “I suppose he was sorry for me!” she said faintly. “He had been a great friend of Stanmore’s in the old time. I—I used to think then that he made Stanmore worse, that he was his evil genius, but perhaps—when he knew what had happened that night—he was sorry for me!”

  “His name?” the inspector questioned, writing rapidly.

  Judith hesitated again; she put up her handkerchief to her lips, she glanced across at Anthony. He was not looking at her.

  “I—I knew him as Jermyn Leigh,” she stammered at last.

  “And you parted from him at the entrance to the flats, you say?” the inspector went on quickly. “You must pardon my putting these questions, Lady Carew; if this tangle is ever to be straightened out, we must have the truth and the whole truth now. Have you ever seen this man—Jermyn Leigh—since he left you that night?”

  “Y—es!” the word fell across the listening silence.

  Sir Anthony stood perfectly motionless. Crasster gave a quick inaudible exclamation as he leaned forward.

  The inspector waited. “Where?” he questioned at last. “In London, or since you came down to Heron’s Carew?”

  “Since we came down to Heron’s Carew!” She seemed to repeat his words mechanically. “Yes, yes, he is here, though I never thought—I never dreamt of such a thing till I saw him—” Her voice failed her; she caught her breath.