The Unfinished Clue

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Fay stretched out her hand to her stepson. "Oh, Geoffrey, I'm so glad! I always knew you couldn't possibly have done such an awful thing, but it's splendid that you've found an alibi. Only Francis has been telling us — no, I can't bring myself to repeat it. It's too revolting!"

  "Yes," drawled Francis, "it's all very shocking, Geoffrey. Truth will be in all probability out, so you may just as well hear it now as later. I was in this house at eleven-thirty on Monday for the express purpose of abstracting one hundred and thirty pounds from Uncle's safe. And what is more, I did abstract it."

  "What?" said Geoffrey, staring. "You were here that morning? Then -"

  "Not so fast, dear cousin. I said I was here at eleven thirty. You will all of you find it very difficult to prove that I murdered Uncle Arthur. The problem that is really interesting me is whether you and Fay can prosecute me for theft, or whether I, as a principal legatee, should have to prosecute myself? You do see my point, don't you?"

  "You seem to me to be quite shameless!" said Fay, in a low, disgusted voice.

  "I am," said Francis, settling himself more comfortably in his chair. "Quite shameless."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Contrary to Sergeant Nethersole's expectations, Harding did not busy himself that afternoon in attempting to disprove Captain Billington-Smith's story. This task he left to his subordinate, who, however, could not but feel that it should have received more minute attention. He ventured to say that he was surprised the Inspector didn't make more of the story, which, to his mind, made it look very much as though they had discovered the General's murderer.

  "Sergeant," said Harding, "haven't all the stories we've listened to done that?"

  "In a manner of speaking I suppose they have, sir," admitted the Sergeant. "You don't make more of this one than the rest?"

  "No," said Harding. "Frankly, I don't. Between Guest, Halliday, and Francis Billington-Smith, there isn'tt a penny to choose. They are all three of them strong suspects. Each one of them had a motive, large or small, and any one of them might be capable of committing murder. The fact that Billington-Smith was on the premises at eleven-thirty doesn't exonerate either of the other two; it only adds to the list of the people who might have murdered Sir Arthur. And the most important clue in my possession, that mysterious piece of paper, doesn't seem to have any bearing on any one of them. I am convinced, Sergeant, that if I can find out to whom that unfinished message refers I shall havc solved this case."

  The Sergeant rubbed his chin. "You do set great store by that bit of writing, sir."

  "Yes, in default of any other clue, I do. All the time I've been working on this case, trying to weigh the evidence of the principal suspects, I've again and again found myself brought up short by something unexplainable. In the case against Halliday, why were those papers thrown into the basket on top of that cheque? In the case against Guest, where the murder, if he did it, must have been thought out and performed in cold blood, the manner of it seems to be fantastic. In the case against Francis, if he was at the Grange as early as eleven-thirty, what kept him on the premises until after Halliday's interview with Sir Arthur? Why, if he had already robbed the safe, did he murder Sir Arthur?"

  "When you put it like that, sir," said the Sergeant slowly, "it does look as though there's something in what you say. You mean you think we're on the wrong track altogether?"

  "The case doesn't quite fit any of the people in it," said Harding. "I've had all along a feeling that I am missing something, and the conviction that it has to do with the message we found on the General's desk grew stronger with every statement I listened to."

  "Have you got a theory about it, sir?" asked the Sergeant, interested.

  "It's flattering it to call it a theory, Sergeant, but there is an idea in my head."

  "Ah, a hunch, as you might say," nodded the Sergeant.

  Harding laughed. "Yes, if you like. It seems to me a pretty far-fetched one, but I'm going to see if I can't follow it up. Where, exactly, is Mrs. Twining's house?"

  The Sergeant's blank gaze focused on his face. "Mrs. Twining?" he repeated. "Could I take a look at that writing, sir?"

  "Certainly, you can," said Harding, extricating it from his pocket-book.

  The Sergeant sat and studied it for a time in silence. Then he said: "I don't see it, sir. I'm bound to say I don't see it."

  "Don't see what?"

  "What we took for an H might be a W," pursued the Sergeant.- "To me it looks like an H, but there you are. But what about that E and the R, what's more? No, sir, I don't see how you make it out to be Twining, and that's a fact."

  "But I don't," said Harding. "I get THERE out of it, and I have a notion that Mrs. Twining might be able to tell me what those letters mean. Where does she live?"

  The Sergeant, rather chagrined, gave the necessary directions and handed back the paper. Harding put it away, and went off in search of Mrs. Twining.

  Blessington House was situated about three miles from the Grange, and was a low stone building set in a charming garden. The Inspector was lucky enough to find Mrs. Twining at home and, upon sending in his card, was taken at once to a sunny, chintz-decorated room at the back of the house. Mrs. Twining was writing letters at a marquetry bureau there, but she rose as Harding entered, and said with a faint smile: "Good afternoon, Inspector. What is it I am to do for you?"

  "Nothing very much," Harding answered. "I ought to apologise for bothering you, when it is quite my fault that. I have to!" He took several folded sheets from his pocket. "I stupidly forgot to ask you to sign the statement you made to me on Tuesday. Would you mind? — your full name, of course."

  She took the papers, her delicate brows a little raised. "Another statement to sign?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid so," he smiled. "These things have to be done, you know."

  "Why, certainly," said Mrs. Twining, a hint of amusement in her voice. She glanced through the statement and moved back to the bureau and sat down. Dipping a large quill pen in the ink-pot she wrote in a flowing hand across the bottom of the last page, Julia Margaret Twining." Then she blotted it carefully and held it out to Harding. She still seemed to be rather amused. "There you are, Inspector."

  He took the statement and looked at the signature before folding the document up again.

  "You did say my full name, didn't you?" said Mrs. Twining.

  "I did," replied Harding, returning the statement to his pocket.

  "Such a nuisance for you to have had to come all this way for so little," she remarked. "Is that really the only thing you wanted?"

  "As a matter of fact it isn't," said Harding. "Partly I came to see you in the hope that you, who knew Sir Arthur for a great many years, may be able to throw a little light on something which frankly puzzles me." He took out his pocket-book, but before he opened it he glanced up from it and added: "By the way, I have some news which I think will please you. Information has been laid with me that looks like providing an alibi for Geoffrey Billington-Smith."

  She inclined her head courteously. "I am very glad to hear it," she said. "Not that I ever imagined that Geoffrey had killed his father."

  "You are very fond of him, Mrs. Twining, are you not?"

  "Did I give you that impression?" she inquired.

  "Decidedly," Harding said with a smile. "Was it a false one?"

  "Oh, no!" she answered. "Not false. I am fond of Geoffrey, as one must be of a boy one has known from his infancy. He has many faults, but I ascribe most of them to his upbringing. His father neither understood him nor liked him."

  "It was unfortunate for him that his mother left Sir Arthur," remarked Harding.

  "Very," said Mrs. Twining in a dry voice. "Perhaps had she been wiser, less impetuous, things would have happened differently. But she was young and in love and married a man who —- Well, it is all ancient history now, and not worth discussing."

  "Were you intimate with her, Mrs. Twining?"

  She reflected. "Oh — intimate! She was a sc
hool-friend; and I suppose you may say we were fairly intimate. Why do you ask me that?"

  "Only because I somehow or other got the impression that you came to live in this district to be near Geoffrey. I wondered whether you had done so for his mother's sake."

  She straightened the blotter on the desk. "I do not know what can have given you that impression, Inspector. I lost sight of his mother many years ago — when she deserted Sir Arthur, in fact. I chose the district because, having lived abroad all my life, I have scarcely any friends in England. I did not see eye to eye with Sir Arthur, perhaps, but I had known him a long time, and to settle where he had already formed acquaintances to whom he could introduce me seemed a natural thing to do." She looked up and saw him watching her, not suspiciously, but with a kind of grave sympathy. "The fact that I had known his first wife and was fond of her son may have influenced me a little," she said. "I'm afraid, however, that I have not done very much for Geoffrey, except occasionally to talk Sir Arthur into a better humour on his behalf."

  "Sir Arthur seems to have had more respect for you than for most of the people he knew, judging from what I have been told," commented Harding.

  "When one has known a man for a great many years," said Mrs. Twining easily, "one does acquire a certain influence over him. You must forgive me, Inspector, but is my residence in this district the matter which you said was puzzling you?"

  "No," replied Harding. "That isn't it." He opened his pocket-book and took from it the half-sheet of notepaper with the word "There' scrawled across it. "This, Mrs. Twining, was found on Sir Arthur's desk, under his hand, on Monday."

  She cast a quick glance up at him and took the paper.

  She did not speak for several moments, but presently she said in a level voice, not raising her eyes from the paper. "I don't quite understand. You say this was found on Sir Arthur's desk -"

  "I believe it to have been written after he was stabbed, Mrs. Twining. Does it convey anything to you?"

  Her eyelids just flickered, another woman less self-controlled, he suspected, might have winced. "No," she said deliberately, and held the paper out to him. The look of amusement had vanished from her face. "It conveys nothing to me. I am sorry." She watched him fold it again and put it back in his pocket-book. She seemed to hesitate on the brink of speech, and finally asked: "Do you feel it to be of importance, Inspector?"

  "I don't know, Mrs. Twining. I had hoped that you might be able to enlighten me."

  "It appears to be a very ordinary word, of no particular significance," she said. "The start of a sentence, I imagine." She rose, and repeated: "I am sorry. It is a pity Sir Arthur had time only to write that one word. Is there anything else you wished to ask me?"

  "Nothing else," Harding answered. "I'm afraid I've taken up your time to no purpose."

  She moved over to the bell and pressed it. "Not at all," she said politely. "I only regret that I am unable to help you." She glanced fleetingly towards him. "What is your own theory, Inspector? Or have you none?"

  "No doubt it is, as you say, the start of a sentence," he replied.

  The butler came into the room, holding open the door. Harding took his leave of Mrs. Twining and went away, back to the police station at Ralton, where he found the Superintendent and Sergeant Nethersole awaiting him.

  The Superintendent was in a mood of profound disgust and greeted Harding with the information that the whole case had gone to glory.

  "What's happened?" asked Harding, rather abstractedly.

  "You sent the Sergeant on here to make inquiries along the road to Bramhurst. Well, we've just had a report from Laxton," answered the Superintendent.

  "Oh, yes! Captain Billington-Smith's movements. He's ruled out, is he?"

  "It looks precious like it," said the Superintendent gloomily. "Young Mason, of Mason's Stores there, states that he passed the Captain's car on his motor-bike at twelve-fifteen on Monday morning, just short of the village. He says the Captain was changing a flat tyre, which is why he happened to notice him."

  "How far from the Grange is Laxton?" inquired Harding.

  "That's just it," said the Superintendent, "it's eighteen miles, and you can't make it less. I've been working it out, but it's not a bit of use, Mr. Harding, no matter how fast he drove. He couldn't have got back from there to the Grange and still reached Bramhurst at one-thirty. No, the bottom's been knocked out of the case, and that's all there is to it." He leaned back in his chair and tucked his thumbs in his belt. "Which brings us," he announced, "back to that Halliday."

  His tone implied that he was prepared to expatiate on the subject, but the telephone suddenly buzzed at his elbow, and he was obliged to answer it. He became entangled immediately in what appeared to be an involved conversation with some person unknown, and Harding, seizing his opportunity said: "I'll come back later, Superintendent," and escaped, closely followed by the Sergeant.

  "You didn't think it was the Captain, did you, sir?" said the Sergeant, outside the station.

  "No, the time didn't fit. I'm going up to the Grange now. And I'd better test that alibi of young Billington-Smith's while I'm about it. Come along, Sergeant, and you can direct me to this lane that leads from the Grange to Lyndhurst village."

  The Sergeant climbed into the car. "Right, sir. You drive to Lyndhurst and we'll go on to the Grange that way, if you're agreeable. That'll save you having to turn to come back again to the Grange, which you might have a bit of difficulty over, it being what you'd call narrow, that lane."

  Neither being of a talkative disposition, there was little conversation on the way to Lyndhurst. The Sergeant asked Harding what he wanted to do at the Grange, and on being told that the Inspector wished to obtain more precise information on the subject of Mrs. Twining's movements on Monday morning, merely nodded and relapsed into meditative silence.

  The lane in question led into the middle of Lyndhurst village, immediately opposite the church. A few cottages were huddled together at the top end, but these continued for only a few hundred yards. Beyond them Moorsale Park lay on both sides of the lane, behind somewhat untidy hedges.

  "Precious little money to spare up at the Park, if what they say is true," confided the Sergeant. "The Squire's got half the house shut up, so I heard, and the place beginning to go to rack and ruin. Steady, sir, you want to stop just beyond the bend."

  Harding slowed the car down, and drew up to the side of the lane. The Sergeant stood up and looked over the hedge. "There's the lake, sir. You can see for yourself."

  Harding got out of the car and walked over to the other side of the road, and craned to see over the hedge. As Mrs. Chudleigh described, a narrow arm of the lake ran down to a footpath that had been worn across the smooth turf:

  "If she saw Mr. Billington-Smith there, which you tell me she says she did," pursued the Sergeant, "it's about twenty minutes' walk from the Grange. You might do it in less, but it's uphill, steady, all the way. It lets him out all right, to my mind, sir." He noticed that the Inspector was slightly frowning, and inquired if there were anything wrong.

  "I was only thinking that the hedges seem to be rather high," said Harding, coming back to the car.

  "You're right," agreed the Sergeant, sitting down again. "I'm friendly with the head-keeper, and he was telling me they've cut down all expenses something cruel. "It isn't only the hedges that have been let grow wild. Seems a shame, doesn't it, sir?"

  "Yes," agreed Harding, setting the car in motion again. "But what I don't quite understand is how Mrs. Chudleigh contrived to see Billington-Smith on the other side of the hedge. I'm six foot, and I could only just see over the top of it."

  "Perhaps she was on her bicycle, sir," suggested the Sergeant, having thought about it for a moment. "Come to think of it, she would have been, most likely."

  "She bicycles, does she?" Harding's frown deepened. "That's a point we'll go into. For if Mrs. Chudleigh was cycling home , I no longer like the look of young Billington-Smith's alibi. She fixed ten-to-one as
the time of her seeing him, because she knows that it takes about half an hour to walk from the Grange to the Vicarage. What she forgets — if she was cycling that day — is that it wouldn't take anything like that time to cover the distance on a bicycle."

  The Sergeant nodded slowly. "That's so, sir. More likely she'd have seen him a good ten minutes earlier, or more. That's what happens when you get ladies giving evidence about time. It's a queer thing, but I've very often noticed that women never have any notion of time. You've only got to wait for your wife to go upstairs to get her hat on to see that. Well, you aren't a married man, sir — least ways I've got an idea you're not — but if ever you do happen to get married you'll see what I mean. And if your good lady don't keep you hanging about a quarter of an hour, and then stand you out she was only upstairs a couple of minutes — well, she'll be different from mine, sir, that's all." With which misogynistic pronouncement the Sergeant folded his arms across his chest, and brooded silently till the car drew up at the Grange front door. Then, as he climbed out, he gave the result of his meditations. "But if that was so, sir, and supposing Mr. Billington-Smith to have come back here unbeknownst and murdered the General, he'd have got here round about five to one, by my reckoning, and run slap into Mrs. Twining coming to fetch the General for his cocktail."

  "Yes," said Harding. "He would."

  "Well, but that goes and upsets it, doesn't it, sir?"

  Harding did not answer, and before the Sergeant could repeat his remark Finch had opened the front door.

  Harding stepped into the hall. "Finch, when Mrs. Ghudleigh called here on Monday morning, was she walking, or on her bicycle?"

  "Mrs. Chudleigh, sir? She was on her bicycle," replied the butler.

  "Are you sure of that?"

  "Oh yes, sir. Mrs. Chudleigh had propped her machine up against the porch, and I thought at the time that it was very much in the way of anyone coming in. I cannot say that I care for bicycles myself, sir. What I should call troublesome things, if you take my meaning."