“You don’t imagine that she was on the beach that night, do you, Clinton? Armadale found out that her shoes were No. 4—half a size, at least, too big for the prints we haven’t identified yet. Besides, she’s quite a good height—as tall as Mrs. Fleetwood; and, you remember, the steps were much shorter than Mrs. Fleetwood’s. The person who made these prints must have been much smaller than the Laurent-Desrousseaux woman. Have you found some more prints that you didn’t tell us about?”
“All in good time, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Take things as they come.”
He sipped his coffee as though to show that he did not propose to be drawn. But Wendover was not to be put off.
“You couldn’t have got a No. 4 shoe into these prints.”
“No.”
“And, from what I’ve seen of her feet, her shoes are a perfect fit.”
“I’ve noticed you admiring them—quite justifiably, squire.”
“Well, she couldn’t wear a 3½ shoe.”
“No. That’s admitted. She hasn’t such a thing in her possession; I’m sure of that. Give it up. squire. The fishing’s very poor in this district. I’m not going to tell you anything just now.”
Wendover recognised that he could not hope to extract any further information from the chief constable, and he consoled himself with the thought that a couple of hours at most would see this part of the mystery cleared up. After breakfast he went into the lounge, and passed the time in smoking and reviewing the state of affairs. He became so engrossed in this exercise that it was almost with a start that he realised the time had come to take out the car and pick up Armadale.
As he and the inspector drove slowly back from the village, they saw the figures of Sir Clinton and Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux sauntering across the sands just below high-tide mark; and in a few moments the car came level with the walkers. Sir Clinton waved his arm, and Wendover and Armadale got out and walked down the beach.
“This is Inspector Armadale, Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux,” the chief constable said, as they came up. “He wants to ask you some questions about Friday night, when you were at that rock over there.”
He pointed to Neptune’s Seat as he spoke. Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux seemed completely taken by surprise. For a moment or two she stood glancing uneasily from one to another; and her eyes showed something more than a tinge of fear.
“I am much surprised, Sir Clinton,” she said at last, her accent coming out more markedly than usual in her nervous voice. “I had supposed that you were friendly to me; and now it appears that, without making a seeming of it, you have been leading me into what you call an English police-trap, isn’t it? That is not good of you.”
Armadale had picked up his cue from Sir Clinton’s words.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to answer my questions, ma’am,” he said, with a certain politeness. Obviously he was by no means sure of his ground.
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux eyed him in silence for some moments.
“What is it that you desire to know?” she demanded finally.
Before Armadale could formulate a question, Sir Clinton intervened.
“I think, madame, that it will make things easier for us all if I tell you that the inspector is preparing a case against someone else. He needs your deposition to support his charge. That is the whole truth, so far as he is concerned. You need not have any fears, provided that you tell us all that you know about Friday night.”
Wendover noticed the double meaning which might be attached to Sir Clinton’s words; but he could not feel sure whether the chief constable wished to deceive or merely to reassure his witness. Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux’s face cleared slightly as she grasped the meaning of Sir Clinton’s speech.
“If such is the case,” she said cautiously, “I might recall to myself some of the things which happened.”
Armadale seemed a trifle suspicious at this guarded offer, but he proceeded to put some questions.
“You knew this man Staveley, ma’am?”
“Nicholas Staveley? Yes, I knew him; I had known him for a long time.”
Sir Clinton interposed again.
“Perhaps you would prefer to tell us what you know of him in your own words, madame. It would be easier for us if you would do so.”
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux nodded her agreement. She seemed to have conquered her nervousness.
“It was during the war, messieurs, in 1915. I was Odette Pascal then, a young girl, an honest girl—what you English call straight, isn’t it? It was later that I became Aline Laurent-Desrousseaux, you understand? I encountered this Nicholas Staveley in Paris, where I was employed in a Government office. He was very charming, very caressing; he knew how to make himself loved.”
She made a gesture, half cynical, half regretful, and paused for a moment before she continued in a harder tone:
“It did not last long, that honeymoon. I discovered his character, so different from that which I had believed it. He abandoned me, and I was very rejoiced to let him go; but he had taught me things, and forced me to work for him while he had me. When we separated ourselves, in fact, I was no longer the gentle, honest little girl that I had been. All that was finished, you understand?”
Wendover saw that the inspector was taking notes in shorthand. Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux paused for a time to allow Armadale to catch up.
“The rest is without importance. I became Aline Laurent-Desrousseaux, and I had not any need of Nicholas Staveley. During a long time I had no need of him; but from time to time I heard speak of him, for I had many friends, and some of them could tell a little; and always he was the same. Then is come the report that he was killed at the Front.”
She paused again, with her eye on the inspector’s pencil.
“The time passed,” she resumed, “and I desired only to forget him. I believed him well dead, you understand? And then, from one of my friends, I learned that he had been seen again after the war. I disinterested myself from the affair; I had no desire to see him. But suddenly it became of importance to me to satisfy myself about him. It is much complicated, and has nothing to do with him—I pass on. But it was most necessary that I should see him and get him to consent to some arrangements, or an affair of mine would be embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed,” Armadale repeated, to show that he was ready to continue.
“I have consulted my friends,” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux pursued. “Some among them have been able to help me, and I have discovered where he was living in London. It was most necessary for me to speak with him. Thus I came over to England, to London. But he is no longer there; he is gone to Lynden Sands, one says. So I procure his address—at Flatt’s cottage—and I come myself to Lynden Sands Hotel.”
Armadale’s involuntary upward glance from his note-book betrayed the increase in his interest at this point.
“I arrive here; and at once I write him a letter saying I go to Flatt’s cottage to see him on Friday night. There is no response, but I go to Flatt’s cottage as I had planned. When I knocked at the door, Staveley appeared.”
“What time on Friday night was that?” Armadale interposed.
“In my letter I had fixed a rendezvous at half-past nine. I was exact—on time, you say, isn’t it? But it seemed that this Staveley could not see me alone there; others were in the cottage. Then he said that he would meet me later—at half-past ten—at some great rock beside the sea, the rock one calls Neptune’s Seat.”
“So you came away, and he went back into the cottage?” Armadale demanded.
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux assented with a slight bow.
“I came away,” she continued. “To pass the time, I walked on the road, and perhaps I walked too far. It was late—after the hour of the rendezvous—when I arrived opposite the rock, this Neptune’s Seat. I went down on to the sands and attained to the rock. Staveley was there, very angry because I was ten minutes late. He was much enraged, it appears, because he had a second rendezvous at that place in a few minutes. He wou
ld not listen to me at all at the moment. I saw that it was no time for negotiating with him, he was so much in anger and so anxious to deliver himself of me. I fixed another rendezvous for the following day, and I left him.”
“What time did you leave him on the rock?” Armadale interjected.
“Let us see.” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux halted for a moment to consider. “I passed some minutes with him on the rock—let us put ten minutes at the least.”
“That would mean you left the rock very shortly before eleven o’clock, then?”
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux agreed with a gesture.
“I went away from the rock by the same road as I had come,” she went on. “I was much agitated, you understand? It was a great disappointment that I had attained to no arrangement at that moment. I had hoped for something better, isn’t it? And that Staveley had been very little obliging—unkind, isn’t it? It was very desolating.
“As I was crossing the sands, a great automobile appeared on the road, coming from the hotel. It stopped whilst I was waiting for it to pass; and the chauffeur extinguished its projectors. Then a woman descended from the automobile, and walked down on to the sands towards the rock.”
Wendover could read on Armadale’s face an expression of triumph. The inspector was clearly overjoyed at getting some direct evidence to support his case against Cressida; and Wendover had to admit, with considerable disquietude, that Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux’s narrative bore out Armadale’s hypothesis very neatly.
“When I again regarded the automobile, the chauffeur also had vanished. He was not on the road. Perhaps he also had gone down to the rivage.”
“Shore,” Sir Clinton interjected, seeing Armadale’s obvious perplexity at the word.
“I was standing there for some minutes,” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux continued. “Against one like that Staveley one must utilise all weapons, isn’t it?—even espionage. I had a presentiment that something might eventuate. Staveley and a woman, you understand? I was hoping that something, anything, might arrive to give me an advantage over him.
“I have forgotten to say that the sky was obscured by great clouds. It was a little difficult to see clearly. On the rock they discussed and discussed, but I could hear nothing; and in the end I grew tired of attending.”
“How long did you stand there?” Armadale asked.
“It would be difficult to say, but perhaps it was about a quarter-hour. I was quite tired of attending, and I walked—quite slowly—along the road away from the hotel. I avoided the automobile, you understand? I desired no embarrassments. It was not my affair—isn’t it?—to discover the identity of this woman. All that I desired was an arm against Staveley. There was nothing else at all.
“A little after, I returned; it seemed to me longer, perhaps, than it really was; and I was believing that they must be gone, those two. Then, all at once, I headr the report of a firearm down at the rock——”
“A single shot?” Sir Clinton questioned. “Un seul coup de feu?”
“One only,” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux answered definitely. “I hastened back along the road in the direction of the automobile. I had the idea of an accident in my head, you understand? It was very sombre; great clouds were passing on the moon. I could see with difficulty the woman’s figure hasten up from the rock towards the automobile; and almost at once the chauffeur rejoined her. When they were getting into the automobile I was quite close; I could hear them speak, although it was too dark to see them except most dimly. The woman spoke first, very agitated.”
Her three listeners were intent on her next words. Armadale looked up, his pencil poised to take down her report. Wendover felt a catch in his breath as he waited for the next sentences which would either make or break the inspector’s case.
“She said,” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux continued, “she said these very words, for they were stamped on my memory since they meant so much to me: ‘I’ve shot him, Stanley.’ And the chauffeur demanded: ‘Have you killed him?’ And you can understand, messieurs, that I listened with all my ears. The woman responded: ‘I think so. He fell at once and lay quite still. What’s to be done?’ And to that the chauffeur made the reply: ‘Get you away at once.’ And he made some movement as if to put the motor in march. But the woman stopped him and demanded: ‘Aren’t you going down to look at him—see if anything can be done?’ And to that the chauffeur made the response in anger: ‘It’s damn well likely, isn’t it?’ Just like that. And he pursued: ‘Not till I’ve seen you in safety, anyhow. I’m not running any risks.’ ”
Wendover felt that his last shred of hope had been torn away. This reported conversation might have been concerted between Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux and Armadale beforehand, so neatly did it fit into its place in the inspector’s case. He glanced up at Sir Clinton’s face, and saw there only the quiet satisfaction of a man who fits a fresh piece of a jig-saw puzzle into position.
“Then,” Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux continued, “the chauffeur set his motor in march and reversed the automobile. I stepped aside off the road for fear that they should see me; but they went off towards the hotel without illuminating the projectors.”
She stopped, evidently thinking that she had told all that was of importance. Armadale suggested that she should continue her tale.
“Figure to yourselves my position,” she went on. “Staveley was lying dead on the rock. The automobile had gone. I was left alone. If one came along the road and encountered me, there would be suspicion; and one would have said that I had good reason to hate Staveley. I could see nothing but embarrassments before me. And the chauffeur had suggested that he might return later on. What more easy, if he found me there, than to throw suspicion on me to discredit me? Or to incriminate me, even? In thinking of these things, I lost my head. My sole idea was to get away without being seen. I went furtively along the road, in trembling lest the automobile should return. No one met me; and I regained the gardens of the hotel without being encountered. As I was passing one of the alleys, I noticed standing there the great automobile, with its lights extinguished. I passed into the hotel without misfortune.”
“What time did you get back to the hotel, madame?” Armadale asked, as she halted again.
“Ah! I am able to tell, you that, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, and exactly. I noted the hour mechanically on the clock in the hall. It was midnight less five minutes when I arrived.”
“It’s a twenty to twenty-five minute walk,” Armadale commented. “That means you must have left the beach somewhere round about half-past eleven Now, one more question, madame. Did you recognise the voices of the man and the woman?”
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux hesitated before replying.
“I should not wish to say,” she answered at last unwillingly.
A frown crossed Armadale’s features at the reply, and, seeing it, she turned to Sir Clinton, as though to appeal to him.
“The automobile has already been identified, madame,” the chief constable said, answering her unspoken inquiry. “You can do no one any harm by telling us the truth.”
His words seemed to remove her disinclination.
“In this case, I reveal nothing which you ignore? Then I say that it was the voice of the young Madame Fleetwood which I have heard in the night.”
Armadale bestowed a glance on Wendover, as much as to say that his case was lock-fast. Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux, now that she had got her narrative off her mind, seemed to be puzzled by something. She turned to Sir Clinton.
“I am embarrassed to know how you came to discover that I was at the rock on that night. May I ask?”
Sir Clinton smiled, and with a wave of his hand he indicated the trail of footmarks across the sands which they had made in their walk.
“Ah, I comprehend! I had forgotten the imprints which I must have left when I went down to the rock. It was dark, you understand?—and naturally I did not perceive that I was leaving traces. So that was it, Sir Clinton?”
Armadale was obviously puzzled.
He turned to Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux.
“What size of shoe do you wear, madame?”
She glanced at her neatly shod feet.
“These shoes I have bought in London a few days ago. The pointure—the size, you call it, isn’t it?—was No. 4.”
Armadale shrugged his shoulders, as though to express his disbelief.
“Measure these prints on the sand here, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
Armadale drew out his tape-measure and took the dimensions of the footmarks left by Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux.
“And the length of step also, inspector,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“They correspond with the tracks down to the rock, true enough,” the inspector admitted, when he completed his task. “But only a 3½ shoe could have made them.”
Sir Clinton laughed, though not sneeringly.
“Would you lend me one of your shoes for a moment, madame?” he asked. “You can lean on me while it’s off, so as not to put your foot on the wet sand.”
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux slipped off her right shoe and held it out.
“Now, inspector, there’s absolutely no deception. Look at the number stamped on it. A four, isn’t it?”
Armadale examined the shoe, and nodded affirmatively.
“Now take the shoe and press it gently on the sand alongside a right-foot print of Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux—that one there will do. See that you get it square on the sand and make a good impression.”
The inspector knelt down and did as he was told. As he lifted the shoe again, Wendover saw a look of astonishment on his face.
“Why, they don’t correspond!” he exclaimed. “The one I’ve made just now is bigger than the other.”
“Of course,” the chief constable agreed. “Now do you see that a No. 4 shoe can make an impression smaller than itself if you happen to be walking in sand or mud? While you were hunting for people with 3½ shoes, I was turning my attention to No. 4’s. There aren’t so many in the hotel, as you know. And it so happened that I began with Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux. She was good enough to go for a walk with me; and by counting her steps I gauged the length of her pace. It corresponded to the distance on the tracks.”
Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 16
