by Bruce, Leo
There remained some of the more subtle possibilities, or half-possibilities, which I remembered had turned into successful theories in other cases of murder behind locked doors, and for these everyone was in some way suspect. In my consideration up to this point I had ignored all questions of psychology, and had not been swayed by my knowledge of the characters of people concerned. In my heart, for instance, I could not suspect Fellowes or the Vicar of murder, but I had included them as suspects so long as the facts made it possible for one of them to be guilty. And so now, as I considered the wilder enigmas of time, as opposed to those of place, I excluded no one.
I could not see, for instance, how either Williams or Thurston could be guilty, since I had been with them continuously from the time Mary Thurston had left the room, to the time of the scream, and had not lost sight of them even after that until the discovery of the corpse. And here an ingenious theory half-presented itself, to be contradicted at once by irrefutable fact. For if I had not seen that terrible figure on the bed in the moment of breaking in the panel, and if there had been no light in the room, it might have been conceivable—however far-fetched—that Thurston himself could have walked into the room in front of us and murdered her in our presence without our suspecting him. He could have arranged something in the room which would have given her a severe fright to cause those rending screams, and so have had an alibi. I was rather proud of having thought this out, and seriously considered using it as a plot for a murder story. But in this case it did not fit. The light in the room had not been strong, but it had been quite sufficient to show me the revolting sight on the bed as soon as I had broken the top panel, and quite sufficient for me and Williams to have seen every movement of Thurston’s when he entered the room first. He had simply crossed to his wife, placed his hand on her heart and told us that she was dead.
Ingenious though I considered this, I was a little ashamed of dragging Thurston into my theories, until I realized that everyone must be considered suspect by the real investigator. There was Williams himself, for instance. Was there any imaginable means by which Williams could be implicated? Was there any trick of time or place such as I had learned to look for in my study of criminal investigation as it is publicly understood, which could connect Dr. Tate or even the Police Sergeant with the murder? Or the parlourmaid? Or the cook? I knew better than to dismiss any of them as quite obviously innocent. If I had learnt nothing else from my study of the methods of the three great men sitting near me, I had learnt this, that they would eventually pick out the one person I had not suspected. So I followed the simple plan of suspecting everyone. I was determined not to be surprised.
But the maddening fact remained that, suspect how I would, I could find no adequate reason for connecting anyone in that house with Mary Thurston’s murder, and my suspicions were nothing in the end but the most humiliating little attempts to believe tnat those I disliked, such as Norris and Stall, had been responsible, and that those I liked, such as Williams and Fellowes, had not. Which, I recognized, was a method owing nothing to deduction.
And yet—well, someone had done it. It was not suicide. A woman does not scream three times and then cut her own throat with a gash which a doctor attributes to a very powerful man. And that someone would be discovered. That, too, was certain enough. I had never known a case in which any one of these three investigators was concerned end with the mystery unsolved, let alone a case in which all three of them had taken up. And if the clues discovered had taught them so much that Lord Simon Plimsoll was calmly looking at a book, and M. Picon restfully peering into the fire, and Mgr. Smith discussing mediæval art, then surely I could learn something from them?
The ropes, the tattoo marks, the marked advertisements, the snuff, the fact that the Vicar had called something a wash-basin, the jewels in Strickland’s room—why, I asked myself, did these mean so much to the great brains near me, and so little to me? Because, I told myself, these men were investigators, while I was a mere observer. But I wished, how I wished, I had a theory, just as they had.
Never mind. In a few moments now the cross-examination was to begin, and no doubt that would make everything clear.
CHAPTER 9
WHEN tea was cleared away Strickland and Norris tactfully left the room, for it had been understood that only Thurston, Williams and I were to be present during the enquiry. It must have been about five o’clock when Sergeant Beef was shown in, and nodded to us, rather in the manner of a man who thinks that he must be on the defensive. Doubtless he felt somewhat out of place. With his raw red face and thirsty moustache he looked as though he would have been happier in the local public bar. However, he did not push himself forward, but taking the most upright chair he could find he drew out his enormous black note-book, and waited.
Then Thurston came in. I had not seen him since the previous evening, and looked anxiously towards him while he was being introduced by Sam Williams to each in turn of the three investigators. He looked yellow and very wretched, but he managed to force a feeble smile as he shook hands.
“I don’t want to be in the room while you gentlemen enquire into this …” he said slowly, “so I thought I would come down first and give you all the information that I can. And if you want to see me again about anything when you have made more enquiries, I will do my best to help you. I appreciate the efforts which you are making to clear this up.”
“We all sympathize very deeply,” said Lord Simon, his voice becoming quite sincere. I liked him for that remark.
Thurston nodded. “I’ll tell you all I can,” he said, “and there is a certain amount of … family history which you must know. I have discussed the matter with Mr. Williams, who besides being my lawyer is an old friend, and we both agree that you should hear it.”
The silence was broken by a movement from Sergeant Beef. Rather tactlessly, I thought, at this point he pulled open his note-book and made ponderous preparations to write in it.
“My wife had been married before,” said Thurston, and I started. “I will tell you the story, so far as I know it. She was the only daughter of a Gloucestershire parson.” His voice stumbled, but he went on. “I never knew her parents, but I gather that they were very hardworking, rather severe people, devoted to their daughter. She was brought up in a manner which even in those pre-War days would have been considered strait-laced. But she was quite happy, though that may seem strange to the present generation. She worked, as her mother did, in the parish, and learnt then, perhaps, to practise the unselfishness which was hers by nature. Indeed, who could imagine her anywhere as being anything but happy and unselfish?”
There was a tense but sympathetic silence. At last Dr. Thurston went on. “A visitor to the parsonage was a rich, local land-owner, a man very much her senior, who had made a fortune in Birmingham and had recently retired to a Gloucestershire manor. He had lost his wife some years previously, and after he had met Mary a number of times he—in the old-fashioned way—sought permission of her father to ask Mary to marry him. The parson consented, but his wife raised one objection before the matter was mentioned to Mary. For this man, in his late middle-age, seemed in every way a desirable husband, except for the fact that he had a son.”
“Oh my Lord!” whispered Lord Simon Plimsoll.
“Mary had never seen this son, and to the best of my knowledge never did see him. The boy had already got a bad name for himself—or at least so her first husband said. He did not live with his father in Gloucestershire, and it was understood that he was abroad—though whether he was a mere lad sent on a training ship, or a grown man in the colonies, I do not know. Only his very existence rather perturbed Mary’s parents, which is perhaps why she heard even so much of him as she did. Suppose he should return, and cause trouble between Mary and her husband? Suppose he should fall in love with Mary? You must imagine that her parents were simple people whose ideas on such matters were drawn largely from the sentimental novels of the day.
“At all events the difficult
y was talked over, and dismissed. You will gather some of the selfishness and unconscious brutality of such arrangements in those days, when I tell you that, so far as I can make out, it was arranged between Mary’s parents and her husband that the son should be kept out of the way. He was given an allowance, I believe, and Mary once told me that the last that was heard of him for a long time was that he was thought to be in America. But even then she wasn’t sure if it was not Australia.”
Thurston was speaking very slowly and thoughtfully. It seemed that he had nerved himself to this recital, and was determined to get through it. But it was easy to see that he was suffering.
“They were married for ten years,” he continued, “and I think that they were fairly happy together. Mary certainly never realized the faults of her first husband. Or ’of her second husband either, if it comes to that. She was not a woman to find the faults in any human being.
“During the early years of their marriage, Mary lost both of her parents, and one of the few really considerate things her husband did for her was to leave the district of her first home, and move to a house about a mile from here. I first met them when I attended him for influenza, not long after they moved. Then the War came, and Mary’s stepson came home to serve, and did so with some distinction. But even when he was on leave he was not asked down to his father’s home. Occasionally Mary’s husband went up to town to meet him, and spoke rather more kindly of him at this period. But she never met him.
“After the War, the son, like so many sons who had fought, was again a problem. A few years on a private allowance abroad, followed by three or four years of war, do not represent the ideal training for a citizen. He was not a bad boy, but he was a difficult one. He had the normal vices, slightly pronounced, and I don’t think he ever cared much for his father. He was put unsuccessfully into a number of jobs, and sent to a number of places. But he had a way of turning up again in London. Not an unusual case, I suppose.
“It was after his father had sent him with some finality to Canada that the old man made his will, and in the circumstances I suppose it was fair enough, though not very generous to his son. The young man’s small allowance was to be continued, the rest of the fortune was to provide an income for Mary during her lifetime, and, should she die before the son, it was to revert to him. Actually I do not believe that Mary was very much older than her stepson, but she never seemed to her husband a young woman, because in his self-centred view she was his wife, and to be regarded as about his own age. It was not therefore quite such an unfair arrangement in his mind as it may seem to you. He expressed the hope, in his will, that should his son ever inherit the money he would by then have learnt its value.”
Again he paused. “You will understand that it is not very pleasant for me to go over all this. But I want to make things as easy as possible for you. And whether it has any bearing on the matter or not, you might feel you had to find it out for yourselves, and so waste time. But I have nearly finished now. I attended my wife’s first husband in his last illness. She and I were thrown together a great deal at that time. And those of you who knew her will not be surprised that we were married within a year of her becoming a widow.”
Williams murmured something, and Dr. Thurston shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “And now I must touch on something even more intimate,” he said. “My wife had an income of nearly two thousand pounds a year. My own income, apart from the practice which I then had, was considerably, very considerably, less. I am not going into all the complications which follow when a poor man marries a rich woman. But there are points I must explain. First of all, I myself was an interested party in a will of my uncle’s, by which I was then expecting shortly to inherit a sum of money rather larger than my wife’s fortune. This sum actually came to me about six months ago. It was delayed by some legal difficulty. Secondly, it might be as well for you to know how our private finances were arranged. My wife retained her income absolutely in her own hands, but at her own wish she met all the expenses of this house. My own private expenses were few, and my small income amply sufficed for them. Since I have inherited the sum I have mentioned, however, I have not allowed my wife to to use her money for anything but herself. The rest of the details, such as her own will, you may learn from Mr. Williams.”
The investigators were looking up now. It was M. Picon who spoke. “And the stepson?” he queried.
“Has never reappeared. My wife used at one time to worry about him a great deal. She felt that she had taken away what justly belonged to him. She even went to the extent of advertising for him, but without result. You can imagine how concerned she was over anything like that. She was a very generous woman.”
Lord Simon Plimsoll spoke rather uneasily. “You won’t mind, Doctor, if we ask you one or two questions?”
“By all means.”
“What was the name of Mrs. Thurston’s first husband?”
“Burroughs.”
“And the village where she was brought up?”
“Watercombe, near Cheltenham.”
“And no one has any idea what has happened to this young man?”
“I certainly have not.”
M. Picon broke in. “So that, helas” he said, “he might be dead?”
“It is possible,” said Dr. Thurston.
“Or, on the other hand, he might be in this house,” said Lord Simon.
Dr. Thurston smiled very faintly. “I don’t think that is likely. You see, I know everyone here.”
“Yes, Doctor. But suppose—of course it is the merest supposition—suppose that this young man had by any chance reappeared. How long, for example, have you known Townsend?” And he glanced without apology at me.
“About three years.”
“And Strickland?”
“Rather longer.”
“Do you happen to remember how you met Strickland?”
“My wife met him. In town, I believe. She had a good many friends. She asked him down here, and I liked him. Always have done. Irresponsible fellow, but a very good sort!”
“Then Norris, Doctor?”
“Well, he also came here through my wife. I know where she met him, though. It was at the Bagleys, about six miles from here. They make some pretensions towards being literary, I believe, and often have fellows like Norris staying there.”
“Then again, the chauffeur. How did he come into your employ?”
“My wife engaged all the servants. She was far more practical than I am in such things.” He paused. “But really, you know, Lord Simon, if you’re supposing that my wife’s stepson could have been in the house, masquerading as one of our friends or employers, I must tell you that I think the idea is too far-fetched. The fellow disappeared years ago.”
Lord Simon smiled. “You mustn’t mind me, Doctor,” he said, “I was born inquisitive.”
M. Amer Picon had been moving about in his chair in a most restless way, and now spoke impatiently. “Monsieur le docteur” he said, “you will forgive Picon. He may seem—what you call—impertinent. But there is a little question, difficult to ask. Yet it is necessary. You permit? A thousand thanks. It is this. Do you remember if ever your so unfortunate Madame seemed to have something concealed from you? Oh, I mean nothing of—what you say?—a guilty secret. Some little thing, which she might have concealed as one hides a Christmas present before Christmas, perhaps?”
Dr. Thurston took this quietly. He seemed to appreciate the dainty way in which Picon had put it to him. He was silent for nearly a minute, then he said, “Only once. I do remember such an incident—but it is a long time ago; soon after we were married. Your speaking of Christmas presents reminds me, because it was just before Christmas, and I accounted for it at the time in that way. I thought it was a little ingenuous secret such as she loved, connected with a gift for me. But when Christmas came I could not see that it had anything to do with her gift. But I never attached any real importance to it.”
Picon could scarcely wait. “Yes, yes, Monsie
ur le docteur?” he said.
“One afternoon I came into her room and found her sitting at the little bureau she always used when she had any letters to write. She had not heard me come in, but when she saw me she looked very startled, and quickly tore up the envelope she was writing. I can give you no idea how innocent such behaviour made her seem. No really deceitful person could have blushed and been so confused as she was.”
“But is that all?” queried M. Picon anxiously, “you read nothing that was written?”
Dr. Thurston looked wistfully towards him. “If I tell you I read a man’s name,” he said, “you must not let your imagination start working. You must believe me when I tell you that my wife was incapable of carrying on anything like an intrigue. The mere thought of it, to anyone who knew her, is absurd. But it was a man’s name that I read on that piece of paper, and I can tell it you. It was Sidney Sewell.”
“Just the name? You saw no more?”
“That was all. But really, you should attach no importance to it. Ask Williams here. He knew my wife. Whatever significance the matter had-it did not mean that there was some clandestine love-affair in her life.”
There was a sympathetic murmur of assent, and Williams said something to the effect that it had never been doubted.
Thurston rose painfully from his chair. “And now, gentlemen, is there anything else you wish to ask me?” He looked so exhausted and wretched that even had there been any further questions to put to him after his very lucid narrative, I doubt if they would have been broached just then.
“Very well, then,” he said, “I’ll say good night. I have told Stall to give you anything you may want.” With evident relief he left the room.
Lord Simo.n turned to Williams. “There can be no doubt about that will?” he asked, “the stepson will inherit?”
Williams nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I have always understood that it was like that. I was not the old man’s lawyer. But that was his will.”
