by Bruce, Leo
“You speak for the others, too, then?”
“No one can live morning, noon and night with people and not know something of what’s going on in their heads, replied Miss Storey. “I wasn’t overkeen on any of them, and I’m not going to say I was, and there was things I didn’t approve of. But I know very well it wasn’t none of them as did it. So if you’re trying to put it on to them you’re mistaken, that’s all.”
“We’re trying to come by a spot of truth,” said Lord Simon.
“I’m glad to hear it,” snapped Miss Storey, almost before his sentence was finished. “Did you approve of Stall?”
“I’m not going to discuss the other servants, sir. I’ve made up my mind to that. I’ll give you what information I can, but beyond that my opinion’s my affair.”
“Quite right. Will you tell us, then, at what time Stall went up to bed yesterday evening?”
“As soon as ever he’d taken the whisky into the lounge. Couldn’t have been later than half-pass ten. He complained of a headache, and Enid, the parlourmaid, said she’d be up if anything was wanted, and he popped off to bed.”
“You’re sure he went to bed?”
“How can I be? He took his alarm-clock, as he always does, and left the kitchen.”
“Saying good night?”
“He did to Enid. Him and me wasn’t on speaking terms.”
“How was that?”
“Oh, nothing to mention. Something to do with the souffle.”
“Just so. Then you and Enid remained together in the kitchen. What about the chauffeur, Fellowes?”
“He was there, too. I never approved of the arrangement, and I told Mrs. Thurston a dozen times, but there it was. Fellowes comes in for his supper every night about nine, and stays in my kitchen smoking cigarettes till all hours.”
“But hang it all, where else was he to go, Miss Storey?”
“That’s not my look-out. There’s the village down the road. But I didn’t like it.”
“Well, there you were, the three of you. Who left the room first?”
“Enid did, when she heard Mrs. Thurston go up to bed.”
“Oh, you could hear that from the kitchen, could you?”
“Not if the door had been shut you couldn’t. But Enid would keep it ajar last night.”
“Did she appear to be listening for something?”
“She and the chauffeur, yes. Once I got up and put the door to, because of the draught. But she soon had it open again.”
“How did you account for that?”
“Oh, it was nothing very unusual. She always used to go up when Mrs. Thurston did. She was fond of her mistress, I will say that for her, and used to follow her up to see if she wanted anything.”
“We know that that was at eleven o’clock. How long did Fellowes stay with you?”
“Not more than a minute or so, because I remember him looking up at the clock and remarking on it.”
“On the clock?”
“No. On the time. ‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘it’s past eleven.’ And he got up and went upstairs.”
“Did you look up at the clock?”
“I can’t say I did. But I know it wasn’t many seconds after Enid had gone.”
“At any rate, you saw neither of them again until after the screams?”
“No.”
“Which did you see first?”
“Enid. She came rushing in to say they were breaking down the missus’s door.”
“That would be within two minutes of the scream?”
“Yes.”
“What had you done in the meantime?”
“Me? I was froze to the spot for a minute. Well, all alone in this old kitchen, which is creepy enough at the best of times, and then to hear someone hollering out like that. I’m not one to be frightened, but I ask you. When I’d pulled myself together, I heard the gentlemen running upstairs, and as soon as I’d got the door open I saw Enid come tearing down with her eyes popping out of her head.”
“Then?”
“Well, then, some time later, down comes Mr. Stall, looking like a ghost in his dressing-gown. And then Fellowes comes running down and says he’s sent for the doctor and the police. I heard him start the car and drive off. For about ten minutes, I should say, Enid sits there silent. Then all of a sudden she goes into hysterics, and Mr. Stall runs out of the room saying ’e was after brandy. He comes back for a minute, we gets Enid a bit calm, then he goes away again, to see to things as he called it.”
“Good. You’ve got it all admirably clear. You saw no one else that, evening? None of the guests?”
“No.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been very inquisitive. But I can’t think of any more questions to ask you.”
Suddenly M. Picon turned round from the fireplace. “A little moment if you please, mam’selle,” he said. “You will tell Papa Picon what you call ‘a thing or two’, no?”
Miss Storey seemed to wonder for a moment whether this was the sort of opening favoured by old gentlemen in railway-carriages, or a genuine request for information, so she remained non-committally silent.
“The young man, the chauffeur. He called your attention to the clock perhaps?”
“Not exactly that. He just said it was past eleven, and that he must go.”
“He did not say why or where?”
“No. But he had a rat-trap with him.”
“Ah yes. The trap for the little rat, n’est-ce pas? And where would he be taking that?”
“The apple-room, I suppose. Mrs. Thurston was always complaining she could hear them over her head.”
“Always complaining, is it not, to Fellowes?”
“Yes.”
“And tell ‘im to place the trap, no?”
“I suppose so.”
“And now the girl. Did she tell you perhaps where she was when the screams were heard?”
“Oh yes. She was in Dr. Thurston’s room, turning back the bed.”
“And the chauffeur, you saw him no more that night?”
“Not to speak to.”
“I thank you. I thank you also, mam’selle, in anticipation, for the cold buffet,” he added with characteristic courtesy.
“That’s all, then?” asked Miss Storey.
Instinctively we turned to Mgr. Smith, but he was apparently asleep.
“Mousignor Smith …” Sam Williams called him.
“Oh yes. Dear me. I’m afraid I was dozing. I was going to ask you about a bell. The front-door bell. Did you hear it last night, Miss Storey?”
“When?”
“When the girl had hysterics?”
“Can’t say I did. But then—I might easily not have, even if it had rung a dozen times. She was in convulsions, as you might say. I had no time for listening to bells.”
Mgr. Smith resumed his sleepy posture, and Miss Storey left us.
“I can certainly believe in that lady’s cookin’,” commented Lord Simon; “accuracy and discretion seem to be her strong suits.”
“She is no lover of romance, your Mademoiselle Storey,” admitted M. Picon. “I wonder whether perhaps she had cause to dislike romance—a certain special romance. Voyons. We shall see as the time continues.”
I could not resist a query to Mgr. Smith. “You were thinking …?” I said.
“I was thinking about bells.”
“Campanology, perhaps?”
“No, electric bells. Marriage bells, maybe. Or even …” his voice sank, “even muffled bells.”
Whereas I, just then, was troubled with many new doubts. Why did Miss Storey dislike the rest of the staff? Of what did she disapprove? Why had Fellowes called her attention to the time when he left her? And was it a coincidence that at the moment of the screams Enid, Fellowes, Stall, Strickland and Norris had all been, presumably, upstairs, while Miss Storey herself had been alone in the kitchen with no one to establish her alibi, and Mr. Miles, that new and rather sinister person, had been enjoying, somewhere in the district, his ‘eve
ning off’?
CHAPTER 12
STALL came in deferentially and seemed embarrassed when he was told that he might sit down. He had no sooner done so than Sergeant Beef rounded on him with deplorable crudeness.
“’Ere,” he almost shouted, “’ave you been blackmailing Mrs. Thurston?”
Stall stirred uneasily. Surely even Beef could have expected only one answer to the question. “Certainly not,” was all that the man wisely said.
“Well, it looks very much like it,” went on the in-suppressible Beef. “Very much like it. She’s been drawing out big sums in small notes, and I don’t know who else could ‘ave been on to ‘er if it wasn’t you. Why don’t you own up, now?”
Such crass methods evidently helped Stall to reassure himself. His composure returned and he faced the Sergeant. “I don’t think I need answer such a question,” he said. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Oh no, it’s not,” Beef went on, while I could see that the three investigators, whose delicate wits were outraged by all this, had become impatient. “Oh no, it’s not. You’re one of the ‘ypocritical sort, Mr. Stall. Sing in the choir, you do, instead of coming down to the local. I’m more than ‘arf convinced that you’ve been up to something in the blackmailing line. Out with it now, what ‘ave you done with that two ‘undred quid you ‘ad off of Mrs. Thurston?”
“If you’ve quite finished, Beef,” sighed Lord Simon.
“Oright, you ‘ave a go at ’im. You’ll see if I wasn’t right.”
There was evident relief when the Sergeant returned to his note-book, and Lord Simon, leaning back in his chair, began a more tactful sort of cross-examination.
“Of course you knew of Mrs. Thurston’s will, Stall?”
“Oh yes, my lord.”
“And what did you think about it?”
“Very gratifying, my lord, that Mrs. Thurston should have considered us in that way. But not a matter to be taken very seriously.”
“And the other servants?”
“Very similar ideas, my lord. If I may say so, domestic servants to-day are more highly educated than in former times, and not likely to be deceived by anything quite so ingenuous.”
“Really. Yet ingenuous or not, the bally thing was there, wasn’t it?”
Stall shrugged. “I had scarcely troubled to consider it,” he said.
“I see. Were you and Fellowes friendly? You know, pals, pals, jolly old pals, if you’ll excuse my low-brow idiom?”
“Your lordship can afford to use slang. No, we were in no sense friends. It could hardly be expected that in my position I should fraternize with a young fellow of that type.”
“What type?”
“The chauffeur has been to sea, my lord, if not worse. He is a very blunt-spoken young man, whose history has not been altogether reputable, I believe.”
“Whereas your own?”
“My references go back over many years, my lord, and I believe are unimpeachable.”
“It must have taken you those many years to cultivate your manner, Stall. It is the most perfect thing of its kind I’ve ever come upon.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Was there anything else you didn’t like about Fellowes?”
“I disapproved of his familiarity with the parlourmaid.”
I noticed M. Picon at this point making patterns furiously with match-sticks. He was evidently much excited by the turn the examination had taken.
“Was it very noticeable?”
“I believe they went to the length of considering themselves engaged to be married.”
“Was that so very wrong? After all, Stall, we’re all young once. Spring in the air, and what not.”
“Unsuitable, however, in members of the same staff, my lord.”
“Did Mrs. Thurston know of it?”
“Certainly not.”
“Would she have minded, do you think, if she had done so?”
At this point there was a noticeable pause, and watching Stall I could see him glance with real hostility towards his questioner. The last question had sounded so commonplace that I could not understand this.
“I am not in a position to say, my lord,” he returned at last.
“There is nothing else, in fact, that you can tell us about the household, which might help us?”
Stall paused again. “I think not, my lord.”
“There was nothing you had noticed which, for instance, would have displeased Dr. Thurston?”
Again that uncomfortable pause, and a shifty side-glance at Lord Simon. “No, my lord.”
“It’s a very great pity, Stall, that when you learnt that charmin’ way of talkin’, you did not at the same time get in the habit of speakin’ the truth.”
“My lord …”
“You know to what I’m referriri’, don’t you?”
I respected Lord Simon at that moment. He was so mercilessly, so icily, calm. One felt all the reserve of experience and introspection that lay behind his foppish manner. He was watching the wretched butler with a cold and detached stare, and I could see perspiration on Stall’s narrow forehead. Several times the butler tried to avoid his eyes, and to speak, but it seemed that the young man was too strong for the older one.
“I have an idea,” he admitted in a low voice.
“You know that between Mrs. Thurston and the chauffeur was something which … shall we say, ought not to have existed?”
Williams broke in, “Really, Plimsoll …”
“Forgive me. Jolly old murder will out,” Lord Simon reassured him. “Never mind what it was, Stall, you know there was something?”
“I had my suspicions.”
“And you were paid for keepin’ them to yourself?”
At last the man pulled himself together. His stage butler’s manner seemed to leave him and he turned angrily to Lord Simon. “That’s not true!” he said. “It wasn’t that!”
“Suppose you treat us to an inklin’ of the truth, then?”
“I had given Mrs. Thurston my notice,” he said slowly. “I was to leave at the end of a fortnight.”
“Why?”
“Because … because of what you’ve just said. She, and the chauffeur. I wouldn’t stay in a place where that was going on. I’m a respectable man.”
“Well?”
“Leaving meant losing my share of the will. Or what I would have got if she’d gone first. So Mrs. Thurston, of her own free will, decided to compensate me.”
“For your share of the will which you didn’t take seriously ?”
“Well, since I had to leave through no fault of mine, Mrs. Thurston did not wish me to lose.”
“So she paid you several sums in single pound notes?”
“She gave me what compensation she saw fit.”
“I think you’ll be bally lucky if you get less than five years’ incomparably hard labour, Stall. Even if that’s where your troubles end, my lad.”
Oddly enough it was at this point that Stall’s self-confidence seemed once more to return. “For accepting a present from a lady on leaving her service, my lord? I hardly think so.”
“For blackmail,” said Lord Simon briefly. “Your witness, Picon.”
The little man sprang nimbly to his feet, scarcely able to contain himself. “You have said that between the chauffeur and the parlourmaid there was what you call a romance, is it not?”
Stall looked contemptuous. “If you like to put it that way.”
“They were attached to each other, these two?”
“Oh yes.”
“And between the chauffeur and madame, also a little rapport, n’est-ce pas?”
“I don’t know what there was. There was something.”
“Then the parlourmaid, seeing her lover has some understanding with her mistress, is she not jealous?”
“Oh, she knew which side her bread was buttered.” It was strange how Stall’s grand manner had gone since he had been exposed. He was defiant now, natural, and a little crude.
<
br /> “Her bread? Pardon me, but what has to do with it the bread and the butter?”
“I mean she knew what suited her own convenience. She didn’t want him losing his job just then.”
“Bien. So she allowed him to flirt, as you say, with madame?”
“I’m not saying she liked it. But she had to put up with it.”
“You take a cynical view, Monsieur Stall.”
“I’ve seen enough to. She with her rats! What else did she want but to talk to him?”
“Ah. That is interessant. So the trap for the little rat, it was a bluff, then? An arrangement? A rendezvous?”
“That’s what it comes to.”
“Voila! Now we are marching. So that last night when madame told the chauffeur to set the trap, she meant for him to come and speak with her?”
“Shouldn’t be surprised.”
“And the girl, she would know that, too?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Then—as to this little gift, which madame so kindiy and so of her free will made you. When did you receive that?”
Once again it seemed that Stall had been touched on a painful spot. He did not answer.
“Yes?” encouraged M. Picon gently.
“I’m trying to remember.”
“But surely, man ami, one does not receive two hundred pounds every day. Is it so ordinary that you have already forgotten?”
“Who said anything about two hundred pounds?”
“Was that not then the sum?”
Stall looked sulky. “I don’t know. It was a bundle of notes. I haven’t counted it yet.”
“Voila! A truly disinterested man! But come, my friend, when did you receive this?”
This time his answer came pat. “On Thursday afternoon.”
“At what time?”
“Just after lunch.”
“On Thursday? The day before yesterday?”
“That’s right.”
Lord Simon heaved a despairing sigh, but M. Picon left the point.
“What then did you do after leaving Miss Storey so abruptly last night?”
“Went to bed.”
“Direct to bed?”
“Yes.”
“You were in bed when you heard the screams?”
