“Lying down, sir. Her maid says that she's prostrated and can't see anyone.”
Melrose nodded, and Inspector Curtis went in search of the butler. Mr. Quin was looking thoughtfully into the fireplace. Mr. Satterthwaite followed his example. He blinked at the
smoldering logs for a minute or two, and then something bright lying in the grate caught his eye. He stooped and picked up a little sliver of curved glass.
“You wanted me, sir?”
It was the butler's voice, still quavering and uncertain. Mr. Satterthwaite slipped the fragment of glass into his waistcoat pocket and turned round.
The old man was standing in the doorway.
“Sit down,” said the chief constable kindly. “You're shaking all over. It's been a shock to you, I expect.”
“It has indeed, sir.”
“Well I shan't keep you long. Your master came in just after five, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. He ordered tea to be brought to him here. Afterward, when I came to take it away, he asked for Jennings to be sent to him – that's his valet, sir.”
“What time was that?”
“About ten minutes past six, sir.”
“Yes – well?”
“I sent word to Jennings, sir. And it wasn't till I came in here to shut the windows and draw the curtains at seven o'clock that I saw –”
Melrose cut him short. “Yes, yes, you needn't go into all that. You didn't touch the body, or disturb anything, did you?”
“Oh! No indeed, sir! I went as fast as I could go to the telephone to ring up the police.”
“And then?”
“I told Janet – her ladyship's maid, sir – to break the news to her ladyship.”
“You haven't seen your mistress at all this evening?”
Colonel Melrose put the question casually enough, but Mr. Satterthwaite's keen ears caught anxiety behind the words.
“Not to speak to, sir. Her ladyship has remained in her own apartments since the tragedy.”
“Did you see her before?”
The question came sharply, and everyone in the room noted the hesitation before the butler replied.
“I – I just caught a glimpse of her, sir, descending the staircase.”
“Did she come in here?”
Mr. Satterthwaite held his breath.
“I – I think so, sir.”
“What time was that?”
You might have heard a pin drop. Did the old man know, Mr. Satterthwaite wondered, what hung on his answer?
“It was just upon half past six, sir.”
Colonel Melrose drew a deep breath. “That will do, thank you. Just send Jennings, the valet, to me, will you?”
Jennings answered the summons with promptitude. A narrow–faced man with a catlike tread. Something sly and secretive about him. A man, thought Mr. Satterthwaite, who would easily murder his master if he could be sure of not
being found out. He listened eagerly to the man's answers to Colonel Melrose's questions. But his story seemed straightforward enough. He had brought his master down some soft hide slippers and removed the brogues.
“What did you do after that, Jennings?”
“I went back to the stewards' room, sir.”
“At what time did you leave your master?”
“It must have been just after a quarter past six, sir.”
“Where were you at half past six, Jennings?”
“In the stewards' room, sir.”
Colonel Melrose dismissed the man with a nod. He looked across at Curtis inquiringly.
“Quite correct, sir, I checked that up. He was in the stewards' room from about six–twenty until seven o'clock.”
“Then that lets him out,” said the chief constable a trifle regretfully. “Besides, there's no motive.”
They looked at each other.
There was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” said the colonel.
A scared–looking lady's maid appeared.
“If you please, her ladyship has heard that Colonel Melrose is here and she would like to see him.”
“Certainly,” said Melrose. “I'll come at once. Will you show me the way?”
But a hand pushed the girl aside. A very different figure now stood in the doorway. Laura Dwighton looked like a visitor from another world.
She was dressed in a clinging medieval tea gown of dull–blue brocade. Her auburn hair was parted in the middle and brought down over her ears. Conscious of the fact she had a style of her own, Lady Dwighton had never had her hair cut. It was drawn back into a simple knot on the nape of her neck. Her arms were bare.
One of them was outstretched to steady herself against the frame of the doorway, the other hung down by her side, clasping a book. She looks, Mr. Satterthwaite thought, like a Madonna from an early Italian canvas.
She stood there, swaying slightly from side to side. Colonel Melrose sprang toward her.
“I've come to tell you – to tell you –”
Her voice was low and rich. Mr. Satterthwaite was so entranced with the dramatic value of the scene that he had forgotten its reality.
“Please, Lady Dwighton –” Melrose had an arm round her, supporting her. He took her across the hall into a small anteroom, its walls hung with faded silk. Quin and Satterthwaite followed.
She sank down on the low settee, her head resting back on a rust–colored cushion, her eyelids closed. The three men watched her. Suddenly she opened her eyes and sat up. She spoke very quietly.
“I killed him,” she said. “That's what I came to tell you. I killed him!”
There was a moment's agonized silence. Mr. Satterthwaite's heart missed a beat.
“Lady Dwighton,” said Melrose. “You've had a great shock – you're unstrung. I don't think you quite know what you're saying.”
Would she draw back now – while there was yet time?
“I know perfectly what I'm saying. It was I who shot him.”
Two of the men in the room gasped, the other made no sound. Laura Dwighton leaned still farther forward.
“Don't you understand? I came down and shot him. I admit it.”
The book she had been holding in her hand clattered to the floor. There was a paper cutter in it, a thing shaped like a dagger with a jeweled hilt. Mr. Satterthwaite picked it up mechanically and placed it on the table. As he did so he thought, That's a dangerous toy. You could kill a man
with that.
“Well –” Laura Dwighton's voice was impatient – ”what are you going to do about it? Arrest me? Take me away?”
Colonel Melrose found his voice with difficulty.
“What you have told me is very serious, Lady Dwighton. I must ask you to go to your room till I have – er – made arrangements.”
She nodded and rose to her feet. She was quite composed now, grave and cold.
As she turned toward the door, Mr. Quin spoke.
“What did you do with the revolver, Lady Dwighton?”
A flicker of uncertainty passed across her face. “I – I dropped it there on the floor. No, I think I threw it out of the window – oh! I can't remember now. What does it matter? I hardly knew what I was doing. It doesn't matter, does it?”
“No,” said Mr. Quin. “I hardly think it matters.”
She looked at him in perplexity with a shade of something that might have been alarm. Then she flung back her head and went imperiously out of the room. Mr. Satterthwaite hastened after her. She might, he felt, collapse at any minute. But she was already halfway up the staircase, displaying no sign of her earlier weakness. The scared–looking maid was standing at the foot of the stairway, and Mr. Satterthwaite spoke to her authoritatively.
“Look after your mistress,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” The girl prepared to ascend after the blue–robed figure. “Oh, please, sir, they don't suspect him, do they?”
“Suspect whom?”
“Jennings, sir. Oh! Indeed, sir, he wouldn't hurt a fly.”
“Jennings? No, of course not. Go and look after your mistress.”
“Yes, sir.”
The girl ran quickly up the staircase. Mr. Satterthwaite returned to the room he had just vacated.
Colonel Melrose was saying heavily, “Well, I'm jiggered. There's more in this than meets the eye. It – it's like those dashed silly things heroines do in many novels.”
“It's unreal,” agreed Mr. Satterthwaite. “It's like something on the stage.”
Mr. Quin nodded. “Yes, you admire the drama, do you not? You are a man who appreciates good acting when you see it.”
Mr. Satterthwaite looked hard at him.
In the silence that followed a far–off sound came to their ears.
“Sounds like a shot,” said Colonel Melrose. “One of the keepers, I daresay. That's probably what she heard. Perhaps she went down to see. She wouldn't go close or examine the body. She'd leap at once to the conclusion –”
“Mr. Delangua, sir.” It was the old butler who spoke, standing apologetically in the doorway.
“Eh?” said Melrose. “What's that?”
“Mr. Delangua is here, sir, and would like to speak to you if he may.”
Colonel Melrose leaned back in his chair. “Show him in,” he said grimly.
A moment later Paul Delangua stood in the doorway. As Colonel Melrose had hinted, there was something un–English about him – the easy grace of his movements, the dark, handsome face, the eyes set a little too near together. There hung about him the air of the Renaissance. He and Laura
Dwighton suggested the same atmosphere.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Delangua. He made a little theatrical bow.
“I don't know what your business may be, Mr. Delangua,” said Colonel Melrose sharply, “but if it is nothing to do with the matter at hand –”
Delangua interrupted him with a laugh. “On the contrary,” he said, “it has everything to do with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Delangua quietly, “that I have come to give myself up for the murder of Sir James Dwighton.”
“You know what you are saying?” said Melrose gravely.
“Perfectly.”
The young man's eyes were riveted to the table,
“I don't understand –”
“Why I give myself up? Call it remorse – call it anything you please. I stabbed him, right enough – you may be quite sure of that.” He nodded toward the table. “You've got the weapon there, I see. A very handy little tool. Lady Dwighton unfortunately left it lying around in a book, and I happened to snatch it up.”
“One minute,” said Colonel Melrose. “Am I to understand that you admit stabbing Sir James with this?” He held the dagger aloft.
“Quite right. I stole in through the window, you know. He had his back to me. It was quite easy. I left the same way.”
“Through the window?”
“Through the window, of course.”
“And what time was this?
Delangua hesitated. “Let me see – I was talking to the keeper fellow – that was at a quarter past six. I heard the church tower chime. It must have been – well, say somewhere about half past”
A grim smile came to the colonel's lips.
“Quite right, young man,” he said. “Half past six was the time. Perhaps you've heard that already? But this is altogether a most peculiar murder!”
“Why?”
“So many people confess to it,” said Colonel Melrose.
They heard the sharp intake of the other's breath.
“Who else has confessed to it?” he asked in a voice that he vainly strove to render steady.
“Lady Dwighton.”
Delangua threw back his head and laughed in rather a forced manner. “Lady Dwighton is apt to be hysterical,” he said lightly. “I shouldn't pay any attention to what she says if I were you.”
“I don't think I shall,” said Melrose. “But there's another odd thing about this murder.”
“What's that?”
“Well,” said Melrose, “Lady Dwighton has confessed to having shot Sir James, and you have confessed to having stabbed him. But luckily for both of you, he wasn't shot or stabbed, you see. His skull was smashed in.”
“My God!” cried Delangua. “But a woman couldn't possibly do that –”
He stopped, biting his lip. Melrose nodded with the ghost of a smile.
“Often read of it,” he volunteered. “Never seen it happen.”
“What?”
“Couple of young idiots each accusing themselves because they thought the other had done it,” said Melrose. “Now we've got to begin at the beginning.”
“The valet,” cried Mr. Satterthwaite. “That girl just now – I wasn't paying any attention at the time.” He paused, striving for coherence. “She was afraid of our suspecting him. There must be some motive that he had and which we don't know, but she does.”
Colonel Melrose frowned, then he rang the bell. When it was answered, he said, “Please ask Lady Dwighton if she will be good enough to come down again.”
They waited in silence until she came. At sight of Delangua she started and stretched out a hand to save herself from falling. Colonel Melrose came quickly to the rescue.
“It's quite all right, Lady Dwighton. Please don't be alarmed.”
“I don't understand. What is Mr. Delangua doing here?”
Delangua came over to her, “Laura – Laura – why did you do it?”
“Do it?”
“I know. It was for me – because you thought that I – After all, it was natural, I suppose. But, oh! You angel!”
Colonel Melrose cleared his throat. He was a man who disliked emotion and had a horror of anything approaching a “scene.”
“If you'll allow me to say so, Lady Dwighton, both you and Mr. Delangua have had a lucky escape. He had just arrived in his turn to 'confess' to the murder – oh, it's quite all right, he didn't do it! But what we want to know is the truth. No more shillyshallying. The butler says you went into the library at half past six – is that so?”
Laura looked at Delangua. He nodded.
“The truth, Laura,” he said. “That is what we want now.”
She breathed a deep sigh. “I will tell you.”
She sank down on a chair that Mr. Satterthwaite had hurriedly pushed forward. “I did come down. I opened the library door and I saw –”
She stopped and swallowed. Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward and patted her hand encouragingly.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. You saw?”
“My husband was lying across the writing–table. I saw his head – the blood – oh!”
She put her hands to her face. The chief constable leaned forward. “Excuse me, Lady Dwighton. You thought Mr. Delangua had shot him?”
She nodded. “Forgive me, Paul,” she pleaded. “But you said – you said –”
“That I'd shoot him like a dog,” said Delangua grimly. “I remember. That was the day I discovered he'd been ill–treating you.”
The chief constable kept sternly to the matter in hand.
“Then I am to understand, Lady Dwighton, that you went upstairs again and – er – said nothing. We needn't go into your reason. You didn't touch the body or go near the writing–table?”
She shuddered.
“No, no. I ran straight out of the room.”
“I see, I see. And what time was this exactly? Do you know?”
“It was just half past six when I got back to my bedroom.”
“Then at – say five–and–twenty past six, Sir James was already dead.” The chief constable looked at the others. “That clock – it was faked, eh? We suspected that all along. Nothing easier than to move the hands to whatever time you wished, but they made a mistake to lay it down on its side
like that. Well, that seems to narrow it down to the butler or the valet, and I can't believe it's the butler. Tell me, Lady Dwighton, did this man Jennings have any grudge ag
ainst your husband?”
Laura lifted her face from her hands. “Not exactly a grudge, but – well James told me only this morning that he'd dismissed him. He'd found him pilfering.”
Detective Duos Page 14
