Death at Swaythling Court

by J. J. Connington

  “Hang-dog fellow. A very furtive look about him, somehow.”

  The butler’s first surprise seemed to pass off. He ran his tongue swiftly over his lips, as though he had felt unable to speak clearly; then, quite firmly, he denied all knowledge of the mystery. Rather to the Colonel’s surprise, he did not protest over-much.

  “You’ve no objection to answering a few questions, I suppose?” demanded the Colonel.

  “None at all, sir. I’m perfectly ready to give any information that I can.”

  Despite his prejudice, Colonel Sanderstead had to admit to himself that the man seemed to have no hesitation in the matter. The butler appeared simply a naturally nervous man who had suddenly been placed in an unexpected position. He pulled off his gloves and played with them, straightening them out and then rolling them up; and he kept his eyes averted from the faces of the three inquisitors; but though he looked like a rat, the Colonel could not honestly say that he had the air of a trapped rat.

  “Very well, Bolam! Take all this down. Now, what’s your name, first of all?”

  “Thomas Leake, sir.”

  “How long have you been Mr. Hubbard’s butler?”

  “He engaged me shortly before he came to Swaythling Court, sir.”

  “Now, how did it come that you—and the other servants—were not here this morning when we came to the house?”

  “Mr. Hubbard had given us all permission to go to a dance in Micheldean Abbas, sir. He very kindly paid for our tickets.”

  “Ah, indeed. Will you give me some information about what happened before you left the house?”

  “At half-past six, the two maids and the chauffeur left here in the car, sir. Mr. Hubbard made rather a point that they should get away in plenty of time.”

  “Half-past six?” interrupted Cyril Norton. “And how it’s well on in the forenoon. Did your dance last round the clock? You must be a stout lot of fellows!”

  The butler seemed in no way put out by the question.

  “The dance was a Cinderella, sir. It stopped shortly after midnight. But Mr. Hubbard had made a point that we were not to come back here in the small hours and disturb him. He insisted that we should stay the rest of the night at Micheldean Abbas, and not return here before half-past ten in the morning. We put up at the ‘Cat and Fiddle,’ sir.”

  The Colonel was faintly vexed by this interruption of his systematic investigation. His next question brought them back to the original line:

  “What happened after the rest of the servants left? You were alone in the house with Mr. Hubbard?”

  “Yes, sir. At seven o’clock I served dinner. Mr. Hubbard took some cold roast in order to let the cook get away earlier. After that, I looked to see if the breakfast-tray had been prepared and placed in the pantry, as Mr. Hubbard had directed. I then took some whisky and a syphon into his study. After that I left the house—about half-past seven, I think. Before going, I went round to see that all the fastenings were secure; and on leaving the house I dropped the lever of the Yale lock on the front door, as Mr. Hubbard had directed me to do. No one could have got into the house by any of the doors.”

  “Do you recognize this key?” The Colonel produced the latch-key which he had found on the door-step.

  “That’s Mr. Hubbard’s key, sir. I have another one. His one is slightly twisted in the handle, as you see. It met with an accident once.”

  Colonel Sanderstead endeavoured to think of more questions which he could put to the butler; but nothing further suggested itself. He was about to lead the inquiry on to the paper-knife, when Cyril Norton interposed.

  “After you left the house at half-past seven, Leake, you were not inside it again until we saw you return a few minutes ago?”

  “No, sir.”

  Cyril Norton appeared to be satisfied with this. He effaced himself to allow the Colonel to proceed.

  “Come into the study, Leake. We wish to know one or two other things.”

  If the Colonel hoped to secure anything of interest by confronting the butler with his master’s body, he certainly failed. Apart from a glance of curiosity at the corpse, Leake betrayed no visible emotion. He seemed to have got his nerves under better control, now that his first surprise was over; and although his lower lip still trembled spasmodically, he showed no marked symptoms of perturbation.

  Colonel Sanderstead pointed to the table on which the weapon rested; and the butler obediently crossed the room and examined the steel blade.

  “This is Mr. Hubbard’s paper-knife, sir. It seems to have got into the fire by the look of it. The last time I saw it was when I brought in the whisky and syphon. It was lying on the desk close to where I put down the tray.”

  Cyril Norton showed a faint amusement at this confirmation of his hypothesis about the weapon. The “stiletto” theory was out of court completely, after this evidence. He was careful to spare the Colonel’s feelings, however; and his uncle, who was pondering over his next question, failed to notice Cyril’s smile.

  “Have you ever seen this safe open before, Leake?” he demanded. “Did it, to your knowledge, contain anything of value except papers?”

  At the mention of papers, the butler looked eagerly towards the empty shelves; and then, seeing nothing, he glanced rapidly round the room. The mass of ash in the fire-place appeared to draw his attention and, in some way, to relieve his mind.

  “No, sir. Mr. Hubbard never opened the safe in my presence. He kept his keys very carefully.”

  Colonel Sanderstead paused in his examination, turning over in his mind the points which he had elicited, in the hope that they might suggest further questions. But nothing occurred to him; and he was about to close the inquiry when Cyril Norton spoke again.

  “Look round the room, Leake. Do you see anything out of the ordinary? Anything displaced from its normal position or anything missing?”

  The butler’s eye travelled again round the room, paused for a moment at the fire-place, and then fixed itself on the showcase of butterflies.

  “That glass case, sir. When I left at half-past seven, the front of it was intact; I see that it is broken now. And something has been taken out of it, too. There was a very large butterfly in the very centre, a thing with very highly coloured wings, sir, each wing about as big as my hand. Mr. Hubbard was very proud of that specimen. He often used to tell me that it had cost him more than all the rest of the collection put together. He once told me the name of it, but I have forgotten it. It was a South American butterfly, I think; a very brilliant one. When light fell on it, the wings used to glitter like polished metal. I often used to look at it, sir; that’s how I can be so sure about it.”

  “Ah!” interrupted the Colonel. “You’re sure that it was valuable?”

  “Mr. Hubbard told me so, sir, several times.”

  The Colonel dismissed the butterfly from further consideration and returned to Cyril Norton’s line of inquiry.

  “Do you see anything else in this room that strikes you, Leake?”

  “This candle-end on the table, sir. There was no candle in the room when I left the house.”

  “Anything more”

  The butler examined the room minutely for a time, then shook his head:

  “I see nothing that strikes me particularly, sir. As far as I can see, everything else is quite ordinary.”

  “Very good, Leake. Now can you tell me if Mr. Hubbard had any callers during the day?”

  “Apart from tradesmen, sir, only one person came to the house yesterday. In the afternoon, Mr. Hubbard was busy rearranging some of his butterflies in their cases, as he sometimes did. About three o’clock, the front door bell rang and Mr. Hilton, the gentleman who used to live at Carisbrooke House, sir, asked to see Mr. Hubbard. Mr. Hubbard had given no instructions about Mr. Hilton, but he did not seem surprised to see him. I showed Mr. Hilton into this room.”

  Cyril Norton’s face had shown an expression of keen interest when Hilton’s name was mentioned. It almost seemed as though th
e introduction of this fresh character into the Hubbard drama had cleared up part of the difficulties in his mind.

  “Well, what happened then?” he demanded.

  The butler walked across the room to the door and twisted the handle gently.

  “This door, sir, has a very bad latch. Unless one takes particular pains in closing it, it is apt to miss the catch and fall slightly open.”

  He illustrated the defect, opening and closing the door once or twice. Then he continued:

  “Yesterday afternoon, when I admitted Mr. Hilton into the room, the door behaved in this way; it sprang open after I had closed it behind him. My duties kept me in the hall for a time; and I could not help overhearing fragments of the conversation.”

  The Colonel’s face betrayed total incredulity of the butler’s explanation. Quite obviously, he thought, the rat-faced fellow had been at the keyhole, listening for what he could pick up.

  “Well, go on.”

  “I heard only snatches of the conversation, sir; but from what I did hear, it was quite evident that Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Hilton had a disagreement. They did not speak loudly; but the tones of both voices were very angry. They used strong language. It seemed to me, from what I heard, that they were bargaining about something.”

  Cyril Norton had dropped his pretence of incuriosity. He seemed to have come at last upon the crux of the problem which had given him so much trouble.

  “Did you gather what the upshot was, Leake? Did they come to an agreement or did the bargain fall through?”

  “I could not be certain, sir.”

  Cyril Norton’s face fell; he seemed to be completely taken aback by this information.

  “But I should imagine, sir,” the butler continued, “that they continued to disagree. I happened to be in the hall when Mr. Hilton came out. He was very angry; his face showed it. He brushed past me, opened the door himself and slammed it behind him. I have seldom seen a gentleman so angry.”

  Cyril Norton appeared to be slightly relieved by this interpretation of the events. His face resumed its normal expression. The Colonel, who had been watching him, found no difficulty in guessing the trend of his thoughts. He himself had seen the possibilities which lay behind the butler’s narrative. At last, in the depths of this apparently inextricable tangle, they had come across something definite—somebody who had shown ill blood against Hubbard. And this new factor was the person against whom Cyril himself had the deepest grudge that a man could have. No wonder he had seemed eager about it when that evidence turned up.

  With a certain feeling of wonder, the Colonel retraced in his mind the events of the morning. The blackmail case, which had seemed so important less than a couple of hours before, had now retreated so far into obscurity that he had almost forgotten Jimmy Leigh’s troubles. And, in fact, Jimmy Leigh was out of his difficulties by now. Whoever it was that murdered Hubbard had made a thorough job of the thing; all the papers in the safe were gone, reduced to indecipherable ash in the fire-place. Any secrets which Hubbard’s brain might have held would never be disclosed now. A good many people beside Jimmy Leigh would sleep better o’ nights when the news came out. The Colonel let his eyes rest on the hunched-up body which sprawled across the desk; and all his clean nature rejoiced that the blackmailer’s career had been cut short. He turned away, with a faint disgust, and his mind carried him unconsciously on to the next stage. Who was the murderer? Hilton? It seemed that again the thing was swinging round in a direction which he did not like. Through Hilton—if he were guilty—through Stella, through Cyril Norton, the business was threatening to touch the fringe of the Manor family; and it would be a nastier affair than a blackmail case.

  Colonel Sanderstead’s gaze encountered the figure of the butler, who was standing beside the doorway. Leake met his eye for a second and then, looking away again, put a question:

  “Is there any further information I can give, sir?”

  The Colonel reflected for a moment or two, but he could think of nothing that he wished to ask.

  “I think that’s all, Leake.”

  “Then, sir, if you have no objection, I will take the parrot. I clean out its cage every morning, sir. Very dirty birds, parrots.”

  He stepped across the room, lifted the bird, and was retreating to the door when Colonel Sanderstead noticed the green baize cloth which still draped the cage.

  “Just leave that cloth, Leake.”

  A flicker of astonishment passed over the butler’s face as he obeyed the order; then, carrying the parrot, he left the room.

  The Colonel eyed his retiring back in some perplexity. A cool hand, evidently, that butler! In the midst of all this upturn, he could find time to think of cleaning out a bird-cage. Though loath to change his views, the Colonel began to revise the opinion which he had formed of Leake on the strength of a first impression. The fellow might look nervous enough on the surface; but underneath his skin he was obviously a cold-blooded character. He had given his evidence clearly, without any sign of hesitation or shuffling; and he had seemed perfectly frank about it. Distinctly a personality, Mr. Thomas Leake. And yet the Colonel was very far from liking the man. He looked furtive; and that tremulous under-lip made a bad impression.

  Seeking for something to bolster up his instinctive dislike, Colonel Sanderstead turned the interview over in his mind; and suddenly it struck him that Leake himself had put no questions. Was that quite a natural state of affairs? It certainly seemed strange that a butler should display such apparent incuriosity in the circumstances. But as the

  Colonel pondered over the problem, his eye caught the figure of Bolam standing patiently there, notebook in hand; and that glance suggested to his mind a possible explanation. Suppose that Bolam had been in Leake’s place, would he not have behaved in precisely the same manner? Would not he also have refrained from putting questions to his superiors? Colonel Sanderstead had to admit that it was very likely. But Leake and Bolam were two very different types; what Bolam might do in certain circumstances was probably no guide to Leake’s actions.

  The Colonel’s eye came round once more to the constable; and, catching his glance, Bolam ventured to bring forward something which he thought of interest:

  “Sir, at about half-past nine last night I was patrolling the Bishop’s Vernon road in the vicinity of the Swaythling Court lodge. As I came up, Mr. Hilton and a lady were standing about fifty yards south of the lodge in the middle of the road. Mr. Hilton had his motor-cycle with him and seemed to have caught up the lady, who was walking. When I came near them, I recognized the lady as Mrs. Vane, the lady who is staying at the ‘Three Bees.’ They were talking together; and it appeared to me that they were having words—disagreeing, I should say, sir. As I passed them, I heard Mr. Hilton say: ‘You shan’t go there tonight’; and he nodded towards the Court. After I had gone a short distance farther—I could just make out their figures in the dark—I saw the lady turn back towards Fernhurst. Almost at once I heard Mr. Hilton’s engine start; and as he did not pass me, he must have gone after her.” Cyril Norton had pricked up his ears at the mention of Hilton’s name; but he put no question to Bolam. For once, the Colonel felt that there was a certain drawback in Bolam’s reportorial method.

  “And what do you infer from that, Bolam?” he demanded.

  Bolam looked slightly confused, as though he felt that he had perhaps gone too far in making his statement; but Cyril Norton stepped in to save the constable’s face:

  “It’s pretty evident what Bolam thinks, although he’s not sure enough of his ground to say it. Here’s Hilton turning up in the business again; and determined to prevent at all costs an interview between this Mrs. Vane, whoever she may be, and Hubbard. Bolam connects that with the quarrel in the afternoon between Hilton and Hubbard: two facets of the same jewel, perhaps. That’s what you meant, isn’t it, Bolam? But you felt a bit diffident about it, because you weren’t sure, eh?”

  “That’s just how I felt about it, sir.”

  “Qu
ite right to bring it out, then,” Cyril commended him. “It’s another bit of the jig-saw, though I don’t see yet where it fits in. It’ll drop into its place by and by when we know a bit more. We seem to be on the road towards a motive for this business; and that’s always helpful.”

  He paused for a moment; and a different thought seemed to occur to him:

  “By the way, uncle, isn’t it time we had a doctor on to this affair? What do you say to sending for young Mickleby at once?”

  The Colonel concurred; but when he suggested dispatching Bolam as a messenger, Cyril objected.

  “Young Mickleby may be out on his rounds just now; and Bolam would never be able to catch up the Ford. Besides, Bolam’s too useful to us, with his shorthand. I’d go myself; but I’m too interested in the business to miss anything. I want to see the trail while it’s fresh. Leake’s got a motor-bike. Suppose we send him?”

  “Very well.”

  “I’ll get hold of him,” volunteered Cyril Norton. “I’ll tell him to bring his machine round to the front door and you can give him your instructions there. I’ve no locus standi in this affair, you know. It’s for you to give directions.”

  In a minute or two the butler had got his motor-cycle at the foot of the steps; and Colonel Sanderstead went down to give his orders.

  “Get Dr. Mickleby at once, Leake. If he isn’t at the house, find out where he is and follow him up. Bring him here immediately. Tell him there’s no time to lose. Explain to him what he’s wanted for. Now get off, at once.”

  As he watched the butler’s cycle move off down the avenue, the Colonel’s eye was caught by the marks of various tyres which stretched away from the sweep in front of the house; and the sight of them recalled to his mind the track which had caught his attention as he approached the Court earlier in the morning.