“You think they’re all coincidences?” enquired Dr. Fell, musingly. “Because I don’t.”
“How do you mean?”
“And I don’t believe them, either,” the doctor affirmed with a sort of obstinacy. “Miracles may happen. But they don’t come in batches like a conjuring performance. Similarly, most real criminal cases (I regret to say) are solved by a coincidence or two—the fact that somebody looks out of a window unexpectedly, or hasn’t enough money for his cab fare, or any of the other points that hang the shrewdest murderer. But mere chance couldn’t produce such a string of whoppers as we’ve got here.”
“You mean—?”
“I mean it was arranged, Hadley. There’s one poor little bedraggled coincidence that is real, and the rest was contrived by the imagination of somebody beside whom Boscombe’s shabby little murder-joke is tame. That person is the real devil. Somebody knew the histories and background of everybody connected with this house. Somebody shifted these people about like a chess-gambit, and produced this twisted state of affairs as a background for the final blow with the clock-hand. I say, Hadley, I think I’m going to be half afraid of everybody I meet until …”
“Excuse me, sir,” interposed Sergeant Betts, putting his head into the room. “Will you come here a moment? There’s something
…” He woodenly checked his expression of excitement as Lucia Handreth came in. “Benson and Hamper and the doctor have got through now, and they’ll report to you before they go.”
Hadley nodded and closed the door when he hurried out. Lucia eyed him speculatively. She was smoking a cigarette in short jerky puffs, and dislodged a bit of paper from her lower lip with the nail of her little finger. It showed white sharp teeth when the lips were drawn apart. The long, luminous brown eyes passed over Melson and fixed on Dr. Fell.
“I’m quite ready for the women’s third-degree,” she announced. “Eleanor and Steffins will be here in a moment. They’re still fighting, you see. Don is—as well as can be expected.”
“Sit down, ma’am,” urged Dr. Fell, in that beaming and benevolent fashion which radiated from him on all good-looking females. “Heh-heh-heh. I’m glad to hear it. I dare say you’ve known him a long time and that was how you came to spot the late Inspector Ames.”
She smiled. “Quite a lot of cats have been let out of the bag tonight. So I don’t mind admitting that I’m his first cousin. At least it’ll do some good if it persuades our little Nell that she’s no longer any grounds for jealousy.” A swift contempt showed in her eyes; she concealed it, and examined her cigarette. “My mother was the sister of Carlton Hope, or Hope-Hastings, the man they landed—”
“Landed?”
She jerked her cigarette away from her lips. Melson saw the sharp teeth again. “He was no more guilty of embezzling that money than you were. Less so, if you belong to the police. Do you?” She inspected him, and a smile began to grow. “I’ll pay you the compliment of saying you don’t look it. They couldn’t find a victim, and so they framed him. Then they knew they could never convict him in open court, so …” She flung the cigarette into the fireplace. Then she began to walk up and down, quickly, with her arms folded about her as though she were cold.
“Don,” she added, “was only eight then, and I was thirteen, so I know rather more about it. The funny thing is that Don really believes his father was guilty— that’s because his mother brought him up to think so; and he’s morbid about it, so morbid that he keeps the whole relationship dark, and when I came here, and he fell for Eleanor, he wouldn’t even let it be known we were related for fear Steffins should somehow find out. Yet he hated the police violently. Whereas I know perfectly well Uncle Carlton was innocent, and I …” She stopped and shrugged wearily. “No good going on, is there? Some are crooked and I dare say some are honest; but in any case there really isn’t much I can do about it. I’m a bit of a fatalist, I fancy.”
Dr. Fell blew the ribbon of his eyeglasses off his nose, and grunted amiably.
“You may be, of course,” he admitted, “although you may not be certain of what the term means. When a person says he’s a fatalist, he very often means merely that he’s too lazy to try changing the course of events; whereas I rather suspect you’re a fighter, Miss Handreth.” Upheavals animated his several chins, and his little eye twinkled. “Now tell me, when you saw Inspector Ames nosing about the pub over there, what did you really think?”
She hesitated, seeming to change her mind, and made a gesture of acknowledgment. She confessed:
“Frankly, I got the wind up. I knew I hadn’t done anything, but—! It was his presence there, that’s all.” She looked at him sharply. “Why was he there, as a matter of fact?”
She broke off as Hadley, with suppressed excitement tightening round the muscles of his jaw, ushered in Mrs. Steffins and Eleanor. Both were flushed. Mrs. Steffins, wagging her head and not looking at Eleanor, but staring straight ahead as though she were imparting a rapid confidence to one of the glass cases, was continuing a soliloquy through lips that scarcely opened.
“—Not enough,” she pursued, in this ventriloquist fashion, while her colour mounted, “to conduct a common seduction on the very roof of this house, where anyone might be looking on; to break your poor guardian’s heart while he works his fingers to the bone for you, and keep all, every penny, of the money you make while never contributing one halfpenny towards the support of this house where I work my fingers to the bone”—short drawing of breath— “up over the roof on our very heads in front of the neighbours, a thing I warn you I shall never live down until I come to my deathbed”—here tears shone in her eyes—“and you might think a little of us sometimes, but do you? No, and not only that,” said Mrs. Steffins, suddenly coming to the lull attack and whirling round, “You ask that your paramour be kept all night in this house, after you deliberately, on that roof—”
“Rot. Those buildings,” said Eleanor, with curt practicality, “are mostly offices, and who is there to see? I found that out.”
Mrs. Steffins became coldly grim.
“Very well, my young lady. All I can say is that he will not stop here. Of course you would be the one to discuss all this before strangers,” she pointed out, raising her voice unconsciously in the apparent hope of getting support from somebody there, “but, since you do, I can assure you that he will not stop here. Where should we put him? Not with Miss Handreth, I assure you. Haa-aaa no!” exclaimed Mrs. Steffins, shaking her head and smiling a grim tight smile, as though she saw the cunning and sinister design but was shrewd enough to frustrate it. “Haa, no; not with Miss Handreth, I assure you.”
“Put him in Chris Paull’s room, of course! Chris wouldn’t mind.”
“We will do nothing of the kind. Besides,” she hesitated, “the room is occupied, so you see …”
“Occupied?” demanded Eleanor.
Mrs. Steffins shut her lips firmly. Hadley, who had been letting them talk for a quiet reason of his own, interposed.
“I’m interested in that, Mrs. Steffins.” He grew sharp. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding somewhere. We were told that this Mr. Paull was away, and certainly not of anybody occupying his room. If anybody is still there, he must be deaf or dead. Who is it?”
The change was as remarkable as it was swift. One moment she had stood with her chin drawn in, simmering; in the next, a wholly new assortment of wrinkles had shaped themselves across the once-pretty face, like an effect by one of those lightning-artists making a charcoal sketch on the stage. Out of the pouches and hollows of her faintly darkened face gleamed perfect teeth. A wide smile, a dental smile; a deprecating expression of the violet eyes; a different, insinuating carriage of the thick shoulders to indicate charm. Even her voice acquired a different timbre. And, in her effort to shovel out charm, for the first time she looked rather sinister.
“But of course it must have slipped my mind,” she said in a voice of eager cultural overtones that sounded like somebody burlesqui
ng the B.B.C. “Why, my dear Mr.—my dear Inspector—who would be in dear Mr. Paull’s room but dear Mr. Paull himself?”
Eleanor regarded her suspiciously. “Oh? I didn’t know he was here. And he’s a light sleeper. He certainly would have …”
“Of course, my dear. You know about all of them, don’t you?” enquired Mrs. Steffins, twitching her head round briefly to look. “But I really don’t think it will be necessary to wake him. I didn’t think it was at all necessary to tell Johannus or Eleanor or even his friend Miss Handreth. And I do think it is so awfully nice for a young man to belong to nice clubs, don’t you? For then they’re with really nice people, you see, and don’t go to those filthy, nasty pubs or to the other kinds of clubs where they say those abandoned women dance most immorally”—a quick breath—“though of course if they are in clubs and talking to members of the nobility—perhaps you know Sir Edwin’s place, Roxmoor, in Devon; three hours and fifteen minutes, by a good train—then perhaps they will stay a wee bit long over the refreshments and I know perfectly well …”
Dr. Fell struck his forehead. “Got it!” he boomed, with a sudden air of inspiration. “I begin to see this at last! You mean that he’s paralyzed drunk!”
Mrs. Steffins said this was vulgar, and disclaimed it. Under pressure she acknowledged that Christopher Paull, with a remarkable cargo aboard, had arrived about seven-thirty that evening, that for some mysterious reason he had come in by the back door, and that she had found him sitting on the stairs in a disconsolate mood. She had assisted him up, nobody else being aware of his presence, and so far as she knew he was still in his room. She snapped at Eleanor for making her tell this now, after which she sulked. Hadley went to the door and gave instructions to Sergeant Betts. When he returned something about the expression of his face subdued even Mrs. Steffins’ charm. Her volubility trickled off, and she seemed to be girding herself for a refuge in hysteria if matters took an uncomfortable turn.
“I have several important questions to ask each of you,” said Hadley, looking at the three women in turn. Lucia was casual, Eleanor defiant, and Mrs. Steffins snuffling a little. “Sit down, please.” He waited until Melson had pushed out chairs; then he sat down himself and folded his hands. “It’s late and I shall not detain you too long tonight, but I should like all of you to be absolutely sure of what you say. Miss Carver.”
There was a rustling pause while he looked at his notes. Eleanor straightened up.
“Miss Carver, about that door leading up to the roof. It was locked tonight, and you say that it is usually locked. Now we have reason to believe that the murderer himself was on that roof tonight a few minutes or immediately after the stabbing. Who has the key to that door?”
“Somebody in the group gasped, but their backs were towards Melson and he could not tell which it was. He moved unobtrusively round so that he could see them.
“I did have it,” Eleanor replied. “Now that you know the whole affair, I don’t mind telling you. Somebody stole it from me.”
“It will be padlocked tomorrow. Padlocked and nailed—” Mrs.
Steffins broke out wildly, but Hadley’s look silenced her. “When was it stolen, Miss Carver?”
“I—don’t know. You see, I usually keep it in the pocket of this coat.” She touched the leather motoring-coat. “I thought I had it tonight. I—when I put on the coat tonight I didn’t even bother to make sure it was there. I suppose I must have put my hand into the pocket as I went out; you know, automatically; but I had a handkerchief and a pair of gloves and some coins and things in the pocket, so when I didn’t feel it I simply supposed it was among them somewhere. I didn’t discover it was gone until I went upstairs … went upstairs the first time.” She was having difficulty, between anger and fear.
“The first time?”
“Yes. When those two,” she nodded towards Dr. Fell and Melson, “came in and saw me, that was the second time. I admit I’d gone upstairs for the first time about fifteen minutes before—I remember, because the clock was striking a quarter to twelve. I was early, because the house had been locked up early and naturally I was sure everybody was in bed … Oh, stop looking at me like that!” she broke off to glare at Mrs. Steffins. Then her heavy eyelids fluttered, and she resumed with quiet defiance as she faced Hadley. “So I went up in the dark, and then I discovered I didn’t have the key. I thought I’d mislaid it. So I came down and searched my room, and the more I searched the more I was sure I’d put it in that pocket, so I thought—”
“Well, Miss Carver?”
“That somebody was playing a filthy joke on me,” she replied, fiercely. She looked straight ahead, her hands opening and closing. “I was jolly certain, because I remembered putting it in one finger of a glove the last time—in case somebody should come snooping, as they do—and, anyway, that’s a habit I have with keys. So I didn’t know what to do. I went out in the hall again, and by that time I saw the light upstairs and heard … you know.”
“Yes. We’ll come to that in a moment. When was the last time you saw the key?”
“Last Sunday night.”
“And your room is not locked?”
“Oh no. Locks on the doors,” she said, and laughed sharply, “aren’t permitted to anybody except J.”
“I see no reason,” interposed Mrs. Steffins, lifting her shoulders and bridling in a sort of hollow astonishment—”I see no reason, really, why a woman of thirty, with her own salary—and more salary, I’m sure, than I ever dreamed of asking when I was companion and confidante to a splendid refined woman like dear dead Agnes Carver, although doubtless you have different ideas with an employer in the theatrical profession—why a woman of thirty should remain here at all, if she doesn’t like it after all the gratitude she ought to have.”
Eleanor turned. The soft face had grown more flushed.
“You know why it is,” she said, bitterly. “You creeping about with all your talk and tears; and how could I be so ungrateful to a guardian who had saved me from the parish when I hadn’t any parents and how poor we were—you liar—and you needed the money and … Oh, I know what you are, and I’m sick of it! I’ve learned a lot tonight, and I’ve been a wishy-washy sentimental ass, but from now on … !”
Hadley had let her go on because Hadley knew that these things beget an admirable frankness in witnesses. He interposed now:
“We’ll go back to that second visit upstairs, Miss Carver. When you heard Boscombe say, ‘My God, he’s dead,’ and saw somebody lying on the floor in the shadow of the door”—he looked at her quickly—“you thought it was somebody you knew, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” A hesitation. “I don’t know how you guessed that, but I did. Donald.”
“And you also thought Boscombe had killed him?”
“I—yes, I fancy I did. I—It was horrible, and that was the first thing I thought of …”
“Why?”
“He hates Donald. He’s been sidling about me, which is awfully funny because it took him so long to say what he meant; he was nervous or something, and finally he came up to me determined to be, oh, so devilish; and he put his hand on my knee and said how would I like a nice two-seater and a flat of my own—”
Mrs. Steffins was simmering, so taken aback that she could not speak; and Eleanor looked at her while she talked at Hadley, impishly. “—and I said, jolly nice, provided the right person offered them to me.” She laughed. “Then he made the jump and said, ‘I’d even marry you’; but that was so funny that I couldn’t control myself.”
Hadley studied her.
“But, even so,” he cut in, as she was about to go on, “what made you think that Hastings might be in the house? He didn’t usually come in, did he? And how did you think he could get in, if the door was locked?”
“Oh, well … that! It’s a spring lock, you see. You can open it from the other side just by turning the catch. And, you see, Don’s so—so foolish about some things he might even have been mad enough to come in.”
> Hadley glanced over at Dr. Fell, who had muttered something in an absent fashion, and turned back.
“You mean to say, Miss Carver, the lock is so arranged that anybody—a burglar, for instance—could walk in from the roof? What about the trap-door to the roof itself?”
She frowned. “Well, come to think of it, there was a bolt on that once, a rusty one; and one night it stuck while I was trying to get up, so Don yanked the whole thing out …”
“He did indeed,” said Mrs. Steffins, in such a tone of cool fury that she seemed to be confirming a statement. “He did indeed? Then I think I shall have something to say to the police about this clever young man wantonly—”
Hadley turned on her. “It’s your evidence, Mrs. Steffins,” he interrupted, curtly, “that I do happen to want now. I want an explanation. You know”—he reached under the papers on the table, and suddenly held out the glittering clock-hand—“that a man was killed with this tonight?”
“I don’t want to see it, whatever it is!”
“And you see that traces of this paint would probably have remained on the murderer’s hands or clothes?”
“Would they? I refuse to be looked at like that. I refuse to have you address me in any such fashion, and I will not have you trap me into admitting that I said anything at all.”
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