Hadley tossed the clock-hand on the table and bent forward. “You’ll be required to answer,” he said, “about traces remaining in an emptied washbowl which Sergeant Betts found in your bedroom. There are traces of soap, and also traces of gilt paint. Well?”
11
The Impostor
MELSON, COMFORTABLY MARRIED FOR nine years, had never yet witnessed a complete attack of feminine hysterics. The mere shrillness of it made him uncomfortable; but that was not the important thing. What Millicent Steffins said in the course of the next ten minutes he always tried to remember, as an example of the devious progression of thought in a neurotic, possibly dangerous woman, absolutely without a sense of humour and in the dangerous early fifties.
It never occurred to her (he was willing to swear) that she might ever for a moment seriously be suspected of a crime. Her imagination, so far as considering things of which she might seriously be accused, did not go beyond a suggestion of selfishness or petty lies. If she were to be found with a bottle of poison in a house where half a dozen people had died of that poison, it would simply strike her as an unfortunate circumstance. Since unfortunate circumstances were always being caused by other people, and she was always being lured into them by either the malice or the thoughtlessness of these other people, then she must explain this one, too, by denouncing the person responsible.
Her first coherent words to this effect were to rage against Hadley and against Johannus Carver. The first since he obviously believed she was an inefficient, slovenly housekeeper who did not keep washbowls clean, and sent his officers snooping into rooms. The second because Carver was at the root of all the trouble—her china and pottery painting.
She painted pottery, she said, and it had always been affirmed that she did beautiful work (quoting authorities) until this fact had been used as a serpent to sting her. But she would paint no more. This evening she had been engaged on a vase, festooned with gilt hydrangeas, and had acquired a severe headache from the eyestrain of her selfless devotion. Carver knew that. Carver had encouraged her at the work, since he had first suggested, years ago, that she take it up. Tonight when he callously went up to bed he had seen her at work, using an oil paint which cost one and threepence the tube and was thinned with turpentine in a dish. She bought it out of her own pocket money. But since Carver not only did not appreciate her domestic economy while he treacherously urged her to paint, but even conspired with the police to accuse her of the murder of a filthy tramp, then …
It was an uncomfortable business, whose unpleasantness obscured the ludicrous side. It was intensely real (or it seemed so) to her. And it did not have the effect this time which Melson supposed it customarily had in that house. Events had grown so big that more than hysterics would be required now to subdue those about her. While she was wiping her eyes furtively after the storm, and peering about through the dark-pouched lids, Eleanor remained stolid and Lucia Handreth looked wearily contemptuous through the smoke of a fresh cigarette. But, obscurely, Melson felt that there was a deeper cause behind the whole tempest …
“I’m sorry if it distresses you, Mrs. Steffins,” said Hadley, stiffly. “If the paint came from that, it can easily be proved. But in the meantime I must insist on your answering some further questions. Suppose you tell me everything you did tonight, from the time Mr. Craver locked up, spoke to you while you were at your painting, and went upstairs.”
She was listless, with the air of a martyr who minds nothing now, and her smeary eyes showed over a handkerchief.
“I—I worked until about half-past ten,” she replied, the tears coming into her eyes as she thought of it. She dabbed at them. “I was too tired even to put away my work, which I always do otherwise. I”—something occurred to her, and she shut her eyes before she went on jerkily—“I do think you might let me alone. I know nothing about your beastly old murder. I went to bed after that, and naturally I washed my hands after I got a little of that paint on them. I don’t know anything more until I heard a commotion outside, people going up the stairs and talking. So I put my head out of the door, and from what I heard—upstairs, it was, and Eleanor was there talking to that stout gentleman …”
Dr. Fell beamed and inclined his head, this being the most modest description he had probably heard in some time; but she eagerly took it as the gesture of an ally.
“… yes, you’ll agree with me, I know. Well, I gathered that a burglar had been hurt or killed, or something trying to get into the house, and it was horrible, especially as Eleanor was there before all those men with almost nothing on; but I didn’t know what had happened, so I was going to call out to her, but I didn’t, and I got dressed.”
She came to such an abrupt halt, sniffling, that Hadley waited for her to go on. But it appeared to be the end.
“You took the trouble to get fully dressed,” prompted Hadley, “before you came out to discover what was wrong?”
She nodded absently; then stiffened as the question seemed to occur to her, and compressed her lips. “I most assuredly did.”
“And now one very important question, Mrs. Steffins.” Hadley raised his eyes slowly. “Do you by any chance remember Tuesday a week ago—Tuesday the twenty-seventh of August?”
Mrs. Steffins, evidently thoroughly startled, stopped dabbing at her eyes. Then her face twisted up in new wrinkles of pain; she swallowed, and cried: “Do you pick out everything just for the sheer pleasure of torturing me? However did you know—that Horace—was the day of his funeral. He died on the twenty-fourth; the twenty-fourth of August, nineteen-twelve, the—the year the Titanic went down, and the funeral was on the twenty-seventh at Stoke-Bradley in Bucks. I’ll never forget that day. The whole v-village—”
“Then,” said Hadley, grimly, “if that was the day your husband died, you will surely remember—”
“My late husband,” interrupted Mrs. Steffins, her mouth growing grim despite the tears that had begun to well again, “was a c-cad and a rotter, although I will never speak ill of the dead and gone. He took to drink and was killed in the war. I did not mean Mr. Steffins. I meant his poor brother Horace, who was just like a husband to me … So many people I have known have died. It makes me sad to think of it, even. On the anniversaries I like to have my dear ones about me, to comfort. Of course I remember Tuesday a week ago. Johannus and I had tea in this very room. I wanted all the family; but, of course, on an occasion like that, Eleanor would be late.”
Lucia Handreth remarked softly:
“I begin to understand this now. Tuesday was the day … that poor devil—and the watch. Well, well.”
Hadley ignored this and kept his gaze fixed on Mrs. Steffins while he went on quickly: “You and Mr. Carver had tea here. At what time?”
“Why, it was rather late. About half-past four; and it was really hours later when we left the table, as you know it always is when you begin to talk of old friends. Yes, I remember because it was half-past six when I rang for Kitty to clear away the things and Eleanor hadn’t come in yet.”
“Kitty is the maid? Exactly … Miss Handreth, do you mind telling us where you were on that afternoon; say, between five-thirty and six o’clock?”
She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about the exact attitude she should take. But when she replied her voice was colourless, with just the proper note of polite attention, and she did not look up at him until she had finished.
“Tuesday the twenty-seventh. Did it rain that day, or didn’t it? I rather think it was the day I went to a cocktail party in Chelsea.”
“The name of the people who gave the party?”
“Steady on, Inspector. You needn’t write that down. It’s rather difficult to say offhand, isn’t it?” She frowned, and hunched her shoulders as though she were cradling the cigarette. “I’ll have a look at my diary and let you know for certain.” She looked up. “One thing I’m sure of, though. I wasn’t anywhere in the neighbourhood of Gamridge’s.”
“Well, I was,” said Eleanor, un
expectedly and with such complete casualness that Melson jumped. “What about Gamridge’s, anyway? You mean the day when somebody killed that poor fellow and pinched all the things off the jewellery display? I must have been in the place when it happened, although I didn’t know about it and didn’t hear anything of it until I saw it in the paper next day.” She seemed to take some alarm from the expression of the faces round her, and stopped nervously. “What of it? What’s it got to do with us?”
Hadley was stumped. He looked from one of them to the other with a somewhat wild expression on his face, and then over at Dr. Fell, who himself did not appear comfortable. Somebody, Melson thought, was a magnificent liar. A liar of such dexterity that— Hadley barked an answer in reply to a knock, and Sergeant Berts hesitated when he saw the room full of people.
“Well?” demanded the exasperated chief inspector. “Speak up.
What is it?”
“About that drunk fellow …” Betts commenced, dubiously. “Yes?”
“He’s in there right enough, sir. I can hear him snoring through the keyhole. But I don’t get any result with knocking, and he’s bolted the door. Shall I make a row or force the door open or something?”
“No. Let him alone for the present. Yes, what else?”
“There’s an old party just come in through the area door downstairs, and a good-looking little girl with her. Old party says she’s the housekeeper. She’s had her drop of stout and she’s amiable. Do you want to see her?”
“Yes, I do. We’ll have the lot of them in here,” said Hadley, grimly, “and those two are the last. This thing is going to be thrashed out now. Send ’em up, Betts. Don’t mention what’s happened—just say a burglary.”
He motioned the others to silence while they waited. Melson found himself looking forward in some tenseness to the arrival of Mrs. Gorson and Kitty Prentice, as a sort of final ghoulish hope, but their appearance was an anti-climax. It presented to his mind little hope in the way of suspects. They both entered in something of a flutter, Mrs. Gorson with eager dramatic haste. She was a solid-built woman who might once have been a genuine beauty, but only amiability now remained. She wore a plumed hat running into many curves like a roller-coaster; she had intense, rather protruding brown eyes like those of a spiritual cow; and missing front teeth made more conspicuous by one or two upper ones which still remained. Her most outstanding trick of speech was to throw back her head and slowly bring it forward with her eyes fixed on the listener, while her voice rose to hollow dramatic quality like somebody imitating the rising of the wind. Gestures were appropriate.
“I see you have the police in, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Steffins, agreeably, as though she were referring to a social gathering; and then resumed her dramatic manner. “It is terrible, although I am informed that nothing was stolen. I must tender our apologies at being so disconcertingly late. The fact is that our omnibus collided with a lorry in the Fulham Road, at which the pilot and conductor of the omnibus had words with the lorry-driver, and dreadful words they was, too.”
“Ooo!” agreed Kitty, nodding vigorously. Her face was flushed and her hat on one side.
“I won’t detain either of you long,” Hadley said, casually. “I am in charge here, and I must ask you one or two questions as a matter of form. Your name?”
“And we were compelled to walk home. Henrietta Gorson. Two Ys,” she added, amiably, as she saw Hadley write it down.
“How long have you been in this house?”
“Eleven years.” The wind began to rise as she put back her head. “I was not always as you see me now,” she said, shaking her head with wistful nostalgia. “I have Trod the Boards.”
“Yes, yes. Now, Mrs. Gorson, I should like to hear a full account of both your movements this evening.”
“Is that what the police like to know? Is it, now?” said Mrs. Gorson, admiringly. “We had a lovely evening, I assure you. We met Kitty’s faithful knight, Mr. Albert Simmons, at Lyons’. Then we betook our way to the Marble Arch Pavilion to see a musical film of light romantic comedy, ‘The Princess of Utopia.’ The onsombil was lovely. I will not say,” observed Mrs. Gorson, folding her hands judicially, “that the unfolding of the plot emphasized the three dramatic principles of Unity, Coherence, and Emphasis, but the onsombil was lovely.”
“Ooo!” agreed Kitty, nodding vigorously. “You were together all evening?”
“Yes, indeed. Afterwards we then betook our way to the home of Albert’s parents in Fulham, and really it is remarkable how we took no track of the flight of time until close on midnight, when …”
“Thanks,” grunted Hadley, and looked more worried. “One last question. Do you recall Tuesday before last, the twenty-sev—”
“The day, Henrietta,” Mrs. Steffins broke in, eagerly, forgetting her past tears, “the day I told you of, you remember, that dear Horace—”
“Day of the ’orrible murder,” said Kitty, with relish. “Oo-er!”
A harassed chief inspector finally extracted the information. On that day, between five and half-past, both Kitty and Mrs. Gorson had taken tea downstairs with a Miss Barber, who worked next door. Kitty had taken up tea to Mrs. Steffins and Carver at half-past four, had gone up again at a little past five with more hot water; and had removed the cloth at half-past six. Hadley made a last note.
“There’s somebody you may have seen at the ‘Duchess of Portsmouth’; you may even have talked to him. This man is here tonight … Betts!” called Hadley, who evidently did not intend to face more hysterics. “Take them to see Ames, and then get anything they may like to say. That’s all—thank you.”
When they had gone, Hadley glared round again.
“You all understand it now. Somebody in this house accused one of five women of being the thief who killed that shop-walker in Gamridge’s. One of you has been accused of murder; can you get that clear? Well? I’ll give the accuser a last chance to speak up now. Who was it?”
Silence.
“Who saw a woman burning a pair of bloodstained gloves? Who saw a turquoise bracelet and a stolen watch in the possession of one of you?”
He struck his knuckles sharply on the table, and it roused them. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eleanor cried. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. And I certainly didn’t kill anybody at that store. If I had, do you think I’d have been fool enough to admit I’d been there?”
After her first apparent fright, Mrs. Steffins had been considering. “Isn’t it fortunate,” she murmured, with cold sweetness, “that you know where I was all afternoon on the anniversary of Horace’s funeral? This is really outrageous!”
“And I also plead not guilty,” Lucia put in, with a mocking grin. “Don’t worry; I’ll produce that alibi … All that bothers me is the liar who made a remark like that, if somebody did accuse one of us and you’re not pulling our legs.”
Hadley said, gently: “You’ll give us permission, then, to make a thorough search of your rooms? Now?”
“With pleasure,” replied Lucia.
“I’m sure I don’t mind,” said Eleanor, sniffing a little. “Search as much as you like, but mind you put everything back where it was.” Mrs. Steffins sat up. “I’ll allow nothing of the kind!” she cried, and her eyes grew smeary again. “You’ll search over my dead body. I’ll scream. I’ll yell for the p—I’ll carry it to the Home Office, I’ll see that every one of you gets the sack, if you dare have the insufferable—oh, my nerves! Oh, can’t you let a poor … Besides, aah! You know I didn’t do it. You know where I was. So what reason can you have for wishing to search my room?”
Wearily Hadley got to his feet.
“That’s all for the moment,” he said, and waved his hand. “We shall have to leave it there for tonight. The body is being removed now, and you may go to bed if you like.”
But the damage was done in that last suggestion of suspicion; the air, already poisoned in this household, had grown so tense that they seemed reluctant to go. Mrs. Ste
ffins waited for Eleanor, and Eleanor waited for Mrs. Steffins, until Hadley said, “Yes, what else?” and they both hurried out. Lucia Handreth alone preserved a callous cheerfulness. At the door she looked back over her shoulder.
“Well, good luck, Mr. Hadley,” she nodded. “If you’re going to search my digs I hope you’ll be quick about it. I want to turn in. Good night.”
The latch clicked. It was for a time the end of the strain. Melson sat down drowsily, and the room felt cold.
“Fell,” said Hadley, “I must be losing my grip. I have a suspicion that so far I’ve bungled this thing badly. The murderer’s here; the murderer’s under this roof, and within reach of me at this minute. They’re all here. Which one of them is it?”
Dr. Fell did not speak. He had propped an elbow on the crook of his cane, and his chin in his big hand. The ribbon on his eyeglasses fluttered in a draught that blew through the white room, but it was the only sign of motion. Faintly, with the curtness of finality, the bell at Lincoln’s Inn tolled half-past three.
12
The Five Riddles
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 5TH, WAS COOL and autumnal. The landlady tapped on Melson’s door at the usual hour of eight o’clock, and brought in his breakfast without more than the usual comment on the weather. Although she must have been aware of last night’s disturbance, she did not connect her lodger with the events next door. On his own part, being secretly inclined to worry about his health, his surprise that he felt bright and refreshed after only four hours’ sleep induced in him a rather swashbuckling mood.
He was forty-two; in the history department of his college he was second only to the internationally famous scholar who was at the head of it; he had a good home, he worked with intelligent people, and nothing roused his wrath except the expounders of the “Theory of Teaching.” Well, then? Smoking his first after-breakfast pipe by the open window, he found himself smiling in that obscure fashion which, he suspected, merely meant to his students in History 3a (“The Monarchical Prerogative and Its Opponents in English Constitutional History from the Civil Wars to the Accession of William III”) that old Melson was going to crack one of his mystifying jokes, and to get ready for it.
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