by Clara Benson
IT WAS TUESDAY morning, and Inspector Entwistle and Sergeant Bird were putting their heads together in Entwistle’s office at Scotland Yard.
‘Any luck on finding out where the knife came from?’ said Entwistle.
‘Not yet, sir,’ said Bird. ‘It’s a common or garden kitchen knife of the sort you might buy in any shop in London. It almost certainly didn’t belong to Maltravers, though—he had his own matching set, and a pretty swanky one it was too.’
‘Then presumably the murderer came prepared,’ said Entwistle. ‘That speaks of premeditation. He didn’t just turn up, lose his temper and strike in anger.’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ said Bird.
‘And Johnson is still trying to trace where the nicotine was bought. That might easily take weeks—if it’s possible to trace it at all, in fact, since it’s the sort of thing anyone might have at home.’
‘It’s a bit of a slim hope,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘Still, we’ll keep him on visiting every chemist’s shop in the area. There’s just a chance that our murderer was careless and bought the stuff quite openly.’
‘Very well,’ said Entwistle. ‘Now, as to alibis for Saturday night between about ten o’clock and one o’clock; I see that Captain Atherton was at home, working on his memoirs. His manservant attests to that, as does his housekeeper. What about Mrs. Van Leeuwen? Have you spoken to her?’
‘She was out with friends,’ said the sergeant. ‘She seemed to have trouble remembering their names at first, but once I’d suggested politely that her memory might improve if she and her solicitor came along to the station, she decided she’d better produce the goods.’
‘And these friends confirm her alibi?’
‘Yes,’ said Bird, looking at his notes. ‘She was out with them until two. Next one is Mrs. Pilkington-Soames, who was out in Richmond with her husband and an old friend of his. They both back her up, as you’d expect.’
‘Hmm. She’s another one. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m sure she’s hiding something,’ said Entwistle.
‘Yes,’ agreed Bird. ‘Queer that almost as soon as we turned up to search her house for the brandy flask, the taxi-driver conveniently found it for us, don’t you think?’
‘Think he was lying about it?’
‘He was very insistent that we test it for his finger-prints when he brought it in, to prove he’d never touched it,’ said Bird. ‘That might be suspicious, or it might not.’
‘What do you think happened?’ said Entwistle.
‘I can make a good guess,’ said the sergeant. ‘Young Pilkington-Soames was at Eaton Terrace when we arrived, wasn’t he? And he seemed very keen to go and talk to Bert Evans about the flask. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if she had it all along, and he took it and planted it in the taxi, to throw suspicion away from her.’
‘You might be right,’ said Entwistle. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him, from what I’ve seen of him.’
‘We can’t prove it, though,’ said Bird. ‘Evans is sticking firmly to his story for now, and swears nobody found the flask for him or told him to bring it in, so there’s nothing doing there.’
‘And then there’s the fact that the body was moved,’ said Entwistle thoughtfully. ‘Mrs. Pilkington-Soames lived just around the corner from Maltravers, and was the last one to see him alive. It all seems to point to her having done it. She couldn’t have moved the body, but she might have got someone else to do it for her.’
‘That son of hers again, do you mean, sir? If he did it, we’ll have a devil of a job getting it out of him. From what I’ve seen of him so far he never opens his mouth but to tell a tall story.’
‘Press-men,’ said Entwistle in disgust. ‘They get in the way while we’re trying to work, and then print a lot of poppycock that makes the public send us horrified letters about the incompetence of the police. What about the others?’
‘Mrs. Beasley was attending a musical concert held for the benefit of a women’s temperance organization, in company with Lady Featherstone,’ said the sergeant, ‘but she has no alibi as such for the period between ten o’clock and midnight, when she arrived home. Denis Beasley dined at his club, then returned home at eleven. No confirmation of that, since he says there was nobody in the house when he got back. Lady Bendish was visiting a friend in the early part of the evening, but was back by half past nine, she says. Her son was out with his girl until ten, and confirms that his mother was at home when he arrived back.’
‘So, four of them have alibis of sorts, and two of them don’t. We shall have to look into it further,’ said Entwistle. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if the four that do have an alibi are lying about it. And nobody on Caroline Terrace has reported seeing anybody wandering about in the street late that night?’
‘No such luck,’ said Bird.
‘Still, I think we can safely assume that whoever killed Weaver must have got into the house by knocking at the door. He let them in, they went into the sitting-room, then he turned away and got a knife in the back.’
‘Any further forward on the blackmail theory, sir?’ said Bird. ‘Have you heard anything from the clippings bureau?’
‘I was just coming to that,’ said the inspector, extracting several sheets of a letter from an envelope. ‘They replied this morning. Nicholas Maltravers was a long-standing client of theirs, and they sent him cuttings regularly. They had a long list of names to look out for, and he’d also instructed them to send him anything that hinted at a society scandal. Here’s the list. There are about two hundred people on it. Recognize anyone we know?’
The sergeant took the proffered list and glanced down the page. He whistled.
‘That’s all of them, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Atherton—Beasley—Beasley—Bendish. They’re all there. Do we know whether the bureau sent Maltravers anything about them? I don’t suppose they keep copies of the clippings they send?’
‘Not as a rule, unfortunately,’ said the inspector. ‘They keep a reference of where the article came from, with the date and a short description.’
He handed Bird another sheet of paper.
‘“A delightful evening-party,”’ read Bird. ‘“Bankruptcy notices.” “Death of a cattle-farmer in Argentina.” “A day at the races.” “A strange occurrence in Austria.” Presumably various people had good reason to want all these things kept a secret.’
‘Presumably,’ said the inspector. ‘They did happen to have duplicates of a few of the clippings they sent. Most of them aren’t of any interest to us, but look at this.’
The sergeant took it.
‘“Our correspondent understands that a well-known society lady, Mrs. B, was recently arrested and then released without charge, after apparently having been discovered almost unconscious, and in a state of intoxication, outside a fashionable restaurant in Mayfair. It is not the first time the lady in question has had trouble of this sort, for a similar incident occurred a little over a year ago, in a different part of London.”’
Bird looked up.
‘Mrs. Beasley, do you think?’ he said. ‘Not something she’d want put about if it is, especially if she’s caught up with all this women’s temperance stuff.’
‘Exactly,’ said Entwistle. ‘Did she tell you anything more about the organization?’
‘Only that it’s something to do with Mrs. Belcher.’
‘Oh, Mrs. Belcher, is it?’ said Entwistle. ‘In that case, I can certainly see why Mrs. Beasley wouldn’t want it getting about that she’d been arrested for being drunk and incapable.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s anything else in among those clippings, sir?’
‘Nothing useful, that I can see,’ said the inspector. ‘But I have hopes of this list of press references. We’ll have to put someone on to looking them all up. Some of them aren’t even English newspapers, so it’s going to take some time.’
‘And even then they might not tell us anything if they’re all like this one—“Mrs. B.” this, and “Mr. A.” that
,’ said Bird. ‘It might take weeks to find out what they all refer to.’
‘True enough. Still, if the information doesn’t help us solve the crime, it might at least be useful for evidence if it comes to a trial.’
‘If it comes to a trial,’ repeated the sergeant.
‘It will,’ said Entwistle. ‘Set the men on to checking those alibis. We must keep trying. There were only six of them there at Babcock’s, and one of them has murdered twice. If only they’d be a bit more helpful. Why, none of them seem to care in the slightest about finding the killer.’
‘But why should they, if Maltravers was blackmailing them? They’re probably only too pleased he’s dead.’
‘It’s pure arrogance, that’s what it is,’ said Entwistle. ‘They’re all rich and well-connected, and they think nobody can touch them. Well, they’re wrong. I’m going to find out who killed Nicholas Maltravers and arrest them if it’s the last thing I do.’
LATER THE SAME day Freddy and Amelia met for lunch, and to examine their prize.
‘Do you swear you haven’t looked at it?’ said Amelia, as Freddy placed the parcel on the table between them.
‘I only glanced at it for a second, to make quite certain we have the right thing,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t look too good if we’d stolen Mrs. Weaver’s gilt-edged stock certificates and deprived her of her livelihood, would it?’
‘And do we? Have the right thing, I mean.’
‘I should say so,’ he said grimly. He unwrapped the oilskin parcel, inside which was a large envelope. He opened it, took out its contents and glanced through them, handing them to her one by one. There were papers, letters, newspaper-clippings, a card with a pressed flower on it, smelling faintly of perfume, and even a woman’s gold ring. Amelia took the ring and tried it on.
‘Whose is this, I wonder?’ she said. ‘And why was Ticky keeping it?’
‘Presumably because it incriminated someone,’ said Freddy. ‘My word! It looks as though he’d been running his blackmail business for years. Here’s something from nineteen sixteen. It seems someone lied about his war record, and Ticky caught him at it and made him pay.’
He handed a letter to Amelia, and she read it with a look of distaste on her face.
‘This is rather horrid,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t know that I like prying into people’s secrets. Can’t we just burn it all instead, and pretend we never saw it?’
‘I don’t think we can,’ he said. ‘If we do, then the victims won’t know they’ve nothing to worry about any more.’
‘But why did they keep paying? Why on earth wasn’t he stopped sooner?’
‘I expect because people were too frightened to speak up,’ said Freddy. ‘He’d wormed his way into society and set himself up nicely in position, and once he was there it was difficult to dislodge him without all sorts of unpleasantness coming out.’
‘Well, I know it’s not the done thing to say it, but I’m glad he’s dead,’ said Amelia. ‘And I’m glad, too, that someone stopped Weaver before he had a chance to make even more people miserable.’
‘Yes,’ said Freddy. ‘His foray into the business didn’t last long, did it? That will teach him to be so insufferably pleased with himself. He was certain that he wouldn’t be taken the way Ticky was, but he was wrong. After all, it’s all very well to be careful, but if one’s livelihood depends on meeting one’s victims in person to collect the cash—well, then, one jolly well ought to look out.’
He returned his attention to the sheaf of papers. He was unwillingly impressed at Ticky’s methodical approach to blackmail, for to each document was appended a sort of statement of account, which listed, in shorthand, the name of the victim in question, his or her presumed transgression, and a tally of monies received. In a separate section Ticky had jotted down notes, some of which were too cryptic to understand, although others were clear enough. ‘Threatened to break my legs. Rate to increase from next month,’ said one note. ‘Wept and said would confess all to husband—dissuaded,’ said another. Freddy was conscious of a feeling of disgust as he leafed through the papers. How much misery was contained therein! How many people had sinned and suffered for it at the hands of Ticky Maltravers! At that moment, he began seriously to think that it might be better if the murderer were never found, for surely there was no danger of him killing again, now that the pestilence was safely disposed of and there was no further threat?
‘Is there anyone we know in there?’ said Amelia impatiently.
He glanced up.
‘Most of these we can put aside,’ he said. ‘But I’ve found one or two names I recognize, including my mother’s. Oh, don’t worry, I know all about it,’ he hastened to assure her, as he saw her horrified look. ‘She did something rather stupid, that’s all. I mean to say, she hasn’t committed any crimes or anything. Not that I know of, anyhow,’ he added.
He took Cynthia’s account, folded it, and put it in his pocket.
‘Is there—is there—anything for Mummy?’ said Amelia hesitantly, and his heart melted at her fearful expression.
‘Not that I can see,’ he said. ‘Look for yourself.’
‘I—I think I’d rather not,’ she said.
There was silence for a few minutes as Freddy continued to turn over the papers.
‘Beasley, Denis,’ he said at last.
The entry in question was a letter, written in a woman’s hand.
‘Well, that’s hardly a surprise,’ said Freddy. ‘The usual story,’ he went on, in answer to Amelia’s inquiring look. ‘I expect you can guess. He’s well known for it, so I can’t think why he put himself in Ticky’s power on this occasion.’
He put the paper to one side.
‘Beasley, Nancy. Hmm,’ he said, but made no further comment. ‘Ah! Here’s something. Captain Maurice Atherton, your favourite suspect. There are several letters here, and to judge from his statement of account, he paid Ticky rather a lot.’
Amelia said nothing, but he noticed she was starting to look slightly sick.
‘Now, what’s this?’ he went on. ‘Lady Bendish. I wonder—’
‘Don’t!’ said Amelia, before he could go on. ‘Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. How can you look at all these things in such a hard-hearted way? These are all real people, not just entries on a list. Don’t you feel any sympathy for them at all?’
Freddy might have pointed out that she had been only too keen on the thing yesterday, but he did not.
‘Of course I do,’ he said instead. ‘It’s a foul business. But you forget that one of these people has almost certainly committed murder at least twice. It’s tempting to say the dead men deserved it, but that won’t matter to the police. They don’t care about that.’
Amelia looked down at the table and pushed a spoon about.
‘I wish we hadn’t started this,’ she said at last. ‘Can’t we leave it?’
‘But you said yourself that if we do then the police might never solve the case, and everyone will remain under suspicion.’
‘I know what I said. It’s just that—now we come to it, I can see it’s not as much fun as it was before.’
‘No,’ he said gently. ‘It’s not, is it? But I think I ought to keep going, now that I have all this information. I’m not going to give it to the police, but it will be more difficult for them to solve the case without it, and there’s a risk they might arrest the wrong person if they don’t know all the facts. I think I shall have to do a little digging myself, and then with any luck, if the police do get it all wrong, I shall be able to set them right.’
‘Yes, that makes sense,’ she said. ‘What shall you do now? I mean, with all the evidence.’
‘Well, the only documents that matter for our purposes are the ones that pertain to the people who were in Babcock’s with Ticky that night. I shall keep those for now, and return the rest to their rightful owners—anonymously, I think, with a note to the effect that their accounts are now fully paid up and no further money is owi
ng.’
‘Oh, yes, do,’ she said.
‘And after that, I think I shall have to go and speak to our lot in person, one at a time—always supposing they don’t take me for yet another blackmailer and biff me one on the nose as soon as I turn up.’
‘Oh, I do hope they won’t!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve been such a sport about all this that I should hate anything bad to happen to you.’
Her expression was so sweet and sincere that he might have kissed her there and then, but, perhaps fortunately, she was sitting across the table from him, out of reach, and so he had to content himself with a smile. Shortly after that, she announced that she had promised to meet a friend, and left.
Freddy walked slowly back to the Clarion’s offices, thinking alternately about Amelia and the work that lay ahead of him, then, once back at his desk, started shuffling papers busily. Anyone looking at him would have thought he was working hard on a story, but in fact he was preparing to draw up a letter to enclose with the various objects and documents that he intended shortly to begin sending back to the victims of Ticky Maltravers. He was leafing through them all, wondering where to start, when a piece of paper detached itself from the pile and floated gently to the floor. He bent to pick it up and was just about to put it back in the envelope when something caught his eye, and caused him to look at it more carefully. It was a cutting from a newspaper, containing a short article and a photograph. It appeared to be from a year or two ago. Freddy pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said at last. ‘Who would have thought it? But it can’t be the same person, surely?’
He peered at the photograph closely, then held it at arm’s length and regarded it with his head to one side. Then he spent some minutes hunting about for an accompanying statement of account, but there appeared to be none.
‘Impossible to be certain,’ he said, looking at the picture once more. ‘But it bears further inquiry, I should say.’
