The Crimson Rambler

by John Russell Fearn

  Blair sounded his horn and presently a man in oilskins appeared behind the gates.

  “Well? What d’y’ want?”

  “Open up the gate!” Blair ordered. “You knew we were coming. I’m Sergeant Blair and I have Chief Inspector Gossage with me.”

  “Al1 right,” the man conceded heavily. “I’ll let y’in.”

  When the gates had been drawn back, Blair drove up the fairly long curving driveway to the front door, on either side of which stood a constable in cape and helmet under the sheltering portico. The door itself was of weather-stained oak with a griffin knocker.

  Gossage heaved himself out, nodding to the constables as they saluted. Then he turned as the apparition in the long oilskin coat came running up through the drizzle.

  Gossage could descry a thin, stern, lantern-jawed face with hollows under high cheekbones, sharply questioning grey eyes, and a very long, acquisitive nose.

  “I’m Preston, the handyman,” the apparition explained.

  Gossage said: “Well, you might get the bags out of the car and then put it in the garage.”

  “I’ll see y’in the house first.”

  Preston hurried ahead up the steps and banged on the griffin knocker.

  “It’ll help a bit, y’see, if I fix things up,” he added rather ambiguously. “The old lady’s very strict on who comes and who doesn’t, but it’s all right if I say so. Good job I heard y’first—tootin’ y’horn out there. I was around the back getting some coke for the boilers.”

  Gossage passed no comment, chiefly because he couldn’t think of one. The immense trust apparently placed in this emaciated being was something that baffled him.

  The door opened and a tall, sombre, black-haired manservant of uncertain age stood with his hand on the latch. He was bent slightly in the middle as though half recovered from a blow in the stomach.

  “Chief Inspector Gossage,” Preston explained to him. “Let him in. Andrews—an’ the sergeant.. They’re all right. I’ve checked up on them.”

  The manservant raised his thin nose slightly as though he had detected a disagreeable odour and then waved a graceful hand into the hall.

  “If you will step inside, inspector?”

  Gossage glanced back at Preston, diving down the steps to help Blair with the bags. “Thanks, Andrews.”

  He took off his cap and mackintosh and handed them over with his walking stick. In polite, frosted silence the manservant allowed his gaze to rest for a fraction of a second on the convict-haircut and flaming red complexion, then he coughed gently to himself and waited while Blair set down two bags inside the front door, and Preston the remaining one.

  “I presume Mrs. Darnworth knows of—”

  “The mistress has made all arrangements, sir, yes.” Andrews cut Gossage short with frigid politeness. He took Blair’s hat and coat and went with them to a massive oak wardrobe at the other side of the hall; then he led the way into a lounge.

  “Chief Inspector Gossage and Sergeant Blair, madam,” he announced, raising his voice a trifle.

  There was no answer, but evidently everything was according to plan, for he retired and closed the double doors. Gossage ran his palm over his plushy head and glanced about the big, comfortable room with its old-fashioned oaken beam ceiling and bay window looking out on to the greyness of the November day. Then he noticed Blair’s eyebrows raised in puzzled inquiry.

  “Do you think, sir, that we’re alone?” he asked, frowning.

  “Of course you are not alone!” a voice answered him sharply from the far end of the room. “Come over here where I can see you, and don’t stand behind me talking in whispers!”

  Gossage strolled forward, pausing as he rounded a deep armchair near the built-up fireplace. A small, keen, little woman was sitting on the cushioned depths, regarding him. One thin, veined hand was clenched on the chair arm while the other played with a slender gold chain looped down her black dress.

  “Madam…,” Gossage acknowledged gravely. “I am Chief Inspector—”

  ‘Yes, yes. I know who you are.”

  Cold blue eyes looked up at Blair.

  “This young man is Sergeant Blair, I take it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Blair said.

  The woman went on: “You will forgive me not rising to greet you. You may or may not be aware that I am an invalid—a paralytic. To rise is a physical impossibility.”

  “You have my sympathy, madam,” Gossage assured her.

  “I don’t need it, thank you. Only the weak need sympathy…. Sit down.”

  The chief inspector pulled up a chair and in the few seconds before the woman spoke again he had a chance for a closer scrutiny.

  Craddock’s guess of fifty-eight had been about right. Her face was deeply lined around the mouth and eyes, largely perhaps from physical suffering. She was spare, small-limbed, but with tremendous determination in the set of her chin and the completely fearless look in her bright blue eyes. Her hair, black in the centre and grey at the sides, was drawn low over her ears and fastened in some obscure coiffure at the back of her neck.

  “You don’t look like a policeman. Mr. Gossage,” she commented.

  “Neither did Charlie Peace lock like a murderer, madam, until they found him out,” Gossage beamed on her. “Judge not by the outside of the parcel.”

  Her Roman nose wrinkled in an inaudible sniff.

  “Inspector, I don’t wish you to relax your efforts until you find out who murdered my husband and have him hanged. I told that divisional inspector, whose chief ability seemed to lie in tearing up carpets and floorboards in search of a weapon, that I wanted Scotland Yard on the job and if possible, less confusion.”

  “Oh,” Gossage said, “so that was why he called on me? Usually Divisional Inspector Craddock is pretty sure of his own territory.”

  “The man made himself an infernal nuisance. We were turned out of our rooms while he conducted a night-long search.”

  “I trust.” Gossage said, in a softly placating voice, “that you will forgive me inviting the sergeant and myself. This place seems so out of the world, and our work is likely to be so confined to the Manor, that I considered a hotel in Godalming hardly fitted the case....”

  “You are perfectly welcome to stay here as long as necessary. Now, what do you wish to know?”

  “Frankly—and I hope this doesn’t surprise you, madam—I’d like to know when we might have lunch?”

  Mrs. Darnworth’s small, hard-lipped mouth opened wider by the briefest fraction.

  “Lunch!”

  “You see two hungry men, madam,” Gossage spread his hands half apologetically. “And, as Napoleon once said, an army marches on its stomach. As far as I am concerned, and I’m sure the sergeant agrees with me, so does Scotland Yard.”

  “Well, of course, you have had a journey out here,” Mrs. Darnworth admitted. “But somehow I had expected that—What kind of an investigator are you, inspector?”

  He smiled cheerfully. “I’m sure there are no details regarding your husband’s death which won’t keep until after a meal.”

  “Very well,” she conceded. “I presume you have your own methods of working and I have no wish to upset them. I have given instructions for lunch to be prepared for you and the sergeant, and Andrews will direct you to the dining room. I hope you will not think it discourteous if nobody joins you. I always have lunch in my room upstairs with Louise, who is upstairs now. My younger daughter has hers in the summer house. Mr. Crespin has been called to London. My elder daughter is out all day, but will be at home tomorrow—Sunday. Mr. Bride will be out until evening. He’s gone to his Godalming home to make new arrangements concerning his work, necessitated by the death of my husband.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BACKGROUND OF CASE

  The chief inspector was smiling good-humouredly.

  “Which seems to take care of everybody, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ve no objections, have you?”

  “None.”


  “I’m glad of that. Divisional Inspector Craddock was of the opinion that there was nothing to be gained by confining everybody to the house. He suggested we continue our normal activities—for the time being—and left two policemen on guard. He had my husband’s body removed to the mortuary in Godalming for a post-mortem.”

  “Well,” said Gossage, “we’ll have lunch and a chat later on?”

  “It will be this evening,” Jessica Darnworth told him. “I rest most afternoons. And as long as you are here you are at perfect liberty to do whatever you wish. I will advise Preston—whom you may regard as my personal bodyguard that you are to have carte blanche.”

  “Thank you,” Gossage said. “That will be a great help.”

  “Press the bell over there. Andrews will attend to you.”

  Blair did the necessary, and presently Andrews appeared in the doorway.

  “You rang madam?”

  “Rang?” Jessica Darnworth hooted. “Of course I didn’t! How could I get out of this chair to ring? Don’t be a fool, Andrews!”

  “No, madam. Sorry, madam.”

  “And don’t stand talking behind my back! Come round here arid face me, can’t you? That’s better. Show the inspector and sergeant to their rooms, Andrews, and then see that they have lunch.”

  “With pleasure, madam. Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes. Send Preston in here. I want him to carry me up to my room.”

  Andrews inclined his polished dark head and then strode to the doors and held them open as Gossage and Blair went out ahead of him. At the foot of the immense old-fashioned staircase with its thick, predominantly red carpet running down the centre, Andrews paused.

  “I have had your bags taken up to your rooms, gentlemen,” he announced gravely. “If you will follow me?”

  On the way up the stairs Gossage said: “Andrews, why does the younger Miss Darnworth have her lunch in the summer house in this weather?”

  “The term, sir,” Andrews said, as they came up to an immense corridor illumined with stained glass windows, “is used a trifle loosely by the family. The summer house is a brick structure. At one time the master used it as his workshop for his hobby of—er—tinkering. Then when he gave it up Miss Sheila took it over. She spends a great deal of her time there.”

  “Doing what? Tinkering?”

  “She—writes, sir.”

  “You mean she writes books?”

  “I understand so, sir. But to the best of my knowledge none of them have achieved publication. May I show you your rooms?”

  After freshening up, Gossage and Blair were halfway to the staircase along the corridor outside when a figure came hurrying up from below. She was of average height, painfully thin, with elbows so sharp it was surprising they didn’t drive holes through the sleeves of the woolen dress she was wearing. She slowed to a halt as the two men advanced toward her.

  “The companion help, I’d say.” Blair murmured.

  “Good morning,” the woman greeted them, bobbing her small, mousy head with its flat waveless hair. Then she considered them with brown eyes set well back in. a pale face.

  “’Morning,” Gossage acknowledged. “You’ll be Louise, I suppose?”

  Again the swift, jerky curtsy. “Yes, sir. Louise. Mrs. Darnworth’s companion-help. You’re here to find out how the master was killed, are you not? Mrs. Darnworth was telling me. You’ll be Inspector Gossage?”

  “In the flesh,” the chief inspector acknowledged. “I’ll have a chat with you later.”

  “Yes, sir,” she breathed, and fled away along the corridor like a wraith, vanishing in one of the bedroom doorways.

  While eating lunch Gossage questioned Andrews.

  “Been here long?” he asked.

  “Ten years, sir—ever since the master took over this place.”

  “I gather that this is a pretty old manor house which Mr. Darnworth brought up to date?”

  “Yes, sir. It was very decrepit. However, the master and his money soon wrought changes.”

  “Let’s have your version of what happened last night.”

  “Well, sir, I sounded the gong for dinner at eight o’clock in the usual way, and all the family assembled, with the other two gentlemen—”

  “Suppose,” Gossage interrupted, “you enumerate them.”

  Blair drew a notebook out of his pocket and laid it beside his plate and began to inscribe shorthand as Andrew spoke.

  “Seated here, sir, at this very table,” Andrews said, “were Mrs. Darnworth, Miss Sheila, Miss Elaine, Mr. Crespin and Mr. Bride. They waited for the master to come in, a thing he had never failed to do punctually at eight o’clock. But he didn’t. So Mrs. Darnworth instructed me to go and inform him that the gong had sounded. I tried by knocking on the study door, which was locked as usual—”

  “As usual?” Gossage gave a sharp look. “It was, then, the custom of Mr. Darnworth to lock his study door?”

  “From seven to eight, sir, yes. He did it every night in the entire ten years I have been here—excepting those rare occasions when he was away, of course.”

  “Have you any idea why he did that?”

  “I think,” Andrews answered, “it was more or less a habit. As I recall, when I first came here, his daughters—then fifteen and twelve—had the habit of bursting in on him while he was engaged in the study of market reports and similar matters connected with his business as a financier. To stop this he locked the door—and persisted in doing so right up to the time of his death.”

  Gossage’s eyes were thoughtful behind his glasses, then at length he began nodding to himself.

  “Was the study locked when Mr. Darnworth was not using it?”

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  “I see. And what is all this I hear about key-wangling last night?”

  “The mistress instructed me to joggle the key out of the other side of the lock. I did so, and by putting a newspaper under the door—there is plenty of room for it—and catching the fallen key on it, drew it beyond the door. By the time I had done this everybody had joined me at the study door, even Mrs. Darnworth in her wheelchair.”

  “And nobody went outside and tried by the window?”

  “Preston did, sir—but the curtains were drawn across it and the mistress was against smashing the window until she was sure what had happened. The key-wangling seemed to offer the best opportunity with the least damage. Anyway, when he got into the study we—”

  “Found Mr. Darnworth dead with a wound in the back of his skull. I know. I understand the lights were on?”

  “They were, sir, yes. The twin lights of the electrolier, and the desk light.”

  “M’m…. Do you know if Mr. Darnworth had changed the appointments of the study much? I mean, was he addicted to altering the positions of the furniture?’ Some. men are, and women all the time.”

  Andrews shook his head. “He didn’t change the arrangement of the study in all the time he used it, sir.”

  Blair had time for three mouthfuls and then the chief inspector started off again.

  “Where were the other people in the house at the time of Mr. Darnworth’s death? Medical evidence says he died at about 7:30.”

  “For myself, sir, I was as usual in the servants’ quarters—which can be verified, of course. Mrs. Darnworth was in her room with Louise, dressing for dinner. Preston, whom you have met, was upstairs in the corridor, waiting to carry the mistress downstairs. Miss Elaine had not come in from the vet’s—”

  “The vet’s?” Gossage repeated.

  Andrews gave a grave little smile. “Miss Elaine is one of those very strong-minded young women, inordinately fond of animals, and she spends all her days helping Mr. Findley, the veterinary surgeon in the village, attend his animals. The task is sell-imposed. Miss Elaine does it for the love of it, not as a paid employee. She had not come home yesterday evening at 7:30. It was a quarter to eight when she arrived, in the company of Mr. Bride.”

  “He’d been
out, then?”

  “He arrived here in his car, with luggage, at 4:30, and went out again at 5:30. saying he was going to meet Miss Elaine.”

  “I see. He was away just over two hours, then?” Gossage proceeded in silence with his lunch for an interval, then he went on: “About Mr. Crespin? I understand he was asleep following a repair to the radio the previous night?”

  Andrews said: “He left the house about six. I heard him say to Miss Sheila that he felt ‘cobwebby’—yes, I’m sure that was the expression—and that a walk in the fresh air would do him good. Just before seven he was back again and rang for me. He said he was going up to his room to get some sleep. At half-past seven, I was to remind him about dinner. He said that if he had fallen asleep I was not to awaken him and that he would have some refreshment when he awakened and would not bother with dinner.”

  “And?” Gossage inquired.

  “I went in his room at 7:30. He had left the door unlocked. He was in bed, his back turned to me. I could just see his hair above the quilt and he was breathing deeply…. In fact, I believe he was snoring.”

  “You believe he was? Can’t you be sure?”

  Andrews straightened momentarily and nodded. “Yes, sir, I am sure he was,” he said gravely.

  The chief inspector looked absently at his half-completed lunch.

  “Yet he came down to dinner?”

  “Yes, he came down in a hurry at the last moment. I presume he must have awakened just in time.”

  Sergeant Blair put down his pencil with quiet rebellion and began to catch up on his lunch. He nearly had time to finish before Gossage emerged from a brown study.

  “I understand Miss Sheila was playing the piano? For how long was it?”

  “Nearly an hour, sir—seven to eight. In the music room across the hall.”

  “Mr. Darnworth concentrated on figures and business matters with a piano playing in the next room? I admire his powers of detachment.”

  Andrews looked surprised for a moment.

  “That aspect never seemed to enter into it, sir. Miss Sheila is a most accomplished pianist with a distinct leaning towards the classics. Besides, the walls in this house are extremely thick. I doubt if her playing would have been more than a murmur when heard from the study.”