The Crimson Rambler

by John Russell Fearn

  “Technically, yes,” Sheila agreed. “I mean here. What do we do?”

  Gossage smiled at her.

  “My dear young lady, none of you have paused in your normal pursuits following the death of Mr. Darnworth: so why should you do so as time goes on? I’ll be frank. I don’t believe one of you is a bit concerned over the fact that Mr. Darnworth is dead.”

  “That,” Mrs. Darnworth said, “is an intolerable assumption, Mr. Gossage.”

  He shook his head. “I disagree. I already have it from Miss Sheila that she at least does not consider herself any the worse off by her father’s demise.”

  “Why should she?” Barry Crespin demanded. “She inherits everything!”

  If Barry Crespin had brought a lighted bomb from his pocket and placed it in the centre of the table the effect could not have been more impressive. The colour went out of Sheila’s cheeks; her mother and sister turned to look at her in cold, steady interrogation. Crespin added: “I suppose….”

  “What are you talking about, Barry?” Mrs. Darnworth demanded of him, her voice so sharp that it hurt the ear.

  “Yes, what?” Elaine snapped

  “I’m only repeating what Sheila told me.”

  The older woman’s eyes darted to Sheila. “And by what right do you dare assume that you are the sole beneficiary? You of all people!”

  “Dad told me once. One morning when he was in a good humour. He said everything would come to me if anything ever happened to him. He added something about a proviso—”

  “What proviso?” Elaine demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Sheila muttered, looking desperately uncomfortable. “He wouldn’t tell me. He may even have been having one of his silly jokes about the will; I don’t know. But he did say that.”

  “And she told me,” Crespin added, “I didn’t ask her—It was—Well, just one of those things when we were talking.”

  Mrs. Darnworth went whiter and the lines became more clearly marked round her firm mouth and piercing eyes. Just for a second or two it was quite plain that towering rage was governing her; then she got herself in hand and drew a deep breath.

  “I see,” she said, nearly inaudibly—and then staring before her without a trace of expression.

  “All of which makes it look bad for you, Sheila,” Gregory Bride commented, grinning. “I mean motive. Am I not right, inspector?”

  “Oh, I don’t know….” Gossage did not seem at all perturbed “I might just as easily say that you had a motive, Mr. Bride You told me you didn’t like Mr. Darnworth because he was—‘too hard boiled’, I think you said. And you said he didn’t like you, either.”

  Bride opened his mouth with its long top lip; then he shut it again and frowned over a thought.

  “They’re none too frank over coming into the open, are they, Mr. Gossage?” Sheila had a defiant bitterness in her expression now as she looked round the table. “Now I seem to have taken the most likely motive for dad’s death to myself, they don’t tell you how much they hated dad. Not a bit of it! Little Sheila has been idiot enough to stick out her neck, so let her take the consequences.”

  “Sheila!” her mother breathed harshly.

  “Sorry,” the girl said, her sleepy eyes gleaming under the heavy lids, “but I’m not going to sit here and take all the responsibility. You, mother, hated dad for one reason only—because he made you a paralytic! Five years ago he drove the ear in which you had your accident and which made you—as you are. Since then you’ve been unbearable to all of us, and particularly to me.”

  “No. I never forgave him for that,” Mrs. Darnworth admitted somberly. “He had too much to drink that evening.” she went on, “and I went out in the car with him against my will. He had a smash, but escaped unhurt. Since then I have been like this, never free from pain. I hated him,” she whispered, seeming to lose awareness of those about her. “I think I had always hated him, but never so bitterly as when he caused this to happen to me. I should never have married him. I should have curbed my ambition and married Clinton Brown. He may only be a simple man without a great deal of money, living in the village because he likes the peace, but at least he is honest and kind.”

  Sheila reached out a slim hand and patted her mother’s arm.

  “Thanks, mum,” she said gratefully. “That takes a bit of the burden off my back. Equal motive, as it were.” Her drowsy eyes flashed a challenge at Gossage.

  “Well,” he said, “it seems to me that you two ladies are frightfully anxious to find motives for Mr. Darnworth’s death. What about the rest of you?”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Barry Crespin said, “I may as well admit that I didn’t care much for Mr. Darnworth. He was too autocratic. Besides, he didn’t do the right thing by Sheila. He held her up to ridicule in company too often.”

  “Ridicule?” Gossage repeated.

  “Barry—please!” Sheila looked at him imploringly and for a moment he hesitated; then his round, fresh-complexioned face took on sudden determination.

  “Nothing about it that shouldn’t be revealed,” he declared. “It was about Sheila’s stories, inspector,” he continued, “Mr. Darnworth made fun of them—usually choosing a time when company was present in which to do it. He called them rubbish and other things. I suppose he thought it was funny, but I didn’t. I told him so many a time, but it didn’t have much affect.”

  Elaine declared in a loud clear voice: “I didn’t blame dad a bit for showing up Sheila the way he did. Writing thrillers, indeed! Such piffle! Trying to make yourself look smarter than the rest of us, more like it. That was your only reason!”

  “That,” Barry Crespin said with quiet restraint, “is just how Mr. Darnworth used to carry on—and you supported him, Mrs. Darnworth, I’m sorry to say. Family jealousy, I’d call it,”

  “I’d rather we dropped the subject,” Sheila said.

  “I don’t blame you,” Gossage remarked. “Well, we’ve made a bit of progress. I knew none of you minded much that Mr. Darnworth had been removed from your midst, but I’m glad to know the reasons—except yours, Miss Darnworth.”

  “My reason?” Elaine’s bright blue eyes opened wide. “What on earth reason should I have for disliking my father?”

  “It isn’t far to seek, inspector,” her mother said, ignoring the angry look Elaine flashed on her. “Elaine and her father quarrelled continually—not about anything specific but as a matter of course. She is a self-willed girl and he was a grimly determined man, and most of his aims were utterly opposed to those of my daughter. Elaine loves animals; my husband did not. He had social plans for her and she would have none of them. And so on…. You understand?”

  Gossage was nodding slowly and Elaine was silent, going on with her dinner in bitter resentment.

  “Yes,” Gossage answered, sighing, “I think I do. But, all of you, don’t think I feel any the less friendly or more unfriendly towards any of you for what you’ve said. There is nothing unique about the domestic conditions you have described; you come across them in many families. At least I do in the course of my work. One person in the family—usually the head of it—is too overbearing and everybody else is thrown off balance because of it. The same conditions obviously obtained here.”

  “Which puts all of us in a bad light,” Sheila said moodily. “You believe one of us killed my father, don’t you. Mr. Gossage?”

  “So might lots of other people….”

  There was silence, and it lasted a full minute.

  “You mean…outside enemies?” Gregory Bride asked finally.

  “Why not? Mr. Darnworth was a financier: outside enemies are by no mean an unlikely possibility.” The chief inspector looked serious for a moment, then his red face was suddenly smiling. “Don’t take too much unto yourselves. In fact, suppose we change the subject altogether and talk about—”

  Andrews approached the inspector. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you are wanted on the telephone.”

  Gossage went to the telephone
in the hall. Craddock was on the line.

  “I’ve had a check up made on Barry Crespin’s radio stores,” he said. “Everything is in order. He has two radio stores and one of his assistants did ring him up at the manor this morning. It was a radio breakdown in a public institution and only he could fix it.”

  “I see. Many thanks, Craddock. ’By.”

  As he turned from the telephone there was a knock at the front door and Andrews came from the dining room and admitted a policeman.

  “Message for the inspector,” he announced gruffly. “Private.”

  Andrews motioned with his hand and then retired. The constable saluted as Gossage walked across the hall toward him.

  “We’ve finished searching the grounds,” he reported. “No sign of a weapon.”

  “Or footprints either?”

  “Not a trace, sir, I’ll stake my job on it that nobody’s been tramping about these grounds for long enough, and the soil being wet prints’d show quick enough if there were any.”

  Gossage nodded slowly and opened the front door wide. There was a full moon rising outside.

  “You’re right, they would,” he agreed. “Well, that’s all, thanks. You’d better report back to headquarters.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHECKING ROOMS

  For some time after dinner, when the party had retired to the lounge, Mrs. Darnworth sat in her wheelchair, reading, watched over by the taciturn Preston. Louise was seated near her sewing. Gossage remained silent, his eyes half shut, smoke curling out of his pipe. Sergeant Blair was in any easy chair, smoking cigarettes and glancing through the notes he had made. In a far corner Sheila was at a table, writing. Near her on the divan sprawled Barry Crespin, looking through a radio periodical. The only ones talking were Bride and Elaine. They were arguing about something.

  “Oh, for heaven sake be quiet!” Mrs. Darnworth broke in impatiently, turning her head towards them. “Or if you do talk let it be about something we can all understand. Isn’t there enough trouble in the house without you dragging in the fourth dimension?”

  “But, Mrs. Darnworth, it is a subject of such pre-eminent scientific interest—” Gregory Bride spread his hands and looked amazed at the lack of academic intelligence. “And I still insist—”

  “There must be better things to talk about,” Mrs. Darnworth interrupted him.

  “To be sure,” Gossage agreed, straightening up. “For instance, I’d like a little information concerning this house.”

  Immediately he became the focal point of interest. Sheila stopped writing: Gregory Bride raised his eyebrows and looked annoyed at the switch in topic. Barry Crespin laid down his radio periodical.

  “All of you,” Gossage went on, “have a distinct advantage over Sergeant Blair and myself in that you know the complete layout of the Manor. Right?”

  Everybody nodded, though some so slightly it was barely perceptible,

  “What do you wish to know?” Mrs. Darnworth asked.

  “Well, as one approaches the manor up the drive there are six upper windows. From left to right—seen from the drive—I’d like to know what windows they are, to which rooms they belong.”

  Sheila said: “The first on the left, to the left of the porch, is Sergeant. Blair’s bedroom at present; the next one is yours, inspector. Then comes Mr. Crespin’s, mother’s, Mr. Bride’s, and then the boxroom…. That makes six.”

  Gossage had taken out his notebook and upon a leaf of it drew six squares. In each one, as the girl enumerated, be put the relative identification.

  “Thanks,” he said, musing over the result. “Then the room over Mr. Darnworth’s study is occupied by you, Mr. Bride?”

  “I?” The young physicist looked surprised. “Yes, I suppose so. What are you getting at, Inspector?”

  “Getting at? Nothing! You have to sleep somewhere!”

  “You’re a bit wrong though. Mr. Gossage,” Sheila added. “Both Mr. Bride’s bedroom and the boxroom are over the study.”

  “I’d like to verify it. Any objection to my seeing your bedroom, Mr. Bride?”

  “Of course not. Come on up and I’ll show you.”

  “And yours, Mrs. Darnworth? And yours, Mr. Crespin?” Gossage got to his feet and looked at them both in turn.

  “As you like,” Crespin shrugged, “though I can assure you it’s a perfectly ordinary room.” He rose from the divan and lounged across to the side of Bride. Mrs. Darnworth watched his movements and then half glanced behind her.

  “Preston—”

  “Yes, mum?”

  “Show Mr. Gossage my room. We must not put difficulties in the way of the police.”

  A look of grim disapproval went over the handyman’s thin face, but he obeyed the order and went out of the lounge behind Gregory Bride, Crespin and Gossage. When they reached the head of the stairs Gossage turned to him.

  “I’ll see Mrs. Darnworth’s room first, Preston—then you can get back to her. She may need you.”

  “All right. This is it,” he said briefly, and opened the fourth door along the corridor.

  “And I’m telling you straight, Mr. Gossge, I don’t like all this poking and prying,” he added. “Y’ve no call to suspect Mrs. Darnworth of anything. For one thing she can’t walk, as y’can see, and she’s an honest woman.”

  “I’m not suspecting anybody of anything, Preston. All I want to look at is the view from Mrs. Darnworth’s bedroom.”

  “The view?” Preston repeated suspiciously. “But it’s dark!”

  “When I saw a policeman at the front door an hour ago I noticed that the full moon was getting up. It’ll do for me.”

  Preston looked dubious and stood aside. Bride and Crespin glanced at each other and shrugged away their feelings. Gossage went into the bedroom and looked about him. In general it was identical in furniture with his own, save that there was an invalid table and the general layout was far more feminine. The room itself did not appear to interest him, however. Going to the window he drew back the curtains and cupped his hands round his eyes and against the glass as be stared into the night.

  When at last he turned back into the room he was nodding to himself.

  “Quite a lovely night,” he commented. “By the way, Preston, where does the girl Louise sleep? Which is her room?”

  Preston nodded to a door across the corridor. “There. Next to it is Miss Sheila’s room, and on the other side is Miss Elaine’s.”

  “And your room? And Andrews’?”

  “In an upstairs wing on the side of the house.” Gossage’s pipe crackled for a moment or two as he thought something out. Then he nodded to the doors on the opposite side of the corridor.

  “These rooms, then, all face the river?”

  “Yes.”

  “Miss Sheila’s room, Louise’s and the others do not face the drive?”

  “No. They look out over the conservatories and to the country beyond.”

  “I think I might see your room next, Mr. Bride,” Gossage said. “As for you, Preston, you might as well return to Mrs. Darnworth.”

  The handyman nodded silently and went off.

  Gregory Bride opened the door next to the end one, motioning inside it. Then he stood, Crespin beside him, watching as Gossage strolled into the room and looked about. Then he went to the window, glanced outside, and then went back to the door.

  “These rooms look as though they’re standardized,” he said, closing the door quietly behind him. “Every one alike, the only difference being whether a man or woman is the occupant. Well, that leaves only your room. Mr. Crespin.”

  “Come this way,” the radio engineer invited, but when he got to his room and opened the door he frowned. “Look, inspector, are you looking for something in these rooms? I mean, you know that they all face the drive; you know that they’re all more or less like each other.”

  Gossage said: “I’m just getting a mental impression of the layout.”

  “I think I’ll go back downstairs,” Bride said, tur
ning away. “I haven’t finished convincing Elly that the fourth dimension isn’t time.”

  “If you ask me. I don’t think you ever will,” Gossage called after him; then he went into Crespin’s room. As before, he glanced about him, finally settling in a comfortable chair.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Crespin. I’d like a few words with you now we have a quiet moment.”

  The radio engineer closed the door and perched himself on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. He held out a gold cigarette case, then as Gossage indicated his pipe he took out a cigarette for himself and lit it.

  Gossage waited for a moment, his pipe sizzling, then he said:

  “Now let’s get a few things clear, Mr. Crespin. I believe you worked until the early hours of yesterday morning on the radio, which led you to get a rest before dinner last evening?”

  Crespin nodded his head a look of mild inquiry on his round face. He waited for a moment or two for Gossage to say something further, but he remained contemplating the floor.

  “I suppose you find that suspicious?” Barry Crespin asked at length.

  “Suspicious?” The chief inspector looked up in surprise. “Why, no. A man can go to sleep if he wants to, and he can repair a radio if he wants to. I’m simply checking up on the statement of Andrews. He told me that last evening he had strict orders to inform you when it was half-past seven, and that if you were asleep not to disturb you.”

  “That’s quite right,” Crespin agreed. “I went out at about six for a stroll to try and clear myself up a bit—you know how frowsy you get after missing a night’s sleep—but instead the air seemed to make me more tired than ever. I came up to my room here and lay down on the bed. I remember hearing Sheila playing the piano. Then I got into bed properly and must have gone to sleep. I woke at about ten to eight and by a last minute scramble managed to get down to dinner on time.”

  “You came back in the house again at what time?”

  “Just before seven. I was only out for an hour.”

  “Can you recall,” Gossage asked slowly, “if you awakened naturally or did some sound cause it?”

  “I think some sound must have caused it. Usually, once asleep, I go on for hours. But I’ve not the least idea what it could have been.”