by Tessa Dale
“Is he fit for questioning, or does he need hospital care?”
“Not in my opinion, Guv. He must have started choking, and reached up to release himself. Two of his finger nails broke. Other than that, he just gave himself… and me… a bloody good scare.”
“You did a good job, Stan,” Clever told him. “Once Dan arrives from his love nest, we’ll get cracking.”
“Yes, Guv. Pardon me for asking, but are you unwell? Only your face is blotchy, and you look like death warmed up.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I had a struggle with a bottle of malt whisky last night, and the bottle won. I shall survive the ordeal, no doubt.”
“I’ve put the suspect in Room 3, Guv, with two uniformed watching him.” said Stanton. “He’s gone into what my dad used to call ‘a brown study’. He’ll be hard to break.”
“I don’t intend breaking anyone,” his DCI replied. “I think a nice, civilized chat will suffice. Did you pick up the package from the Daily Mirror?”
“Yes, and an old chap with three cameras and a bag of other equipment,” the DC reported. “He seems keen enough. He’s sat downstairs, along with the reporter they sent. They look like a pair of rum customers, Guv. The reporter says he can smell a good story, a mile off, and I believe him.”
“Let’s hope their wait will not be in vain.”
“Is it true, Guv, about Sergeant Jones? Is he getting friendly with that prossy from Coventry?”
“Why not ask him yourself?” Clever replied. “He’s just walked in.”
“Good morning, Guv. Stan, whistle me up a mug of tea and a toasted bacon sandwich, will you?. What about you, Guv… fancy a nice big fry up before we start? Guv… what’s up?”
Richard Clever had finally lost the battle of the bottle, and was heading for the nearest toilets. Chess master classes and malt whisky, he decided, simply did not mix.
It was ten a.m before Richard Clever felt recovered enough to start interviewing Sir Simeon Arthurson. He had worked out a carefully constructed set of questions to tease the truth out of the rich businessman, and was ready to get underway.
It was a surprise, therefore, when Sir Simeon obliged them by opening the discussion with a blunt admission of his guilt. DCI Clever blinked in surprise. It was not supposed to be quite so easy. He cleared his throat and glanced at the two men flanking him. Dan Jones had managed to hide his surprise, but DC Stanton looked clearly flustered.
“Do you understand the implications of what you are saying?” Clever said at length.
“Of course. I confess. I killed Charles Vancleur because I wanted his house, his wealth and his wife. There it is. Greed and lust.”
“Why are you so eager to put your head in a noose?” Clever asked. “You haven’t even heard the case against you yet. We arrested you for complicity in the death of Peter Fornell.”
“He was no loss to the world,” Sir Simeon sneered. “You know I saw to it he hanged, which means you fancy me for Vancleur’s murder too. So, charge me with it, and be damned.”
“I suspect you’ll withdraw your confession the moment I do,” Clever replied. “Then you’d take your chance with a jury. That will simply not do, Sir Simeon.”
“I did it.”
“Yes, you did,” the DCI agreed, “but not on your own.”
“You are talking rubbish, Clever,” Sir Simeon snapped. “Are you refusing to believe I did it?”
“Convince me.” The room fell silent. Dan Jones and DC Stanton had never been in an interview where the senior officer actually refused a clear cut confession, but completely understood his reasons. It was Sir Simeon who finally broke the heavy silence.
“Charge me with the murder of Charles Vancleur, and I’ll tell you everything,” he demanded.
“No.”
“Any one would think you didn’t want to hang me.”
“I don’t, particularly. Dropping a man from a great height so that his neck snaps is both barbaric, and horrific. You just tried, and changed your mind. On the gallows they strap your arms to your side. The hangman doesn’t make mistakes.”
“I demand you charge me with Vancleur’s murder!” Sir Simeon tried to stand, but DC Stanton pressed him back down by firmly pushing on his shoulder. The man seemed to sink in on himself.
“Very well, I’ll tell you how I did it,” he muttered, with the air of a beaten man. “I’m not proud of my actions, Chief Inspector, and want to do one decent thing in my life.”
“The truth, and nothing but the truth,” Richard Clever said, nodding to Dan Jones, indicating that he should start to take notes of what was about to be said.
“Of course I’ll tell you the truth,” Sir Simeon snapped, stirring himself. “I want you to charge me with the murder of the Earl of Castleburgh, don’t I?”
“Yes, you do,” Clever replied thoughtfully. “Which is why you should weigh carefully, every word you tell us from this moment on. Shall we start with your motives?”
Dan Jones poised his pen over his pad, and wondered just how hard it would be for Sir Simeon to convince his DCI that he really wanted his day in court.
Chapter Twenty Six
“I don’t know when the idea first came into my head, but at some point that year, it began to take shape,” Sir Simeon began, fidgeting in his chair. “At first, I was just jealous of his title, and the fact that he was richer than I, without doing a single stroke of work for it. All of the family were the same, of course. His bastard son used to pimp common sluts for a livelihood. It made me so furious at times. Vancleur was a waste of time, just like Peter Fornell Can I have some water? My mouth is getting dry.”
Richard Clever motioned for Stan Stanton to fetch the man a drink. He returned within a couple of minutes with a glass tumbler, and a white porcelain jug full of cold water. He placed it down on the table, in front of the suspect. Sir Simeon wet his parched lips, then continued.
“I might have been able to control the greed, had he not married such a beautiful woman. I was in her company quite often, and found everything about her desirable. You must remember that I was only in my thirties back then, and in my prime. At first, I lusted after her from afar. Then, one day, Charles Vancleur asked me to escort his wife to a society ball in London. He hated the city, and would avoid it at all costs.”
“You started an affair with Vancleur’s wife?” Clever asked.
“No, I didn’t. We attended the ball, and danced in each others arms. It seemed as if I was floating on air when I was in her company. She invited me back to the Berkley Square house, for a nightcap. It was pathetic to witness. I was like putty in her hands, Chief Inspector. She started bemoaning her marriage, then she began painting her husband out to be a brutal bully, and an utter swine. She wept a little, and I held her close to me, swearing to help her get away from the brute.
“Gradually, with hints and half formed wishes, she planted the seed in my mind. A seed that grew to become murder. When I retired to my room that night, I could think of nothing else, but how she felt in my arms. I convinced myself that she had promised herself to me. All I had to do was remove her husband, and she would become my wife. What a damnable fool I was!”
“Powerful motives indeed,” Richard Clever agreed. “Wasn’t divorce an option for her?”
“There was Charles Vancleur’s fortune to consider,” Sir Simeon replied. “A divorce would have left her virtually penniless, and cast out by polite society. We are talking about 1912 morals, Clever. Things were a lot different back then.”
“Yes, I’m sure they were, Sir Simeon. Can we move on to the deed itself? How did you manage to accomplish the murder of Charles Vancleur without detection?”
Sir Simeon Arthurson seemed relieved, now he had started to unfold his story. The three detectives were hanging on his every word. He paused again, as if for dramatic effect, then drank half a glass of water.
“I suggested to Maisie….”
“Maisie? Can you clarify who that was, sir… for the record?
” Dan Jones asked.
“Maisie Vancleur,” Sir Simeon replied, resentful of the sergeant’s pertinent interruption. “Lady Castleburgh, was called Maisie Randall before she left the stage and married Charles. Now, where was I… ah, yes. I suggested to Maisie that she sack the staff at the great house in Castleburgh, suggesting Fornell’s infidelities had caused her to distrust them all. There was only that crone of a housekeeper, and she was half deaf.
“I made a great show of attending a dinner dance thrown by my Masonic Lodge. Several people chatted to me during dinner, and I moved about the room speaking to various people who knew me, until the dancing started. Things were quite chaotic then, as couples swapped and changed partners, and I slipped away. I went out through the kitchens, and came out into a badly illuminated back alley.”
“You took an unbelievable risk,” Clever told him.
“I suppose so. Anyhow, I picked up a cab on the High Street, and had him drop me off a couple of streets away from the great house. I let myself in through the side gate, and ran down the long drive. To catch my breath, I hid in some shrubbery, and saw Peter Fornell leave the house. The arrogant swine was smiling all over his face. I let him get out of sight, then let myself in. I had a set of house keys, you see. Maisie had given them to me in London, a few days before.”
“I went in, made sure the housekeeper wasn’t still up, and went into Charles Vancleur’s study. I had a knife with me, a short, wide bladed thing, it was. I had it hidden in my coat pocket. He greeted me warmly, and asked me to pour out a couple of large brandies. The decanter was on a bureau behind his desk. It gave me the chance to strike. I stabbed him once, from behind. He died without a murmur.”
“I see. You took the knife with you?”
“Yes, I did, but then I saw some letters had been slit open, so I took this vulgar ornamental knife, returned to the dead body, and plunged it into the wound. I thought the police would be amazed when they found Vancleur’s prints on the murder weapon. I didn’t know that it had been used by Peter Fornell, of course. It came as a happy surprise when he was arrested.”
“How long elapsed between you leaving the Masonic dance, and your return?”
“Twenty, or thirty minutes. I slipped back in, accosted the first chap I knew, and bored him with a tale of me advising another chap about investments for the last fifteen minutes. It was in his mind then, you see. Good old Simeon, he thought, had always been present. Once one told that story, others recalled seeing me about the place.
“However, all my intrigue was wasted. The half deaf housekeeper reported hearing Peter Fornell and his father raising their voices. The police picked him up with Vancleur’s money still on him, and the fingerprints on the knife clinched the case. Alan Herbert was, quite unwittingly, very helpful.”
“And what happened between you and Lady Maisie Vancleur?” Clever asked. “Didn’t she leave England soon after, to live in Canada with another man… a much younger man.”
“Yes, she betrayed me. She denied ever asking me to kill Charles, saying it was all in my mind. I pleaded with her to marry me, but to no avail. She laughed in my face. Finally, she told me she was going abroad. I bought the houses in Castleburgh and London from her, at a good price. I suppose she thought of it as blood money, to ensure I kept my mouth shut.”
“Then you contrived to have Fornell hanged?”
“You have already charged me with that, and I will not comment until my trial.” Sir Simeon helped himself to another glass of water and sat back in his chair. “There, does that satisfy you, Chief Inspector Clever?”
“That is a very concise story, Sir Simeon,” the DCI replied, standing up. “I take it you will sign a copy, once typed up?”
“Why not? I want you to send me for trial,” Sir Simeon told him. “Isn’t that exactly what I was asking for all along?”
“You keep wanting to be tried,” Clever said, “but you have not once mentioned punishment. If found guilty, you will almost certainly hang. There are no mitigating circumstances. Maisie Vancleur is far away, and very rich. We would never get her to come back and face the music. Not after so many years. You would stand in the dock alone.”
“I’ll take whatever verdict a jury returns, and if the judge puts on the black cap, I’ll die without a qualm. You saw that I was ready to die this morning. Another minute, and I would have been dead, and your case closed forever.”
“I doubt that,” Richard Clever replied. “Let me tell you a story now. You had been arrested, and wished, for whatever reason, to establish your guilt in our minds. So, you ripped up your shirt, made a crude noose, and tied it to the ceiling flex. Then you stood on the metal edge of your bed, and waited. Someone would be bringing you a morning cup of tea, you supposed, or be coming to fetch you from your cell. The moment they open the spy hole, you jump, knowing they will come in, and cut you down.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“Is it?” Clever said. “Then why try and pull yourself up? I suspect that DC Stanton was not quite quick enough at getting the door open. He had to wait for the duty sergeant with him to produce a key. You might have died, but only by a mistake in your timing.”
“You are spouting nonsense,” Sir Simeon said. “You have my confession, haven’t you? You said it was concise, enough to hang me. Well get on with it, damn you!”
In answer to the man’s tirade, Richard Clever held his hand out to Dan Jones, who handed him the hand written notes. He leafed through them, then, quite deliberately, tore them in half. Jones and Stanton remained unmoved, but Sir Simeon Arthurson could hardly contain his shock at the action.
“Are you completely mad?”
“No, I’m not. Nor am I a complete fool, Sir Simeon. My colleagues and I are going to take a short break now, and when we return, Detective Sergeant Jones will take down another statement from you.”
“You can’t do this,” Sir Simeon snarled. “What kind of outfit are you running here? I have friends in high places!”
“Like Alan Herbert?”
“Yes, your Chief Constable will be interested to hear how irresponsibly run his CID is.”
“Mr. Herbert resigned yesterday,” Richard Clever told him.
“What?”
“It’s time to throw out all the bad apples, Sir Simeon. Alan Herbert was a good start. Then we have you, lording it over Castleburgh from your big house, and with your corruptly obtained knighthood. Do you want to make a telephone call at all?“
“No, I’m fine as I am.”
“To your solicitor, perhaps, or your wife. I imagine she’s frantic with worry.”
“I said ‘no’, didn’t I? I do not want my wife dragged into this. She is a sick woman. As for a solicitor… why would I need one. I’ve already confessed.”
“The game is up, Arthurson. I can prove you did not kill Charles Vancleur twenty three years ago, but I have a shrewd idea who did.”
“If you think it was Maisie, you are mistaken,” Sir Simeon told him. “Besides, you’ll never get her back.”
“Stop the lies,” Clever replied. “You have ten minutes to think things over. Start telling me the truth, and it may save you, at least, from the hangman’s noose!”
Chapter Twenty Seven
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could take his confession at face value, and get the bastard hanged,” Dan Jones said, as they grabbed a quick cup of coffee from the busy canteen.
“That was the mistake Alan Herbert mad all those years ago,” Richard Clever replied. “Vancleur’s murder was high profile, and he was being pressed for a quick solution. In his haste, he failed even to scratch the surface of the case, and an innocent man was hanged. No, I’m not interested in another quick fix. We destroy his confession, and drag the truth, kicking and screaming into the light of day, no matter what the consequences are.”
“You know most of it, Guv,” Stan Stanton said. “Can’t we run with that?”
“No, I need to see the defeat in his eyes,” the DCI told the you
ng constable. “I need to absolutely know I am right. Alan Herbert hanged the wrong person twenty three years ago, and I’ll not make the same mistake.”
“Have you had enough time to reflect on what you have told us, Sir Simeon?” The man sat, tight lipped, a look of utter contempt for the three policemen in his eyes. “Very well. Let me start, and you can jump in whenever you feel like it.”
“Suit yourself.”
“You slipped away from the Masonic ball when the dancing started, and made your way to the great house. You slipped inside and committed the murder, then slipped out, and returned to the dance, That is a lot of slipping, and all within thirty minutes. You caught a cab to the scene of crime. They might have been plentiful at a town centre rank, and would have you there inside ten minutes.
“Let us allow ten minutes for you to reach the front door from the side gate, seek out Charles Vancleur, and kill him. That gives us ten minutes to get back to the dance. Am I right, DS Jones?”
“That’s correct, Guv.”
“Excellent. So, Sir Simeon, there you are, coming out of the house, with ten minutes left to cover a little over two and a half miles,” Clever told him. “The house is in a very nice residential area, without a taxi rank in sight. How did you get back? You would need to run successive four minute miles.”
“The cab I caught there was still waiting.”
“You used the same cab to do a return trip to a murder?” the DCI almost laughed out loud. “We also checked with the Masonic Lodge’s caterers. Their present manager was a waiter back then. He recalled the event well. It was his first big function. A light buffet was provided at the end of the dancing, so the kitchens were full of people. You would have stood out like a sore thumb. Two other revellers, who we contacted yesterday, remember the night very well, because of the murder. They both, quite independently recall you making a huge fuss over the quality of the champagne, at exactly the time Charles Vancleur was being killed.”
