She smiled, and went on reading. Inspector Boring, who fancied he had seen Alastair’s coattails disappearing round the angle of the house, found that he had not deceived himself.
‘Mr Bing, I want a word with you,’ he said.
Alastair turned his head, halted, and allowed the other to approach.
‘Oh, it’s you, inspector! Well, what is it? Be brief. I’m in no mood to be questioned.’
‘Of course not, sir,’ said the inspector smoothly. ‘I only wondered whether you’d still got that key Mrs Bradley gave you.’
‘Key?’ repeated Alastair, frowning. ‘What key? Oh, you say the one Mrs Bradley gave me? No, I haven’t. The fact is, inspector’—he coughed and glanced swiftly behind him—‘the fact is, I’m afraid I’ve mislaid it.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity, sir,’ replied the inspector, ‘because it’s going to take some of my precious time finding it. I wonder if you’d let the maids have a look for it, sir? I rather want that key.’
‘They have looked! They have looked!’ snarled Alastair, his temper, as usual, overcoming, or perhaps expressing, his emotion.
‘Oh, well, I must have a look myself, then,’ Boring casually observed; and, without another look or word, he walked into the house by the servants’ door.
‘Oh, cook!’
The buxom genius who presided over the Chaynings’ kitchen threw her eyes heavenwards.
‘For the land’s sake, inspector, you ain’t going to march me off to gaol, are you?’ she cried. ‘I never did it. Honest I didn’t.’
‘Not yet,’ said the inspector, with his sardonic grin. ‘Not just yet. I really want to see the two housemaids. Look here, you girls,’ he went on, addressing the scared and semi-hysterical maids, ‘I want to know where the key of Miss Eleanor Bing’s bedroom door is.’
Mabel, the younger, turned on Florrie, the older.
‘Go on, Florrie! You can be put in prison if you don’t tell!’
Thus enlightened, Florrie, dabbing her eyes, informed the world that she hoped no harm would come to the master through her, as he was a good enough master when he was not in one of his tantrums, but, as she was a born woman, she had seen him throw something, which chinked when he dropped it on the stone slabs, into the round pond, and that was this morning, as ever was, directly after the inquest.
‘Does he know you saw him do it?’ Boring asked.
Mabel, in spite of her terror of the police, giggled hysterically, but, under Boring’s quelling eye, hiccoughed and again dissolved into tears.
‘Oh, no, sir!’ cried Florrie. ‘Why, I shouldn’t be alive to tell the tale if he knew I see him! Such a temper!’ Words failed to express her conception of Alastair Bing’s temper, and she concluded with: ‘He’s got a devil in him, I do believe, when he’s roused!’
A short time later Boring was regarding with interest a medium-sized key. Sacrificing his personal dignity, he had lain on his stomach and salvaged the key from the round pond, an ornamental pool some ten inches deep and nine feet in diameter, after fifteen minutes of blasphemous groping on the mud-covered bottom.
‘Now,’ said the inspector to himself, ‘does it fit, or doesn’t it? And why did Alastair Bing throw it away? And why did he throw it away in a place where he could get it again pretty easily if he wanted to? And I wonder what sort of terms he was on with his daughter.’
Meanwhile the unfortunate relations and guests of the late Eleanor Bing were paying the penalty of having notoriety, if not greatness, thrust upon them by the suddenness and the mysterious nature of her death. All, with the exception of Mrs Bradley, who looked more briskly bird-like than ever, were moody, ill-at-ease, worried, harassed, and bad-tempered. Even Carstairs’ sanguine temperament could barely cope with the inevitable nervous reaction following the events of the past few days. As for Alastair Bing, he could scarcely bring himself to say a civil word to anybody. The others, however, recognized in his savage gruffness an underlying sense of grief and shock, and bore with him, but relieved their feelings by quarrelling with one another.
‘I say,’ said Garde, rendered morosely furious both by the news he had to impart and by the fact that he and Dorothy had quarrelled and she had wept. Garde hated to see her in tears. In common with most men, he felt that a good cry was woman’s method of hitting below the belt.
‘I say, the beastly affair is in all the papers, of course, with Eleanor’s name in the headlines as large as life. And some brute has published a photograph. I chased two local reporters off the premises this afternoon. I bet they’ll be here in swarms tomorrow, and, if they come and pester Father, he’ll murder one of them, and that will tear it properly. Why on earth,’ went on Garde, bitterly—‘—why on earth we should have been plagued like this I can’t imagine. It’s not, dash it, as though we’d ever done anybody much harm. All we ever asked for was a bit of peace and quietness, and now—all this damned nonsense——!’
He bit his lip savagely, and stared moodily at the fireplace.
‘Well, we haven’t found the key yet that your father has mislaid,’ observed Mrs Bradley, by way of changing the subject. ‘It almost looks as though it must have been swept up and thrown away. If so, a careful search among the ashes might reveal something. They have not been removed this week yet.’
‘That will be a nice, choice sort of job,’ said Garde, recovering a little of his cheerfulness. ‘Are we all going to be taken to bits and disinfected afterwards? I vote we let the inspector look for it, and then——’
‘Be quiet, Garde,’ said Dorothy. ‘You are going to say something objectionable in a minute, and I hate you when you are vulgar.’
‘Cheer up,’ growled Garde, moodily kicking the hearthrug. ‘And go to bed! You look yellow and bilious.’
‘Very well,’ replied Dorothy, ominously taking him at his word and going towards the door. ‘Good night.’
Garde lit his pipe and puffed away fiercely.
The next morning the entire household was kept busy trying to get rid of hordes of journalists and reporters who wanted first-hand stories of the crime, photographs of the house, private and uninterrupted views of the bathroom, the life story of each member of the family, especially of Eleanor, and biographies of the deceased Mountjoy, and of Mrs Bradley.
‘Look here,’ said Garde, interviewing about the fiftieth earnest young man who had called that morning. ‘Will you jolly well hop it, and take all your damned friends and relations with you?’
The reporter, a large, untidy young man from whom perspiration was pouring in streams, for he had sprinted the half mile or so from the station in a vain attempt to be the first upon the scene of operations, mopped his face and glared reproachfully at Garde.
‘It is for your own sake I’m talking,’ the son of the house went on. ‘If my father catches sight of any more of you fellows, he has threatened to shoot. And we’re fed up with corpses in this establishment. So hop off, there’s a good chap. Cultivate a little decent feeling!’
‘But look here, Mr Bing,’ began the reporter, drawing a large, elastic-bound note-book from his pocket.
‘Nothing doing,’ said Garde firmly. ‘You make your get-away while the going’s good, because it jolly well won’t be in another minute.’
‘But look here, Mr Bing,’ began the reporter again, opening his book and licking his pencil in a business-like manner.
Garde thrust his face near to that of the newspaper man. They were much of a height, and their eyes were on a level.
‘Will you hop it, or shall I ruin your appearance for good and all?’ he said menacingly.
‘Gently does it,’ replied the reporter, grinning and withdrawing from the argument. ‘I’m to be married on Sunday, and I can’t go into the bonds of matrimony with a black eye.’
‘Married? God help you,’ said Garde piously, for he was still sore from his overnight quarrel with Dorothy.
He shook the large, moist hand of the reporter and patted him on the shoulder with melancholy sympathy.
>
‘Our prayers go with you, my poor brother,’ he said, and walked with his undesired visitor to the gate to make sure he took his departure.
The methods of the servants were different, but seemed equally effective. The cook openly menaced all strangers with the rolling-pin. Mander elevated his nose and informed all and sundry that they had been ‘misled as to the address of the ’ouse.’ Chaynings, near Birmingham, was what they wanted. He then wished them an aloof but civil good-day.
The young reporter whom Garde had conducted to the gate met a comrade at the station.
‘Too late, my lad,’ he informed the new arrival. ‘Full house already. No seats, and money being turned away at the doors. Standing not allowed. And, if you ask me, I should say every one of them is a killer, servants and all. You should have seen the matey way I was bundled out!’
‘You don’t mean it?’ said the other, whose horn-rimmed glasses gleamed with the earnest light of a tiger’s eyes seeking prey. ‘Turfed you out? You?’
‘Me,’ replied the other. ‘And, what’s more, I’m going to stay put. Little Eddie isn’t looking for lead, oak, or elm yet awhile. You take my advice and keep away from Chaynings. It isn’t a healthy neighbourhood for quiet young fellers like you and me. I’m going into that pub over the road what has got a real sanded bar-parlour, and I’m going to sit me down and write up details of the absolutely exclusive interview I’ve just obtained with Mr Garde Bing. You’d better do the same. Got anything good for the three-thirty? Spill it, then, and I’ll give you a description of the bloke.’
Chapter Eighteen
An Arrest
INSPECTOR BORING, BICYCLING over to interview the Chief Constable, encountered that gentleman in his car along the road, for the Chief Constable was on his way to Chaynings.
‘Ah, Boring,’ said Sir Joseph, stopping the car, ‘give your bicycle into Thompson’s charge, and take his place at the wheel. I want to see you.’
The chauffeur vacated the driving seat, and Boring climbed into the car.
‘I was coming over to hear the adjourned inquest,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘Has any other evidence cropped up, do you know?’
‘Well, they’ve received the analyst’s report on the residue in the wineglass,’ replied Boring, ‘but it is in Mrs Bradley’s favour. The glass had contained an ordinary bromide sleeping-draught, just as she said.’
‘Oh, really!’ said Sir Joseph. ‘What did you think it had contained?’
‘When I heard that the coffee cup had been washed up and the wineglass left to be discovered by the police, I knew what to expect, sir, and so I’m not disappointed,’ replied Boring morosely. ‘If only we could have got on to that dirty cup, sir!’
‘Oh, come,’ chuckled Sir Joseph, ‘you mustn’t assume that an analysis of the residue in that coffee cup would have revealed traces of the poison, Boring. What happened about the key of the bedroom door, by the way?’
‘Oh, that’s got me properly puzzled, sir. You see, Mr Bing—the old gentleman, not the young one—threw it away.’
‘Threw it away?’ Sir Joseph’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment. ‘That looks rather bad, Boring. Let me take the wheel a minute, while you tell me about it.’
‘Well, sir, that’s what I thought. It did look bad, I said to myself. But I discovered the key, sir, through one of the maids being busybody enough to spot her employer throwing it into that little ornamental pond they’ve got on the right front of the house. I tried it in the lock of deceased’s bedroom door directly I’d fished it out, dried, and cleaned it, and, sir, it would not fit!’
‘Aha!’ said the Chief Constable. ‘Queer thing, that. Why did he throw it away, I wonder.’
‘Well, I nabbed him alone, and taxed him with throwing it away, sir, without telling him I’d found it.’
The Chief Constable nodded.
‘Wanted to see whether he knew it was the wrong key, I suppose?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. Well, he became confused and annoyed, and in the end confessed that he’d thrown it away in a fit of panic after hearing the evidence at the inquest. Apparently it never occurred to the poor simp that his daughter might have been given the poison before Mrs Bradley locked the door and handed him the key. I believe him, too, sir. He’s just the sort of impulsive old fool to go and do a silly thing like that; always flying off the handle about something, as you know.’
‘That brings us back to Mrs Bradley,’ said Sir Joseph thoughtfully. ‘I’ll pull up on that grass patch a minute, and we’ll have a sandwich and a smoke, and work this out.’
He leaned back in his comfortably padded seat, and commenced to expound his ideas.
‘First of all, there’s the question of motive. Of course, assuming—as, between ourselves, we may, although no word of our suspicion must leak out until the proper time—assuming that Mrs Bradley is the guilty person, I can guess the motive. But it’s a motive that won’t do to offer a jury, Boring. The British public doesn’t believe in disinterested actions, and it is just as well it should be so. An absolutely disinterested action with an altruistic motive is a very unusual thing. In this case I think the criminal was actuated by two motives. On the one hand, she wished to save the lives of we cannot say exactly how many women and girls, and she also wanted to save Eleanor Bing from being hanged—or confined in Broadmoor.’
‘Then you think that yarn of theirs about Miss Bing and the carving-knife was true?’ asked Boring incredulously. ‘It sounded more like the meaty bit out of a shilling shocker to me, sir.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m sure it is true,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘You see, Boring, the two people who told us this tale are neither of them of the type which cares about the shilling shocker or the more lurid Sunday papers. Left to himself, either of them would have invented a far less highly exciting tale—and I should not have believed it!’
‘Then you believe that the Guy Fawkes business was another attempt at murder? Miss Clark that time—that is, Mrs Garde Bing?’ asked Boring.
‘Don’t you?’ asked Sir Joseph. ‘And, what’s more, I know why Eleanor screamed. She saw somebody watching her that night.’
‘Mrs Bradley?’ said Boring. ‘If so, sir, I suppose it was Mrs Bradley who tried to drown her in the bath next morning, but it didn’t come off. Now she’s had another go, and it has come off.’
‘Too fast, Boring. Much too fast,’ laughed the Chief Constable. ‘Have you formed such a poor estimate of Mrs Bradley’s character and capabilities that you realiy imagine she would bungle a job like that, and let the victim recover? If Mrs Bradley did it, why didn’t Miss Bing say so when she recovered?”
‘Fear?’ suggested the inspector.
‘Maybe. Personally, I’m more inclined to think Eleanor Bing was shielding someone she was fond of. Don’t say a name, Boring,’ he concluded, laughing, ‘or I shall have to institute an official inquiry, and I’m not a bit keen, really, on charging a perfectly harmless person with attempted manslaughter. So let us allow sleeping dogs the repose they have earned, and get back to the matter in hand.’
‘Very good, sir,’ replied Boring, well fortified by the Chief Constable’s sandwiches, flask, and tobacco. ‘What do you make, sir, of the fact that the key was a dud?’
‘Well, Mrs Bradley had to get back into Eleanor Bing’s bedroom if she was to carry out her plan to dispose of the body in the bath,’ said Sir Joseph thoughtfully, ‘and also——’ He broke off, and, after screwing up his eyes a moment, went on: ‘You really ought to get hold of that girl, Mabel, who collected the coffee cup, and pump her a bit more. Didn’t she say at the inquest that she heard Eleanor Bing’s voice answering her from within when she knocked on the bedroom door to rouse her in the morning?’
‘Yes, sir. She did say that, but I’ve met that type of girl before. They say the first thing that comes into their heads without ever stopping to think. If Mabel Cobb had thought before she spoke, she’d have known she was thinking of the previous day, not the morning of the mur
der.’
‘Why?’ asked Sir Joseph, smiling.
‘Well, sir, to begin with, Eleanor Bing wasn’t in the bedroom. She was in the bath. Secondly, wherever she was, she was dead. The medical evidence established that, sir. You see, they found her less than an hour after the maid’s usual time for calling her in the morning, and, although doctors are always a bit shy nowadays of tying themselves down when it’s a case of the time death took place, yet none of them thought she’d been dead for as short a time as that. So I say the maid couldn’t have heard her voice from the bedroom, sir, when she called her.’
‘Yes, Boring, that’s exactly what I’m trying to get at,’ said Sir Joseph patiently. ‘Mabel Cobb couldn’t have heard Eleanor’s voice, because Eleanor was dead. Therefore, whose voice did she hear? I’ll tell you. She heard the voice of the murderer.’
‘But, look here, sir——’ Boring began, feeling utterly unconvinced by the Chief Constable’s hypothesis.
‘Just a minute. I’ll give you the gist of what I gleaned from my interview with Miss Pamela Storbin, and then you’ll see my point, perhaps. Briefly I elicited the following facts: First, that Mrs Bradley took Pamela Storbin to sleep in her room. She made an excuse which must have been a lie, because Pamela had to promise not to mention the change of room to Eleanor. Well, we know all about the reasons for the change. Pamela had to be protected from Eleanor.
‘Secondly, I learned that Mrs Bradley did not retire to bed that night, but that, on confused sounds being heard in another part of the house not far removed from her own bedroom, Mrs Bradley slipped out of the room and was absent some minutes. The sounds woke Pamela, apparently, and, being frightened, she did not fall asleep again for about an hour and a half.
‘Thirdly, I obtained the information that Mrs Bradley re-entered her bedroom after a few minutes’ absence, sat down in the same chair she had occupied before and picked up a book, but that about five minutes later, further noise and a confused shouting caused her to depart once more. Very shortly afterwards she re-entered the bedroom again, picked up her thermos flask, and departed. She did not return to the room any more that night, neither was she there when Pamela awoke in the morning.’
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