“Dr. Silverdale came to me one morning with some bits of stuff in his hand—amber-looking, same as this holder. He told me he’d been manufacturing some new stuff—a condensate like Bakelite. He wanted me to see if it could be filed and turned and so on. I remember his showing me the fly, there. He’d put it into the stuff as a joke—a fly to prove that the thing was genuine amber, and take people in when he showed the stuff to them. The condensate stuff was in sticks, two of them, about six inches long by an inch thick, so he suggested that I’d better make two cigarette-holders and see if the thing would stand being worked on a lathe without splitting or cracking. So I made the two holders for him. I remember the trouble I had to steer clear of the fly while I was shaping the thing.”
“And what happened to the holders after that?”
“Dr. Silverdale used the one with no fly in it for a bit and kept the other one for show. Then he lost the plain one—he’s always leaving his holders about the place on the benches—and he took to using the one with the fly in it. He’s been smoking with it for a month or more, now. I remember just last week asking him whether it was wearing well, when he came into the workshop with it in his mouth.”
“Have another good look at it,” Flamborough suggested. “I want to be sure there’s no mistake.”
Gilling examined the holder once more.
“That’s the one I made, sir. I could swear to it.”
He hesitated a moment as if wishing to ask a question; but Flamborough, having got his information, dismissed the mechanic without more ado. When the man had gone, he turned back to Markfield.
“I don’t quite like your way of doing things, Dr. Markfield. You might have given us the information at once without all this shuffling, for I could see at a glance you had recognised this cigarette-holder. If you’re trying to shield your colleague from a reasonable investigation, I’ll take the liberty of reminding you that one can become an accessory after the fact as well as before it.”
Markfield’s face grew stormy as he listened to the Inspector’s warning.
“I’d have a look at the law on slander, if I were you, Inspector, before you start flinging accusations about. If you remember the facts, it’ll help. I’ve only seen this holder at a distance when Dr. Silverdale was using it. I’ve never had a good look at it until you produced it. Naturally, although I had very little doubt about whose it was, still I wasn’t going to assert that it was Silverdale’s. But I got you a man who could identify it properly. What more do you want?”
Flamborough’s face showed that he found this defence quite unsatisfactory. Markfield’s obvious fencing with him at the start had left its impression on his mind.
“Well, when you do this analysis for us, remember that you’ll have to testify about it in the witness-box,” he said, bluntly. “We can’t have any qualifications and fine distinctions then, you know.”
“I’ll be quite prepared to stand over any results I get,” Markfield asserted with equal bluntness. “But I don’t guarantee to find a poison if it isn’t there, of course.”
“There is something there, according to the doctor,” Flamborough declared. “Now I think I’d like to see Dr. Silverdale, if you can tell us where to find him.”
Markfield’s temper was evidently still ruffled, and he was obviously glad to be rid of the Inspector. He conducted them along a passage, pointed out a door, and then took leave of them in the curtest fashion.
They entered the room which had been shown to them; and while Flamborough was explaining who they were, Sir Clinton had leisure to examine Silverdale. He saw an alert, athletic man with a friendly manner, who looked rather younger than his thirty-five years. Whatever Silverdale’s domestic troubles might have been, he showed few outward signs of them. When they disturbed him, he had been sitting before a delicate balance; and as he rose, he slid the glass front down in order to protect the instrument. Apart from his surroundings, it would have been difficult to determine his profession; for he had an open-air skin which certainly did not suggest the laboratory. He carried himself well, and only a yellow stain of picric acid on the right-hand side of his old tweed laboratory jacket detracted from his spruceness and betrayed the chemist.
“I’ve been expecting you, Inspector Flamborough,” he said, as soon as he realised who his visitors were. “This has been a dreadful business last night. It was a bolt from the blue to me when I got home this morning.”
He paused, and looked inquiringly at the Inspector.
“Have you any notion why that unfortunate maid of mine was murdered? It’s a complete mystery to me. A dreadful business.”
Flamborough exchanged a glance with the Chief Constable. As Silverdale had ignored his wife’s death, it seemed to the Inspector that the news of it might be broken to him later, when the other case had been dealt with. Silverdale, of course, could hardly have picked up any hint about the affairs at the bungalow, since a knowledge of them was still confined to the police and Dr. Ringwood.
“We’re rather at a loss at present,” Flamborough admitted frankly. “As things stand, it looks rather like a case of a detected burglar who killed the woman when she disturbed him at his work. Had you any stock of valuables on your premises which might have attracted gentry of that sort?”
Silverdale shook his head.
“My wife had a certain amount of jewellery, but I don’t think any burglar would have found it worth while to go the length of murder for the sake of it.”
“Where did Mrs. Silverdale keep her jewellery?”
“I rather think it’s kept in one of the drawers of an old chest-of-drawers in her room—the drawer that the man broke into. But she may have other things elsewhere. We had different rooms, you know; and I never troubled to find out where she put things in her own room.”
“I suppose you couldn’t give us a list of your wife’s jewellery?”
“No, I really don’t know what she has. I could tell you one or two things, of course; but I couldn’t guarantee to remember them all.”
Flamborough switched off to a fresh line.
“This maid of yours was reliable? I mean, she couldn’t have been a confederate of the burglar by any chance?”
Silverdale shook his head.
“Quite out of the question, I should say. That maid had been with us ever since we were married; and before that she’d been in service with an aunt of mine who died. She’d always had a good character, and she was old enough not to do anything silly.”
“An old family retainer? I see, sir. And you never had any friction with her, I suppose?”
“Certainly not.”
Flamborough returned to his earlier line of inquiry.
“You can’t think of anything else a burglar might have had his eye on in your house, sir? Apart from the jewellery, I mean.”
Silverdale seemed taken aback by the question.
“I don’t quite understand, I’m afraid. What could a burglar want except jewellery or plate? And he might take all the plate I keep away with him and not be much the richer.”
Flamborough seemed unable to think of any fresh question to put on that particular subject. His face took on a new expression.
“I’m afraid we’ve got worse news for you, sir,” he began, and in a few sentences he put Silverdale in possession of the barest outline of the bungalow tragedy. Sir Clinton, watching the manner in which the bereaved husband received the news, had to confess to himself that he could make nothing of what he saw. Silverdale’s manner and words were just what might have been expected in the circumstances.
Flamborough allowed a decent interval to elapse before he came directly to business once more.
“Now, Dr. Silverdale, I’m sorry I’ve got to ask some awkward questions; but I’m sure you’ll give us your best help in clearing up this affair. I hate to worry you—I’m sure you understand that—but it’s essential that we should get certain information at the earliest possible moment. That’s my excuse.”
Before Silv
erdale could reply, the door of the laboratory opened, and a slim, graceful girl came into the room. At the sight of the two strangers, she halted shyly. Sir Clinton caught a gleam in Silverdale’s expression as he turned towards the girl: a touch of something difficult to define.
“Just a moment, Miss Deepcar, please. I’m engaged just now.”
“I only came to tell you that I’d taken that mixed melting-point. It’s hyoscine picrate, as you thought it was.”
“Thanks,” Silverdale returned. “I’ll come round to your room in a few minutes. Please wait for me.”
Something in the brief exchange of information seemed to have attracted Sir Clinton’s attention. He glanced at the girl as she turned to leave the room; then he appeared to re-concentrate his mind upon Flamborough’s questions.
“Now, Dr. Silverdale,” Flamborough went on, “this is a very nasty business, and I don’t mind admitting that we’re in the dark just now. Can you think of anything which might connect the deaths of the maid and Mrs. Silverdale?”
Silverdale stared at the floor for a time, as though turning possibilities over in his mind.
“I can’t imagine how there could be any connection whatever,” he said at last.
Flamborough decided to approach the most awkward part of his subject. It was impossible to tell from his manner what was coming next, but it was clear that he had something important to ask.
“Now, Dr. Silverdale, I want to be as tactful as I can; but if I go over the score, I hope you’ll take the will for the deed.”
“Oh, you can be as blunt as you like,” Silverdale retorted, with the first signs of impatience which he had shown. “Ask what you choose.”
“Thanks,” the Inspector answered with apparent relief. “Then I’ll come straight to the point. What precisely were the relations existing between Mrs. Silverdale and young Hassendean?”
Silverdale’s face paled slightly and his lips tightened as this blunt response to his offer fell on his ears. He seemed to consider his reply carefully.
“I suppose you mean: ‘Was she unfaithful to me with young Hassendean?’ Then my answer would be: ‘So far as my information goes, no.’ She flirted with the young cub certainly; and they behaved, to my mind, very injudiciously; but to the best of my knowledge it went no further than that. I’d have brought them up with a round turn if they’d given me cause.”
“That’s your candid opinion?” the Inspector demanded. “You’re keeping back nothing?”
“Why, man, I’d have given . . .” Silverdale broke out. Then he stopped short in mid-sentence. “It’s my candid opinion, as you put it,” he ended tamely.
Flamborough, it seemed, had extracted the information he wanted. He left the subject and took up a fresh one.
“Do you recall anything important which happened in the year 1925?”
“Yes, I left London and took up my post here.”
“You were married in 1923, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Had your wife any relations in this country? She was French, wasn’t she?”
“She had a brother, Octave Renard, who was in business in London. Still is, as a matter of fact. An old aunt is the only other relation I know of.”
“Before you left London, had you any difficulties with Mrs. Silverdale—I mean anything like young Hassendean?”
“Nothing that came to my notice,” Silverdale answered, after consulting his memory.
“Can you recall any friend of yours or of hers who had the initial B? Either in the Christian name or the surname, I mean. It might be either a man or a woman.”
This question evidently surprised Silverdale.
“The initial B?” he repeated. “No. I can’t recall anyone to fit that.”
He seemed to be running over a list of people in his mind, but at the end of half-a-minute he shook his head decidedly.
“No. I can’t think of anyone with that initial.”
Flamborough’s face betrayed his dissatisfaction. He had evidently built some hopes on getting the information.
“Now, another point, Dr. Silverdale. Have you any reason to suppose that Mrs. Silverdale was addicted to drugs?”
This time, Silverdale’s surprise at the question was quite unfeigned:
“Drugs? Of course not! Unless you count cocktails as drugs. What on earth put that into your mind?”
The Inspector rather shamefacedly abandoned this line of inquiry, and turned to something else.
“I’d like to hear anything you can tell me about young Hassendean, sir. He worked here in the Institute, didn’t he?”
“That depends a good deal on what precise meaning you attach to the word ‘work,’ Inspector. He certainly loafed about the premises, but he did as little as he could.”
“Well,” said Flamborough, impatiently, “can you tell me anything else about him? Everyone I’ve interviewed yet has told me he was idle. I’d rather have something more to the point.”
Silverdale thought for a moment or two.
“He was a nuisance from the start. When he came here first—some three years ago—he spent his time hanging round one of the girl-assistants: Miss Hailsham. He interfered with her work, and I had to speak to him about it several times. Then she got engaged to him. Some time after, my wife took him up, and he broke off his engagement to Miss Hailsham—possibly to please my wife. I remember it made things rather unpleasant here when the engagement was broken, because Miss Hailsham took it rather badly. She’d every reason to do so, though she wasn’t losing much, it seemed to me.”
Inspector Flamborough pricked up his ears at this information.
“Is this Miss Hailsham still an assistant here?” he asked.
“Yes,” Silverdale explained. “She’s one of my private assistants. I have several girls who do routine work; but Miss Hailsham and Miss Deepcar—the girl who came in here a moment ago—are a shade better than the usual run.”
“Could you make an excuse to let me have a look at Miss Hailsham?” Flamborough inquired.
“She’s not here to-day,” Silverdale answered. “Off with a sore throat, or something of that sort. But if you’ll come back another time, I can take you to her room if you wish. You can pose as a visitor whom I’m showing round, if you don’t want to appear officially.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll drop in some other day. Now, another point, if you don’t mind. Mrs. Silverdale wore a signet ring. Can you tell me anything about it? Did she get it from you or did she buy it herself?”
“I didn’t make her a present of it,” Silverdale answered promptly. “I believe she got it made by some jeweller or other. I remember a few years ago she took it into her head to seal all her letters—some passing fad in the crowd she used to associate with, I suppose. But once she started doing it, she kept it up. I think she must have got the signet ring made for that purpose.”
Inspector Flamborough nodded thoughtfully as though he attached some importance to this information. Then, in a casual tone he inquired:
“You weren’t at home last night, of course? Where were you?”
“I was—”
Suddenly a thought seemed to cross Silverdale’s mind and he halted abruptly in his sentence. Then he amended his statement most obviously.
“I spent the night working here.”
Inspector Flamborough noted the words in his pocket-book with marked deliberation. Then he looked round the room and seemed dissatisfied with something. As though to give himself time to think before asking another question, he moved over to the window and gazed down thoughtfully into the main thoroughfare below. Whatever his reflections may have been, the result of them was singularly feeble. He turned back to Silverdale and put a final question:
“I suppose you can’t think of any other point that might help us to throw light on this business, sir?”
Silverdale shook his head decidedly.
“I’m quite in the dark about it all.”
The Inspector looked him up and down del
iberately for a moment.
“Well, in that case, sir, I don’t think we need take up any more of your time. I’ll remove the police from your house. It’s been disinfected already by the sanitary people, so you can go back there any time you choose, now. Thanks for the help you’ve given us.”
Flamborough did not speak to Sir Clinton until they had put the length of a corridor between themselves and Silverdale’s laboratory.
“I think I’ll drop in and see Dr. Markfield again, sir,” he explained. “I’m not at all satisfied about some things.”
“Do so, Inspector. I quite agree with you!”
“I’ll make an excuse about the arrangements for this analysis. Not that I’ll lay much stress on Markfield’s results when we get them, sir. He’s made a bad impression on me over that evidence he gave us before. People shouldn’t equivocate in a murder case merely to shield their friends. We’ve troubles enough without that sort of thing.”
“Well, handle him tactfully, Inspector, or he may turn stubborn. If he takes refuge in ‘I don’t remember,’ or anything of that sort, you’ll not get much out of him.” Sir Clinton observed.
“I shan’t frighten him,” Flamborough assured him, as they approached Markfield’s room.
As they entered, Markfield looked up in surprise at seeing them once more.
“It’s just occurred to me that I forgot to make arrangements about handing that stuff over to you for analysis,” Flamborough said, as he went forward. “It’ll be in sealed jars, of course; and I’d prefer to hand it over to you personally. I suppose I could always get hold of you either here or at your house?”
“You’d better come here. My housekeeper’s away just now nursing some relation who’s down with ’flu, and my house is empty except when I happen to be at home myself. You’ll find me here between nine in the morning and six at night—except for lunch-time, of course. I generally clear out of here at six and dine down town.”
“I suppose you have a long enough day of it,” the Inspector said in a casual tone. “You don’t come back here and work in the evening?”
“Sometimes, if there’s something interesting that brings me back. But I haven’t done that for weeks past.”
The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 10
