“Nobody’s going to quarrel with that, Inspector.”
“Very good, sir,” Flamborough continued. “Now, with that factor at the back of one’s mind, one might review these six remaining cases in the light of what we do know.”
“Go ahead,” Sir Clinton urged him, covertly amused to find the Inspector so completely converted to the method which at first he had decried.
“Case A, then,” Flamborough began. “A double suicide. Now I don’t cotton much to that notion, for this reason. If it was suicide, then one or other of them must have had possession of hyoscine in quantity sufficient to kill both of them. So I judge from the quantity found in her body. Now no hyoscine was in young Hassendean’s system. His eyes were quite normal and there was no trace of the stuff in the stomach, as they found when they sent to your London friend on the question. From what I’ve seen of young Hassendean’s diary, and from what we’ve picked up about him from various sources, he wasn’t the sort of person to go in for needless pain. If he’d shot himself at all, it would have been in the head. And if he’d had hyoscine at hand, he wouldn’t have shot himself at all. He’d have swallowed a dose of the poison instead, and gone out painlessly.”
“Correct inference, I believe,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “I don’t say it’s certain, of course.”
“Well, then, what holds in Case A, ought to hold also in the other two cases—C and E—where it’s also a question of young Hassendean’s suicide. So one can score them off as well.”
“Not so fast,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “I don’t say you’re wrong; but your assumption doesn’t cover the cases. In Case A you assumed that Mrs. Silverdale committed suicide—ergo, she had hyoscine in her possession. But in Case C, the assumption is that she died by accidental poisoning; and before you can eliminate suicide on young Hassendean’s part, you’ve got to prove that he had the hyoscine in his possession. I’m not saying that he hadn’t. I’m merely keeping you strictly to your logic.”
Flamborough considered this for a few moments.
“Strictly speaking, I suppose you’re right, sir. And in Case E, I’d have to prove that he poisoned her wilfully, in order to cover the case of his having hyoscine in his possession. H’m!”
After a pause, he took up the table afresh.
“Let’s go back to Case B, then: a double murder. That brings in this third party—the person who did for the maid at Heatherfield, we’ll say; and the fellow who broke the window. There were signs of a struggle in that room at the bungalow, you remember. Now it seems to me that Case B piles things on too thick, if you understand what I mean. It means that Mrs. Silverdale was murdered by poison and that young Hassendean was shot to death. Why the two methods when plain shooting would have been good enough in both cases? Take the obvious case—it’s been at the back of my mind, and I’m sure it’s been at the back of yours too, that Silverdale surprised the two of them at the bungalow and killed them both. Where does the poison come in? To my mind we ought to put a pencil through Case B. It’s most improbable.”
Rather to his relief, Sir Clinton made no objection. The Inspector drew his pencil through the first two lines of the table, then let it hover over the last line.
“What about Case F, sir? She suicided and he was murdered. If she suicided, it was a premeditated affair—otherwise they wouldn’t have had the hyoscine at hand. But if it was one of these lovers’ suicide-pacts, they’d have had a dose ready for him as well—and there wasn’t a trace of the stuff spilt on the floor or anywhere about the bungalow. Score out Case F, sir?”
“I’ve no objections to your putting your pencil through it if you like, Inspector, though my reasons are rather different from the ones you give.”
Flamborough looked up suspiciously, but gathered from Sir Clinton’s face that there was nothing further to be expected.
“Well, at least that’s narrowed down the possibilities a bit,” he said with relief. “You started out with nine possible solutions to the affair—covering every conceivable combination. Now we’re down to three.”
He picked up his paper and read out the residual scheme, putting fresh identifying letters to the three cases:
HASSENDEAN
MRS. SILVERDALE
X—Suicide......................
Accident
Y—Murder.....................
Accident
Z—Suicide......................
Murder
“You agree to that, sir?” Flamborough demanded.
“Oh, yes!” Sir Clinton admitted, in a careless tone. “I think the truth probably lies somewhere among those three solutions. The bother will be to prove it.”
At this moment a constable entered the room, bringing some letters and a newspaper in a postal wrapper.
“Come by the next post, as I expected,” the Chief Constable remarked, picking up the packet and removing the wrapper with care. “The usual method of addressing, you see: letters cut from telegraph forms and gummed on to the official stamped wrapper. Well, let’s have a look at the news.”
He unfolded the sheet and glanced over the advertisement pages in search of a marked paragraph.
“Ingenious devil, Inspector,” he went on. “The other advertisement was in the Courier, this is a copy of to-day’s Gazette. That makes sure that no one reading down a column of advertisements would be struck by a resemblance and start comparisons. I begin to like Mr. Justice. He’s thorough, anyhow. . . . Ah, here we are! Marked like the other one. Listen, Inspector:
“CLINTON: Take the letters in the following order.
55. 16. 30. 17. 1. 9. 2. 4. 5. 10. 38. 39. 43. 31. 18. 56. 32. 40. 6. 21. 26. 11. 3. 44. 45. 19. 12. 7. 36. 33. 15. 46. 47. 20. 34. 37. 27. 48. 35. 28. 22. 29. 41. 49. 23. 50. 53. 51. 13. 25. 54. 42. 52. 24. 8. 14.
Now that was why he split up his letters into groups of five in the first advertisement—to make it easy for us to count. I really like this fellow more and more. A most thoughtful cove.”
He placed the two advertisements side by side on the table.
“Just run over this with me, Inspector. Call the first A number 1, the second A number 2, and so on. There are fifty-six letters in all, so number 55 is the W. Number 16 is the first letter in the fourth quintette—H. Number 30 is the last letter in the sixth quintette—O. So that spells WHO. Just go through the lot and check them please.”
Flamborough ploughed through the whole series and ended with the same solution as Sir Clinton had obtained earlier in the morning: “WHO HAD ACCESS TO HYOSCINE AT THE CROFT-THORNTON INSTITUTE?”
“Well, it’s pleasant to hit the mark,” the Chief Constable confessed. “By the way, you had better send someone down to the Courier and Gazette Offices to pick up the originals of these advertisements. But I’m sure it’ll be just the same old telegram stunt; and the address which has to be given as a guarantee of good faith will be a fake one.”
Chapter Twelve
THE SILVERDALE WILLS
“This is Mr. Renard, sir.”
Flamborough held open the door of Sir Clinton’s office and ushered in the little Frenchman. The Chief Constable glanced up at the interruptors.
“Mrs. Silverdale’s brother, isn’t it?” he asked courteously.
Renard nodded vigorously, and turned toward the Inspector, as though leaving explanations to him. Flamborough threw himself into the breach:
“It appears, sir, that Mr. Renard isn’t entirely satisfied with the state of things he’s unearthed in the matter of his sister’s will. It’s taken him by surprise; and he came to see what I thought about it. He’d prefer to lay the point before you, so I’ve brought him along. It seems just as well that you should hear it at first-hand, for it looks as though it might be important.”
Sir Clinton closed his fountain pen and invited Renard to take a seat.
“I’m at your disposal, Mr. Renard,” he said briskly. “Let’s hear the whole story, if you please, whatever it is. Inspector Flamborough will make notes, if you don’t m
ind.”
Renard took the chair which Sir Clinton indicated.
“I shall be concise,” he assured the Chief Constable. “It is not a very complicated affair, but I should like to have it thrashed out, as you English say.”
He settled himself at ease and then plunged into his tale.
“My sister, Yvonne Renard, as you know, married Mr. Silverdale in 1923. I was not altogether pleased with the alliance, not quite satisfied, you understand? Oh, there was nothing against Mr. Silverdale! But I knew my sister, and Silverdale was not the right man for her: he was too serious, too intent on his profession. He had not the natural gaiety which was needed in a husband for Yvonne. Already I was in doubt, at the very moment of the marriage. There were incompatibilities, you understand. . . . ?”
Sir Clinton’s gesture assured him that he had made himself sufficiently clear.
“I have nothing to say against my brother-in-law, you follow me?” Renard went on. “It was a case of ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure,’ as your English proverb says. They were unsuited to each other, but that was no fault of theirs. When they discovered each other—their real selves—it is clear that they decided to make the best of it. I had nothing to say. I was sorry that my sister had not found a husband more suited to her temperament; but I am not one who would make trouble by sympathising too much.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Renard,” Sir Clinton intervened, with the obvious intention of cutting short this elaborate exposition of the self-evident.
“Now I come to the important point,” Renard went on. “At the time of the marriage, or shortly afterwards—I do not know your English law about testaments very well—my brother-in-law transferred part of his property in stocks and shares to my sister. It was some question of Death Duties, I was told. If he died first, then she would have had to pay on his whole estate; but by transferring some of his property to her, this could be avoided. In case of his death, she would have to pay only on what he had retained in his own name. It is, I understand, a usual precaution in the circumstances.”
“It’s often done,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “By the way, Mr. Renard, can you give me some idea of how much he transferred to her on their marriage?”
“I cannot give you the precise figures,” Renard explained. “I have seen the lawyer’s accounts, of course; but they were involved, and I have no good memory for figures. It was only a few hundred pounds—a mere drop in the bucket, as you would say in English. My brother-in-law is not a rich man, not by any means. But the sum itself is of little importance. It is the sequel which is of more interest, as you shall see.”
He leaned forward in his chair as though to fix Sir Clinton’s attention.
“When my brother-in-law transferred this little property to my sister, they each made their testament. That, I believe, was on the advice of a lawyer. By his will, my brother-in-law left all his property to my sister. He had no relations, so far as I have learned; and that seemed very fair. The second will, my sister’s, was in identical terms, so far as the principal clauses went. All her property in stocks, shares, and money, went to my brother-in-law. There was a little provision at the end which left to me a few small souvenirs, things of sentimental value only. It seemed very fair in the circumstances. I suggest nothing wrong. How could there be anything wrong?”
“It seems a normal precaution in the circumstances,” Sir Clinton assured him. “Naturally, if she died first, he would expect to get his own property back again—less the Death Duties, of course.”
“It was a very small affair,” Renard emphasised. “If I had been consulted, I should certainly have advised it. But I was not consulted. It was no business of mine, except that I was made a trustee. I am not one who mixes himself up with affairs which do not concern him.”
“Where is this leading to, Mr. Renard?” Sir Clinton asked patiently. “I don’t see your difficulty as yet, I must confess.”
“There is no difficulty. It is merely that I wish to lay some further information before you. Now, I proceed. My aunt had been ill for a long time. A disease of the heart, it was: angina pectoris. She was bound to die in a spasm, at a moment’s notice. One expected it, you understand? And less than three weeks ago, she had the spasm which we had so long anticipated, and she died.”
Sir Clinton’s face expressed his sympathy, but he made no attempt to interrupt.
“As I told Inspector Flamborough when I saw him last,” Renard continued, “the figure of her fortune came as a surprise to me. I had no idea she was so rich. She lived very simply, very parsimoniously, even. I had always thought of her as hard-up, you understand? Figure to yourself my astonishment when I learned that she had accumulated over £12,000! That is a great sum. Many people would do almost anything to acquire £12,000.”
He paused for a moment as though in rapt contemplation of the figures.
“Her testament was very simple,” he proceeded. “My sister Yvonne was her favourite. My aunt had always put her in front of me. I make no complaint, you understand? Someone must be preferred. I had a little bequest under my aunt’s testament; but Yvonne secured almost the whole of my aunt’s fortune. That was how things stood a fortnight ago.”
He hitched himself in his chair as though preparing for a revelation.
“My sister and I were the trustees under my aunt’s testament. The lawyer who had charge of the will communicated with me and forwarded a copy of the document. These legal documents are not easy to understand. But I soon saw that my sister had acquired the whole of my aunt’s capital in stocks and shares—about a million and a half francs. I am not very good at legal affairs. It took me some time to understand what all this meant; but I thought it out. It is really quite simple, very easy. My sister had gained £12,000 under my aunt’s will; but if she died without any change in the circumstances, then under the will which she signed after her marriage, my brother-in-law would inherit the whole of that money. Figure to yourself, he had never even seen my aunt, and all that £12,000 would pour into his lap. And I, who had been almost like a son to my aunt, I would get nothing! I make no complaint, of course,”
Sir Clinton’s face betrayed nothing whatever of his views on the question. He merely waited in silence for Renard to continued his story.
“When I understood the position,” Renard resumed, “I sat down and wrote a letter to my sister. ‘Here is the state of affairs,’ I said. ‘Our good aunt is dead, and she has named you as her heiress. A whole million and a half francs! To me she has left some little things, enough at least to buy a suit of mourning. I have no complaints to make: our good aunt had the right to dispose of her money as she chose.’ That was how I began, you understand? Then I went on thus: ‘Things are for the best for the present,’ I said, ‘but one must think of the future as well. Recall the will which you made at the time of your marriage. All is to go to your husband, should anything happen to you. Now,’ I wrote, ‘that seems to me hardly as it should be. If you should die—a motor accident might happen any day—then all the money of our aunt would pass into the hands of your husband, this husband with whom you have so little in common and who had no relations with our good aunt. And I, who am your nearest in kin, would receive not one penny. Think of that,’ I wrote, ‘and consider whether it would be fair. Is the fortune of our family to pass into the hands of strangers and we ourselves to be left without a share in it?’”
Renard looked from the Inspector to Sir Clinton and back to the Inspector, as though seeking for sympathy. Apparently finding nothing very satisfying in their expressions, he continued his tale.
“I put it to her that this state of affairs was not as it should be. I did not plead for myself, of course. That is not my way. I tried to show her that as things stood, injustice would be done if she should happen to die. And I urged her very strongly to make a fresh will. ‘See,’ I wrote, ‘how things would fall out. To you, it would mean nothing, very naturally. You would be far beyond all cares. But this money would be left. Would you desir
e that it should fall into the hands of this husband of yours, with whom you cannot find anything in common? Or would you not prefer that it should be left to your brother who has always been good to you?’ That is how I put it to her. I asked her to take swift action and to call in a lawyer who could aid her to draw up a fresh will which would be fair to both her husband and myself. I desired to be fair, you understand? merely to be fair. He would have received back his own stocks and shares which he had given to her at the time of their marriage. I would have gained the fortune which descended from my aunt. That seemed reasonable, surely.”
“Yes,” Sir Clinton confirmed, “it sounds quite reasonable in the circumstances. And what happened?”
“I have been to see the lawyers,” Renard went on. “Figure to yourself what I discovered. My poor Yvonne was not a woman of affairs. She had no business-like habits. If a thing seemed likely to give her trouble, she would put it aside for as long as she could, before dealing with it. Affairs bored her. It was her temperament, like that. So when she received my letter, she put it aside for some days. One cannot blame her. It was not in her nature to go to great trouble over a thing like that. Besides, death was not in her thoughts. One day was as good as another.”
He paused, as though wishing to heighten the interest of his narrative; for it was evident that he had produced but little impression on Sir Clinton.
“She had a good heart, my poor sister. She understood the position well enough, it seems. And she had no wish to see her good brother left out in the cold, as you English put it. But she delayed and delayed in the affair. And in the end she delayed too long.”
Again he hitched himself forward in his chair, as though he were approaching something important.
The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 15
