“I went to the lawyers. What did I find? This. My poor Yvonne had not forgotten her good brother. She had the intention of setting things right. One day she rang up the lawyers on the telephone and made an appointment with them for the following afternoon. She informed them that she proposed to alter her will; but of course, over the telephone, she said nothing about her wishes on the point. That is to be understood. But she said she would jot down the points to be embodied in the new will and bring that paper with her. That is all the lawyers know. That is all I know myself. For before the next afternoon, when she had made her appointment with the lawyers—my poor Yvonne was dead! Is it not distressing? Twelve thousand pounds! A million and a half francs! And they slip through my fingers just by a few hours. But I make no complaint, of course. I do not grumble. It is not my way. These things happen, and one has to bear them.”
If he had expected to read any sympathy in Sir Clinton’s face, he must have been disappointed. The Chief Constable betrayed nothing of the feelings in his mind.
“Was it not most inopportune?” Renard continued “Or most opportune indeed, for Silverdale, that things fell out as they have done. A coincidence, of course. Life is full of these things. I have seen too many to be astonished, myself. But is it not most apt that she should die just at that juncture? Another day of life, and the twelve thousand pounds goes into one pocket; a death, and the money falls into other hands. I am something of a philosopher. One has to be, in this world. And these strange chances have an attraction for my mind. I know there is nothing behind them, nothing whatever, you understand? And yet, is it not most striking that things fall out as they do?”
The Chief Constable declined to be drawn into a general discussion on the Universe.
“I am afraid it is scarcely a matter for the police, Mr. Renard. Wills hardly fall into our province, you know, unless a case of forgery turns up; and in this case there’s nothing of that sort. The only advice I could give you would be to consult a lawyer, but as you’ve already had the legal position made clear, I don’t see that there’s anything to be done.”
Inspector Flamborough took his cue and, without more ado he hinted to Renard very plainly that enough time had been spent on the matter. At length the little Frenchman withdrew, leaving the two officials together.
“I don’t much care for his way of telling his story, sir,” Flamborough remarked, “but I’m not sure, if I were in his shoes, that I wouldn’t feel much the same as he seems to do. It must be a bit galling to lose £12,000 by a few hours’ delay. And he’s quite reasonably suspicious, evidently.”
Sir Clinton refused to be drawn.
“Don’t let’s be too much influenced by the stop press news, Inspector. Renard’s evidence is the latest we have; but that adds nothing to its value, remember. Look at the case as a whole and try to reckon up the people who could conceivably gain anything by the crime. Then you can assess the probabilities in each case—apart altogether from the order in which the facts have come to light.”
The Inspector had evidently considered the matter already from this stand-point. He hardly paused before offering his views.
“Well, sir, if you ask me, Silverdale had at least two sound motives for committing murder. By getting his wife out of the way, he opened the road to a marriage with the Deepcar girl, whom he’s obviously keen on. Also, if Renard’s story’s true, the death of his wife at that particular juncture put £12,000 into his pocket, which he’d have lost if Mrs. Silverdale had lived a day or two longer.”
“One has to admit that he hadn’t evidence to get a divorce, which would have been an obvious alternative to murder,” Sir Clinton acknowledged. “And the cash affair makes the death of Mrs. Silverdale peculiarly opportune. It’s no use burking the plain fact that either money or a woman might tempt a man to murder; and when you’ve got both of them together, one can’t brush them aside cavalierly. But go on with your list, Inspector.”
“There’s that money-lender, Spratton,” Flamborough pursued. “If young Hassendean’s death can be proved to be a murder, then Spratton lifts some thousands out of the pocket of the insurance company in return for the payment of a single premium. That’s a motive, certainly.”
“It’s a sound motive for proving that it was a case of murder and not suicide; and it’s a possible motive for murder, I admit. But the position of a gentleman who commits a murder for gain and can only collect the money by proving that murder was done . . . Well, it sounds a bit complicated, doesn’t it?”
“Unless he can be sure of fixing the murder on someone else, sir.”
“It’s a bit difficult in practice to produce a frame-up of that description, isn’t it?”
The Inspector refrained from betraying any opinion on this point.
“Then there’s the Hailsham girl, sir. She’s a vindictive type; and she quite obviously had the worst kind of grudge against both of them. Revenge might have been at the back of the business for all one can tell. I don’t say it’s likely; but I’m considering possibilities, not necessarily probabilities.”
“I don’t think Miss Hailsham can reckon me among her admirers,” Sir Clinton confessed. “But that’s hardly evidence against her in a murder case. We’d need something a bit more concrete.”
“She admitted that she left the dance early that night and took her car home, sir. She hasn’t got a clean alibi for the time the murder was committed.”
“So I noticed when she told her story. But the absence of an alibi doesn’t establish murderous intent, you know. Go ahead.”
“Well, sir, there’s the Deepcar girl. She’s keen on Silverdale. It’s always a motive.”
“Save me from being mixed up in any murder case that you have charge of, Inspector. My character wouldn’t escape, I see. You’ll need to have something better than that before you start arresting anyone.”
“I’m not talking about arresting anyone, sir,” the Inspector replied in an injured tone. “I’m just reviewing possible motives.”
“Quite true. Can’t one make a feeble joke without rasping your susceptibilities? Now is that the end of your list?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Ah! You didn’t think of including someone with the initial ‘B,’ then? You remember the ‘B’ on the bracelet?”
The Inspector seemed rather startled.
“You mean this fellow B. might have been a discarded lover of Mrs. Silverdale’s who was out for revenge like the Hailsham girl? I hadn’t thought of that. It’s possible, of course.”
“Now let’s turn to a fresh side of the case,” Sir Clinton suggested. “One thing’s certain; hyoscine played a part in the affair. What about Mr. Justice’s pertinent inquiry: ‘Who had access to hyoscine at the Croft-Thornton Institute?’”
“Every blessed soul in the place, so far as I could see,” the Inspector confessed, rather ruefully. “Silverdale, Markfield, young Hassendean, and the two girls: they all had equal chances of helping themselves from that bottle in the store. I don’t think that leads very far. That hyoscine was common property so far as access to it went. Anyone might have taken some.”
“Then push the thing a little further. Out of all that list, who had an opportunity of administering hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale—directly or indirectly—on the night she died?”
“Directly or indirectly?” Flamborough mused. “There’s something in that perhaps. On the face of it, only three people could have administered the drug directly, since there were only three people at Heatherfield in a fit state to do it. I take it that she swallowed the stuff at Heatherfield, sir, because I found no trace of a paper which might have held it, either at the bungalow or on the bodies of young Hassendean and Mrs. Silverdale.”
“That’s sound, I believe,” Sir Clinton acquiesced. “She swallowed the stuff at Heatherfield before going out. Now who are your three suspects?”
“Mrs. Silverdale herself might have taken it, sir, either on purpose or by mistake.”
“But she ha
d no access to hyoscine that we know of.”
“No, sir, but both Silverdale and young Hassendean had. She may have taken it in mistake for a headache powder or something of that sort. And it might have been added to a headache powder by either Silverdale or young Hassendean.”
“That’s a good enough suggestion, Inspector. But I didn’t see any sign of a powder paper in her room when I searched it; and you remember she came straight downstairs and went out of the house, according to the maid’s evidence. Any other view?”
“Then it must have been administered in the coffee, sir, by either young Hassendean or the maid.”
“The maid? Where would she get hyoscine?”
“From Silverdale, sir. It’s just occurred to me. Silverdale wanted a divorce; but he couldn’t get evidence because his wife was simply playing with young Hassendean and keeping well within the limits. But if she were drugged, then young Hassendean might seize the chance that was offered to him, and if Silverdale was prepared beforehand, he’d have his evidence at the cost of watching them for an hour or two.”
“So Silverdale gave the maid the drug to put in one of the cups of coffee and ordered her to give that cup to Mrs. Silverdale, you think?”
“It’s possible, sir. I don’t put it higher. That maid was a simple creature—look how the doctor pumped her on the pretence of getting medical information that night. She was devoted to Silverdale; he told us that himself. She’d swallow any talk he chose to hand out to her. Suppose he faked up some yarn about Mrs. Silverdale needing a sedative but refusing to take it. The maid would believe that from Silverdale, and she’d put the hyoscine into the cup quite innocently. If the worst came to the worst, and the cups got mixed, then young Hassendean would get the dose instead.”
“It’s asking a bit too much, I’m afraid. Remember it was a heavy over-dose that was given.”
“Everybody’s liable to make a mistake, sir.”
“True. And I suppose you’d say that after the murder at the bungalow Silverdale awoke to the fact that the maid’s evidence about the hyoscine would hang him, probably; so he went back and murdered her also.”
“It was someone well known to her who did her in, sir. That’s clear enough.”
“In the meantime, you’ve left aside the possibility that young Hassendean may have administered the stuff. How does that strike you?”
“It’s possible, sir,” the Inspector admitted cautiously. “But there’s no evidence for it.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like to go so far as that,” Sir Clinton said, chaffingly. “I’ll tell you what evidence there is on the point. There’s Hassendean’s own diary, first of all. Then there’s what we found in young Hassendean’s laboratory notebook.”
“But that was just some stuff about weighing potash-bulbs, whatever they may be.”
“Quite correct. That was what it was.”
“Well, I’m no chemist, sir. It’s off my beat.”
“There’s no chemistry in it. I gave you the key to it at the time. Then there’s other evidence. Young Hassendean was a careless worker. Everyone agreed on that; and his notebook confirmed it. Next, there’s what Miss Hailsham said about hyoscine, which is more or less common knowledge, nowadays, of course. And there’s young Hassendean’s interference in the serving of coffee at Heatherfield, that night. Finally, there’s what the maid said about Mrs. Silverdale’s appearance when she was going out of the house. Put all these points together, and I’ll engage to satisfy a jury that young Hassendean administered the hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale in her coffee, with a definite purpose—but not murder—in view.”
“I’ll need to think over all that, sir. You seem pretty sure about it.”
“I’m practically certain. Now look at the business from another stand-point. Who had a grudge against the two victims, either separately or together?”
“Silverdale, obviously.”
“Obviously, as you say. That’s if you take them together, of course. Now for a final problem. Who is Mr. Justice? He seems to be in the know, somehow. If we could lay hands on him, we might be near the centre of things. He knew before anyone else that something had happened at the bungalow. He knew about the hyoscine at the Institute—although as Silverdale’s a fairly well-recognised authority on alkaloids, that might have been just a shot aimed on chance. Anyhow, look at it as you choose, Mr. Justice has information, and he seems to have a motive. Who is he, can you guess?”
“Somebody who won’t come out into the open until he’s dragged there, evidently. It might be an unwilling accomplice, sir.”
“That’s possible. Anyone else?”
“It might be Spratton. He’s got an interest in establishing that it was a case of murder and not suicide.”
“Obviously true. Anyone else?”
“I can’t think of anyone else who would fit the case, sir. By the way, I’ve got the originals of these advertisements—the code ones. I sent down to the newspaper offices and got hold of them.”
He produced two sheets of paper from his pocket-book and handed them to the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton glanced over them.
“H’m! The first one—the letters—is built up as usual from telegram forms. The one with the numbers is fitted together from numbers printed in a newspaper; it might have been clipped from one of these lists of the results of drawings of bonds for redemption—Underground Electric Railways, and that kind of thing. These advertisements have columns and columns of figures out of which he’d be able to pick what he wanted easily enough. Now what about this address that he’s put down—the usual guarantee of good faith at the bottom. It’s fictitious, of course?”
“Yes, sir. There’s no such place.”
“It’s in writing. It looks like a girl’s writing. This is a dangerous game for Mr. Justice; but I suppose if he’d put all the advertisement in clipped-out letters the newspaper people might have got suspicious and refused to print it. What about this handwriting, Inspector?”
Flamborough’s expression showed that he felt he had done his work thoroughly.
“I managed to get hold of specimens of the writing of Miss Hailsham and Miss Deepcar. It isn’t either of them. Then I tried to get it recognised—and I succeeded, sir. Miss Hailsham recognised it at once. It’s Mrs. Silverdale’s own writing!”
“A forgery, then? That’s very neat of Mr. Justice. I feel inclined to take off my hat to that fellow. He thinks of everything.”
“Well, it’s a blank end for us, so far as I can see, sir.”
Sir Clinton seemed to be so lost in admiration of Mr. Justice’s ingenuity that he failed to notice Flamborough’s dissatisfaction. When he spoke again, it was on a different topic.
“What about your friend, Mr. Whalley, Inspector? It seems to me we ought to have him up and put him through it as quick as possible. Quite obviously he knows something.”
“I’ve tried to get hold of him, sir. But he’s left the town and I can’t get on his track. He’s gone off to some race-meeting or other, I expect. He often goes off like that and leaves no address. I’ll lay hands on him as soon as he comes back to Westerhaven.”
“He’s an essential witness, I suspect; so don’t let him slip through your fingers. You’d better ask for assistance from the local police in likely places.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And now, Inspector, how are you getting along with the game of eliminations? How low have you brought the possibles out of the original nine solutions?”
Flamborough produced his often-unfolded scrap of paper and scanned it once more.
“If one accepts what you said a minute or two ago, sir, then the drugging of Mrs. Silverdale was meant to be plain drugging and wasn’t wilful murder. So the last case drops out.”
He put his pencil through the line of writing.
“That leaves only two alternatives:
HASSENDEAN
MRS. SILVERDALE
X—Suicide.......................
Accident
Y—Murder.......................
Accident
And young Hassendean, from all accounts, was hardly the lad to suicide by shooting himself twice in the body—too painful for him. So it really looks rather like Case Y. Certainly it’s coming down to brass tacks quicker than I thought it would.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE MURDER OF THE INFORMER
As he entered Sir Clinton’s office on the following morning, Inspector Flamborough blurted out bad news without any preliminary beating about the bush.
“There’s been another murder, sir,” he announced, with a tinge of what seemed grievance in his tone.
Sir Clinton looked up from the mass of papers upon his desk.
“Who is it, this time?” he demanded curtly.
“It’s that fellow Whalley, sir—the man who seemed to have some information about the bungalow affair.”
The Chief Constable leaned back in his chair and gazed at Flamborough with an expressionless face.
“This is really growing into a wholesale trade,” he said, drily. “Four murders in quick succession, and we’ve nothing to show for it. We can’t go on waiting until all the population of Westerhaven, bar one individual, is exterminated; and then justify ourselves by arresting the sole survivor on suspicion. The public’s getting restive, Inspector. It wants to know what we do for our money, I gather.”
Inspector Flamborough looked resentful.
“The public’ll have to lump it, if it doesn’t like it,” he said crudely. “I’ve done my best. If you think I ought to hand the thing over to someone else, sir, I’ll be only too glad to do so.”
“I’m not criticising you, Inspector,” Sir Clinton reassured him. “Not being a member of the public—for this purpose, at least—I know enough to appreciate your difficulties. There’s no burking the fact that whoever’s at the back of this affair is a sharper man than the usual clumsy murderer. He hasn’t left you much of a chance to pick up usable clues.”
“I’ve followed up every one that he did leave,” Flamborough argued. “I don’t think I’ve been exactly idle. But I can’t arrest Silverdale merely because I picked up his cigarette-holder in suspicious surroundings. Confound the public! It doesn’t understand the difference between having a suspicion and being able to prove a case.”
The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 16
