by John Rhode
Hanslet slapped his dejected subordinate on the back. ‘Don’t you take it to heart, Jimmy, my boy,’ he said. ‘There isn’t a soul in the Yard who hasn’t failed in much the same way at one time or another. Besides, it’s far too early to give up hope. The Yard never forgets, you know. And something may crop up one of these days to put you on the right track. Have all the usual routine inquiries made and keep the case in mind, but don’t brood over it. And by way of a change, I’ve got another little job for you to look into: Somebody’s passing dud half-crowns in the Tooting district. I’ll give you the particulars as they have been reported to us, and then you can get along and see what about it.’
PART TWO
Death Visits Cheveley Street
CHAPTER I
Christopher Portslade completed the shaking of a third cocktail, and with a not over-steady hand poured a generous portion of the concoction into his glass. He was a weedy youth of twenty-two or thereabouts, with carefully-waved hair and an unpleasantly cunning expression. His evening dress, though immaculate, was cut with vulgar exaggeration. His tailor, no doubt, believed in the adage that the clothes should suit the man.
The time was ten minutes past eight on Wednesday, August 4, of the same year that had witnessed Mr Fransham’s murder, the mystery of which was still unsolved. The scene was the lounge of Sir Godfrey Branstock’s house, No. 3 Cheveley Street. The other two occupants of the room were girls, sitting side by side on a sofa, each with a half-empty cocktail glass in her hand. The eldest of these was Nancy Lanchester, who was to become Lady Branstock three weeks hence. Her age was thirty-six, but it was impossible to guess this under her elaborate make-up. She was of medium height, with a well-thought-out figure and a shrewd, rather cruel expression. The other girl was her cousin, Violet Portslade, Christopher’s sister. She was twenty-four, willowy, innocent looking and even more sophisticated than most girls of her age. She was to be one of Nancy’s bridesmaids, and the two were discussing, not very affably, some detail of the forthcoming ceremony.
Christopher turned round glass in hand, and for a few moments listened contemptuously to the conversation.
‘Damn it all, what does it matter what the hell you wear?’ he burst out suddenly. ‘That isn’t what the old boy is interested in, as you know well enough. All you’ve got to do, Nan, is to take care that the fish doesn’t wriggle off the hook before the twenty-fifth.’
‘Oh, shut up, Chris!’ exclaimed his sister angrily. ‘Nan knows perfectly well what she’s about. Godfrey’s much too keen to back out at the last moment like that. It makes me feel quite sick to think of such a thing.’
‘You’d feel sicker about it if you were as broke as I am,’ Christopher replied. ‘As it is, I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next three weeks. I say, Nan, don’t you think you could touch the devout lover for a nice fat cheque in advance? A deposit on account of favours to be rendered later, so to speak?’
Nancy Lanchester drained her glass and held it out to be replenished. ‘I’m not such a fool as to try that on, Chris,’ she replied quietly. ‘Ours is a love match, you must remember. The mutual passion of the virgin and the world-weary knight. You will have to manage as best you can for a bit. Just you leave Godfrey to me. I know perfectly well how to manage him.’
‘Well, don’t waste any more time than you can help,’ Christopher grumbled. ‘Talking about time, what’s come over the old boy this evening? It isn’t like him to keep his guests waiting for dinner.’ He glanced in Nancy’s direction. ‘Especially when his fiancée is one of the party,’ he added sneeringly.
Violet sniggered. ‘You mustn’t forget that it’s his birthday,’ she replied. ‘He’s probably dyeing his hair or something like that to make himself appear more youthful in Nan’s eyes. Give me another cocktail, Chris, you beast.’
Behind the baize door leading to the kitchen premises on the ground floor Mrs Quinton, Branstock’s cook, was becoming impatient.
‘Nearly a quarter past eight,’ she exclaimed irritably. ‘I thank my stars I’m not stopping in this house much longer. Everything’s gone topsy-turvy since the master took up with that Lanchester woman. I can’t keep my dinner spoiling here all night. Just you go and sound the gong, Grace. Perhaps that will bring them to their senses.’
‘Can’t be done, old dear,’ replied the parlour-maid pertly. ‘The old chap hasn’t come downstairs yet. And you ought to know by this time that he won’t have the gong sounded until he’s ready.’
‘Well, he won’t like his dinner spoilt, let me tell you. You run up and tap on his door, and tell him what time it is. Maybe his watch has stopped, or he’s fallen asleep or something. Now, don’t make a face like that, but do as you’re told. I’m mistress in my own kitchen, I’ll have you know.’
Grace flounced out of the room, to return a couple of minutes later with wide-open eyes. ‘He’s not there!’ she exclaimed dramatically.
‘Not there!’ Mrs Quinton replied. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Where is he, then?’
‘How can I tell? All I know is that he isn’t in his dressing-room. The door’s open, and there are his evening clothes laid out just as I left them an hour ago.’
Mrs Quinton looked aghast. ‘What, do you mean to say that he hasn’t started changing yet, then?’ she demanded.
‘Looks like it. And he’s not in his bedroom, either, for I peeped in there, too.’
‘Drat the man!’ exclaimed Mrs Quinton. ‘It’s my belief that he’s gone clean off his crumpet lately. He’d never have fallen for that painted Jezebel else.’ She made a motion of her head towards the lounge. ‘Who’s up there?’ she asked.
‘Her and the Portslade couple,’ Grace replied. ‘They’re not worrying much. I heard the cocktail shaker going as I passed the door. You’ll just have to hang on and keep the dinner hot as best you can.’
But Mrs Quinton was not so easily pacified. ‘I’m not going to stand being messed about like this,’ she exclaimed. ‘For two pins I’d walk out of the house and leave these folks to get their own dinner. He hasn’t gone to his club and forgotten all about the party, has he?’
‘He was in the house soon after seven,’ Grace replied. ‘I saw him then, going down to the cellar to fetch up the wine, like he always does.’
‘He can’t be down there all this time. Perhaps he’s in the dining-room uncorking the bottles.’
‘I was in there just now seeing to the table, and he wasn’t there then. And, now I come to think of it, he hadn’t put the wine on the sideboard like he always does.’
‘You’re quite sure you saw him going down to the cellar?’
‘Well, he was going down the steps to the basement, and they don’t lead to anywhere but the cellar, as you know well enough.’
Mrs Quinton took off her apron with great deliberation. ‘I’m not going to stand it,’ she said. ‘I’m going to find him and I’m going to tell him that if he likes to keep his dinner spoiling for half an hour he can find someone else to cook it for him.’ And with a dignified air she marched out of the kitchen.
All the houses in Cheveley Street had originally been built upon the same plan. In the basement were the domestic offices, and below them again, an extensive wine cellar. On the ground floor was the hall, the dining-room and a smaller room known as the smoking-room. On the first floor were the drawing-room and morning-room. On the second floor were the three principal bedrooms, and on the third the servants’ quarters.
No. 3, however, had been modernised some years earlier. New kitchen premises had been built out on the ground floor, and separated from the rest of the house by a baize door. The disused basement had eventually accumulated a collection of empty boxes and such-like rubbish. The wine cellar below it remained in use.
Apart from the addition of the kitchen premises the ground floor remained as before. On the first floor the drawing-room had been converted into a lounge and the morning-room divided into two to form Branstock’s bed and dressing-room. No structural a
lterations had been made on the second and third floors.
Mrs Quinton began her pilgrimage by mounting to the first floor. The door of the lounge was shut, and through it she could hear the voices of its three occupants. She listened long enough to assure herself that Branstock was not in the lounge, then, seeing that his dressing-room door was ajar, she pushed it open and walked in. Branstock was not there, and a moment’s survey convinced her that he had not dressed for dinner. She looked through the connecting door into the bedroom, to find it unoccupied. Even the lavatory on the half-landing yielded a negative result.
Puzzled, but by no means discouraged, Mrs Quinton returned to the ground floor. She looked into the dining-room and the smoking-room, now called the study, but in neither did she find any trace of her master. It was now an hour or more since Grace had seen him on his way to the cellar. It was ridiculous to suppose that he could be down there all this time. But Mrs Quinton was determined to find him and, as she told herself, to give him a piece of her mind.
Beside the baize door leading to the servants’ quarters and on the hall side of it was a second door. Mrs Quinton opened this and found herself at the head of the flight of stairs leading to the basement. She descended this and looked about her. The first thing she noticed was that the cellar door was open and that the electric light within was on. She approached the cellar door. ‘Are you down there, sir?’ she called.
As she listened for the reply, she became aware of a faint and apparently distant humming noise. She could not account for this until she remembered the refrigerator in the larder on the floor above. She had not realised that its motor could be heard so clearly from the basement. And since the light was on in the cellar, Sir Godfrey must be there. Why couldn’t he have the politeness to answer her? ‘Are you down there, sir?’ she repeated loudly.
Still no reply, and, now she came to think about it, no sound of anybody moving about. A flight of a dozen stone steps led down to the cellar floor. She descended the first three or four of these and then stopped suddenly with an involuntary gasp of dismay.
But Mrs Quinton was not the woman to lose her head in an emergency. It was no good going into hysterics because Sir Godfrey had fainted and was lying doubled up on the floor in front of the champagne bin. Resolutely she descended the remainder of the steps and laid her fingers on her master’s pulse. She couldn’t feel anything, and she noticed that he wasn’t breathing, but that his face was more florid than ever. She made an attempt to raise him into a sitting position, but found this beyond her strength. As she desisted from her efforts, it struck her that the humming noise was even more distinct in the cellar than it had been in the basement. It seemed to get right into her head and to make her feel giddy. She couldn’t do anything by herself, that was quite obvious. She must summon help.
She hurried back to the kitchen, where she arrived breathless. ‘Master’s fainted in the cellar,’ she panted at the astonished Grace. ‘Don’t tell them upstairs. They’ll only potter about and get in the way. Nip out and fetch the policeman. He’s always somewhere round the corner at this time. And then between us we’ll get the master up here.’
Grace nodded and ran out. Mrs Quinton followed her into the hall, where the telephone stood. Above the instrument hung a card upon which a list of numbers was written. Having consulted this, Mrs Quinton dialled a number.
Dr Oldland, whose dinner the call had interrupted, listened to Mrs Quinton’s voluble story. ‘Right,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ll come along at once.’
The policeman, an old acquaintance of Mrs Quinton’s, was the first to arrive. ‘Good-evening, mum,’ he said. ‘Miss Grace tells me that Sir Godfrey’s been taken bad in the cellar. But it’s a doctor you want, surely?’
‘He’s on his way,’ Mrs Quinton replied briskly. ‘I want you to lend a hand to get the master out. I can’t move him by myself.’
They descended to the cellar, where the policeman bent over Sir Godfrey’s prostrate body. ‘Looks pretty bad, don’t he?’ he said. ‘Now, then, mum, if you and Miss Grace will take one of his legs each I’ll get hold of his shoulders. We’ll manage to get him up these steps between us, I don’t doubt. Now then, all together, and gently does it.’
They struggled up the steps with their burden, which they deposited in a sitting position on the basement floor. They had hardly accomplished this when the front door bell rang.
‘That’ll be the doctor,’ Mrs Quinton exclaimed. ‘Run up and let him in, Grace, and bring him down here.’
Dr Oldland appeared and glanced round the assembled group. Then, without speaking, he knelt down beside the man and made a swift examination. This done, he rose slowly to his feet. ‘Anybody staying in the house, Mrs Quinton?’ he asked.
‘Not actually staying, sir,’ Mrs Quinton replied. ‘But there are two ladies and a gentleman come to dinner. And one of them’s Miss Lanchester.’
‘Miss Lanchester? She’s the woman Branstock was to have married, isn’t she? Where is Mr Mayland?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. He was here one day last week, but I understand that he’s gone away over the holiday.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Monday was Bank Holiday. Well, you’d better get these other people out of the house as quietly as you can.’ He turned to Grace. ‘You’re the parlourmaid, aren’t you? Go and tell the guests that Sir Godfrey has been taken ill, and that his own doctor is attending him. Has that door at the top of the basement stairs got a lock to it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Grace replied. ‘It’s locked every night.’
‘Well, then, turn the key behind you and put it in your pocket. And don’t unlock the door again until these people have left the house. We don’t want them dithering down here.’
Grace departed, and nobody spoke until the key had turned in the lock. Then Mrs Quinton could restrain herself no longer. ‘Oh, sir, is he very bad?’ she asked.
‘Bad or good, who can say?’ replied Dr Oldland thoughtfully. ‘He’s dead, that’s what’s the matter with him. And, what’s more, he’s been dead for half an hour at least.’
He turned to the policeman. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked sharply.
‘Mrs Quinton sent for me, sir. She couldn’t shift Sir Godfrey by herself.’
‘Show me exactly where you found him,’ said Dr Oldland.
They descended to the cellar, and the policeman indicated the position in which he had first seen Branstock’s body. He had been lying doubled up on the cellar floor, with one hand extended towards the bin containing a couple of dozen bottles of champagne. Oldland nodded. ‘Do you think you could find me a candle, Mrs Quinton?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir, I think so,’ the cook replied. ‘I always keep a package in the kitchen in case anything should go wrong with the electric light. And, now I come to think of it, there are some stowed away in what used to be the old larder in the basement. I can get at them easily enough.’
Mrs Quinton returned with a candle stuck in a flat enamelled candlestick. Oldland set a match to the wick and held the candlestick on a level with his face. After a preliminary spluttering the flame burnt clearly and steadily. Then Oldland began to lower the candlestick slowly towards the floor. As he did so, the flame flickered and became less luminous. Finally, as he placed the candlestick on the ground, the flame floated for an instant above the wick and then expired.
‘I thought so,’ Oldland muttered. ‘We’d better get out of this.’
They returned to the basement, where Oldland proceeded to interrogate Mrs Quinton. ‘Was the cellar door open when you came down here to look for Sir Godfrey?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir, wide open with the light on. That’s how I knew he must be there. He always kept the key himself and wouldn’t let anyone go inside. This evening’s the first time I’ve set foot in the cellar, for all the years that I’ve been with him.’
‘You don’t know what time he unlocked the door this evening, I suppose?’
‘Well, sir, Grace said she saw the master com
ing down this way about a quarter past seven. I expect that’s right, for he nearly always used to fetch the wine before he dressed for dinner.’
‘What time was it when you found him here?’
‘It must have been twenty-past eight or more, sir. I didn’t leave the kitchen till a quarter past. Then I looked for him upstairs first.’
‘You tried to move him, you say? Did you feel any sensation of giddiness as you bent down over him?’
‘Well, now that you mention it, I did, sir. But it may have been the shock of seeing him like that.’
‘When did Sir Godfrey last have the occasion to enter the cellar?’
‘He used to go down every evening when he dined at home, sir, to choose the wine he wanted. Let me see, now. Today’s Wednesday. The master wasn’t at home to dinner yesterday, no, nor yet the day before. He must have been down here last on Sunday, when there was a party of six to dinner.’
‘And you’re pretty certain that the door wasn’t open between then and this evening?’
‘I’d go so far as to say I was quite certain, sir. Nobody but the master could have opened it, and he hadn’t had occasion to go into the cellar.’
A sound of departing footsteps followed by the slamming of the front door came to them from above. A moment later Grace unlocked the basement door and joined them.
‘They’ve gone, sir,’ she said. ‘Miss Lanchester wanted to know if she couldn’t stop and nurse the master, but I told her there was no occasion for that. I said that if she was wanted, the doctor would ring her up later.’
‘Well done!’ the doctor exclaimed approvingly. ‘You’ve got your head screwed on straight, I can see that. Now run upstairs again and clear the dining-room table, there’s a good girl. We’ll lay him on that for the present.’
