by John Rhode
‘Finally, there was that list of Mr Fransham’s friends which Stowell gave to Jimmy. They have all been interviewed, and they’ve all got absolutely watertight alibis. None of them can have been anywhere near Adderminster at the time of the crime. There was nobody among them who had anything to gain by Mr Fransham’s death or could suggest anyone but the doctor who had any motive for murdering him. In fact, professor, it comes to what you would call a process of elimination. It’s ridiculous to suppose that a total stranger killed Mr Fransham just for the fun of the thing. Besides, how could he have done it?’
‘How do you suggest that Dr Thornborough did it?’ Dr Priestley asked quietly.
Hanslet sighed heavily. ‘If I could make a reasonable suggestion the doctor would be in quod now awaiting his trial,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be quite frank with you, professor. When I first took the case over, I thought there must have been a pretty bad blunder somewhere. It seemed to me that Mr Fransham must have been plugged from the further side of the wall and that Linton, in spite of what he had said, had somehow allowed the doctor a chance of picking up the missile and disposing of it. But I turned Linton inside out. I even went so far as to make a most improper suggestion to him. I told him that if he admitted that the doctor had had a chance of picking up the thing, whatever it was, it wouldn’t hurt him and would justify the doctor’s arrest. I didn’t of course, make any definite promises, but I hinted that policemen concerned in a case like that stood a very good chance of promotion. I wasn’t encouraging the man to tell a deliberate lie, but I wanted to give him a chance of confessing that he hadn’t been so alert as he made out. But Linton stuck to his guns in spite of everything. He maintained, and still maintains for that matter, that not so much as a pin could have left that cloakroom without his knowledge.’
Dr Priestley smiled faintly. ‘And you are driven to believe him?’ he said.
‘I’ve no option, since I absolutely refuse to entertain the only possible alternative. It might be suggested that Dr Thornborough had offered to buy Linton’s silence. I’ll admit that policemen have been known to take bribes for winking at offences against footling things like the licensing laws. But I absolutely refuse to believe that any policeman, from the humblest village constable upwards, would consider for a moment the acceptance of a bribe where a capital charge was concerned.’
‘I heartly agree with you,’ Dr Priestley replied, still with the same enigmatic smile. ‘I am quite sure that you need have no hesitation in accepting Linton’s statement.’
‘Then in that case Fransham can’t have been killed by anything thrown at him,’ said Hanslet. ‘Someone must have hit him through the window, though that sounds incredible in view of the evidence. Can’t you suggest some answer to the puzzle, professor?’
Dr Priestley shook his head. ‘Not at present,’ he replied. ‘What is the position as regards Dr Thornborough’s house at Adderminster?’
‘It’s empty and is to be let unfurnished. The doctor cleared out all his stuff when he left the town. But after what happened there, it will be some time before the place finds a tenant.’
‘Is the cottage on the opposite side of Gunthorpe Road occupied?’
‘Yes. The owner and his wife, Mr and Mrs Whiteway, are back there.’
‘I gather that under the terms of Mr Fransham’s will, the remainder of the lease of the house occupied by him, No. 4 Cheveley Street, would fall to his niece Mrs Thornborough. She would presumably also acquire the contents of the house?’
‘All I know is that the house is empty. The Stowells went away a month ago and the furniture was removed a few days later. As the Thornboroughs have taken a flat in Mayfair, I don’t suppose they mean to renew the lease.’
‘Mayland could tell you how matters stand in that respect,’ Oldland suggested.
‘Is the point of any particular importance, professor?’ Hanslet asked.
‘That is for you to judge,’ Dr Priestley replied. ‘I should have thought that any transaction in which Dr or Mrs Thornborough were engaged would be of interest to the police.’
‘Well, I’ll make it my business to find out,’ said Hanslet. ‘It’s getting pretty late now, so I’ll be off. But I’ll let you know if I hear anything fresh that’s likely to interest you.’
CHAPTER III
It was not until the following Monday, August 9, that Hanslet found leisure to interview Anthony Mayland. That morning, shortly before ten o’clock, he called at No. 3 Cheveley Street, and was informed by Grace that Mr Mayland was at home. He was shown into the study, where, within a couple of minutes, a tall young man dressed in black joined him. He was pale and harassed-looking and his eyes looked tired behind their horn-rimmed glasses.
‘My name is Mayland,’ he said in a low, but rather harsh voice. ‘Is your visit in connection with the death of my stepfather, superintendent?’
‘No, it isn’t, Mr Mayland,’ Hanslet replied. ‘In fact, I must apologise for troubling you at such a distressing time. But I am anxious for certain information about the house next door, formerly in the occupation of Mr Fransham.’
Mayland looked very much astonished at this.
‘The house is empty, and has been for some little time,’ he replied.
‘So I understand. The lease expires at Christmas, does it not?’
‘It would have done in the ordinary way. But an arrangement was made whereby the lease was surrendered on July 24.’
‘Can you tell me how that arrangement came to be made, Mr Mayland?’
‘I can, for I happen to know the circumstances. I don’t know whether you are aware of it, but I am an architect, and my stepfather always consulted me about his property. At the time of his death, Mr Fransham had not come to any decision regarding the renewal of his lease. My stepfather was perfectly willing to grant him a renewal if he desired it. He had always proved to be in every way a perfectly satisfactory tenant.
‘On the other hand, my stepfather had decided what he would do in the event of Mr Fransham not wishing to renew. He had talked the matter over with me, and we had come to the conclusion that it would be more profitable for him to modernise the house before offering it to a fresh tenant. The increased rent which he would be justified in asking would compensate for the cost of the alterations.
‘Shortly after Mr Fransham’s death I made a suggestion. It seemed unlikely that his heirs would wish to occupy the house for the remainder of the lease, or to renew it when it expired. The suggestion was that my stepfather should write to Mrs Thornborough, whom, of course, he knew, offering to accept an immediate surrender of the lease. This would enable us to gain possession and to carry out the proposed modernisation before Christmas. My stepfather approved of the suggestion, but refused to have any direct communication with either Mrs Thornborough or her husband. However, he instructed his solicitor, Mr Emscott to make the offer, which was accepted.’
‘Why did Sir Godfrey refuse to communicate with Dr or Mrs Thornborough?’ Hanslet asked.
Mayland hesitated. ‘I have no idea what view the police take of Mr Fransham’s death,’ he replied. ‘Nor have I any first hand knowledge of the circumstances. But my stepfather was firmly convinced that either Dr Thornborough or his wife were responsible.’
‘Had he any definite reason for this conviction?’
‘I don’t know that he had any special knowledge of the circumstances. But Mr Fransham was killed in the Thornborough’s house, and they are the only people who have benefited to any appreciable extent from his death.’
‘Did you ever meet Dr Thornborough, Mr Mayland?’
‘I don’t remember doing so. But I knew Betty Thornborough pretty well at one time. We always used to get on very well together. Unless she’s changed a lot since then, I can’t imagine that she can have had any hand in the crime.’
Hanslet was not particularly anxious to discuss the implications of the Adderminster murder with a stranger. He hastened to change the subject.
‘You knew Mr and Mrs S
towell, the married couple who had been with Mr Fransham for so many years, I expect, Mr Mayland?’ he said.
‘Oh, I knew them well enough, but I hadn’t seen much of them recently,’ Mayland replied. ‘You see, for the last three or four years, I haven’t spent much of my time here. For one thing I had my own work to attend to, and for another I didn’t live in this house, though a room was always at my disposal if I wanted it.’
‘You have rooms of your own, I understand?’ Hanslet suggested.
‘I have. But I don’t want you to draw the conclusion that there was the slightest estrangement between my stepfather and myself. We were always on the very best of terms, and I used to come and see him here at least once or twice a week. But so long as I lived here with him, things were awkward for both of us. He was of an exceptionally sociable nature, and I’m afraid I’m not. At least, I didn’t care about associating with some of his friends. The result was that I was apt to be a bit of a wet blanket at his parties. On the other hand, I found his routine a bit trying. He never went to bed before midnight, and refused to have breakfast before half-past nine in the morning.’
‘Hardly suitable hours for a professional man like yourself, Mr Mayland.’
‘That’s just it. I found I couldn’t keep pace with my work under those conditions. So I suggested to my stepfather that I should find a room for myself, and he rather jumped at the idea, though he tried not to show it. And I really believe that since then we got on better than we ever had before. His death is a terrible blow to me. I feel that I have lost the best friend that I am ever likely to have. You’ve heard how it happened, I expect, superintendent?’
‘It is part of my job to study reports of inquests,’ replied Hanslet diplomatically. ‘Sir Godfrey was to have been married very shortly, was he not?
Mayland frowned. ‘He was,’ he replied shortly; and then after a pause he added, ‘That’s the one spark of comfort that I can derive from his death. He’s been spared a lot of unhappiness.’
‘In your opinion then his intended re-marriage was a mistake?’
‘It would have been more than a mistake—it would have been a disaster. Of course you think I’m prejudiced, since my mother was Branstock’s first wife. But it isn’t that at all. I should have been delighted if he had married a suitable woman, who would have made him happy. But this particular woman would have ruined his life. After he’d lived with her for a bit and the glamour had worn off, he would have found out what she really was like. As I say, it’s a blessing he’s been spared that disillusion.’
‘Do you know anything definite against the lady?’ Hanslet asked.
‘I do,’ Mayland replied with considerable emphasis. ‘Things which I don’t propose to repeat, however.’
‘Did you make any attempt to dissuade your stepfather from the marriage?’
Mayland’s thin lips curled in a faint smile. ‘You didn’t know him,’ he replied. ‘He was one of those people who are roused to fury by the slightest show of opposition. If I had breathed a single word against Nancy Lanchester he would have carried her off to the nearest registry office and married her out of hand. Just as a lesson to me to mind my own business in future. Besides, although perhaps you don’t realise it, my position was, and still is, for that matter, very delicate.’
‘How delicate, Mr Mayland?’
‘In the sense that I don’t know whether I have any right to be in this house at all. You see, although for years everybody has regarded me as Branstock’s son, in reality I am nothing of the kind. There’s no question of my being his next of kin, for he and I were not related in any way.’
‘But you are no doubt aware of the terms of Sir Godfrey’s will?’
‘That’s just exactly what I’m not. Between ourselves, superintendent, it’s the very devil. The only person who knows is my stepfather’s solicitor, Emscott, and he’s in America. I got on to his office on Thursday morning and they cabled him, but he can’t be back before next week. To add to the complication they tell me that Emscott’s managing clerk is down with pneumonia and that there’s nobody in the place who knows or can do anything. Meanwhile, I’m holding the fort as best I can in spite of the fact that I may be slung out eventually as a usurper.’
‘Who are you holding it against, Mr Mayland?’
‘Nancy Lanchester, or rather her family. She, I am told, is too prostrate with grief to stir from her bed. That may be true, but it’s disappointment, not grief, that she’s suffering from. She sent her cousin, by name Christopher Portslade, to represent her at the funeral on Saturday. And the insufferable young cub had the sauce to gate-crash here afterwards.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Oh, quite a lot of things. Although it didn’t transpire at the inquest, he, together with his sister and Nancy Lanchester, were in the house when my stepfather’s death was discovered. Dr Oldland, to whom I can never be sufficiently grateful, put the three of them out of the house on the pretext that Branstock had been taken ill. It wasn’t until next morning when she rang up that Nancy Lanchester was told that my stepfather was dead.
‘Young Portslade wanted an explanation of this. He said that his cousin had more right in the house than anybody else at such a time and that to treat her in such a way had been an insult. Then he went on to say that in the hearing of himself and his sister, Branstock had promised to present Nancy Lanchester after dinner on Wednesday with a cheque for a thousand pounds to celebrate his birthday. I asked him when this promise had been made, and he told me that it was a couple of days before, when they were all together. I said that I could do nothing about it, and that he’d better approach Branstock’s executors on the matter.
‘That brought him to his next point. Where was the will, and why had he not been invited to hear it read? He seemed to think that the proper sequel to any funeral was the reading of the will. I told him about Emscott’s absence, and explained that we should all have to wait until his return. And then if you please, he had the sauce to say that that wasn’t at all necessary. He knew for a fact that Branstock had made a will leaving everything he possessed to Nancy Lanchester. I asked him how he knew that and he told me that Branstock himself told him at least a couple of months ago.’
‘Do you suppose that he was telling the truth?’ Hanslet asked.
Mayland shrugged his shoulders. ‘I should be very loth to believe anything that Christopher Portslade told me,’ he replied. ‘For all I know it may be true, but I wasn’t going to be bluffed into leaving Portslade in possession, which was obviously what he wanted. I feel responsible for the safe custody of everything in this house until the executors can take over. Don’t you think I’m right, superintendent?’
‘Under the circumstances, I certainly do,’ Hanslet replied.
‘I’m very glad to hear you say that. You’ve strengthened my hand a lot. I don’t even know who Branstock appointed as his executors. But Emscott himself is pretty sure to be one of them. I shall be very much relieved when he gets back to England, I can tell you. But to get back to Portslade; his final demand was that he should be allowed to take over the management of the house as the representative of his cousin. I told him quite politely that if he made any attempt in that direction I should take him by the scruff of the neck and throw him out of the front door. He didn’t seem to relish that prospect and departed vowing that he would seek legal advice. I haven’t seen or heard anything of him since.’
At this moment Grace entered the room bearing a card on a tray. She handed it to Mayland who picked it up and glanced at it. ‘All right, Grace, show him into the dining-room and ask him to wait for a couple of minutes, will you? I’m awfully sorry, superintendent, but that’s the district surveyor. He’s come to try and find out how the foul gas got into the cellar and he wants me to show him round. Is there anything else you would like to ask me?’
‘I don’t think so, thanks very much, Mr Mayland,’ Hanslet replied. ‘I won’t keep you from your appointment.’
Mayland
saw the superindendent to the front door, and then walked into the dining-room where the district surveyor was awaiting him. ‘Good-morning, Mr Sandling,’ he said. ‘My name is Mayland. Sir Godfrey Branstock was my stepfather and I am temporarily in charge here. As it happens I am very well acquainted with the premises. I am an architect by profession, and was responsible for the modernisation of the house. You would like to inspect the cellar first, I dare say?’
‘I should,’ the surveyor replied. ‘And I should be grateful if you could come with me, Mr Mayland, since you are familiar with the details.’
‘I’ll certainly come with you, if you like. But I can’t claim to be familiar with the cellar. I don’t remember ever having been into it. My stepfather didn’t like anybody else going down there and always kept the key himself.’
‘I see. It might be advisable for us to have a lighted candle in readiness.’
‘There’s a candle in the basement. I’ll show you the way, Mr Sandling.’
They descended to the basement, where Mayland found the candle which had been used on a previous occasion. He was about to open the cellar door when the surveyor stopped him. ‘Better be careful,’ he said. ‘When was that door last opened?’
‘It hasn’t been opened since Friday, when Dr Oldland and the analyst tested the air,’ Mayland replied.
‘The cellar has been closed for three days, then. We’d better light that candle and lower it to the floor before we go on.’
The candle burnt brightly enough until it was within two or three inches of the floor, then the flame grew dim and finally expired.
