Crystal Beads Murder

by Annie Haynes

  “Yes, I can.” The superintendent stepped into the summer-house. “He lay right on his back, did the corpse. His head was over here,” indicating a spot by the nearest leg of the rustic table. “His feet, they were right there in the doorway. Seemed as if he had been standing there, or maybe on the step. And I should say them as he was expecting came right on him, maybe by a way he wasn’t looking for them.”

  The inspector surveyed the place where the dead man had lain in silence for a minute. Then, standing on the step, he looked round.

  “It wouldn’t have been very difficult for anyone to take him unawares. The rhododendrons come right up on all sides except the front, it seems to me. But it rained last night in town. I expect it was the same here. How did your unexpected assailant see to aim at his victim?”

  The superintendent stared at him.

  “I don’t know. But there was a moon, though it was showery most of the time. The – the murderer must ha’ waited till it shone a bit, like, and then the gentleman’s shirt front would make a decent target.’’

  The inspector nodded.

  “Quite. Down here you say he was lying. Were his feet projecting beyond the doorway?”

  The superintendent scratched his head. “Sticking out, like, you mean? No, they didn’t. But I think as the murderer had searched through his pockets and maybe been disturbed. The body had got on a light overcoat and one of the pockets looked as if it had been pulled out and pushed in again carelessly. I mean as it wasn’t right in like, a bit of it was left pulled out and just here by the side of the pocket there was a notebook lying on the ground and a paper or two, as if them that took them out had been in too much of a hurry to put them back.”

  The inspector pricked up his ears.

  “Where are they?”

  The superintendent tramped across the summer-house and, stooping down, drew a small leather attache-case from beneath the seat.

  “I put ’em in this and locked ’em up.” He felt in his pockets and produced the key. “I thought you’d be wanting to see them or I’d have taken them down to the police station,” he said as he unlocked the case and handed a pocket-book and a couple of letters not enclosed in envelopes to Stoddart. “There’s a lot of notes in the pocket-book, so it don’t look as if robbery had much to do with it.”

  The inspector glanced at the letters first. One was merely a business communication from a wholesale leather firm saying that Mr. Saunderson’s esteemed order should have their earliest attention. The other was a very different affair. The detective’s eyes brightened as he looked at it. Written on good paper, it was neither stamped nor dated, but across it was scrawled in large, badly printed letters: “I accede because I have no choice.”

  That was all. There was no signature. Stoddart turned it over, looked at it from every angle, and even actually smelt it before he handed it back to the superintendent. Then he made no comment, but he turned to his case-book and jotted down an unusually lengthy entry. He opened the dead man’s pocket-book and after a rapid glance through it laid it on the table.

  “Put this back in your case, superintendent. We will take it back to the police station and go into it all carefully. Now, before we go across to the mortuary, do you know how the deceased got here? As he was not staying at the Hall, and presumably not in the immediate neighbourhood, I mean? Did he come to Holford by train?”

  The superintendent shook his head.

  “Not to Holford, he didn’t. I have asked at the station and nobody answering to his description was seen there last night, and he must have been noticed if he had come, for there’s precious few passengers at Holford except the folks from the Hall. There’s other stations he might ha’ come to, of course, but not hardly within walking distance – seven or eight miles maybe, and cross-country at that. His shoes don’t look as if he had come far, either. And yet, if he was in a car, where is the car?”

  “H’m – well!” The inspector looked thoughtful. “We will go down to the mortuary at once,” he decided.

  CHAPTER 4

  As the Chief Constable had said, the temporary mortuary at Holford was just an ordinary barn. Some rough trestles had been set up in the middle under the direction of Superintendent Mayer, and Robert Saunderson lay on them. Some one had thrown a white sheet over the body. Superintendent Mayer tramped across and laid it back.

  “Looks as if he’d been surprised somehow,” he commented, gazing down on the face that, sensual and coarse-looking in life, had gained a certain dignity in death. “Stiff and cold he’d been for hours before we found him,” the superintendent went on.

  Standing beside him, Inspector Stoddart looked down at the dead man. He glanced quickly over the face and form, then passed to the light overcoat that hung over the bottom of the trestles.

  “You have gone through the pockets, you said, superintendent?”

  “I have – and there’s nothing in ’em to help us,” that worthy announced in a tone of assurance that made Stoddart raise his eyebrows. “There’s a letter or two, none from anywhere about here, and the money that I showed you before. His wrist-watch too, I left that on.”

  One of the dead man’s arms was lying by his side. Stoddart lifted it up; the watch had stopped at 9.30.

  “We get the time of death approximately from that. Probably when he fell the arm hit the ground heavily and stopped the watch.”

  “It might ha’ been a bit fast or a bit slow, though,” the superintendent remarked wisely.

  Stoddart’s smile would have been a laugh but for the quiet presence lying there before him.

  Harbord at the side was going through the pockets of the dead man’s overcoat with quick, capable fingers. Suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation. As Stoddart and the superintendent looked at him he held up something that gleamed for a moment in a ray of light that filtered through the shadows of the barn.

  Stoddart beckoned him to the door, and while the superintendent replaced the sheet over the dead man the inspector glanced curiously at the object his assistant had in his hand. He saw three crystal beads linked together by a thin, gold chain.

  Harbord looked at him.

  “It must have dropped there when the pocket was searched.”

  The superintendent came up and elbowed them apart.

  “No, beg pardon, it was not,” he contradicted. “That wasn’t in the pocket when I searched it this morning. It must ha’ been put there since.”

  Harbord looked at him.

  “It was the right-hand pocket beside which you found the book and the notes, wasn’t it?”

  The superintendent nodded. “Ay, it was the right-hand pocket sure enough, and it was pulled out, like, a bit, but the beads weren’t in it then.’’

  “The chain had caught in the lining. That must have been how you overlooked it,” Harbord said shortly.

  “It wasn’t there at all,” the superintendent said positively. “I turned that pocket inside out. There was nothing there, I will swear.”

  “Well, the thing is here now. What possibility is there of getting it into the pocket after you searched it?” Stoddart inquired sharply.

  The superintendent scratched his head.

  “I don’t know. There was nobody but me and Constable Jones went into the hut, not until the ambulance men fetched the body away. I and the constable went across here to the barn to look round the place and give orders about the trestles. The gardeners were seeing to it and got a bit rattled, poor chaps. But we weren’t gone more than a few minutes before the ambulance men arrived – but what would they go dropping glass beads about for?”

  “Who were the ambulance men?”

  “They weren’t men as I know,” the superintendent said thoughtfully. “Not as to say well, that is. They work at the Cottage Hospital on the hill, the two as brought the ambulance-stretcher, as they call it. It’s on wheels. His lordship, he gave it to the hospital. They lifted him” – with a backward jerk at the stark form under the sheet – “the two men and Jones and a g
ardener that was passing. I gave a hand, steadying the stretcher and helping when they laid it on. But I don’t see – I do not see” – pausing and endeavouring apparently to recall the scene – “as any of them had the chance to put those beads in the pocket, even if they wanted to, which don’t seem likely.”

  It did not. As the inspector closed the door of the barn behind them his eyes had a puzzled, far-away look.

  “Did you know the gardener who helped you?” Stoddart inquired as they crossed the churchyard and turned in at the private gate into the Holford grounds.

  “No, I don’t know as I do; he isn’t a Holford man,” the superintendent said, his broad, red face wearing the look of bewilderment that had come over it when he saw the beads. “He was just working in the rosery and saw them bring the ambulance, and came along to find out if he could help. He were likely enough one of the young men that’s here to learn a bit of gardening from Mr. Macdonald, and lives up at the cottage at the back of the glass-houses.”

  “I see!” The inspector made a note in his book. “We will just have a word with this gardener. Who is that?”

  “That” was a young man who had come out of the Hall and was walking a little way down the path across the lawn at a brisk pace. Seeing them, he had hesitated a minute, and then turned off sharply towards the big entrance gates.

  The superintendent stared after him.

  “That – that is young Mr. Courtenay, his lordship’s cousin. I should ha’ said he didn’t want to see us.”

  “So should I!” the inspector assented grimly. “But unfortunately, as it happens, since the desire is apparently not mutual, Mr. Harold Courtenay is a young gentleman I particularly wish to interview. I fancy striking over here by the pine trees we shall manage to intercept him.”

  He set off at a brisk pace, Harbord by his side, the burly superintendent puffing and blowing behind.

  They emerged from the grove of trees at the side of the Hall immediately in front of Harold Courtenay.

  That young gentleman looked amazed to see them step out on the walk in front of him. The inspector, glancing at him keenly, fancied that he saw discomposure mingling with the surprise.

  He went forward.

  “Mr. Harold Courtenay, I think? I should be glad if I might have a few words with you.”

  Harold Courtenay glanced round as if seeking some way of escape, but nothing presenting itself apparently resigned himself to the inevitable.

  “Inspector Stoddart, I think, isn’t it? My cousin told me you had come down. I am quite at your service, inspector.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Courtenay.”

  Young Courtenay was looking very ill, the inspector thought. His face was sickly grey beneath its tan, his eyes had a scared, furtive look, two or three times his mouth twitched oddly to one side as the inspector watched him.

  “Just a question or two I wanted to put to you,” Stoddart went on. “Later on there may be other things, but now I shall not detain you more than a minute or two.”

  “That’s all right,” Courtenay said at once. “If anything I can tell you will help you I shall be only too glad. I am only afraid it won’t. I had no idea even that Saunderson was likely to be in the neighbourhood last night.” He stopped and swallowed something in his throat. “He was rather by way of being a friend of mine, you know, inspector.”

  Stoddart nodded, his keen eyes never relaxing their watch on the young man’s face.

  “So I have heard. When did you last see him, Mr. Courtenay?”

  The young man hesitated a moment.

  “Oh, just a few days ago,” he said vaguely. “The beginning of the week, I think it was. Monday evening, I remember now. I called at his flat.”

  “Did he tell you he was coming down here in the near future?” the inspector questioned.

  Courtenay shook his head. “Never even mentioned Holford so far as I can remember.”

  “Did he speak of anyone or anything that could have had any bearing on last night’s tragedy?”

  “Certainly not!” Courtenay said with decision.

  “We only spoke on the most ordinary topics.”

  “Can you remember any of those topics?” the inspector questioned.

  Harold Courtenay waited a moment before answering.

  “Nothing much,” he said slowly. “Most of the time it was about racing. We both of us cursed Battledore for letting us down over the St. Leger. And Saunderson said somebody had given him a tip for the autumn double – Cesarewitch and the Cambridgeshire, you know – White Flower and Dark Mouth; and he said he shouldn’t do it, though the chap that told him generally knew what he was talking about. Dark Mouth is French – he’d never fancied a French horse, he said, since Epinard let him down over the Cambridgeshire.’’

  “Did you tell him you were coming here?”

  “N–o! I don’t think so,” the young man said with a momentary indecision that did not escape the inspector’s keen eyes. “No, as a matter of fact I don’t think I knew that I was coming here myself then.”

  “When did you come?” the inspector asked. “In the afternoon of Thursday, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, by the 3.30 from Derby to Holford.” There was a certain relief in Courtenay’s tone now. His eyes met Stoddart’s openly.

  “And Saunderson – when did he come?” the inspector said quickly.

  “Saunderson?” Courtenay stared at him. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him. I couldn’t believe it when I heard he was lying dead in the summer-house.”

  “When did you hear?” The inspector looked straight at the young man as he put the question.

  “Why, when the gardener came up and told us all.” Courtenay looked down and shifted his feet about on the gravel uncertainly.

  The inspector brought out his notebook. “Now, Mr. Courtenay, this is just a matter of course. I have nearly finished. What were you doing between nine and ten o’clock last night, and where were you?”

  “Ten o’clock last night?” Courtenay repeated, kicking up a big bit of gravel. “Well, the Medchesters had some neighbours in to dinner and of course there were a few of us staying in the house, and afterwards we had a rubber of bridge in the card-room. I meant to take a hand, but I cut out, and after I’d watched the play a bit I went into the billiard-room with a couple of other men and knocked the balls about. Later on I went back to the card-room and had a game. Landed a pound or two, too – my luck was in.”

  “How long were you in the billiard-room?”

  Courtenay, having got up his piece of gravel, kicked it off into the grass.

  “Oh, it might have been half an hour or so, or maybe it might have been a bit longer. I couldn’t tell you nearer than that,” he said carelessly, but his eyes from beneath their heavy lids shot an odd glance at the inspector as he spoke.

  Stoddart’s quick fingers were making notes. He was not looking at Courtenay now.

  “Who were the two men with you in the billiard-room?”

  “Sir James Wilson and Captain Maddock,” Courtenay said quickly. “Mind, I don’t say they were there all the time. We were in and out, you know.”

  The inspector made no comment.

  “Can you give me the names of the card-players?”

  “Not all of them right off, I can’t,” Courtenay said after a minute or two spent apparently in trying to quicken his memory. “Old Lady Frinton was my partner, I know, and the vicar part of the time. The others may come back to me later on.”

  “Lord and Lady Medchester, perhaps?” the inspector suggested.

  Courtenay shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. Lord Medchester was with us in the billiard-room a bit. Then he went off. I think a few of them were smoking on the veranda.”

  “And Lady Medchester? Was she playing?”

  Courtenay paused a moment.

  “No,” he said. “I remember she wouldn’t, though she is generally pretty keen about it. But I don’t think they played high enough for her. She goes
in for pretty high stakes in town. She just dodged about, looking after folks. The two old people – the Dowager and my old grandfather – were playing bezique in the small drawing-room. I didn’t see much of her.”

  “I see.” The inspector produced the crystal beads from his pocket and held them up. “Have you ever seen these before, Mr. Courtenay?”

  Harold Courtenay stared at them, and as he looked the colour which had been coming back to his face ebbed away again.

  “I – I don’t know,” he stammered. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you quite sure?” The inspector spoke suavely, but there was a look in his eyes which Harbord knew was a danger signal.

  Harold Courtenay wriggled uneasily.

  “I may have done; I can’t be sure. Every woman you meet wears this sort of thing nowadays.”

  “True enough,” the inspector assented, dangling the beads before him. “And these are of no particular value. You can see that at once.”

  “Where did you find them?” Harold Courtenay asked, his eyes watching them as if fascinated, while the inspector dangled them before him.

  A curious, enigmatic smile twisted Stoddart’s thin lips.

  “Ah! That,” he said as he restored the beads to his pocket, “is my secret, Mr. Courtenay – and it will be as well if you say nothing about them at present.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “This is a queer case,” Inspector Stoddart said slowly. “There is something about it I don’t understand, I can’t fathom –”

  Harbord made no rejoinder. He looked tired and worried. The two men were sitting in the little room the inspector had engaged at the “Medchester Arms.” It was a small, unpretentious village inn, and they had been fortunate in securing the rooms vacated that morning by Maurice Stainer and his sister. They had just finished their midday meal – the cold beef and pickles which, with a slice of apple pasty, was all that Holford could produce in the way of luncheon at the end of the week.