Crystal Beads Murder

by Annie Haynes

  “Young Courtenay’s record – Lord Gorth as he is now – is nothing to boast about. He says he was either in the billiard-room or playing bridge. He gave the names of three people he was with that evening, and I’ve seen them all – Lady Frinton, Captain Maddock and Sir James Wilson. But they can none of them vouch for his having been there all the time, and the question is, how long an interval may there not have been when nobody saw him? Time enough possibly to get to the summer-house and back.”

  “And if Saunderson had his claw on him the motive was there – same as his sister, if the Delauney story is true,” Harbord supplemented, Stoddart nodded, his eyes still glued to the carpet.

  “Then there’s Lady Medchester. I’ve got my own ideas about that. There’s no doubt she was there – out in the garden – for all she said she was in her room with headache. That man Garwood will swear to that. Now what was she doing out there at that time of night – with guests in the house, and then saying she wasn’t?” Harbord ceased his uneasy movements and came to a halt on the hearth-rug.

  “What would she have wanted to kill the man for?”

  Stoddart shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know? Jealousy perhaps. Rumour says she and Saunderson had been pretty thick, and you can never tell what a jealous woman will do – or man, either. But I don’t believe she did it. Not, mind you,” he added quickly, “that she doesn’t know something she doesn’t want to let out, and Lord Medchester too, for that matter, but neither of them, in my opinion, murdered Robert Saunderson.’’

  He paused to light a cigarette, and the other waited expectantly.

  “You remember Lord Medchester’s account of that last interview he had with the superintendent? Mayer had got hold of something important – we don’t know how or what as yet – and, although he said it might lead to nothing, he had already declared in conversation with Mrs. Yates at the lodge that his promotion on the strength of it was pretty well assured. According to her, he was in fine spirits – ‘fresh’ she called it – so much so that if it hadn’t been so early in the day she might have thought he had been having a drop!”

  Harbord nodded, but said nothing.

  “Mayer was a Holford man,’’ Stoddart went on, “that’s to say born and bred at Holford, although he’d been at Medchester for some time. You know how it is in the country – the place looking on the squire as a little tin god. Lord Medchester owns half the countryside round here, and was a magistrate on the Bench. Do you think” – he paused impressively – ”that if the evidence he had got hold of implicated Lady Medchester he’d have gone bald-headed to the Hall – to use the phone or for any other reason? You bet not! The man would have been beside himself with not knowing what to do – torn between his duty and disinclination. He’d have gone back to the police station rather than face Lord Medchester in the first flush of such information. He’d want to think it over.”

  Harbord nodded slowly. “I see what you mean, and he was on the point of telling Lord Medchester, according to the latter’s account, what it was he had found out – would have, in fact, if he hadn’t thought better of it, and was in good spirits about it too. No” – he shook his head – “whatever it was that had come to his knowledge it wasn’t that Lady Medchester had shot Robert Saunderson. I grant you that.”

  They were both silent. Then Harbord added: “Funny to think that what’s written on a chap’s brain is no use to anybody else.”

  Stoddart smiled. “When he’s dead, you mean? Exasperating too. Half a dozen words either to Lord Medchester or Mrs. Yates might have saved us weeks of hard work and brought a criminal to justice. But there it is. Must have been something he heard, or there would surely have been some record of it. But whom did he hear it from?”

  “He got it, whatever it was, before he met with Miss Delauney, or it might have been connected with her.”

  Stoddart shook his head. “No, he got it, whatever it was, before he ran up against her.” He paused. “There’s another reason why we can rule Lady Medchester out. Whoever it was shot Saunderson, shot Mayer – all the evidence points that way. The poor chap had got something that would have given us a line on the crime, and the murderer knew it. Well, at the time Mayer was shot Lady Medchester was in her room, putting on her hat to go out for the day. I got it from the lady’s maid without her knowing what I was after. A perfectly good alibi this time all right.” He rose and laid a hand on the ancient bell-pull hanging beside the fireplace. “Talking’s thirsty work, Alfred. What do you say to a mug of Mrs. Marlow’s ale?”

  “I’ve known worse,” the other assented heartily. “I wish it would put something into our heads that would give us a line on this tangle.”

  He waited till an old-fashioned toby jug, crowned with bubbling foam, and a couple of pewter tankards stood on the table between them and then he resumed.

  “If – remember I say if – Miss Delauney’s story is true – it savours a bit too much of the film to please me – then one question that’s been worrying us might find an answer. That is, what brought Robert Saunderson back to Holford when, his visit having come to an end, he had ostensibly left it for good?”

  The other nodded. “Yes; that struck me too. If Saunderson was mixed up, so to speak, with Harold Courtenay and his sister, he could have arranged a meeting with either or both in the summer-house on the Q.T. From what we have discovered about Saunderson he might well want to keep the business as secret as possible – and if it was meeting a lady he’d hardly expect her to travel up to London to meet him.”

  “I wonder how much Burford knows?” Stoddart took a pull at the tankard and wiped his lips before speaking.

  “I’ve wondered that before now. He married Miss Courtenay in the middle of it all, which looks as if he thought her innocent, anyway.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of her so much as I was of him. His alibi is all right the night Saunderson was shot; but if Miss Delauney’s story is correct he may have got a line on what Mayer knew that might implicate his wife. His movements on the day Mayer was shot are open to question. He says he was away on the downs that morning, and one of the stablemen testifies to having taken his horse from him when he came in. But the man can’t swear to where he’d been to, and no one else either – so far as I can make out. So long as there appeared to be nothing to bring him into this business, I only looked into his movements on general principles, as one might say. But if this story is true, and Saunderson was using his hold over young Courtenay as a lever for forcing his sister into marrying him? He didn’t do it himself perhaps, but Michael Burford comes into it good and plenty!”

  “Gives him a motive, don’t you see? Miss Anne Courtenay was engaged to marry Mr. Michael Burford, and if the latter had got an inkling of how the land lay – well, any man might see red and even things up. His alibi may be sound, but the motive’s there all right.”

  Harbord looked doubtful.

  “When a line of inquiry is more or less perfunctory,” Stoddart continued, “one may accept a plausible alibi at its face value. But if – we must still say if – in Mr. Burford’s case, motive can be proved, weak spots in an alibi become apparent and a more rigid investigation becomes necessary. For instance, on pushing the matter further, if it should transpire the evidence of the helper is based only on the fact that Mr. Burford said he had only been on the downs it means nothing; it’s easy for him to have been to Holford in the time.”

  “Miss Delauney’s story has got to be proved,” Harbord objected. “We’ve only got her word for what Saunderson is supposed to have told her at the night-club, and even if that part’s true we don’t know for certain that he was talking about the Courtenays.”

  Stoddart rose. “Right you are,” he said with a sigh, “it’s a baffling case. So many in it – or seems so – and all of them slippery as eels. But there’s one thing, Alfred,” he said, turning to the other, who had also risen, “you remember those beads? I didn’t let anything about them come out at the inquest, and Mrs. Burford isn’t likel
y to have talked.”

  “Well, what about them?” Harbord asked, his eyes brightening with interest.

  “I’ve got a notion about those beads,” Stoddart said thoughtfully. “Can’t tell you why, but I have an idea somebody knows more about them than she lets on.”

  “Who?” Harbord shot the question at him.

  “Lady Medchester,” was the answer, “and I am going to make it my business to find out. Presumably in her room with a headache, and the same lady seen by Garwood near the summer-house that evening, are two different propositions.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Anne Burford sat with her hands before her, staring into the empty grate.

  Life that had seemed so full of promise, of which in Michael Burford’s love she thought she had plucked its fairest blossom, was withering into Dead Sea fruit in her mouth. She rose every morning with a dead weight of misery to be faced; went to bed at night thankful another day was safely past.

  It had nothing to do with Michael. He was all she had pictured him, a kind, thoughtful, loving husband. Busy all day – and she hated an idle man – in the stables, superintending the morning gallops over the smooth, green uplands crowned with heather and stretching away to the west, often occupied in the office with the business side of his calling, or interviewing applicants that had to be dealt with personally, she had no wish to intrude her own worries and anxieties. Indeed, she felt it would not be of much use if she did, for unless she made a clean breast of it, telling him everything – everything – he would not be really in a position to help her.

  He knew something. He believed Harold had not committed the murder. But how could she tell him to what extent her brother had been involved in the events of that evening without betraying the fact that he had been willing to sacrifice his sister’s lifelong happiness for his own salvation? How could she tell him that?

  The more immediate worry was her prospective sister-in-law, Sybil Stainer.

  How much did she know about the affair of that night – and how little? The latter point was of almost as much importance as the first, for Anne had a suspicion that half Miss Stainer’s insinuations were pure bluff; and bluff when applied to a guilty conscience may go far.

  Whatever it was she had found out it was something that mattered, something that had put Minnie Medchester, Harold, herself, and who knew how many more, in her power. As far as she herself was concerned, she knew well enough what she feared. If she only had the courage to demand an explanation, or to defy her openly, it might prove that Sybil Stainer was banking on some slight negligible trifle, enough to give her an inkling of more lying behind, but not enough to justify putting on the screw in the way she was doing, and apparently doing so successfully. If Anne had had nothing to hide – and, oh, how bitterly she wished she had not – she might possibly have been in a position to burst Sybil Stainer’s bubble by a few well-directed questions.

  She was not afraid for Harold, as circumstances were at the moment. The future Lady Gorth would have no wish to bring discredit in any form on the man whom she proposed to marry, and through whom she would be able to satisfy her dearest ambitions. Harold now could give her both wealth and position. And yet there must be some screw she could turn even in regard to Harold, some lever that could force him to fall in with her designs. For Anne had no doubt in her mind that this marriage was as distasteful to her brother as it was to the rest of the family, and she thanked God that her grandfather, with his pride and fine traditions, was at peace in a world to which it was to be hoped no Sybil Stainers were likely to gain admittance.

  But, if for some reason the marriage were to fall through, or Harold refuse to go through with it, what then? If the prospective satisfaction of personal ambition were to be changed into a desire for revenge, what would be the woman’s attitude? What was it she knew that could be turned into an effective weapon to be directed against Anne herself or her brother? Sitting there with miserable eyes staring in front of her, Anne knew well there was enough and to spare that she might know – the point was, what did she know?

  But to that there was no answer. The police, who should be regarded as friends by the innocent, had been transformed by circumstances into potential enemies. Once the events that had led to that assignation in the summer-house were known, and the relations between herself, her brother, and Robert Saunderson made clear, the police would see motive enough to hang a man twice over. He might have agreed to his sister’s sacrifice in the first dismay at his own position, but what more natural than that when actually faced with its accomplishment he should have taken any desperate means of frustrating it?

  She might herself believe – and did – in his innocence unswervingly, but it would be a different matter to get the police to see it in the same light. Also, if investigation were to be pushed to its limits, how was she going to exonerate herself?

  The sound of a motor-horn and the throb of a car outside, followed by a ring of the door-bell, brought her back to realities.

  The next moment Lady Medchester and Miss Stainer were announced. Anne felt thankful she was not called upon to face the latter alone.

  “For a newly married wife you don’t look over-happy, Anne,” Minnie Medchester remarked, with an attempt to give a free-and-easy tone to the conversation. “I hope it doesn’t portend a little rift in the matrimonial lute? I’ve brought Sybil over to see you. She’s got a message for you or something of the kind. First time I’ve been here since you were settled. Quite pretty’’ – she looked round appraisingly and sank into an armchair – “though a bit too bare of furniture for my taste. The last time I came you had hardly got the furniture arranged.’’

  “I am very happy, thank you,’’ Anne rejoined, successfully avoiding an attempt on Sybil’s part to implant a kiss on her cheek.

  “Your looks belie it then,” Miss Stainer sneered. “But we didn’t come, Minnie and I, to inquire after your health. I have brought a message from Harold.”

  Anne raised her eyebrows.

  I should have thought my brother might have been his own messenger,” she said coldly.

  “That’s a nice thing to say to his future wife! the girl he is going to be married to in two months time. It would serve you right if –”

  “Now, Sybil,” Lady Medchester interrupted,

  “Anne doesn’t mean to be disagreeable. It’s quite natural for a sister to be a bit jealous when her brother – her only brother – is going to be married.”

  “Do you approve of this marriage, Cousin Minnie?” Anne asked, looking directly at her guest.

  The colour rushed into Lady Medchester’s face and ebbed again.

  “Why insist on the ‘Cousin,’ Anne?” she said evasively. “You are a married woman now, and there are not so many years between us when all’s said and done. It makes me feel as if I had come out of the Ark.”

  “As ‘this marriage,’ as you call it, is going to take place from Holford Hall, you may take Minnie’s approval for granted,” Sybil said aggressively. “As Lady Gorth I shall have to live in this neighbourhood, and I intend to be treated decently by Harold’s relations. Let me tell you, Anne Burford,” her voice rising with her temper, “as Lady Gorth’s sister-in-law you may consider yourself to a certain degree safe from – you know what as well as I do. But, if anything should interfere with my marriage to your brother, I should have no more consideration for you or your family than that!” and she snapped her fingers as an inelegant indication of contempt.

  “Now, Sybil,” Lady Medchester remonstrated, “what’s the use of getting excited about it? Anne will be all right when the time comes. You can’t expect Harold’s relations to be overjoyed about his marriage to – to –” She broke off awkwardly, finding herself getting into deep water. “Well, as Lord Gorth he might have married an American heiress and brought a bit of money into the family. He’ll want it before he’s paid off the death duties.’’

  “It’s always the way – when a girl does well for herself, everybody’s do
wn upon her. What’s Lord Gorth or his precious sister either, I should like to know, that they should turn up their noses at me? The Stainers are as good as they are any day. When I’m Lady Gorth they’ll all be ready enough to eat out of my hand! I know them!”

  Anne winced at the blatant vulgarity, and even Lady Medchester put up a restraining hand.

  “Come, Sybil, don’t talk such stuff. Goodness knows I’m doing the best I can for you – the wedding to be from Holford, and your brother to stay for the night and give you away. What more do you want?”

  “And Lord Medchester swearing he will have business in town that day and won’t appear at the wedding – and he head of the family!” Sybil replied angrily.

  “Nonsense! Harold’s head of his own family now, and you will have nothing to complain of.” She rose. “Give Anne your message, and let’s get back. It’s getting late.”

  Miss Stainer, who was already regretting a loss of temper out of harmony with her claim to have the whip-hand, pulled herself together.

  “It will be much wiser of you to be friends, Anne.” The girl she addressed winced at the use of her Christian name. “I am not one to bear malice – but I mean to have my rights.”

  “Give the message, Sybil, and come along,” Lady Medchester urged.

  “Harold says it will be better if you and he don’t meet at present,” Sybil said with slow satisfaction. “The fact is, he doesn’t like your attitude with regard to his marriage – and me. He thinks the less you see of one another the more likely you are to keep the peace. Harold doesn’t mean to stand any nonsense about his future wife, I can tell you!” And with a curt nod she followed Lady Medchester to the waiting car.

  Hardly had the sound of it died away in the distance before the door-bell rang again, and Anne, with a gesture of impatience and an effort to resume her ordinary demeanour after the trying interview with her late visitors, found herself confronted by Inspector Stoddart, this time alone. She felt unprepared, and at the appeal in her eyes even the stem eyes of the law appreciably softened.