Chapter Eleven
The Insurance Policy
INSPECTOR HINTON timed his arrival at the Talgarth Arms so that it coincided with the serving of the last course in the hotel’s modest table d’hôte dinner. He watched the waiter take in the visitors’ coffee; and then, with his eye on his watch, he made conversation with the landlord until he judged that his victims had reached a stage when they would be most tractable in his hands. He was a hearty trencherman himself, and he knew from experience the lenitive effect of a good dinner.
“Thanks,” he said to the landlord. “That’s the very thing. And you’ll see we aren’t disturbed in there? It won’t take long.”
The landlord nodded, and Hinton turned to the waiter who was near by.
“You go in now, Joe, and say that Inspector Hinton—mind you say Inspector Hinton; don’t say just ‘a gentleman’—say that Inspector Hinton presents his compliments and would be glad of the favour of a few minutes’ conversation with them on important business. Now just repeat that, to make sure you’ve got it right.”
It was not mere vanity which dictated this emphasis on his official status. If this interview was to start in the proper atmosphere, it was essential that these people should realise at once that they were dealing with a man in authority and not with some mere village constable. It was a similar idea which had led him to borrow the landlord’s own sitting-room for the interview. As there were no other guests in the hotel, one of the public rooms would have been free enough from intrusion; but in that case Hinton would have had to present himself to the strangers. It was better to receive them on his own ground, as it were, in a private room.
“I understand well enough. I’m to say you’re Inspector Hinton and not a gentleman,” Joe assured him rather ambiguously. “And suppose they say they’ll see you?”
“Then ask them to be so good as to step into the private sitting-room here. I’ll be waiting for them,” Hinton ordered.
As Joe set off on his errand, the inspector turned back to the landlord.
“What are they like, to look at?” he asked.
“One of them’s a little reddish-haired Scotchman with a close-clipped moustache. His name’s Templand. The other one’s clean-shaven and thin, in a grey suit, name of Kirkstall. Templand’s the boss. He gives the orders and the other man agrees or says nothing.”
“All right. Send ’em in,” said the inspector, going towards the sitting-room.
Hinton had evidently gauged his time accurately, for in a few moments the waiter ushered the two officials into the room. Hinton came forward as they entered.
“Mr. Templand, I think? And Mr. Kirkstall? Will you sit down?”
He busied himself with chairs to emphasise that he was taking the position of host. When they were seated, he glanced at his watch, estimated how much time he had in hand, and plunged at once into business.
“I think you gentlemen represent an insurance company?”
“The Mersey and Midland,” Templand explained in a pleasant voice. His faint Scots burr and a peculiar running up and down from note to note during a sentence betrayed his nationality beyond any doubt, but neither characteristic was marked enough to be jarring to southern ears.
“Quite so.” Hinton’s nod suggested that he already knew the identity of the company. “And I believe you’re down here in connection with the death of Mr. John Brandon? Exactly.”
He paused for a moment or two, and then went on in a deliberate tone:
“I’m looking into that affair myself.”
It had been on the tip of his tongue to add: ‘So we might join forces,’ but he refrained at the last moment. His game was to make the offer come from their side. That would make it easier to get information from them. He noted a momentary lifting of Templand’s eyebrows, then a swift exchange of glances between the two officials, and he congratulated himself on having won the first trick.
Templand leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, took his chin between finger and thumb, and seemed to reflect for a second or two. The other man, evidently subordinate, waited with obvious interest for his chief’s pronouncement.
“Then you think the coroner’s jury brought in a wrong verdict?” Templand demanded with a sharp glance at the inspector’s impassive face.
“No,” Hinton said grudgingly,” they brought in a verdict in accordance with the evidence given before them. But they hadn’t all the evidence before them.”
Templand’s attitude remained unchanged, but his eyes suddenly became alert.
“What evidence was there that didn’t come out?” he demanded. “You understand, of course, that this may be a matter of some importance to my company?”
The offhand tone in the last sentence did not deceive the inspector. For a policy to be “a matter of some importance” to an insurance company, it must run into thousands and not mere hundreds. And when sums of such magnitude crop up in connection with a death by shooting . . .
“One bit of evidence that didn’t come out before the jury was this very policy of yours,” Hinton pointed out quietly.
Templand admitted this with a gesture. As though to give himself time for consideration, he produced a cigarette-case, offered it to the inspector, then with studied deliberation lit a cigarette himself and drew a few puffs before speaking again.
“We don’t want to pay any claim where there’s a doubt,” he said at last in a judicial tone. “A big claim least of all. Now in this Brandon case, there’s the verdict of the coroner’s jury—‘Accidental death.’ If that stands, we may have to pay.”
The inspector noted the ‘may’ in the last sentence. Evidently there was a catch somewhere, apart altogether from the manner in which young Brandon came by his death. He forebore to interrupt, however. Templand studied the coil of smoke rising from his cigarette and paused for a few moments before continuing.
“We’re not wholly satisfied about this claim. I may tell you in confidence. There’s a technical point. . . . But that can wait till later. If we had any reason to suppose that this death was still a subject of inquiry, we have the means of staving off payment for the time being. It’s a mere matter of dilatory correspondence, consulting the head office at every turn, and so forth. We can play for time easily enough, provided that it’s worth our while to do so.”
He threw a quizzical glance at his subordinate, who suppressed a smile. Evidently, Hinton inferred, they already had their plans cut and dried for this part of the campaign, if it came to the pinch.
“Now you turn up,” Templand pursued. “You’re not satisfied in your own mind, evidently, or you wouldn’t be here. That means there’s something fishy, to put it bluntly, in the affair. Common sense, that, and nothing more. Very well, then, let’s see if we can’t arrange something to the advantage of both parties. Tell us what’s made you suspicious about the affair, and I’ll give you the story of this claim, which is . . . well, curious in some ways. Neither of us stands to gain by giving anything away in public at this stage. My company wouldn’t thank me for any scandal until we’re sure of our ground. That’s common sense. So you can see for yourself that anything you tell us now will go no farther. You’re quite safe there. Up to a point, our interests are identical. That’s obvious. Now is it a bargain?”
Inspector Hinton paused before answering, but his hesitation had nothing to do with the acceptance or rejection of Templand’s proposal. He was making a swift mental survey of the evidence and picking out those particular pieces which had a bearing on the insurance problem. The rest he intended to keep to himself. Finally he gave the insurance officials the points about the missing blood-stain, Hay’s precipitate departure, and Laxford’s professed ignorance of his guest’s address.
“And I gather, from information received,” he concluded, “that other people at Edgehill—not the Laxfords—were under the impression that Hay came down to visit Laxford himself and not young Brandon. It was Laxford who met Hay at the station. Young, Brandon didn’t turn up till lun
ch—he’d been out shooting all morning—and one of the maids, who saw them meet, says that Laxford introduced the two of them as if they were total strangers.”
Templand listened intently to the inspector’s account, and when it was complete he gave Hinton a shrewd glance.
“I think I see what’s in your mind,” he said, choosing his phrases with obvious care. “We needn’t put it into words, need we? That’s common sense, at this stage. Now I’ll give you our side of the affair. Mr. Kirkstall has copies of the documents with him, so I can give you chapter and verse. Of course,” he added, “I’m depending on your discretion in the matter.”
“I must be able to use the main facts if it comes to a pinch,” Hinton pointed out, “otherwise the stuff’s no use to me.”
Templand considered this carefully.
“You can use the facts, so long as you don’t quote me as your authority. But opinions are a different story. I don’t want mine quoted in any shape or form. That’s agreed?”
Hinton nodded his acceptance of the conditions, and Kirkstall took from a despatch-case some sheets of paper which he handed over to Templand.
“I’ll begin right at the beginning,” Templand said, putting on a pair of reading-glasses and selecting one of the papers from the bundle. “This is the first communication we had from Mr. Laxford. It’s dated 23rd July, and it’s addressed to our head office in Liverpool. Most of our business is done in the Midlands, you understand. My office in London is merely a branch office dealing with southern business. Under our system, this letter of Mr. Laxford’s was sent on to me, with instructions to take the matter up as it was in my district. As you can see”—he handed the copy to the inspector—“it’s an inquiry as to the terms for an insurance on the life of John Brandon for the sum of £50,000.”
“Phew!” ejaculated the inspector, his eyebrows rising despite himself at the magnitude of the figure. If anything came of this Edgehill affair, that £50,000 would make a fine headline in the newspapers. That, in itself, would make it a ‘big case,’ sure enough. He controlled his features, but underneath the surface he was all exultation. This, if it came to anything, would be a chance in a thousand for him.
“I needn’t bother you with the routine part of the correspondence,” Templand went on, turning over one or two sheets on the table before him. “We—the London office, that is—wrote to Mr. Laxford on 25th July, quoting terms for this proposed policy; and on 27th July Mr. Laxford wrote to me, making an appointment at my office on the following day.”
“That’s for 28th July?”
“Yes. On the morning of 28th July, Mr. Laxford called at my office. I’ve no notes of the conversation between us. It was rather long and a bit involved, I may say; but I can give you the gist of it as it struck me. The first point that cropped up was the form of the insurance. It turned out that Mr. Laxford wanted a policy for £50,000 on John Brandon’s life, in the name of Mrs. Laxford.”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Hinton. “You mean that Mrs. Laxford was to pay the premiums and that if Brandon died she was to get £50,000 from you?”
“Precisely,” Templand agreed. “Now in a case of that sort, there must be what we call an ‘insurable interest.’”
“Wait a moment,” Hinton interrupted again. “I want to be quite clear about this. Do you mind explaining exactly what the point is?”
“Take a concrete case,” Templand replied. “Suppose you came to me and wanted a £50,000 policy on the life of Mr. Kirkstall here. The first question we’d ask you would be this: ‘If Mr. Kirkstall dies to-morrow, what do you stand to lose by his death?’ You couldn’t prove that you stood to lose anything, either financially or in your prospects. So we’d turn down your proposal without more ado. You’ve got no insurable interest in Mr. Kirkstall’s life.”
“Quite so,” the inspector agreed. “I suppose that’s intended to block out the chance of X insuring Y’s life and then cutting Y’s throat so as to collect the insurance money.”
Templand refused to rise to this bait. He glanced at his watch like a man pressed for time, and continued his narrative.
“When the proposal was put to me in that form, the first thing I had to ascertain was whether an insurable interest existed or not. If there was none, then the matter was done with. I put this to Mr. Laxford. What was Mrs. Laxford’s interest in young Brandon’s life? He gave me a very long and involved story about the Brandon estate, which wasn’t much to the point, I thought. It seemed that the estate was entailed so that the present tenant, young Brandon’s father, couldn’t sell it to pay his debts. An insurance company, the Osprey, had taken a mortgage on old Brandon’s life-interest and had been driven to foreclose, so that the old man was left without any income except what they allowed him, more or less out of charity. Mr. Laxford left me with the impression that he was a trustee for young John Brandon and that negotiations were afoot to regularise the whole position. Mrs. Laxford had an estate of her own and she was going to advance money to pay off the Osprey people and get control of the Brandon estate on behalf of young Brandon; and in some way or other she was to be recouped for her outlay later on. In the meanwhile, this policy of £50,000 was needed to safeguard her in the case of John Brandon dying before the negotiations came to a head. That was the gist of the business, so far as I was concerned, and I paid little attention to the details of Mr. Laxford’s story except in so far as they concerned this question of insurable interest.”
“Laxford told you he was a trustee?” the inspector inquired, merely to show that he was following closely.
“He left that impression on my mind,” Templand replied in a rather puzzled tone, “but I can’t recall his exact words. He certainly gave me the idea that he was a trustee, and I gathered also that he was acting as guardian to young Brandon. ‘In charge of him’ was perhaps the way he put it. I can’t remember the actual words, but it amounted to that. He must have said something of the sort, for that was the first inkling I had that young Brandon was under age then. It hardly concerned me at the moment. All this, you understand, was a mere preliminary canter. We had no proposal before us in black and white. I gave him the proposal form, and he went away.”
“That finished the interview on the 28th July?” Hinton asked, looking up from the notebook in which he had been scribbling industriously.
“Yes. Next day we received by post the completed form, signed by Diana Laxford—Mrs. Laxford—making a proposal for a policy of £50,000 on John Brandon’s life. In our form there is a demand: ‘State the nature of the interest in the life proposed to be insured.’ The answer given by Mrs. Laxford was simply: ‘For value received, and to cover advances made and liabilities incurred in connection with the Brandon estate.’”
“Ah!” said the inspector.
He had only the vaguest idea whither all this was tending; but the bank manager’s manner made it clear that there was more to come.
“On the same day, 29th July,” Templand continued, turning over another sheet, “we wrote to Mr. Laxford pointing out that this statement in the proposal form was far too vague to enable us to decide whether or not Mrs. Laxford had any insurable interest in John Brandon’s life; and we asked for full details under the three heads mentioned in the proposal form.”
Templand paused to light a fresh cigarette before continuing.
“Mr. Laxford evidently took time to think over the matter. We got his reply on August 3rd. Here’s a copy of it. Instead of giving the information we asked for, he simply withdraws the proposal in his wife’s name. That finished the first transaction, and I was rather glad to see the end of it, personally. One gets these ideas,” he added, as though anxious to minimise his half-involuntary confession.
“We had another letter from Mr. Laxford on August 5th,” he continued. “It’s merely a request for a blank proposal form for the case of a man insuring his own life. That was sent on to him; and on August 7th it was returned completed, signed by John Brandon. The policy in this case was to be a £2
5,000 one. I had to consult my head office about that. I’m not supposed to take as big a risk as that on my own responsibility. That caused some delay, but on August 7th I wrote Mr. Laxford saying we were prepared to accept the proposal, subject to having Mr. Brandon passed by two doctors, since the insurance was a big one. There was a day or two more delay. Mr. Brandon had sprained his ankle and couldn’t come up to London for his medical examination. Eventually he and Mr. Laxford came by appointment on August 15th. Two doctors examined him and found no fault except the effects of the sprain, which were pretty obvious. In fact, one of the doctors mentioned that to me afterwards and said young Brandon should never have been up in town with a sprain like that. He might have got caught in the traffic and not been quick enough on his feet. However, so far as we were concerned, everything was in order.”
“You saw them together on that day,” the inspector asked. “What sort of terms were they on, did you notice?”
“Oh, very friendly, so far as one could see. You’re thinking of some compulsion or other? I saw nothing to suggest it. Young Brandon seemed in high spirits, and I gathered that they were going to some show or other before they went home again.”
“I see, I see,” said Hinton. “Please go on.”
“One thing I remember,” Templand continued. “While John Brandon was being examined by the doctors, Mr. Laxford spent the time with me. He asked me when I could arrange to hand over the policy. Would there be any delay? My recollection is that he was specially anxious to have everything in order as soon as possible. If I’m not mistaken he wanted it before the end of August. I’m pretty sure about that point. Then he wanted to know when the risk would be on, apart from the actual preparation of the policy. I told him that our risk begins as soon as the first premium is actually paid. He seemed quite satisfied with this. Then he began to discuss the premium. John Brandon had filled in a form for an insurance ‘with profits’ and Mr. Laxford wanted to know what the corresponding premium would be ‘without profits.’ I explained that ‘with profits’ the premium was £1 19s. 4d. per cent, whilst ‘without profits’ it would be £1 11s. 2d. per cent. We worked out the total premium for the two cases and it came to £491 13s. 4d. on the policy ‘with profits’ and £389 11s. 8d. on the ‘without profits’ policy. He considered the figures for a moment or two. I remember. Then he said he thought John Brandon had made a slip. What was wanted was a policy ‘without profits.’ I said that could be rectified easily enough. It only meant filling in the proper form and tearing up the other one. He said he thought that was the best thing to do, and Brandon could fill in the fresh form when he came back from the doctor. Then he said he thought that the premium was pretty big. Would we take it in half-yearly instalments? There was no objection to that.”
The Ha-Ha Case Page 18
