Black Widow

by S. Fowler Wright

  He sat there during the evening hours, absorbing as much gossip and as little beer as the circumstances allowed, and then went to put up for the night at the Station Inn.

  As the hours of the evening passed he had learnt much of the local gossip, including some facts about Mr. Redwin and the occupants of Bywater Grange which Inspector Pinkey was never likely to hear, and had formed a (quite erroneous) theory of why Mr. Wheeler desired to rid the district so promptly of the ex-secretary’s presence. He developed at least three excellent plans for securing that result during the night, which are best unmentioned, lest this narrative should reach the hands of those who might use them to more mischievous ends. And in the morning he descended to make the acquaint­ance of his destined victim, and saw, at the first glance, that he had been wasting his time, for this was a case where his subtler ingenuities would not be needed.

  He stood at the door of the breakfast room, at the table of which Mr. Redwin was seated. Redwin was aware that someone had entered, but did not trouble to turn his head. He was in no mood to encourage strangers to conversation, being one of those who wake with an evil mind, even though it may mellow somewhat in the later hours of the day; and he was vexed that Monday was now drawing so near, while he had still been unable to devise a plan which would be decisive for Lady Denton’s undoing without landing him in the witness box, if not the dock. Very different places in themselves, but which, he knew, might prove to be singularly alike to him.

  He was just putting the last rasher of bacon on to his plate, and considering the difficulties of his position with a scowling countenance, when a voice at his elbow said, in the language of politeness as it is practised in a Bloomsbury lodging house: “After you with the salt.”

  He passed the salt cellar mechanically to the man who had sat down beside him, and as he did so recognition came to his eyes. He stared a moment at Mr. Bedford in an obvious consternation, and then controlled himself to say, with an outward aspect of geniality: “Hullo, Rogers. Where have you sprung from?”

  “Hullo, Timothy,” Bedford responded, with a cordi­ality which was less difficult but equally insincere. “Same to you.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Mr. Redwin protested in an anxious undertone. “I’ve not used that name for five years. Redwin’s my name now.”

  “Mr. Redwin,” Bedford replied, with a slight accent on the name, in which he appeared to find some humour which a listener might have been unable to share, “I’ll give you an hour to clear out before I tell the police.”

  Redwin went pale at the threat, though he thought it to be no more than a matter of settling the price which would leave him free. “I don’t see,” he said, “what good you’d get out of that. What about fifty quid?”

  Mr. Bedford’s expression was one of undisturbed good humour as he replied: “I’ll give you half an hour to get out of here before I tell the police.”

  “What about two fifties?”

  Mr. Bedford seemed to enjoy the conversation more than ever. “I’ll give you ten minutes,” he said, “to clear out before I phone the police.”

  Mr. Redwin stared in a bewildered and frightened silence, not daring another bid in a form of auction at which he was losing so rapidly. Did the man mean what he said? They looked at each other, and a measure of understanding must have entered Mr. Redwin’s mind. The execution of a warrant for embezzlement, issued against him in the name of Timothy Forsyth, which he had successfully evaded for five difficult but not unprosperous years, was not to be lightly risked, even for Lady Denton’s undoing. He saw that it might be something more than a casual coincidence which had brought the one-time bookmaker’s tout to his elbow now. He dared not speak again, lest the allotted time should be further reduced. He gulped down his coffee and got up to go. Five minutes later he strolled out of the inn, hoping, as he did so, that the proprietor would notice nothing singular in the fact that he should go out on Sunday morning carrying a suitcase that showed evidence of having been closed with difficulty. His exit was unobserved and unobstructed, and after walking a short distance along the London road, he stopped a coach which put him down at Oxford Circus in time for an early lunch.

  Mr. Bedford paid his bill, feeling that there was no reason to incur the expense of a second night. He wondered how soon the proprietor would become aware that Mr. Redwin’s account was not destined to be balanced in the same way. But (he reflected with satisfaction) the man had probably left enough luggage to straighten that out.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  Having observed the exit of Mr. Redwin, it is necessary to return to the events of Friday, when Adelaide Denton had been writing to Mr. Wheeler, while the Inspector was returning to the police station from the offices of Forbes and Fisher.

  On arriving there he, had called up Scotland Yard, and the result of a few minutes’ conversation was such that he decided to return to headquarters immediately.

  He sent a messenger to Bywater Grange to collect his suitcase, and with a brief note to Lady Denton to say that he had to go up to London, but expected to return on Monday.

  Lady Denton, who thought that she had overcome his unwillingness to remain longer at the Grange (as, at the moment, she had), was surprised and not entirely pleased when she read this, for she was one who would rather be in contact with any danger that might beset her than that it should be withdrawn from sight while its existence continued. She saw also that there was a possible menace, either to herself or her brother-in-law, in this withdrawal; for the Inspector might dislike the idea of remaining a guest in the house, if he were now occupied definitely in completing the evidence which would enable him to advise the arrest of one of its inmates.

  To Gerard Denton, however, the news had a better sound, for it was the loathed presence of the Inspector which broke his nerves, and made the overhanging shadow blacker and more imminent than it would otherwise have been. Even the ordeal that was before him on Monday evening receded somewhat, and seemed less formidable, as he realized that he could come to meals without the hated presence of that red-headed policeman appearing opposite to spoil the flavour of all he ate.

  The decision which the Inspector had made may have been influenced by a natural reluctance to strain further the hospitality of a house which, as he was increasingly persuaded in his own mind, must contain the murderer whom it was his duty to run to earth, but this was certainly not the decisive consideration, and he would have put his own feelings, and even what some might consider to be the elementary decencies of human conduct, finally aside had he thought that his immediate object would have been advanced by a longer residence there.

  But the fact was that he had come to a point at which he was disposed to report the difficulty of the position to his superiors, and to take counsel with, and instructions from them, rather than the undivided responsibility either of advising that Superintendent Trackfield had been right in his intention of arresting Lady Denton, in which case the warrant would at once have been issued, or that Gerard Denton were the more probable culprit, on which it was almost equally certain that his arrest would promptly follow.

  Without entirely dismissing the possibilities either of suicide, or of an unnamed and unsuspected criminal, he yet considered the difficulties of those solutions to be so great, and the circumstantial evidence against Gerard and Lady Denton so strong, that he would probably have advised the arrest of either but for the presence of the other upon the scene, or in the neighbourhood of the crime.

  As an abstract proposition, he saw that the suspicion against the wife of the murdered man was, in some aspects, the simpler, stronger case, and would have been decidedly so had he been able to discover any adequate motive, or even develop a plausible theory as to what motive there might have been.

  And when the question of motives engaged his mind, the scale would tilt in a provoking manner, for, if Gerard were innocent, what adequate reason had he for the way in which he had bribed the boy? And did not the very fact that he could still consider the possibili
ty of Gerard being the actual murderer—and of the boy and him being now in the conspiracy of a common lie—show that the case against Lady Denton was less than proved, even to the logic of his own mind? Or was it only that he was subconsciously influenced by the fact that Lady Denton was an attractive woman, and Gerard Denton a most unattractive man?

  But one thing was plain. For him to advise an arrest which should afterwards appear to have been a mistake, would be a blot on his reputation which ten years of subsequent successes would not entirely remove, and which would be unforgotten until the day when he should retire, and beyond that. It might be the single incident by which his name would continue in the memory of the Yard. The reflection led him, by a widely different path, to Mr. Wheeler’s conclusion, that it was a case which could best be left to the irresponsible guessing of a coroner’s jury, men who could wrangle and differ, and perhaps decide at last by the chance of a spun coin, in the seclusion of their own room, and depart namelessly, without concern for the consequences their verdict bore.

  But in any event the sole responsibility must not be his. He must report in such a way that he would be able to throw the responsibility as far as possible upon his superiors, and in such a form that it could not afterwards be said that he had failed to present any factor of the problem, the importance of which he should have appreciated while on the spot.

  With these thoughts in his mind, supported by the fact that he had no evident line of further enquiry to follow, until the time should come for that distasteful appointment with Redwin on Monday afternoon, and with a natural inclination to spend the weekend at Balham with a waiting wife, even the natural repugnance which he felt to remaining in a house where he was so clearly unwelcome may have been no more than a subordinate factor in the resolution that he had formed.

  Yet while the train ran Londonward, down the gradients of the Chiltern Hills, he was conscious of recovered freedom as he thought that he might have passed the gates of Bywater Grange for the last time, and of relief, as of one who opens a window to fresher air.

  He came back by an early train on Monday morning with a renewed confidence, having had his conduct of the investigation approved and his opinions confirmed. The fact that he had discovered the bribery of the gardener’s boy, and the deliberate omission in the statements which he and Gerard Denton had made, was sufficient to support the prestige of the Yard as against that of the rural constabulary; and he now had definite instructions to avoid the risk of a more radical error on his own side, by declining to advise an arrest, unless he should make some further discovery of a vital value. He was to take amended statements from both Gerard Denton and Tommy, and to examine carefully any evidence or theory that Redwin might put before him; but, unless he should then find that he had to deal with a radically different situation, he was to advise that the coroner should be notified by Superintendent Trackfield that the police had no intention of making an arrest on the information they already had, and that the adjourned inquest could therefore be held without more delay.

  Such an inquest would not only relieve the police of a difficult decision, it would have the advantage of requiring those who had been in the neighbourhood of the tragedy, other than directly suspected persons, to be further examined, publicly and on oath; and even those on whom suspicion might clearly lie could be invited to give such evidence, after being warned that they were not bound to incriminate themselves—and how often can a person who professes innocence afford to avail himself of so insidious a relief?

  He went at once to the police station and asked: “Any news?” when he met Superintendent Trackfield, without expectation of an affirmative reply.

  “No. I can’t say there’s much. Or not what looks that way to me. I saw Lady Denton at church yesterday. Charming as ever, and seems to be getting a good deal of sympathy. Gerard Denton—I’ve had a discreet watch kept upon him—went for a walk in the afternoon on the Loudwater road, and Briggs tells me that Bulger’s preached a very vigorous sermon on minding your own business, and believing less than you hear rather than more.

  “There’s a possible importance in the fact that Redwin hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning, and there’s a report that he got onto a London coach. I’m not sure that I ought not to have put someone on his track, but we’ve nothing against him officially, whatever we may believe him to be; and it’s seemed that nothing would drive him away, rather than that there should be any difficulty in keeping him here.”

  “Did he tell them he was going? I mean at the inn.”

  “No. They didn’t know till they noticed he wasn’t making his meals. And they’re sure he didn’t come in at night.”

  “Luggage gone?”

  “No—or, at least, not the bulk.”

  “Then you can be sure he’ll be back. It rather looks as though he’s gone off to get some evidence to put before us this afternoon. It would account for fixing it for today.”

  “Yes, there’s something in that—”

  “I’ve been talking things over at the Yard, and we don’t see that there’s a sufficiently certain case against either Gerard or Lady Denton to advise an arrest, if we can’t get a bit more evidence than we have now. It seems likely enough that it was one of the two, but the question is which. It’s not as though they’d been doing burglary or any other illegal act, so that you could say it was between the two, and you didn’t need to go deeper than that. Of course, it may have been that the two were in collusion, but we want more evidence, or more theory of motive, than we have to sustain that. And if they had been, wouldn’t they have put up a better tale?”

  “I’ve always thought,” the Superintendent replied, “that the murder wasn’t deliberate, whoever did it. They wouldn’t have done it like that, with the boy weeding the drive outside. And that rather sits on the idea of collusion between the two.”

  “Perhaps it does, but if it wasn’t deliberate, what was it, when he was shot from behind with a gun taken out of his own drawer?”

  “Anyway, you don’t advise an arrest?”

  “Not off your own bat. Let the coroner get to work, and his jury’ll hold the baby more likely than not. That’s unless we get something worthwhile from Redwin this afternoon. But we’re to get Gerard Denton’s and the boy’s statements revised, and that reminds me to ring him up and make sure he’ll be coming in.”

  He called up Bywater Grange, asking to speak to Mr. Denton, but it was Lady Denton who answered the phone.

  “Yes,” she said, “is it anything I can do? He’s not down yet. He’s not very well.”

  “It was only to remind him that we are expecting him here at seven tonight, to get his statement a bit nearer to the facts as we have them now.”

  “Would an earlier hour be equally convenient?”

  “No, I’m afraid it wouldn’t. I’ve got another appointment this afternoon, and I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I’d forgotten that. I’ll remind him when he comes down.”

  “Thank you, Lady Denton. In his own interest, if I may speak plainly—”

  “Yes, I quite understand. You can depend on his being there.”

  She rang off rather promptly at that, as though not wishing the conversation to be further prolonged.

  “I should think,” Inspector Pinkey said thoughtfully, “she’s having a bit of trouble with that bounder. But she’ll have him here to time. There’s not much doubt about that. I don’t know which of them shot Sir Daniel—I wish I did—but there’s no doubt of who’s got the brains at Bywater Grange.”

  Lady Denton did have some difficulty with her brother-in-law. He came down to lunch, and when she told him of the telephone conversation he said moodily that he didn’t see why he should go, and he didn’t think that he would.

  The fact was that the Inspector’s absence since Friday had enabled Gerard Denton to put some particularly unpleasant thoughts more or less out of his mind, and he was very unwilling to permit their re-entrance. He had gon
e through life with a habit of evasion which had so far succeeded, at whatever negation of self­-discipline, in avoiding most of the acuter troubles and discomforts which are the common experience of those who play the game in a manlier way.

  Lady Denton’s delicate lip lifted slightly in contempt, as she answered: “You’d be an utter fool if you didn’t go. If you do, you’ve got nothing to fear. But, if you don’t, it’s like accusing yourself.”

  “I don’t see that I’ve got nothing to fear. I think I’m in a rotten hole, and if I go, I don’t know what they’ll get me to say.”

  “You’ve only got to tell the truth. That ought to be easy enough, even for you.”

  “Tell the truth?” Gerard Denton stared at her. “You don’t really want me to do that?”

  There was a moment’s silence between the two, and then Lady Denton answered coolly: “You know perfectly well what I mean. You haven’t got to say anything that they wouldn’t believe, and you needn’t make it look worse for me than the facts are that we can’t help, though it seems to me that you did that from the first, whether you meant it or not. You’ve only got to say what Tommy’s told them already, and they won’t get him to change. I’ve had a word with him myself about that.”

  “Yes, it’s easy for you to talk, but suppose they do get him to say something different? You don’t see that it’s worse for me than for you. They don’t hang women. It’d be fifteen years at the worst. I don’t see—”

  His voice died away before the fury of anger in Lady Denton’s eyes.

  “Are you proposing,” she asked, “that I should spend fifteen years in a filthy gaol because you.…” She checked herself abruptly, and ended: “…haven’t the courage, or nerve, or common sense of….” The sentence was unfinished again. She had regained her self-control when she said coldly: “If you don’t mind, Gerard, we won’t talk about this any more. There are times when you make me a little sick.”