The Plague Court Murders

by John Dickson Carr

  “There were some sheets of paper and a fountainpen on the floor,” I suggested. “Anything written?”

  “No such luck. Blank. Empty. Swept clean. And that’s all.”

  “So—now what?”

  “Now,” said Masters vigorously, “we interview our little tea-party. Bert’s taking charge outside, and we shan’t be interrupted. … Now, let’s get this straight, from my notebook. It was, h’m, I judge it was roughly half-past twelve when Bert and Mr. Halliday and I left you here reading this-this bosh, and went out front there. Miss Latimer thought something had happened to Halliday, and grabbed him when we got to the front hall. Then we went into the room where the rest of ’em were, Bert stopping outside, and I had a talk which was—” he scowled.

  “Abortive?”

  “Ah! I suppose so. Yes, I daresay. Anyhow, the old lady (as cool as you please) ordered me to hunt over the house for some chairs so’s they could all sit down. And I did. Blast her. … Besides, it was a good chance for a look round. The place is full of broken furniture. Then they slammed the door in my face; but we’d got young Joseph. Bert and I took him to a room across the hall from theirs, which is full of old junk, and we lit a candle and had a talk with Joseph. …”

  “Was he full of morphine then?”

  “No. But he needed it. He would sit quiet for a while, and then he’d jerk. He wouldn’t admit anything. But then, I can remember now, was when he got the morphine. He kept complaining about it being too warm, and rushed over to where it was dark and pretended to be trying to push the boards off a window. He wasn’t doing that, because when I went over after him I caught him putting something back in his inside pocket. … Oh, there was no rough stuff!” Masters added suspiciously. “Just a little, um, polite firmness. Ha. Well, I thought if it was dope, I’d give it a chance to work before I tackled him again. So I left him with Bert—who,” snapped Masters,

  “Who’s too bloody polite to be in the Force anyway,’ and I went out to have a thorough look round the house. That would have been about ten minutes to one, maybe more; but we hadn’t been much time.

  “I went out in the hall. The other room, where the five of ’em were, was quiet, and I thought it was dark. … But the front door was partly open. The big door, you know. The one we came in by.”

  His face was so portentous as he looked at me that I said:

  “Masters, this is nonsense! Surely nobody would dare, when there was a police officer just across the hall. … Besides, that big door was open when we arrived. Maybe the wind. …”

  “Ah!” growled the inspector. He tapped his chest. “That’s what I thought, too. I wasn’t paying any attention to these people inside; I had my eye on Darworth, you see. I wanted to queer a game of his, and so. … Well! I shut the door: firmly. Then I went upstairs to prowl. We’d thought, before, that you might get a better view of the house from a back upstairs window, but you couldn’t. And when I came downstairs, the front door was partly open again. I’d only a flashlight, but it was the first thing I spotted.”

  He knocked his fist on the work-bench. “I tell you, sir, alone in that place … I damned well got the wind up myself. If I’d only thought that somebody had designs on. Darworth … I went out the front door. …”

  “The place is muddy all around,” I suggested. “Footprints?”

  “There were no footprints whatever,” Masters returned quietly.

  We looked at each other. Even with the police in possession, with flash-powders exploding and reporters fighting for news, this house had become full of more monstrous and terrible things than existed in the letters I had read.

  “I went round the side of the house,” the inspector continued, “and I’ve told you what I saw and heard. Shadows inside. Darworth moaning or imploring. Then-the bell.”

  He paused, and let out a sound resembling, “Haa-ah!” as of a man finishing off a deep drink that has almost choked him. “Now, sir! Now! And here’s what I wanted to ask you. You tell me you heard somebody walking past your door, when you were sitting in this room reading? Yes. Well, then: which direction was it going? Was it going out towards the back yard, or returning from there?”

  The only answer was, or could be, “I don’t know.”

  He wheezed. “Because, if it was coming back to the house—I mean this house; the big one here—after, say, ‘visiting’ Darworth. … You see, I came round the side of the house into the back yard. I could see the back door, with the candlelight shining from here, I could even see the part of the yard towards me. … Then what kind of hell-bound thing is it that can walk out a front door, round through a muddy yard without leaving footprints; can kill Darworth in a stone jug of a house, and return here by the back door, and pass through candlelight without being seen?”

  During the ensuing silence he nodded curtly and went to the door. I could hear him addressing the constable he had sent up to the front room as a guard against the five suspects’ comparing notes. Vaguely I heard him giving instructions that Lady Benning was to be sent back here to our “council-room”; vaguely I wondered what my old Chief at the M.I.D., that rather great figure whom Featherton’s remark had put into my mind, would have thought of this muddle. “What kind of hell-bound thing is it that can …?” I looked up, to see Masters striding back.

  “If,” he said incertainly, “the old lady goes to pieces again, the way you say she did before—”

  He hesitated. His hand went slowly to his hip-pocket, and he took out that gunmetal flask, which in his own placid thoroughness he kept for the convenience of nervous believers at spiritist seances. He juggled it in his hand. His eyes eyes wore a curiously blank look. Along the passage we could hear someone limping towards the council-room, and the booming tones of a constable urging caution.

  “You drink it, Masters,” I said.

  CHAPTER X

  It is to Masters’ thoroughness that I am indebted for the actual word-for-word record of the testimony we received. Masters does not trust to brief notes. Into his fat notebooks you will find entered in shorthand every word spoken by the person he has questioned: except, of course, things obviously irrelevant. This is later deciphered, rearranged, and typed into a statement which he submits for the witness to initial. With his permission, I have got copies of these notes, filled in also with the questions he asked but did not write down at the time.

  These, then, constitute mere extracts from that vast jumble of talk: they are designedly incomplete, but they are submitted because they may be of interest to the puzzle-analyst, and for the significance of certain statements among them.

  The first is headed “Lady Anne Benning, widow; wife of the late Sir Alexander Benning, O.B.E.” It does not convey the atmosphere of that bleak room, where the spurious Watteau marquise faced Masters across the candles; with the clock-hands crawling towards four, and the stolid constable looming in the shadows behind, and outside the noise of Darworth’s body being dumped into a black van.

  She was even more hostile than before. They had given her a chair; the red cloak-lining gleamed again, and she sat upright with her jeweled hands clenched tightly in her lap. About her there was a sort of evil jauntiness. She moved her head as though she were looking for a place to touch Masters on the raw; the pouched eyes were half shut, and you could see wrinkles along the lids; and she still smiled. They went through the formalities without clashing, though Major Featherton—who insisted on accompanying her—had to be rather forcibly urged from the room. I can see her yet, lifting an eyebrow or hand slightly, and hear the thin chill metal of her voice.

  Q. Lady Benning, how long have you known Mr. Darworth?

  A. I really can’t say. Does it matter? Eight months, possibly a year.

  Q. How did you come to make his acquaintance?

  A. Through Mr. Theodore Latimer, if it matters. He told me of Mr. Darworth’s interest in the occult, and brought him to see me at my home.

  Q. Yes. And we understand that you’d bèen in what we’ll call a receptive
state for that sort of thing. Is that correct, Lady Benning?

  A. My dear man, I am not going to answer mere impertinences.

  Q. Just so. Did you know anything about Darworth?

  A. I knew, for instance, that he was a gentleman, and well-bred.

  Q. I mean, anything about his past life?

  A. No.

  Q. Did he tell you, in fact, something like this: That, though he was not a medium himself, he was intensely psychic; that he felt you had suffered a great bereavement, and influences were trying to get in touch with you; that he was the patron of a medium who he thought could help you? Did he, Lady Benning?

  A. (A long hesitation) Yes. But not at first, not for a long time. He was very sympathetic about James.

  Q. And a meeting with the medium was arranged?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Where?

  A. At Mr. Darworth’s house in Charles Street.

  Q. Were there many such meetings afterwards?

  A. Many (Here the witness began to show discomposure.)

  Q. Where, Lady Benning, you ‘got through’—so to speak—to Mr. James Halliday?

  A. For God’s sake, will you stop torturing me!

  Q. Sorry. You understand, ma’am, I have to do this. Did Mr. Darworth join the circle?

  A. Rarely. He said it disturbed him.

  Q. So that he was not in the room at all?

  A. No.

  Q. Did you know anything about the medium?

  A. No. (Hesitation.) Except that he was not altogether of sound mind. Mr. Darworth had discussed his case with the doctor in charge of the London League of Mercy for the mentally deficient. He told me how highly the doctor had praised James, and how much they thought of him. James used to send •50 yearly to the League. Mr. Darworth said it was only a small piece of thoughtfulness, but it was wonderful.

  Q. Just so. You made no inquiries about Mr. Darworth?

  A. No.

  Q. Ever give him money? No reply.

  Q. Was it a great deal of money, Lady Benning?

  A. My dear man, surely even you must have the intelligence to see that it is none of your business.

  Q. Who first suggested that Plague Court should be exorcised?

  A. (The witness spoke very strongly.) My nephew James.

  Q. I mean, who—Let’s say, among people who can be called more easily as witnesses, who first put the suggestion into audible English?

  A. Thank you so much for the correction. It was I.

  Q. What did Mr. Darworth think of it?

  A. He did not wish to do it at first.

  Q. But you convinced him?

  A. (The witness made no reply, but used the words ‘or said he didn’t,’ as though to herself.)

  Q. Does the name ‘Elsie Fenwick’ mean anything to you, Lady Benning?

  A. No

  This dialogue, as I remember it, contained nothing more than is set down in Masters’ notes. She had not rambled or digressed, even when she faltered; and she had definitely had the better of the exchange. Masters, I think, was coolly angry. When he said, “Now we come to tonight—” I expected on her part a quick watchfulness or tension. Nothing of the sort happened.

  Q. In this room a while ago, Lady Benning, after Mr. Blake had been speaking to Joseph Dennis, you made use of the expression, ‘Come into the front room, you, and ask which one of us killed Roger Darworth?’

  A. Yes.

  Q. What did you mean by it?

  A. Did you ever hear of sarcasm, sergeant? I simply supposed the police would be fools enough to think so.

  Q. But you don’t think so?

  A. Think what?

  Q. Frankly, that one of the five people in the front room murdered Mr. Darworth?

  A. No.

  Q. Will you please tell us, Lady Benning, what happened after the five of you closed the door and retired for your (a word erased and substituted in the notes) prayers?

  A. Nothing happened, in a psychic sense. We did not form a circle. We sat round the fireplace, and sat or knelt as we chose.

  Q. Was it too dark for you to see anybody?

  A. I dare say. The fire had gone out. I really did not notice.

  Q. Not notice?

  A. Oh, go away, you fool. My mind was on other things. Do you know what prayer is? Real prayer? If you did, you wouldn’t ask stupid questions.

  Q. Just so. You didn’t hear anything at all, then—a chair creaking—a door opening—somebody getting up—for example?

  A. No.

  Q. You are sure? No reply.

  Q. Did anyone speak between the time this, this vigil began and the time you heard the bell ringing?

  A. I heard nothing at all.

  Q. But you are not prepared to swear there was nothing of the kind?

  A. I am not prepared to swear anything, sergeant. Not just yet.

  Q. Very well, Lady Benning. Then at least you will tell us this: How were you sitting? I mean, what was the order of chairs in which you sat?

  A. (Here were some protestations and denials.) Well, I was on the extreme right of the fireplace. My nephew Dean was next to me, and then I think Miss Latimer. The others I am not sure of.

  Q. Do you know of anybody, any living person, who wished to do Mr. Darworth harm?

  A. No.

  Q. Do you think he was a fake?

  A. Possibly. It in no way affects the truth of—the Truth.

  Q. Do you still deny that you gave him money?

  A. I don’t think I’ve denied anything of the sort. (Very bitterly and suddenly.) If I had, do you think I should be such a fool as to admit it?

  She seemed to feel triumphant as Masters let her go; Major Featherton was summoned to give her his arm back to the front room. Masters made no comment, and his face was inscrutable. He asked next for Ted Latimer.

  Ted made a different sort of witness. He sauntered in with a defiant superciliousness, and tried to rattle Masters with a scrutiny of this sort: which only succeeded in making Ted look slightly drunk. Masters let him look, pretending to be mulling over his notes. During the silence, Ted scraped his chair noisily before sitting down; frowned, and appeared to grow conscious of his grimy face. Though he tried to keep his aloof disdain, he grew rather verbose in his testimony, wherein deleted parts are indicated with dots.

  Q. How long have you known Mr. Darworth?

  A. Oh, a year, more or less. It was through our mutual interest in modern art. D’you know the Cadroc galleries in Bond Street, Inspector? Well, it was there. Leon Dufour had been exhibiting some rather fine things in soap—

  Q. In what?

  A. (The witness showed amusement, and grew more at ease.) That’s right, Inspector; I said soap. Sculpture, you know. Mr. Darworth preferred and bought some more massive library-pieces in rock-salt. I admit they had life, but they lacked Dufour’s delicacy of line. …

  Q. Now, come, Mr. Latimer; I’m afraid we’re not interested in all that kind of thing. Lady Benning’s told us about making Mr. Darworth’s acquaintance, and what happened then. I suppose you got to be pretty good friends?

  A. I found him very interesting. A cultured man of the world, Inspector, such as we rarely find in England. He had studied under Dr. Adler, of Vienna—you know of him, of course?—and was himself a proficient psychiatrist. Of course, as one man of the world to another, we had many interesting talks.

  Q. Know anything about his past life?

  A. Not much that I remember. (Hesitation.) At one time, though, I was very much in love with a young lady in Chelsea, and, ah, certain inhibitions were preventing me from making her my mistress. Mr. Darworth straightened out my difficulties, explaining that this was a fear complex due to her resemblance to a governess I had once had in childhood … which adjusted my mind, and for some months afterward she and I were successfully adjusted. … But I remember Mr. Darworth mentioned he had once had a wife, now dead, with whom he had experienced a similar difficulty. …

  There was much more piffle of this description, in which T
ed enjoyed himself and Masters was obviously shocked. No further facts were elecited. The whole affair, however, tended to make Ted more and more kindly disposed towards Masters; growing, in fact, almost paternal.

  Q. You introduced Mr. Darworth to your sister?

  A. Oh, yes. Right away.

  Q. Did she like him?

  A. (Hesitation.) Yes, she seemed to. Quite a lot. Of course, Inspector, Marion’s a strange kid; not quite developed, if you understand me. I thought he would do her good, explaining her own emotions to her.

  Q. Um, just so. Did you introduce him to Mr. Halliday?

  A: You mean Dean? Oh, Marion did; or Lady Benning. I forget which.

  Q. Did they get on well together?

  A. Well, no. You see, Dean’s a very good fellow, but he’s a little pre-war and (N.B. I think the word here is bourgeois, although it is strangely spelled in Masters’ account.)

  Q. But was there any definite trouble?

  A. I don’t know whether you’d call it trouble exactly. Dean told him one night that he had a mind to smash his face and hang him on the chandelier for luck. You see, it was hard to quarrel with old Darworth. He wouldn’t take fire. Sometimes, confound him—!

  Pauses and mutterings; witness pressed to go on.

  A. Well, all I can say is that I should like to have seen that fight. Dean’s the fastest amateur middleweight I ever watched. I saw him flatten Tom Rutger. …

  This sudden splash of honesty, I could see, brought the young man up in Masters’ estimation. The questioning went on rapidly. Darworth, it seemed, had plunged almost at once into occult matters. At Joseph’s first séance there was mention of the uneasy ghost at Plague Court, and the spiritual agonies of James Halliday. When this was mentioned to Darworth, he had grown more interested and disturbed; had many long conferences with Marion Latimer and Lady Benning, “especially Marion”; had borrowed Halliday’s account in the form of the Playge letters; and, at the insistence of Lady Benning, the experiment was to be tried. Perhaps Masters made a mistake in dwelling too long on this. In any event, Ted had time to work himself into his old state of fanaticism. What loomed always larger, and swelled and assumed monstrous shapes, was the smiling figure of Darworth. It mocked ús after death. We felt and fought, but could not break, the uncanny power he had exercised over these people: the grim old woman with her spites and dreams, the unstable young man sitting in the chair and glaring back at Masters.