The Layton Court Mystery

by Anthony Berkeley

  If he had one noticeable failing – so slight that it could hardly be called a fault – it was perhaps the rather too obvious interest he displayed in the sort of people whose pictures get into the illustrated weeklies. Not that Mr Stanworth was a snob, or anything approaching it; he would as soon exchange a joke with a dustman as a duke, though it is possible that he would prefer a millionaire to either. But he had not attempted to conceal his satisfaction when his younger brother, now dead these ten years or more, had succeeded in marrying (against all expectation and the more than plainly expressed wishes of the lady’s family) Lady Cynthia Anglemere, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Grassingham. Indeed, he had gone so far as to express his approval in the eminently satisfactory form of settling a thousand a year on the lady in question for so long as she continued to bear the name of Stanworth. It is noticeable, however, that a condition of the settlement was the provision that she should continue the use of her title also. Gossip, of course, hinted that this interest sprung from the fact that the origins of the Stanworth family were themselves not all that they might be; but whether there was any truth in this or not, it was beyond question that, whatever these origins might be, they were by now so decently interred in such a thick shroud of golden obscurity that nobody had had either the wish or the patience to uncover them.

  Mr Stanworth was a bachelor, and it was generally understood that he was a person of some little importance in that mysterious Mecca of finance, the City. Anything further than that was not specified, a closer definition being rightly held to be unnecessary. But the curious could find, if they felt so minded, the name of Mr Stanworth on the board of directors of several small but flourishing and thoroughly respectable little concerns whose various offices were scattered within a half-mile radius of the Mansion House. In any case these did not seem to make any such exorbitant demands on Mr Stanworth’s time as to exclude a full participation in the more pleasant occupations of life. Two or three days a week in London in the winter, with sometimes as few as one a fortnight during the summer, appeared to be quite enough not only to preserve his financial reputation among his friends, but also to maintain that large and healthy income which was a source of such innocent pleasure to so many.

  It has been said already that Mr Stanworth was in the habit of entertaining both largely and broad-mindedly; and this is no less than the truth. It was his pleasure to gather round him a select little party of entertaining and cheerful persons, usually young ones. And each year he rented a different place in the summer for this purpose; the larger, the older, and possessing the longer string of aristocratic connections, the better. The winter months he passed either abroad or in his comfortable bachelor flat in St James’s Street.

  This year his choice of a summer residence had fallen upon Layton Court, with its Jacobean gables, its lattice windows, and its oak-panelled rooms. Mr Stanworth was thoroughly satisfied with Layton Court. He had been installed there for rather more than a month, and the little party now in full swing was the second of the summer’s series. His sister-in-law, Lady Stanworth, always acted as hostess for him on these occasions.

  Neither Roger nor Alec had had any previous acquaintance with their host; and their inclusion in the party had been due to a chain of circumstances. Mrs Shannon, an old friend of Lady Stanworth’s, had been asked in the first place; and with her Barbara. Then Mr Stanworth had winked jovially at his sister-in-law and observed that Barbara was getting a deuced pretty girl in these days, and wasn’t there any particular person she would be glad to see at Layton Court, eh? Lady Stanworth had given it as her opinion that Barbara might not be displeased to encounter a certain Mr Alexander Grierson about the place; whereupon Mr Stanworth, having ascertained in a series of rapid questions that Mr Alexander Grierson was a young man of considerable worldly possessions (which interested him very much), had played cricket three years running for Oxford (which interested him still more), and was apparently a person of unimpeachable character and morals (which did not interest him at all), had given certain injunctions; with the result that two days later Mr Alexander Grierson received a charming little note, to which he had hastened to reply with gratified alacrity. As to Roger, it had come somehow to Mr Stanworth’s ears (as in fact things had a habit of doing) that he was a close friend of Alec’s; and there was always room in any house which happened to be occupied by Mr Stanworth for a person of the world-wide reputation and attainments of Roger Sheringham. A second charming little note had followed in the wake of the first.

  Roger had been delighted with Mr Stanworth. He was a man after his own heart, this jolly old gentleman, with his interesting habit of pressing half-crown cigars and pre-war whiskey on one at all hours of the day from ten in the morning onwards; his red, genial face, always on the point of bursting into loud, whole-hearted laughter if not actually doing so; his way of poking sly fun at his dignified, aristocratic sister-in-law; and the very faint trace of a remote vulgarity about him that only seemed, in his particular case, to add a more intimate, almost a more genuine note to his dealings with one. Yes, Roger had found old Mr Stanworth a character well worth studying. In the three days since they had first met their acquaintance had developed rapidly into something that was very near to friendship.

  And there you have Mr Victor Stanworth, at present of Layton Court, in the county of Hertfordshire. A man, you would say (and as Roger himself was saying in amazed perplexity less than an hour later), without a single care in the world.

  But it is already ten minutes since the breakfast gong sounded; and if we wish to see for ourselves what sort of people Mr Stanworth had collected round him, it is quite time that we were making a move towards the dining room.

  Alec and Barbara were there already: the former with a puzzled, hurt expression, that hinted plainly enough at the inexplicable disaster which had just overtaken his wooing; the latter so resolutely natural as to be quite unnatural. Roger, strolling in just behind them, had noted their silence and their strained looks, and was prepared to smooth over anything in the way of a tiff with a ceaseless flow of nonsense. Roger was perfectly well aware of the value of nonsense judiciously applied.

  ‘Morning, Barbara,’ he said cheerfully. Roger made a point of calling all unmarried ladies below the age of thirty by their Christian names after a day or two’s acquaintance; it agreed with his reputation for bohemianism, and it saved trouble. ‘Going to be an excellent day, I fancy. Shall I hack some ham for you, or do you feel like a boiled egg? You do? It’s a curious feeling, isn’t it?’

  Barbara smiled faintly. ‘Thank you, Mr Sheringham,’ she said, lifting the cosies off an array of silver that stood at one end of the table. ‘Shall I give you tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please. Tea with breakfast is like playing Stravinsky on a mouth organ. It doesn’t go. Well, what’s the programme today? Tennis from eleven to one; from two to four tennis; between five and seven a little tennis; and after dinner talk about tennis. Something like that?’

  ‘Don’t you like tennis, Mr Sheringham?’ asked Barbara innocently.

  ‘Like it? I love it. One of these days I must get someone to teach me how to play it. What are you doing this morning, for instance, Alec?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’m not doing,’ Alec grinned, ‘and that’s playing tennis with you.’

  ‘And why not, you ungrateful blighter, after all I’ve done for you?’ demanded Roger indignantly.

  ‘Because when I play that sort of game I play cricket,’ Alec retorted. ‘Then you have fielders all round to stop the balls. It saves an awful lot of trouble.’

  Roger turned to Barbara. ‘Do you hear that, Barbara? I appeal to you. My tennis may perhaps be a little strenuous, but - Oh, hullo, Major. We were just thinking about getting up a four for tennis. Are you game?’

  The newcomer, a tall, sallow, taciturn sort of person, bowed slightly to Barbara. ‘Good morning, Miss Shannon. Tennis, Sheringham? No, I’m sorry, but I’m much too busy this morning.’

  H
e went to the sideboard, inspected the dishes gravely, and helped himself to some fish. Scarcely had he taken his seat with it than the door opened again and the butler entered.

  ‘Can I speak to you a moment, please, sir?’ asked the latter in a low voice.

  The Major glanced up. ‘Me, Graves? Certainly.’ He rose from his seat and followed the other out of the room.

  ‘Poor Major Jefferson!’ Barbara observed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger with feeling. ‘I’m glad I haven’t got his job. Old Stanworth’s an excellent sort of fellow as a host, but I don’t think I should care for him as an employer. Eh, Alec?’

  ‘Jefferson seems to have his hands pretty full. It’s a pity, because he really plays a dashed good game of tennis. By the way, what would you call him exactly? A private secretary?’

  ‘Sort of, I suppose,’ said Roger. ‘And everything else as well. A general dogsbody for the old man. Rotten job.’

  ‘Isn’t it rather funny to find an army man in a post like that?’ Barbara asked, more for the sake of something to say than anything; the atmosphere was still a little strained. ‘I thought when you left the army, you had a pension.’

  ‘So you do,’ Roger returned. ‘But pensions don’t amount to much in any case. Besides, I rather fancy that Stanworth likes having a man in the job with a certain social standing attached to him. Oh, yes; I’ve no doubt that he finds Jefferson uncommonly useful.’

  ‘Surly sort of devil though, isn’t he?’ observed Alec. ‘Can I have another cup of coffee, please, Barbara?’

  ‘Oh, he’s all right,’ Roger pronounced. ‘But I wouldn’t like to be out with that butler alone on a dark night.’

  ‘He’s the most extraordinary butler I’ve ever seen,’ said Barbara with decision, manipulating the coffee-pot. ‘He positively frightens me at times. He looks more like a prize-fighter than a butler. What do you think, Mr Sheringham?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, you’re perfectly right, Barbara,’ Alec put in. ‘He is an old boxer. Jefferson told me. Stanworth took him on for some reason years ago, and he’s been with him ever since.’

  ‘I’d like to see a scrap between him and you, Alec,’ Roger murmured bloodthirstily. ‘There wouldn’t be much to choose between you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alec laughed. ‘Not today, I think. He’d simply wipe the floor with me. He could give me nearly a stone, I should say.’

  ‘And you’re no chicken. Ah, well, if you ever think better of it, let me know. I’ll put up a purse all right.’

  ‘Let’s change the subject,’ said Barbara, with a little shiver. ‘Oh! Good morning, Mrs Plant. Hullo, Mother, dear! Had a good night?’

  Mrs Shannon, small and fair like her daughter, was in all other respects as unlike Barbara as could well be imagined. In place of that young lady’s characterful little face, Mrs Shannon’s features were doll-like and insipid. She was pretty enough, in a negative, plump sort of way; but interest in her began and ended with her appearance. Barbara’s attitude towards her was that of patient protectiveness. To see the two together one would think, apart from their ages, that Barbara was the mother and Mrs Shannon the daughter.

  ‘A good night?’ she repeated peevishly. ‘My dear child, how many times must I tell you that it is quite impossible for me to get any sleep at all in this wretched place? If it isn’t the birds, it’s the dogs; and if it isn’t the dogs, it’s – ’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Barbara interrupted soothingly. ‘What would you like to eat?’

  ‘Oh, let me,’ exclaimed Alec, jumping up. ‘And, Mrs Plant, what are you going to have?’

  Mrs Plant, a graceful, dark-haired lady of twenty-six or so, with a husband in the Sudanese Civil Service, indicated a preference for ham; Mrs Shannon consented to be soothed with a fried sole. Conversation became general.

  Major Jefferson looked in once and glanced round the room in a worried way. ‘Nobody’s seen Mr Stanworth this morning, have they?’ he asked the company in general, and receiving no reply, went out again.

  Barbara and Roger engaged in a fierce discussion on the relative merits of tennis and golf, for the latter of which Roger had acquired a half-blue at Oxford. Mrs Shannon explained at some length to Alec over her second sole why she could never eat much breakfast nowadays. Mary Plant came to the aid of Barbara in proving that whereas golf was a game for the elderly and crippled, tennis was the only possible summer occupation for the young and energetic. The room buzzed.

  The appearance of Lady Stanworth caused the conversation to stop abruptly. In the ordinary course of events she breakfasted in her own room. A tall, stately woman, with hair just beginning to turn grey, she was never anything but cool and dignified; but this morning her face seemed even more serious than usual. For a moment she stood in the doorway, looking round the room as Major Jefferson had done a few minutes before.

  Then, ‘Good morning, everybody,’ she said slowly. ‘Mr Sheringham and Mr Grierson, can I have a word with you for a moment?’

  In deep silence Roger and Alec pushed back their chairs and rose. It was obvious that something out of the ordinary had occurred, but nobody quite liked to ask a question. In any case, Lady Stanworth’s attitude did not encourage curiosity. She waited till they had reached the door, and motioned for them to precede her. When they had passed through, she shut the door carefully after her.

  ‘What’s up, Lady Stanworth?’ Roger asked bluntly, as soon as they were alone.

  Lady Stanworth bit her lip and hesitated, as if making up her mind. ‘Nothing, I hope,’ she said, after a little pause. ‘But nobody has seen my brother-in-law this morning and his bed has not been slept in, while the library door and windows are locked on the inside. Major Jefferson sent for me and we have talked it over and decided to break the door down. He suggested that it would be as well if you and Mr Grierson were present also, in case – in case a witness outside the household should be required. Will you come with me?’

  She led the way in the direction of the library, and the other two followed.

  ‘You’ve called to him, I suppose?’ Alec remarked.

  ‘Yes. Major Jefferson and Graves have both called to him, here and outside the library windows.’

  ‘He’s probably fainted or something in the library,’ said Roger reassuringly, with a good deal more conviction than he felt. ‘Or it may be a stroke. Is his heart at all weak?’

  ‘Not that I’ve ever heard, Mr Sheringham.’

  By the library door Major Jefferson and the butler were waiting; the former impassive as ever, the latter clearly ill at ease.

  ‘Ah, here you are,’ said the Major. ‘Sorry to bother you like this, but you understand. Now, Grierson, you and Graves and myself are the biggest; if we put our shoulders to the door together I think we can force it open. It’s pretty strong, though. You by the handle, Graves; and you next, Grierson. That’s right. Now, then, one – two – three – heave!’

  At the third attempt there was the sound of tearing woodwork, and the heavy door swung on its hinges. Major Jefferson stepped quickly over the threshold. The others hung back. In a moment he was back again, his sallow face the merest trifle paler.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lady Stanworth anxiously.

  ‘Is Victor there?’

  ‘I don’t think you had better go in for the moment, Lady Stanworth,’ said Major Jefferson slowly, intercepting her as she stepped forward. ‘Mr Stanworth appears to have shot himself.’

  chapter three

  Mr Sheringham Is Puzzled

  Like many of the other rooms at Layton Court, the library had been largely modernised. Dark oak panelling still covered the walls, but the big open fireplace, with its high chimney-piece, had been blocked up and a modern grate inserted. The room was a large one and (assuming that we are standing just inside the hall with our backs to the front door) formed the right-hand corner of the back of the house corresponding with the dining room on the other side. Between these two was a smaller room, of the same breadth as the hall, which was
used as a gunroom, storeroom, and general convenience room. The two rooms on either side of the deep hall in the front of the house were the drawing room, on the same side as the library, and the morning room opposite. A narrow passage between the morning room and the dining room led to the servants’ quarters.

  In the side of the library which faced the lawn at the back of the house had been set a pair of wide French windows, as was also the case in the dining room; while in the other outer wall, looking over the rose garden, was a large modern window of the sash type, with a deep window seat below it set in the thickness of the wall. The only original window still remaining was a small lattice one in the corner on the left of the sash window. The door that led into the room from the hall was in the corner diagonal to the lattice window. The fireplace exactly faced the French windows.

  The room was not overcrowded with furniture. An armchair or two stood by the fireplace; and there was a small table, bearing a typewriter, by the wall on the same side as the door. In the angle between the sash window and the fireplace stood a deep, black-covered settee. The most important piece of furniture was a large writing table in the exact centre of the room facing the sash window. The walls were lined with bookshelves.

  This was the picture that had flashed across Roger’s retentive brain as he stood in the little group outside the library door and listened to Major Jefferson’s curt, almost brutal announcement. With instinctive curiosity he wondered where the grim addition to the scene was lying. The next moment the same instinct had caused him to turn and scan the face of his hostess.

  Lady Stanworth had not screamed or fainted; she was not that sort of person. Indeed, beyond a slight and involuntary catching of her breath she betrayed little or no emotion.