‘What was that?’ I asked.
‘The vice-chairman, a baronet by the way, was found shot in his study – obviously suicide – with a letter of apology to his wife and friends on the desk beside his body. The chairman more or less gave himself up to the police. Two guinea-pig directors, a peer and a general, declared they knew nothing at all about the workings of the company or indeed any other company, which was probably only too true. It didn’t save them from appearing in the dock, however. The chairman got a big term of imprisonment and died a year later while serving his sentence. The company’s auditors were not only ruined financially, but had to appear in Court with the other defendants. I think one partner in the firm of auditors was actually found guilty of fraud, while the others escaped gaol with a severe caution. The real villain of the piece was the vice-chairman, who shot himself.’
‘Where did all the money go?’
‘That’s what’s always so mysterious in these cases. A lot of it, of course, was never really there except on paper. Some was spent by the guilty parties. Some was lost in a series of wild-cat schemes in Africa, and it was said that the president of a South American republic got a good deal in return for dud concessions which, anyhow, he hadn’t any power to grant. Of course, there were some assets, but they were only sufficient to pay the creditors about four bob in the pound. The whole business was terribly involved and took a long time to straighten out. Oh, I forgot to mention that the youngest director, a Swede or Dane, I think, did a bolt and got clean away and has never been heard of since. It was said that about a quarter of a million in high-class foreign bonds vanished at the same time.’
As my friend spoke the last two sentences, a middle-aged man, whom I had vaguely noticed as sitting on a seat a yard or two in front of us, rose with a jerk, dropped his pipe on to the grass, picked it up with a shaky hand, and walked away. But so indifferent was I to his going, that I did not even observe in which direction he went.
*
This was the memory which swept over me six and a half years later, while I stood on the terrace of Beresford Lodge a few feet away from its owner. It did not, of course, come upon me seriatim, as I have recounted it, but instantaneously and with a pictorial vividness that is altogether lost in narrative. When, after what seemed an age, my wits returned to me, I tried with all my force to make a remark which would disguise the wandering of my mind. I did, I believe, stammer a few words of apology to my host for startling him, and was continuing with some poor phrase of sympathy, when his tired eyes filled with tears and he made a sign for me to go away.
Presumably I obeyed, though so absorbed was I in the new thoughts which now beseiged me, that I cannot remember where I went. It may have been to my bedroom, or into the garden again. Nor can I remember where I was, when twenty minutes later I saw the Inspector and Clarence James walking towards the front steps. All I know is that somehow I contrived to catch the Inspector as he was going out of the front gate, and asked him in trembling voice if I might leave the garden for a few moments and use a public telephone.
He gathered at once that I was in a state of excitement.
‘But,’ he said, ‘you can use the instrument in the telephone room. We haven’t cut the wires.’
‘I can’t risk that,’ I answered. ‘I might be overheard by the household.’
‘Whom are you going to ring up?’
‘A friend of mine who’s on a newspaper. No, don’t be alarmed. I’m not going to give him information. I want him to give some to me.’
‘Perhaps I can help you?’
‘Now, please, Inspector,’ I begged, ‘do let me have my own way over this. I may really be able to help you later on.’
He laughed.
‘Very well, then. We’ll defy routine for once. Why shouldn’t we? I’ll tell my watch-dog that you’ll be away for half an hour. But I must have your word that you won’t give anything away to your man.’
‘I promise. I suppose I may tell him that I’m in what I believe is called a house of crime, mayn’t I? I shall have to give some reason for my urgency. And if I can persuade him to send me what I want by special messenger, you’ll let the messenger deliver the letter into my own hands, won’t you?’
‘All right. I’ll mention that to the bobby, too. I shall be here again after tea when I may have a surprise for you. By the way, you must be pretty hot on this new scent of yours, because you haven’t asked me the question I was expecting.’
‘What question is that?’
‘Whether Clarence James confirms your story. Don’t worry. He has.’
‘Are you thinking of arresting—’
‘I shan’t arrest anybody for some hours.’
I went indoors to get my hat (we must, I think, have been walking about on the little front lawn) and when I came out again I found the Inspector talking to the policeman in the road. The Inspector waved genially and the policeman saluted as I passed them. Luckily I knew where the nearest telephone box was, because once, when I was spending an afternoon at Beresford Lodge, I had slipped out to have a word with my bookmaker. I am still young enough to feel a certain shame in my small betting transactions, and had not wanted my conversation to be overheard.
I should perhaps explain that the friend whose help I was seeking was on the literary side of his paper, and that he felt both indifference and contempt for the sensational aspect of journalism. I knew him to be utterly reliable, and had no fear that he would lead me into breaking the promise I had given to the Inspector.
When I got through to him, he seemed rather cross.
‘Hullo, Malcolm. I thought you were spending the holidays somewhere in the country.’
‘I’m in Hampstead,’ I answered. ‘At Beresford Lodge. Doesn’t that convey anything to you?’
‘It sounds very grand, but I’m afraid it doesn’t.’
‘Two – I mean, a member of the house-party was found dead on the Heath yesterday.’
‘Good lord! You’re not getting mixed up in another murder case, are you? Why can’t you leave all this crime alone?’
‘You might say, why can’t it leave me alone! We’re all practically prisoners for the time being, and I’m afraid I can’t give you any inside news—’
‘For God’s sake, don’t begin to do that. The great news for to-morrow is that a live turkey is loose on the Underground. The whole policy of the paper – photographs, news, leader, correspondence and cartoon – are based on that. We really can’t bother with anything else now.’
‘I don’t want you to. I shall love reading you on the turkey. I’m ringing you up because I really want your help very badly indeed. You’ll think what I want quite mad, but please don’t ask any questions for the time being. Later, perhaps, if you want to pacify the news editor, I might be able to give you a “scoop” for him – or do you call it “coup”? You told me once that your paper has a very fine library of pictures since about 1900. I wonder if you could possibly get hold of all the pictures of the Cabal crash and send them to me, at once, by special messenger in a taxi. I’ll pay all expenses, of course. You remember the Cabal crash, don’t you? I believe it was in 1904.’
‘I hadn’t even gone to Oxford then,’ was the indignant reply.
‘I mean, you remember hearing about it. I believe it made a great sensation at the time. You’re sure to have some pictures of the people concerned. And if you could get me any Press cuttings about it, I should be most grateful. You will send me all your pictures, won’t you? What I want may not be in the most important ones.’
‘Very well. What will you be asking for next, I wonder? The pictures will be very bad if they date from 1904. And if I do send you any cuttings, for goodness sake don’t take them too seriously. You know how full of lies our news always is. If we say a queue of a million people besieged the abandoned office, it means that half a dozen reporters and two errand boys were there, talking about the Test Match. However, I’ll do my best. Where do you want me to send the messenger?’
‘Will you take the address down? Beresford Lodge, Lyon Avenue, Hampstead. The messenger will find a policeman on duty outside the house, but the policeman has instructions to let him deliver the goods straight to me – which is what I’m anxious for him to do. I don’t want to risk anyone else opening the package.’
‘All right. Really, I can’t think what you’ll be up to next. Please don’t let me hear that you’re being held to ransom by Chinese bandits. That would be too much to bear. Well, I suppose you want me to start ferreting out our photographs. Take care of yourself now. If there’s a murderer in the house, stay in your bedroom and lock the door. Good-bye.’
‘Thank you so much. Good-bye.’
*
It was almost time for luncheon when I reached Beresford Lodge again. As I crossed the hall I saw Sheila talking to a new nurse – a very different creature from the smiling sylph who had caused such a flutter in the household. I loitered about for a moment or two and caught Sheila when the nurse had gone upstairs.
‘I hope it doesn’t mean,’ I said, ‘that your mother is worse.’
‘Oh no. Dr McKenzie insists that she shall stay in bed, but I think she’s getting on all right. Why do you ask?’
‘I felt a little uneasy when I saw you’d got a second nurse.’
‘Oh, she’s come instead of the other one. Nurse Moon left this morning. She had a scene with Amabel, I believe, and another one with Dr McKenzie.’
‘What did you say her name was?’
‘Nurse Moon. Μ – double Ο – Ν. You know, “Moon, moon, serenely shining.” I think she shone a little too serenely, don’t you?’
‘I dare say she did,’ I answered. ‘And what is the new nurse’s name?’
‘Nurse Phillips. She seems a sensible old body. Lord, there’s the gong! I must go and wash.’
*
I was not in the least interested in the name of Nurse Phillips. But Nurse Moon’s had immediately brought to my mind the borrowed line which opened Clarence’s poem:
Ah! Moon of my delight, that knowst no wane!
I had been so busy during the morning that luckily I had had no time in which to dread the publicity of luncheon. It was, after all, my first meeting with the house-party since my discovery of Dr Green’s body. However, feeling myself to be no longer a timorous spectator but a leading character in the plot, I was filled with a new sense of bravado and decided that, however rude, inquisitive or menacing my companions might be, I would take no notice of them, and eat and drink – especially the latter – to the full.
We were a subdued little party. Amabel sat at the head of the table, with me on her right and Dixon on her left. Clarence sat at the other end, flanked by Harley, who was on my right, and Sheila. Mrs Quisberg was still in bed, and Mr Quisberg, I gathered, was having a meal in his study. Rather wisely we made no attempt at all at conversation beyond a few half-hearted preliminary greetings. Amabel was white and far too heavily powdered. Dixon had gone sallow and looked both cowed and dangerous. Harley was, as always, mouse-like and minute. The rings under Clarence’s eyes were deeper than ever and his expression, when in repose, had a look of misery and wounded pride. Sheila alone was fairly normal, and even she was pasty-faced. If a picture had been painted of the meal, it might have been called ‘A Study in Bad Complexions’.
My only fear was that, when we had finished, someone would draw me aside for a heart-to-heart talk. Although on general grounds the more confidences I received, the more material I should have to work upon, I felt quite unable to deal with them until I had made some headway with my great idea. Accordingly, almost as soon as coffee was served, I murmured a word of excuse to Amabel and went straight up to my bedroom. There I settled in an armchair by the window, through which I should have an excellent view of anyone coming to the house. Even if the special messenger from Fleet Street came in by the back door, I should be bound to see the taxi as it passed the front gate in Lyon Avenue.
My mind was too full of the tidings the messenger might bring for me to accomplish any constructive thinking. I did, however, so as to make the time pass more quickly, write down certain headings for later consideration. I kept the paper and reproduce its contents now, because, though by no means an exhaustive summary of ‘clues’, they had (I was glad to find later) a real bearing on the problem.
1. Conversation, hurried and agitated, between Dr Green and Quisberg on the front lawn as I first arrived.
2. Did I really smell Antaronyl in Mrs Harley’s bedroom?
3. The cardboard firework-case, which I found in the rock-garden pond. The fireworks which I found in the shed from which a spade was missing. The drunken talk on the front steps between Amabel and Dixon.
4. Clarence’s poem. ‘Ah! Moon of my delight, that knowst no wane,’ etc.
5. Nurse Moon. Her rapture on the afternoon of Boxing Day when I saw her, lost in a romantic reverie on the landing. Her fainting fit when I arrived from the Heath with my grim news. Her tiff with Amabel. Her departure.
6. Mr Quisberg’s visitor on Christmas Night. The talk in the study, of which I only caught one phrase – ‘Why, in that light I saw it as plain as I can see you!’ In what light? What was so plainly seen? And where was it seen from?
7. The music on the Heath, intended for whose ears?
8. The ‘lovers’ I saw quarrelling on the Heath. Whom, in this house-party, could I mistake for Edwins? Certainly not Dr Green or, for that matter, Dixon. Possibly Clarence James.
9. Dixon’s stick found by Dr Green’s body. Dixon’s black eye. His elaborate alibi. Had his visit to North Finchley been confirmed?
10. My meeting with Clarence James in the undergrowth of the Heath. His panic and flight.
11. Dixon’s midnight visit to my bedroom. What did he really hope to gain?
12. The under-gardener and his news that a spade was missing from the shed. The spade and trench in the clearing beside Dr Green’s body, which ill accord with any theory that the murderer struck the doctor down in the heat of the moment.
13. The slight mystery surrounding the whitewashing of the windows of Paragon House. The caretaker’s message to Quisberg. My sensation that I had somewhere seen the caretaker before. [NOTE – My ears serve me better than my eyes. I am always sure of what I hear, less sure of what I see.]
14. Who was Mrs Harley? When did she arrive? Had Quisberg ever seen her before?
15. Was it essential for Quisberg to spend the night of Christmas Eve in London? Did he really spend the whole night there?
Once or twice I read my headings through, giving each one a quick consideration. Little did I realise at the time how proud I should afterwards be of one short sentence! Then, still with one eye on the window, I added another point:
16. Who was Quisberg?
Hardly had I written these words when, to my great relief, a taxi stopped by the gate and a commissionaire got out, and after a few words with the policeman walked up to the front door. My messenger from Fleet Street had arrived.
XVII. The Photographs
Sunday – 3 p.m.
Inside the little package were some photographs, some Press cuttings and a covering letter. The letter ran as follows:
1001A Fleet Street,
EC
Dear Malcolm,
Herewith this rubbish. You must return everything, especially the photos, as soon as you can. We don’t seem to have been very much on the spot with the Cabal crash. Probably we were devoting all our intelligence to a marmoset in the crypt of St Paul’s. Don’t believe a word of the letterpress. Quite possibly we have even got the names wrong. Now, as I said over the telephone, do take care of yourself. Why must you always be mixing with sensational people?
Ever yours,
N.A.
Then I looked at the photographs. The first was a picture of the Vice-Chairman at the theatrical garden-party, sleek, jaunty and debonair. The second was the Vice-Chairman’s ‘palatial residence’ in Wimbledon. The third was the Vice-Chairman’s
study with an X in the middle of the floor, ‘marking the spot where the body was found in tragic circumstances’. The fourth showed the wife of the Vice-Chairman talking to the wife of the Chairman – two expensively dressed figures with utterly expressionless faces. The fifth showed the Chairman in the dock, tall and imposing, with a look of conscious virtue. Three accountants were inset, and named from left to right. The sixth was a magnificent picture of the Director who was a General, riding in Rotten Row, while the seventh displayed the head and shoulders of his colleague who was a peer, an unimpressive elderly man of non-conformist appearance. The seventh and eighth were more pictures of the Chairman. The ninth picture held my attention at once. It bore the legend:
Crime at Christmas Page 16
