R.: You made one bad mistake, didn’t you, in thinking that the nurse’s companion on the Heath was Edwins?
M.W.: Yes, it was quite an idée fixe with me. At a distance Clarence and he did resemble one another, of course, but I oughtn’t to have been so sure. My real fault was one of psychology rather than one of observation. It seemed to me just as suitable that Edwins and the nurse should be having an affair, as it would have seemed fantastic that Clarence should have taken any interest in her.
R.: Why?
M.W.: It’s hard to explain. Such a difference in mentality . . .
R.: She had a pretty face. What does her mentality matter?
M.W.: You don’t know these precious young men. Now had it been some short-haired sylph in Bloomsbury . . .
R.: Perhaps you’re right.
M.W.: As a matter of fact, Nurse Moon had what are called intellectual pretensions. When she had left, a book by Bertrand Russell was found in her bedroom.
R.: Had she read it?
M.W.: That we don’t know.
R.: Well – Harley next, please.
M.W.: I was lucky enough to get Harley a job in the City. He’s doing very well. Was that twelve o’clock striking? I’d no idea it was so late.
R.: Don’t hurry. I must ask you a few more things before you go. The first is about the caretaker of Paragon House. When you saw him on the Sunday morning, he was whitewashing the windows. Why was he doing that?
M.W.: He was questioned about that at his trial, and his answers were evasive and unconvincing. He admitted that he had been to see Quisberg on Christmas Day, and said it was because Quisberg had sent for him. When asked what Quisberg wanted to see him about, he said that Quisberg had complained of being overlooked and had asked him to whitewash the windows. As a matter of fact, as no doubt you know, it’s quite easy to see out of a whitewashed window – especially if you leave a little chink somewhere – but impossible to see into one. I think the real reason he whitewashed the windows was to prevent any of us from seeing him. You see, he was badly scared by then. It wasn’t altogether a rational act, but it’s not hard to understand.
R.: But what of the message he gave you for Quisberg: ‘Tell the gentleman he won’t be overlooked,’ and so on?
M.W.: That, I think, was an invention on the spur of the moment – rather a clever one, too. I think the message was meant to call a truce and say: ‘I shan’t interfere with you again, so don’t you interfere with me. Let bygones be bygones.’ Of course, he didn’t realise Quisberg’s innocence, and thought that he and Dr Green were in the plot together.
R.: We can’t be sure, can we, that Quisberg didn’t know that the doctor intended to kill the caretaker?
M.W.: We can’t be sure, but I think it most unlikely. I think Dr Green was much too fond of Quisberg to burden him with such a secret, and I think also that if Quisberg had known the doctor’s plan he would never have let him carry it out.
R.: Do you think Dr Green had told Quisberg that he had killed Mrs Harley?
M.W.: Not for one moment. I can imagine him saying, after the caretaker had gone home on Christmas night: ‘My dear Axel, you must be deranged to believe such a cock-and-bull story. Let me deal with the man in my own way, and you won’t be troubled by him again. Get this rubbish completely out of your head.’
R.: And did Quisberg believe him?
M.W.: I have no doubt that he tried to.
R.: What was the object of the expedition to Paragon House, by the way, and why did the Inspector take you?
M.W.: I like to think he took me because he thought it would amuse me. Really, of course, it was so that he should have an independent witness of the experiment. I had to give evidence in Court that a body thrown out of Mrs Harley’s window at Beresford Lodge could be seen plainly from Paragon House, in the light of a ‘Jubilee Flash’.
R.: I see. The Inspector seems to have been a pretty shrewd fellow. How did he actually find out who Quisberg was?
M.W.: That was my telephone call, I’m afraid. He had it ‘tapped’, and quickly got a set of Cabal pictures from Scotland Yard. But, as a matter of fact – he may have told me this to ease my conscience – when he tackled Quisberg, he found him on the verge of confessing.
R.: To return to this Jubilee Flash for one moment. I can’t get over the fact that it was a very unfortunate coincidence that it went off just when it did!
M.W.: I agree entirely. But it nearly always is an unfortunate coincidence that unmasks a really clever murder. If it had not been for the flash—
R.: Mightn’t they have found in any case that Mrs Harley’s injuries were not consistent with a fall?
M.W.: That is possible. But you must remember the doctor planned to throw her right down to the terrace. If she had fallen so far her body would have been much more mutilated.
R.: He didn’t reckon that your balcony stuck out so far?
M.W.: I think the flash dazzled him, and made him aim badly.
R.: Your view is that he was really a master criminal?
M.W.: I think he had unusual gifts.
R.: The serenade on the Heath seems to me to have been a bit risky.
M.W.: Yes, it was a fantastic notion. If the doctor had been quite himself, I dare say he’d have indicated the rendezvous in some other way. I think by that time he was a little off his balance. It must have been a great shock to him to find the caretaker trying to blackmail Quisberg. But when all’s said and done, the serenade, even at such a moment, was very characteristic of him. He probably had arranged to play a few notes only – to use the instrument like an ordinary whistle – and then found himself carried away by its charms. Now—
R.: No, you mustn’t go yet. Another question. What became of Harrington Cobalts? Did you make a fortune?
M.W.: No. When it was known that the negotiations with G—— were still inconclusive, the price dropped sharply, and I (of course) sold half my holding in a panic. About three months later G—— made a bid of fifty-two shillings per share, which was accepted. So I got that for the shares that I’d hung on to. My total profit was about fifty pounds.
R.: Then Quisberg’s death didn’t really affect the deal?
M.W.: No. You must remember he was only one of a syndicate, and his shares were all in the names of nominees.
R.: My last question. While you were waiting for the messenger to bring you the photographs from Fleet Street, you wrote down a list of sixteen points on the case. And you said, in your rhetorical way: ‘Little did I realise at the time how proud I should afterwards be of one short sentence!’ Which was that one short sentence?
M.W.: It came in Point No. 6. This ran, you may remember:
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?
R.: The gem being . . . ?
M.W.: ‘Where was it seen from?’ If only I had had the time or intelligence to answer that question! If only I had known that Paragon House was the viewpoint, think how ‘warm’ (as they say in hide-and-seek) I should have been. What was the most likely thing to have been seen from Paragon House? Obviously Mrs Harley’s fall. And why should Quisberg’s visitor have made such a point of it, if the fall had been an accident? The sentence, I think, is the key to nearly everything.
R.: As a matter of fact, I guessed the answer.
M.W.: Well, dear Reader, good-bye and thank you very much for listening to me so kindly. See you again, soon, I hope.
R.: Er – yes. Good-bye.
M.W.: Good-bye.
Also by C. H. B. Kitchin
Death of My Aunt
Malcolm Warren, a young stockbroker, is looking forward to a quiet weekend when a telegram summons him to stay with his Aunt Catherine. Her marriage to a garage owner many years her junior has shocked the family, and she wants to discuss her investments. But his aunt is soon found dead in strange cir
cumstances. As Warren investigates, a host of family secrets come to light.
‘A really straightforward, first-class murder story . . . as a psychological revelation startling and satisfying. As a mere yarn it is enthralling.’ Observer
‘It is that rare thing – a detective story which I have read with pleasure.’ Arnold Bennett
About the Author
C. H. B. Kitchin was born in Yorkshire in 1895. He read Classics at Exeter College, Oxford and, after serving in France during the First World War, was called to the Bar in 1924. His novels include Streamers Waving (1925), Crime at Christmas (1934) and A Short Walk in Williams Park (1971), which was published after his death in 1967.
By the Same Author
STREAMERS WAVING
MR BALCONY
DEATH OF MY AUNT
THE AUCTION SALE
THE SECRET RIVER
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2015
by Faber & Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
All rights reserved
© Francis King, 1934, 1988
The right of C. H. B. Kitchin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–32594–8
Crime at Christmas Page 21
