Information Received

by E. R. Punshon

  But Paul shook his head.

  ‘No good,’ he said, ‘no good our doing anything... too late to stop him.’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Bobby muttered and paused and Paul said:

  ‘If he hadn’t done what he meant to do, he wouldn’t be digging there.’

  Bobby did not answer. He could not, for again the power of speech had left him. Paul said:

  ‘He can’t get away ... there’s only the one door, the other door’s boarded up. We had better wait, Mitchell’ll be along soon, they said he would come himself.’

  They had returned again to the front of the building and in fact almost at once heard the sound of an approaching car. It glided up to the garden entrance and stopped, and Mitchell and Gibbons and another man got out. They came up the garden path together; Mitchell, voluble as ever, holding forth to the other two. Paul and Owen showed themselves. Mitchell broke off his discourse to survey them with his most benevolent expression. Then he said to Gibbons:

  ‘There’s Owen all right enough and that’s half a crown you owe me.’

  Gibbons produced it reluctantly.

  ‘And five bob more to come from the Assistant Commissioner,’ Mitchell observed, pocketing the coin with satisfaction, ‘picking up money I call it.’

  ‘Twenty-four hours’ leave you had,’ Gibbons said reproachfully to the somewhat bewildered Owen.

  ‘When you’ve had as much to do with Constable Robert Owen as the good Lord for my sins has inflicted on me,’ said Mitchell, ‘you’ll find it takes more than twenty-four hours’ leave to keep him quiet – cheap at half a crown to know that, too, if you ask me. Now then, Paul, was it you brought Owen here, or did Owen bring you?’

  ‘I trailed Mr Carsley here, sir,’ Paul answered, ‘and according to instruction to report unusual happenings, and this place seeming so, I rang up.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Mitchell. ‘But where does Owen come in?’

  ‘He said he was just mooching around, sir,’ explained Paul.

  ‘He would be,’ agreed Mitchell, ‘worth seven and six to me, too, that I bet we should find him on the spot or thereabouts – at least, if the Assistant Commissioner pays up. Inspectors have got to pay supers, but you can’t be so sure of Assistant Commissioners – abuse of authority, I call it. Anything happened to make the two of you look the way you do and Owen do a sort of step dance because he wants to get a word in and discipline won’t let him?’

  Owen, who had been fidgeting uneasily at one side, subsided into stillness, reminding himself that Mitchell’s flow of talk generally hid some purpose and that most likely he had been gaining a moment or two to take stock of the situation. Paul answered:

  ‘We don’t know, sir, we don’t know if anything’s happened at all. I thought we had better wait till you came before beginning investigations. Mr Carsley is in there – at least, I saw him go in and I haven’t seen him come out again. Owen thinks there’s reason to believe Mrs Carsley is there, too, but I don’t know about that myself and I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘Mrs Carsley?’ Mitchell repeated. He turned sharply on Owen. ‘How do you know that?’ he asked. ‘Been trailing her?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Owen answered. ‘I had no idea she was here, but an old man at a cottage down the road, when I asked the way, told me a tall young lady, answering Mrs Carsley’s description, came up here a little while ago and he hadn’t seen her go away again.’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes,’ Mitchell said slowly, evidently thinking deeply; ‘and then Carsley arrived?’

  ‘Now he’s digging in the cellar, sir,’ Paul said.

  ‘Digging? Digging what? What for?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Paul answered. ‘But it looked to me as though it might be a grave.’

  There was a silence then, a silence in which could have been heard the slow breaths they took. Instinctively their eyes turned towards that shuttered, solitary building. It was as though they questioned it and it made no reply, guarding its secret well.

  ‘Well, now, you know, that’s funny,’ Gibbons said at last, ‘funny I call that, digging...’

  ‘Very funny,’ agreed Mitchell in a grim enough tone. He was still intently watching the old windmill as though his glance could penetrate its ancient walls. ‘Have they been there long?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s about an hour since Mr Carsley got here,’ Paul answered. ‘Mrs Carsley was apparently here already.’

  ‘You’ve not heard anything?’

  ‘No, sir. But I was away a few minutes when I went to ring up and report.’

  ‘You’re sure Carsley is still there?’

  ‘It’s not five minutes since we saw him, Owen and me,’ Paul replied. ‘In the cellar, digging.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mitchell. ‘Come on.’

  He went on to the house, followed by the others. At the door he said:

  ‘Gibbons, you and Paul search the house and see what you can find. If Mrs Carsley’s there, detain her and report. You others, come with me.’

  They found the steps leading down to the cellar. As they were descending they could hear distinctly the sound of someone working in the inner cellar. It ceased. Their own approach had evidently been heard, for as they reached the bottom of the steps Peter Carsley came out of an inner cellar. He was in his shirt sleeves. He had a spade in his hands, and his face and clothing were stained with earth. In the dim half-light that struggled in through one tiny opening high up in the cellar wall they could see him but imperfectly. But apparently he was able to recognize them for he said loudly and angrily.

  ‘You lot again? What the mischief are you doing here?’

  ‘I think, Mr Carsley,’ Mitchell answered slowly, ‘I think that is a question we have to ask of you.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you?’ snapped Peter. ‘It’s like your cheek barging in here at all – what do you think you are doing, anyhow?’

  ‘Our duty,’ Mitchell answered in the same grave, level tones, ‘our duty as officers of police. Where is Mrs Carsley?’

  ‘Mrs Carsley? At home, I suppose. Why? What do you mean?’

  ‘We have information that she was seen entering here shortly before your arrival,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ retorted Peter briefly.

  Mitchell had gone towards the inner cellar, and now, standing between the two, the outer one and the inner, he turned the light of his electric torch on the hole Peter had been digging.

  ‘You’ve been busy here, I see,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that to do with you?’ Peter demanded.

  ‘Only that it seems a strange thing to be digging in the cellar of an empty house,’ Mitchell answered. ‘Do you wish to say anything?’

  ‘Well, if you want to know,’ Peter answered, though somewhat sullenly, ‘I was told the diamonds and bonds stolen from “The Cedars” the night Sir Christopher was murdered, were buried here. I didn’t much believe it but anyhow I thought I had better come along and see. I was told there was no time to lose, they might be removed any minute. Also that they were buried rather deep, but I could tell the place because I could see where the ground had been disturbed. Well, that was right enough. A bit about six foot long has been dug up some time quite recently. Whoever did it has left his spade here, so I took it and started work. But I’ve not found anything. I expect it’s a fake. But someone’s been digging here quite recently.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mitchell, ‘someone’s certainly been digging here,’ and he swung the light of his torch on the fresh turned earth, on the darkness of the long deep trench Peter had been making.

  ‘Only what for?’ Peter said, ‘and who and why?’

  ‘We’ve got to find that out,’ Mitchell said. ‘Owen here, he says he saw you once run straight the whole length of the field at Cardiff.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’ Peter demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ Mitchell answered. ‘I wasn’t talking, I was thinking, a bad habit I know. Mr Carsley, who gave you this information about these diamo
nds buried in a trench six feet long and about two feet wide – an odd shape, isn’t it? Who told you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No, someone rang me up on the phone and told me to be at a certain address and I would be rung up there. It was one of those shops where they let anyone use their phone who wants to. Someone rung up right enough and sent me to another place and from there I was sent on here. If it’s just a fake or a joke of some sort, it was a jolly elaborate one.’

  ‘Do you think Mrs Carsley came here to look for the stolen diamonds, too?’

  ‘Why do you keep talking about my wife?’ Peter demanded, his voice troubled and uneasy now. ‘She’s not here.’

  They heard footsteps descending the cellar steps. It was Paul. He said:

  ‘We found a locked room at the top of the house. We opened it. Inside is the body of a young woman, wearing a blue leather motoring coat and hat to match. She has been shot through the back of the head. Death must have been instantaneous. The body is still warm. Inspector Gibbons is staying with the body and ordered me to report.’

  CHAPTER 29

  MURDER AGAIN

  Instinctively they had all turned to watch Peter. He did not speak or move, but for a certain tenseness in his attitude one might have thought he had not heard. The light, growing fainter every moment, had now almost vanished. They saw him only as a tall, still figure in the gloom. They heard him say twice over in a harsh, strained voice:

  ‘A dead woman... a dead woman...’

  They were still silent nor did they move. He said again, his voice bewildered now:

  ‘But it can’t... I mean... there can’t...’

  His voice trailed into silence.

  Paul said:

  ‘Well, it is... she’s there and the room was locked... outside... through the back of the head... it must have killed her on the spot... instantaneous.’ He added, very slowly, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper, though one that in this silence was clear and distinct enough: ‘I only saw her once, but she looks to me like a lady I saw talking to Mr Carsley where he lives. I can’t be sure, for I only saw her once, but that’s what she looks like to me.’

  Peter did not speak. Very carefully he placed the spade he held against the wall. It seemed what he was chiefly thinking of at the moment was to make sure that the thing was well placed and would not fall. He went back into the inner cellar and put on his coat, slowly, with jerky motions, like a man in a dream. He said:

  ‘I must go and see.’ Then he paused and stood staring at the long narrow trench where he had been digging. ‘It does look rather like a grave,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mitchell.

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ Peter said again. He walked towards the steps that led up from the cellar. Opposite Paul, he stopped and looked at him.

  ‘There’s a locked room and a dead woman...?’ he asked. ‘She was wearing a blue leather coat. She’s like someone you saw me with?’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Paul answered, ‘I don’t know but it’s what I thought.’

  ‘Jennie has a blue motor coat,’ Peter remarked abstractedly, as though dropping an observation without any possible interest either for himself or anyone else.

  He began to ascend the steps. The others followed him. He was muttering something to himself, but what it was Bobby, who was next behind him, could not clearly hear, though the name ‘Jennie’ seemed audible once or twice. They came into the entrance passage, and then began to ascend the stairs that led to the upper part of the building. Peter was hurrying now, so that the others, too, had to hasten. But when they came out on to the wide upper landing, Peter paused. There were two doors opening from it. One was wide open, and showed, so far as they could see in the darkness, only an expanse of bare, uncarpeted flooring. The other door was closed. Peter, suddenly still again, stood looking at it, and Bobby understood that he was in the grip of an appalling, an unutterable terror. Mitchell and the others, crowding together at the head of the stairs, were all waiting, as though to see what Peter would do and he remained motionless, his eyes burning on that closed door, burning, too, with awful terror of what that closed door might hide. Slowly the door swung open while he watched, almost as if it were his intent gaze that had forced it, and Inspector Gibbons appeared. He did not speak either. It was very dark here on the landing, and now they all showed to each other as little more than sombre, silent shadows. Inside the room it was no lighter, for the windows were closely shuttered. But an electric torch in Gibbons’s hand made a splash of light that he directed slowly towards a still form that lay quiet and huddled just behind him. Peter moved forward and took the torch from Gibbons. He knelt down by that quiet figure. The others watched him. The silence remained unbroken, to Bobby the strain seemed intolerable. He could feel his heart thumping wildly. He thought to himself:

  ‘Is it her? Is it his wife? God in heaven, why doesn’t he speak?’

  As if he, too, could bear the strain no longer, Mitchell moved across to where Bobby stood. He said:

  ‘You can’t see a thing... it’s so dark. Gibbons, smash those blasted shutters... no, don’t... it’ll be dark outside by now as well. Paul, cut along and get one of the car lamps and bring it.’

  Paul hurried away to obey, and Peter, apparently roused by the sound of Mitchell’s voice, looked round and said very quietly:

  ‘It is not my wife; it is Brenda, Miss Laing, her half-sister, you know. It is Jennie’s coat, I think, and her hat as well, but it’s Brenda who is wearing them.’ He got to his feet and came out on the landing. He leaned against the wall as if for support and they could see that now he was trembling violently. He said: ‘Thank God for that... God forgive me for saying so. It is Brenda and not Jennie.’

  Mitchell glanced at Bobby.

  ‘You’ve seen them both,’ he said. ‘Go and look.’

  Peter said:

  ‘It’s Brenda, it’s Miss Laing right enough. Why was she here and why was she wearing Jennie’s coat and hat? Why was she here at all?’ He paused and then went on: ‘It was like a grave I was digging down there. I never thought of that before but I see it now. Do you think I murdered her? Why should I, poor girl? We always got on well enough, though she was so quiet; the way she never said a word, it got on people’s nerves sometimes not on mine, I didn’t mind ... I suppose you think I did it digging like that down there in the cellar ... well, I didn’t ... I suppose it might just as well have been Jennie but it’s not ... thank God, it’s Brenda ... God forgive me for saying so ... I don’t know what I am saying ... In God’s name, what was she doing here and why was she wearing Jennie’s coat and hat?’

  Bobby came out of the room.

  ‘It’s Miss Brenda Laing,’ he said. ‘There’s no doubt of that. I think it’s Mrs Carsley’s coat and hat she’s wearing but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Why should she be wearing Jennie’s things?’ Peter asked again. ‘I can’t make it out... why was I sent to go digging in the cellar... there’s no sense to that. .. I think there’s something damnable about all this.’

  Paul came back with the car lamp. It gave them light, but showed them little more than they had seen already. There was Brenda lying, silent and enigmatic in death as she had been in life, surrounded by a strange silence still as she had ever been. At a little distance lay a revolver, a clean white handkerchief placed carefully by Gibbons underneath it. The room was otherwise bare and empty, and the doors of two large cupboards at one end hung loosely open, showing they held nothing. The windows were closely shuttered. There was no fireplace. The only other object visible in the room was a walking stick that Mitchell picked up.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘It was lying there when we got in,’ Gibbons said. ‘If the murderer left it, it may be useful.’

  Mitchell saw that Bobby was looking at it. He said to him: ‘Recognize it?’

  ‘It’s rather like one I’ve seen Mr Carsley carry
ing,’ Bobby answered.

  ‘Go and ask him,’ Mitchell said.

  Bobby took it outside to Peter, still standing against the wall on the landing, still evidently terribly shaken, but fighting hard for his self-control.

  ‘Do you know whose this is?’ Bobby said to him.

  ‘It’s mine, where did you get it?’ Peter returned immediately.

  ‘It was in there, lying near Miss Laing’s body,’ Bobby answered.

  ‘How did it get there?’ Peter asked. ‘She had Jennie’s hat and coat, why should she have my stick, too? I had it at the office... or at home... I forget...’

  ‘We found it in there,’ Bobby repeated, ‘near Miss Laing’s body.’

  ‘You think I killed her?’ Peter said. ‘I didn’t. Why should I? Good God, man, why should I murder her, poor girl? Jennie liked her, so did I, why should I? Ah, God, I think I’m going mad... who was it got me digging down there in the cellar?... like a grave... a grave for Brenda.

  ‘What a fool I was, I knew I was, but still I thought there was a chance the diamonds were really there; and then why should anyone want to murder Brenda? What for? There’s no sense...’ He flung out his hand and gripped Bobby fiercely by the arm. ‘Why was she wearing Jennie’s coat and hat?’ he almost shouted. ‘Tell me that!’

  ‘Now, Mr Carsley,’ Mitchell said soothingly, coming out to join them, ‘you mustn’t lose your head... there’s a lot about this that wants clearing up and we’ll do our best. But it won’t do any good getting excited. I’m going to ask you to go to Scotland Yard with two of our men, Inspector Gibbons and Paul. When you get there, if you like to make a statement, you can do so. You’re a lawyer yourself, but it’s for you to decide whether you want further assistance. I’m staying here with Constable Owen. There’s always a lot to be done in these cases. I’m sending for assistance, and for a doctor, too, not that a doctor can do much for that poor soul. Silent she always was when she was alive, and she’s silent still, but we’ll do our best to find out what happened.’