Bobby answered it and turned to Olive, who, anticipating the worst and no time for a decent breakfast, was already beginning to dress.
“I’ve got to hurry,” he said. “Mr Weston has been found dead from a knife-wound in his study at Weston Lodge Cottage.”
CHAPTER V
FAMILY PAPERS
BOBBY WAS not the first to arrive at Weston Lodge Cottage. He had been delayed on the road, and in any case had farther to go by a more circuitous route than those of his staff at headquarters whom he had summoned by ’phone.
Sergeant Payne, his most capable assistant, was already busy, measuring, examining, questioning. Finger-print and photographic experts were hard at work. A doctor was making a preliminary examination of the dead man’s body. Constables were on guard. In fact, all the usual routine of an important investigation was in full progress.
In the household itself there was complete chaos, as was perhaps only natural. The women servants were having hysterics by turns in the kitchen. William, the footman so cuttingly described as a mere boot-and-knife boy having no right to call himself footman except as a war-emergency measure, hovered in the background, torn between excitement and fear and frequently saying “Coo” in shrill, subdued tones. Hargreaves, the white-haired butler, after a brief but stormy session with Payne, had locked himself in his pantry, which he seemed to regard as his sole protection against immediate arrest and execution.
Payne was very bitter, and expressed the most heartfelt wish that the butler could in fact be so dealt with.
He deserved it several times over, declared Payne fiercely.
“You wouldn’t have thought it possible,” he said to Bobby, who knew, however, that in this world no degree of stupidity is beyond possibility, or even probability. “The very first thing they did after the maid who found the body had had hysterics in the hall was to pull the knife out of the wound. After that they proceeded to carry the dead body into the next room. That white-haired old fool of a butler said it didn’t seem right to leave the poor master all huddled up on the floor. Then it occurred to them they shouldn’t have, so they carried it back again. I told the whole boiling what I thought of them,” he added with a touch of gloomy satisfaction in his voice, “and now the butler’s shut himself up some-where and the women are throwing fresh fits somewhere else. Believe it or not, they lost their heads to such an extent they don’t even know for certain whether the french windows were open or shut. The curtains were drawn; they do know that much. But one of the maids says she thinks the butler opened the windows to let air in, and the butler thinks he didn’t, and neither of them certain.”
“Not too good,” Bobby said. “Finger-prints all messed up, I suppose, on the knife?”
“I think every one in the house had a go at it, picking it up and handling it,” Payne answered moodily. “It’s on the desk there.”
Bobby went to look. A Japanese weapon with a handle of carved bone or ivory. Bobby was not sure which. A deadly, business-like thing, admirably adapted for that work of killing for which it had been designed. Bobby found himself reflecting how different it was in its murderous efficiency from most Oriental weapons. Other Eastern peoples were apt to overload their weapons with ornament and fantasy, as though thinking as much of display as of war. Not so the Japanese. They thought only of killing. Well indeed had the weapon served its purpose this time.
Bobby tried the edge and then the point, examining them closely.
“Recently sharpened,” he said. “Looks to me rather an amateur sort of job, too. You noticed? Only the point and a few inches above it have been seen to. All the rest blunt. Where’s the body?”
“Next room,” Payne said. “The doctor’s there,” and therewith he returned to his present task of measuring, comparing and recording the bloodstains near the safe.
Bobby went into the next room where the doctor was busy. He found it strange thus to meet in death the man he had seen so short a time before lusty in life and strength. The doctor told him death must have been nearly instantaneous. The blow had been dealt downwards, through the throat, behind the collar-bone, towards the heart. It had been delivered with great force. There had been a comparatively small issue of blood, and though the murderer’s clothing would probably show stains, that might not be so to any marked extent. Death had almost certainly occurred about eleven or a little later, with a margin of error of about a quarter of an hour each way. He added a few more medical details, of little value to the investigation. Bobby asked if the blow could have been delivered by a woman, and the doctor looked startled, but said it was quite possible. Women, he said, in a moment of terror or excitement could strike with great force. And of course there were some women of very considerable muscular strength.
Bobby went back into the study, as the room Mr Weston had used was generally called, though business and not study was its purpose. He began to examine the objects arranged with the knife on the huge walnut desk. The ordinary contents of a man’s pockets. Nothing at first sight to rouse special interest. Bobby noticed that the fat roll of notes he remembered was still there, still looking as fat as ever. Gold watch and gold cigar-case were there, too, so apparently robbery had not been the motive. For the rest, keys, a handkerchief, fountain pen, silver, copper, and so on, a wallet with letters which would have to be examined with other papers, and a small book, of a size to slip easily into a coat pocket. It was entitled “What It will Be Like”, and Bobby picked it up to glance at it. Payne said:—
“Political, seemingly. By some one called Acland or something. Do you know who he is?”
“Member of Parliament, I think,” answered Bobby, who had heard vague talk about a political movement called “Common Wealth”—one of many formed by those who search so eagerly for that new world which can come only from a new heart. Bobby knew nothing about it, whether it was “right”, “left” or “centre”. He had been far too busy since the outbreak of the war to have time to spare for any of the new movements of the day. He noticed that on the title-page was scribbled: “Please read and let me know what you think. Dan Edwardes.” Turning over the pages, Bobby found many such pencilled ejaculations as “Rubbish.” “Pestilent.” “Rot.” “Fiddlesticks.” “Drivel.” Occasionally the comments were even fiercer. In one place language seemed to have failed the commentator, and was replaced by thick underlining and a row of notes of interjection. This was against a suggestion that workers in a factory should be allowed to choose their own foremen from among themselves. Bobby put the book down. “Mr Weston wasn’t much impressed, evidently,” he remarked. “Mr Dan Edwardes wasn’t going to get a very favourable reply. I wonder who he is?”
Payne had no information to give. He was looking at that fat roll of notes, the gold watch and cigar-case. He remarked:—
“Did things in style, didn’t he? I’ve an old aunt. She had a nice little business, and when she sold it she put what she got for it and all her savings into Weston West shares. Never had a penny of dividend, for years, and all she’s got now is the old-age pension with what the rest of us can stump up.”
Bobby hardly listened to a story too common in Midwych for it to attract much attention. He was looking at a tray on which stood glasses, whisky and soda.
“Been tested for dabs?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, sir,” Payne answered. “Both glasses used. Dabs on both of them. On the glass to the left unidentified as yet, but apparently a man’s, from the size. On the right those of Weston.”
For in the compelling democracy of death, the victim had lost already even the common title of “Mr”.
The telephone rang—the one on the desk, a private number not listed in the telephone directory and known only to Mr Weston’s intimate friends and business associates. Bobby picked up the receiver and answered. A voice asked for Mr Weston. Bobby asked who was speaking, and was told that it was Mr Dan Edwardes and why didn’t Mr Weston answer? Wasn’t he there? Bobby, remembering the name on the title-page of the little book �
�What It Will Be Like”, was interested. He answered cautiously—for he had no desire that the news of the murder should be spread too far too soon—that Mr Weston was not available, and was it anything important Mr Edwardes wished to say? In return he got a tart demand to know who he was and what business that was of his? He wasn’t Hargreaves, was he? Who the dickens was he? And why, if he was neither Mr Weston’s secretary or butler, was he answering on Mr Weston’s private ’phone? Bobby asked for Mr Edwardes’s number, received it, promised to ring again as soon as possible, and rang off while the other end of the line was still spluttering indignation and surprise.
“Short-tempered gentleman,” Bobby remarked; and a constable came in to say that a young woman was there—a Miss Rowe. The women servants had apparently seen her arrive and had intercepted her. For some time she had been with them, hearing full details of the tragedy. Bobby, vexed, wanted to know why orders had not been obeyed and all newcomers brought to him immediately. He was told that Miss Rowe’s approach had not been noticed. It seemed she had come by a private gate and path that—for pedestrians or cyclists—provided a short cut from the road to the rear of the house.
As this private way had not been known to Sergeant Payne or any one else—or to Bobby himself—it had not been under observation. A natural and excusable oversight, no doubt, but unfortunate all the same. Bobby had wished to observe for himself Miss Thomasine Rowe’s reaction to the news and to hear what she had to tell him before she had had time or opportunity for reflection. Now she would have been able to consider well what to say. Her first impression, too, all blunted by chatter with the maids. All that might not matter, but then, again, it might. Bobby told himself that the inquiry was not beginning very well.
He went across to the busy finger-print expert, still working away with his gadgets in all likely and unlikely spots. He had secured a good many impressions, since the discovery of the murder had been made before the usual morning sweeping and dusting. Bobby thought probably his own would be among them. He asked about the safe. The finger-print expert shook his head sadly. The handle was covered with dabs, but so confused and so superimposed one on another that nothing of any use could be hoped for. Bobby tried the handle of the safe. It opened. So it had not been locked. Payne, still busy with his primary task of measuring and recording all bloodstains, looked up with a gasp, much taken aback.
“I never thought of trying it, sir,” he said apologetically.
“Forgotten to lock it, perhaps,” Bobby said. “I wonder. There’s a gadget to hold the tongue of the lock back when required. Look at that,” he added.
“That” was a small pile of bank-notes. Ten of them, and each for fifty pounds. With them was an empty envelope marked “Family papers re Aggie and child”. Bobby looked at them with considerable interest and at the envelope with an interest even greater.
“Five hundred pounds is a nice little sum,” he remarked, “but why had Mr Weston got it in his safe in notes almost as easily traced as a cheque, and why is the envelope endorsed ‘Family papers’? Bank-notes aren’t family papers. Is it a case of theft, only for family papers and not for cash? And, anyway, who is ‘Aggie’?”
CHAPTER VI
LINES OF APPROACH
SINCE SERGEANT PAYNE had no answer to give to these questions, he proceeded with his general task of examining and reporting on the condition of the room. Since Bobby also had no idea even of the answers he expected, he went to the pantry, where Hargreaves had taken refuge from the hail of Payne’s reproaches, and managed to coax the butler from that retreat.
Not that Hargreaves had much to tell. It was apparently the routine of the house that the domestic staff was expected to stop in its own quarters after about half-past ten, the hour when Hargreaves was accustomed to lock up. From this making secure for the night, however, the front door was always omitted, as were also, not unnaturally, the french windows of Mr Weston’s study.
“But why the front door?” Bobby asked. “I can understand Mr Weston would see to the windows where he was sitting, but suppose there was a late caller? Did Mr Weston answer the door himself?”
Hargreaves looked discreet in that manner which implies that only the least encouragement is needed to make discretion change to the extreme of indiscretion. Bobby provided that encouragement by a sharp reminder that this was a case of murder and nothing must be kept back. So Hargreaves coughed and said it was the general gossip that Mr Weston occasionally received late at night visitors of whom he did not wish the staff to be aware. Bobby asked what sort of visitors, and after more hesitation and protestations of ignorance Hargeaves said he supposed sometimes it might be gentlemen on business and sometimes ladies on pleasure. But he didn’t know. All he could say for certain was that on occasions there had been found in the study traces of powder, cigarette ends marked with lipstick, once a lace handkerchief, glasses to prove liquid refreshment had been partaken of, and so on. Naturally he had never allowed such matters either to be referred to by the other servants or to be mentioned by himself, knowing as he did that it was as much as his place—
“Quite so,” interrupted Bobby. “Do you know the name of any of these visitors? Did any of them come last night?”
Hargreaves said he knew no names. It would have been as much as his place was worth, etc. The previous night he had gone up to bed immediately after half-past ten, as soon as he had seen to as much of the locking up for the night as he was responsible for. He had stayed up a short time, reading the evening paper, and he admitted that he had heard sounds which might have been Mr Weston moving about or might have indicated the arrival of a visitor. He had paid them no attention. Why should he? Then, just as he was getting into bed, about a quarter past eleven, he thought he had heard a cry or call. He was not sure. He went to the head of the stairs to listen. As it was not repeated and all seemed quiet, he went back to bed again. He had asked Mrs Parham, the cook, and she, too, fancied she had heard some one cry out about that time, but she had taken no notice and had gone to sleep again. Nothing to do with her, and Mr Weston not a gentleman to encourage any display of curiosity. None of the others had heard anything. Did Inspector Owen think this cry they had heard or thought they heard could have come from Mr Weston at the moment when he was stabbed?
Inspector Owen thought it possible, or even probable. Further questioning revealed that during the day the front door was never locked, and remained, in fact, unlocked and unbolted until Mr Weston fastened it before retiring. Hargreaves hinted that if Mr Weston was awaiting one of his late visitors, he would know exactly when to expect them and would be waiting at the front door, thus saving the necessity for any bell-ringing or use of the knocker.
Not much help in all this, Bobby thought gloomily, though it did seem to confirm the doctor’s belief that death had occurred soon after eleven. It meant that ingress and egress were both equally easy until Mr Weston went to bed, which had not happened the previous night. There had been a late visitor, but nothing to show who it was. Payne’s statement that nobody knew for certain whether the french windows of the study had been bolted or not, Bobby found to be correct. In the general excitement no one could be sure. After Hargreaves and William had carefully carried the dead man’s body into an adjoining room—“as a mark of respect”—one of the maids had opened the window to “let out the smell of the blood”. But whether she had had to unbolt it first she simply could not remember. Not that, Bobby supposed, the point was of much importance. Admittance might as easily as not have been obtained by the unlocked front door, and the murderer could have left that way with perfect ease.
Bobby went on to ask questions about Bessie Bell. It appeared that after Bobby’s departure she had had an interview with Mr Weston, who himself had let her out of the house on its termination. Hargreaves had seen them cross the hall about nine, had heard Mr Weston say good night, and had seen him return alone. Becoming discreet again, Hargreaves admitted to an impression in the household that ladies who were thus seen out by t
he front door, sometimes went round to the study and were there admitted by the french window. Not that he knew for certain. It would have been as much as his place—
“Quite so,” interrupted Bobby. “Did she come by car, or was she cycling or walking, or what?”
Hargreaves said she had come on a cycle, and he supposed she had so departed. But he did not know. Nor did he know whether she had used the front way by the drive or the private way passing the rear of the house.
Bobby reflected gloomily that it was wonderful how little people knew, especially when they didn’t want to know too much. He was not sure that Hargreaves’s innocent ignorance was not a little too complete to be true. Of course, the man might be a bigger fool than he seemed. But butlers are not generally fools—men, indeed, as a rule of a vast and varied experience.
Nor did Hargreaves know of any one named “Aggie”. At least, not of any “Aggie” in any way connected with Mr Weston. But he did know Mr Dan Edwardes. Mr Edwardes had been at one time a frequent visitor to the house. Recently he had come less frequently. He was a large shareholder in, and a director of, the Weston West Mills Company. Recently certain differences had arisen between them regarding the management of the mill company. How serious, Hargreaves did not know. Until the outbreak of the war, Mr Edwardes had more or less retired. He had been content merely to attend occasionally the meetings of the board. Since the war became serious with France’s sad acceptance of defeat, he had been more active. The war had brought him great suffering. He had lost three sons. One in France during the great retreat. One in Libya. The third and last had been shot down over Germany during an attack on Bremen.
“A changed man, they say,” Hargreaves remarked. “I did hear say he had quite lost his mind. The poor master used to say he had gone crazy.”
Night's Cloak: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 4
