Charles resolutely put the dreadful idea out of his mind. It was all nonsense. A thousand to one nothing would come of it. He was giving himself all this anxiety and disquietude without any real need. They couldn’t prove anything against Peter.
And if they did?… But no, he wouldn’t think of that. It couldn’t happen.
At the same time Charles’s face was pale and his knees shaky when he left the office to go home. He felt that this interview with Peter had given him the most terrible shock of his life.
And yet it was not long before he came to look upon it as his salvation, and to feel that without it he must inevitably have been lost.
A few nights later, as he was sitting after dinner over a glass of port, Rollins brought him a card bearing the words, ‘Mr Joseph French’.
Charles’s heart gave a sudden leap. He took the card and bent over it to gain a second or two. Then he answered as calmly as he could: ‘Show him into the study, Rollins, and say I’m just finishing dinner and I’ll be with him in a moment.’
Charles listened to the footsteps in the hall as though they were the tread of Fate itself. Now was the time for him to show his courage and self-control! At least he was forewarned. That tale of Peter’s! If he hadn’t met Peter, this ghastly visit would have come on him as a surprise. Unsuspecting, he would have given himself away. Now it wasn’t so bad. He knew what was coming.
When the footsteps had died away he crossed to the sideboard and poured himself out a stiff peg of brandy. Then, feeling normal again, he went to the study.
A stoutish man of slightly below middle height was sitting near the fireplace, while a second, evidently a policeman in plain clothes, sat near the door. They got up as Charles entered. The stoutish man revealed a pleasant, clean-shaven face and a pair of shrewd but kindly blue eyes. Charles took comfort at his appearance. He did not look as formidable as he had somehow expected.
‘Good evening, sir,’ the newcomer began. ‘We’re sorry to trouble you at this hour, but our business is our excuse. You know my name, but I should tell you my calling.’ He took another card from his pocket and handed it over. ‘And this,’ he indicated, ‘is Sergeant Carter.’
‘I know your name,’ Charles answered. ‘You’re the inspector, aren’t you? I met my cousin, Peter Morley, a day or two ago, and he told me you had called on him.’
‘Yes, sir; that’s right. I saw him last Wednesday. Then he told you what I was here for?’
‘He did, and I was never more amazed in my life. Do you mean to tell me that there really is a doubt that my late uncle committed suicide?’
‘I gather, sir, that it’s the local chief constable who thinks there may be a doubt. The local police appear to have been satisfied enough. At all events I happened to be in this neighbourhood, and,’ he smiled slightly, ‘I was seized and pressed into the service.’
‘And what do you think yourself?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve not yet learnt enough about the affair to form any opinion. That’s what I’m now trying to do, and I’ve come round to ask you to kindly give me any help you can.’
Charles felt surprised and somewhat reassured. This was not like the opening he had expected from the police. There was no attempt here to browbeat or to intimidate by a loud voice and boorish manners. This man seemed reasonable, if not considerate. On the other hand, he certainly didn’t look a fool.
‘I’m at your service, inspector,’ he answered.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The man took out a notebook, opened it, and laid it, together with a fountain pen, on the table beside him. ‘First I may ask you the general question: can you tell me anything that may help me in this inquiry?’
Charles moved uneasily. ‘I don’t know that I can,’ he answered. ‘I take it that you mean what I know of my own knowledge, not, for example, what came out at the inquest?’
‘I mean anything that you may know of your own knowledge.’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing. You see, I never for a moment suspected this theory that you’ve put up.’
‘I’ve not put it up as my own theory,’ French reminded him. ‘Perhaps I’d better go into details. What was your opinion of your uncle’s health? Did you think him predisposed to suicide?’
Charles, perhaps over-sensitive, scented here a trap. If he had definite opinions about this, it would show that he had considered the matter.
‘I thought his health was failing rather rapidly,’ he replied. ‘He was certainly growing weaker, both in mind and body, during the last few months. As to a predisposition to suicide, I never suspected it for a moment. I presume you mean before the inquest?’
‘Before the inquest – yes, sir.’
‘Before the inquest I never suspected it. After the inquest I assumed that it was suicide, surprising though this seemed. Certainly, till my cousin spoke to me to-day I never considered any other possibility.’
Inspector French nodded. ‘When did you last see your uncle?’ he went on.
Charles took his engagement diary from his pocket. ‘On Friday, the 25th of August. On that evening I dined at The Moat.’
‘And how did he seem then?’
‘Just as I have described. Weaker in every way, though it was what we called a good day with him.’
‘I understand. And had you seen him shortly before that date?’
‘Yes, I had seen him’ – Charles searched back in his book – ‘on the previous Thursday, the 17th of August. On that day I lunched with him. He was not so well on that day – in fact he got some kind of attack which scared me stiff. I thought he was gone, and called Weatherup, the attendant. He gave him some medicine and it revived him.’
French appeared interested in the attack. He got the fullest details Charles could give him.
‘If you don’t care to answer this question, you needn’t,’ he went on. ‘I should like if possible to know what your conversation was about. I should like to know whether it could have upset him at all?’
Charles wondered if another trap lay here. At all events, honesty was his obvious policy. ‘I’m afraid it might,’ he said with some appearance of regret. ‘I blamed myself afterwards, at all events. As to the subject of our conversation, I’ve already told Inspector Appleby all about it. All I asked him was that it shouldn’t be made public unless unavoidable. I wanted some money from my uncle,’ and Charles repeated what he had told Appleby, and what was indeed the truth. French noted it, then for some moments seemed lost in thought.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘that seems to be all about that. Now let’s see if I’ve got these dates right. You lunched with your uncle on the seventeenth and then dined on the night of the twenty-fifth. That was eight days between your visits. Doesn’t that seem a long time to have let such a matter hang fire? I’m not questioning your statement, you understand, but only clearing up my own mind.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Charles. Really the interview was being much easier than he had anticipated. ‘There were several reasons. In the first place the matter was not immediate. It was urgent, but not as urgent as all that. A week or two one way or another didn’t matter.’
‘I see, sir. And you got the money for the machines at that first call on the seventeenth?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t the first call on the subject, you understand, but it was the first of the two we are considering.’
‘Quite so. And there were other reasons, you said?’
‘Yes; another was that I didn’t want to hurry or to seem to be hurrying the old man. But the chief reason was that I was busy. I had to go up to Town. Or perhaps I should say, I did go up to Town; to look into the purchase of the machines.’
French nodded. ‘I think that answers my question. Did you stay long in Town?’
‘Two nights only.’ Charles thought he should be lavish with information this inspector could easily get for himself, and about which there was no secret. He therefore went on: ‘I drove up on the Monday, slept at the Duchy of Cornwall in Northumberland
Avenue, went down to Messrs Endicott Brothers, of Reading, to inspect the machines on the Tuesday, and drove back on the Wednesday.’
French shrugged. ‘I didn’t really want to know all that,’ he declared, ‘though I’m not sorry to have it. It’ll make my report look more complete, as if I was really doing good work. Always worth while that, you know, sir.’ He smiled. ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I’m afraid we Yard inspectors get asking questions just out of habit. There’s some excuse for it, of course, as we’re seldom doing anything else.’ As he spoke, he was slowly putting away his notebook and pen. ‘You were from home at the time of Mr Crowther’s death, Appleby tells me.’
‘Yes, I was on a cruise in the Mediterranean.’
‘I envy you that, sir. I’ve never been beyond San Remo. Some day I hope to get down as far as Rome.’ He got up.
‘Well,’ said Charles, getting up also, ‘I’d advise you to go either earlier or later than I did. It was too hot.’
‘I’m afraid,’ French returned, ‘I needn’t worry about that. Well, sir, I’m much obliged to you. Some other question may occur to me later, but that’s all I want at present.’
Charles was doubtful as to whether he should offer the men drinks. Then he thought not. They were not village constables. Then it was too late. With a respectful ‘Good evening, sir,’ they had withdrawn.
Charles, while terribly worried that the main question should have been reopened, was at least thankful as to the result of the interview. These police officers were all the same, at all events they asked the same questions. This interrogation had been practically identical with Appleby’s. And the best of it was he had told neither of them anything. French in particular he had told absolutely nothing: nothing that he couldn’t have found out for himself and nothing that there was any reason he shouldn’t know. His questioning had been indeed amazingly perfunctory; indeed it might be called actually inept. Why, Charles himself could have done better! And the man seemed absolutely satisfied with Charles’s replies. Obviously so far he suspected nothing, and equally obviously there was no reason why he should. It was a false alarm. Charles was safe!
Chapter XIV
Charles Meets a Criminal
There’s an old saying in use in certain parts of the country: ‘It never rains but it pours.’ It is the crystallized thought of the ages on the question of how misfortunes come. Before he was much older Charles was to experience the truth of the adage.
In spite of the way in which his interview with French had passed off, Charles had had a severe shock from Peter’s disclosure. He was just rallying from it when he received a second of an even more alarming character.
It occurred about three weeks later, when Charles fulfilled his engagement to dine at The Moat. All that day he had been restless and miserable, with a premonition of evil weighing heavily on his mind. But he could not tell what he feared. Sometimes it was that suspicion of himself would be aroused, sometimes that Peter would be arrested. This latter possibility absolutely staggered him. How in his perfect scheme he had come to overlook anything so vital as that suspicion might fall on someone else, he didn’t know.
The long hours at the office dragged through at last, and Charles went home to change. He felt he wanted exercise, and as there was a nearly full moon, he decided not to take his car, but to walk the mile or more to The Moat. His way led him through the trees to the west of his house and out on to a narrow lane running up towards the moor. From this lane a footpath diverged westward towards a hamlet a mile or so away. The path skirted The Moat grounds not far from the lake, and a branch path led through the woods to the shrubbery surrounding the house. It was an impossible route in wet weather, but to-night the ground was hard and dry.
As far as was possible with the shadow resting upon himself and Peter, Charles enjoyed his evening. Peter, though apt to be gloomy and depressed, was at heart a good fellow, and his wife, Elsie, Charles had always liked. She was short and stout and a great talker, and one of the kindliest and best-natured people in the world. Peter had evidently not confided his fears to her, and she rattled on cheerfully about nothing in particular, apparently oblivious of the men’s preoccupation: an alleviation for which Charles was profoundly thankful.
About eleven Charles thought he had had enough of it, and a few minutes later he left the house and started off on his homeward walk. The sky had clouded over, but the moon was still shining, and he had no difficulty in finding his way. It was very calm and very silent as he passed into the shrubbery, and there was a cold bite in the air that suggested frost before morning.
He had not gone more than a few score yards when he heard a sound behind him. Swinging round, he saw a man approaching. He stopped and a voice came softly. He recognized Weatherup’s melancholy accents.
‘Excuse me, Mr Charles,’ the voice said, ‘but if you’re not in a hurry could I have a word with you?’
‘Weatherup, is it?’ Charles answered. ‘Of course. What’s the trouble?’
‘Perhaps, sir, I might walk along with you for a few yards. It would save your time.’
‘I’m afraid my time’s not so valuable as all that. However, by all means come along.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ They fell into step, walking slowly beneath the trees. ‘It was a matter that I thought you ought to know of, in case you didn’t.’
Charles waited for more, but Weatherup seemed unable to proceed.
‘I can’t say whether I know about it unless you tell me what it is, you know,’ Charles said at last.
‘No, sir, I’ll tell you. It’s about the master; the late master, I mean, Mr Andrew.’
Charles instantly grew wary. ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘what about him?’
‘I suppose you know, sir, that the inquiry has been reopened?’
‘Yes, of course I do. What then?’
Weatherup hesitated. ‘A Scotland Yard man has been making inquiries,’ he went on presently.
‘Inspector French? Yes, I know. Again, what then?’
Weatherup shifted his ground. ‘That inquest, sir. I should like to ask you a question about it.’
‘What about it? Get on, man. What’s worrying you?’
Weatherup still seemed to find a difficulty in proceeding. ‘Were you satisfied with it, sir, might I ask?’
‘Satisfied with what?’ Charles sounded a little testy. ‘Do you mean with the way it was carried on, or with the verdict, or what?’
‘Both, sir; but principally the verdict.’
Charles was very wide awake now. He didn’t like this beginning. A sense of impending danger took possession of him. He steeled himself to reply without faltering.
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ he declared. ‘If you mean, did I think the verdict was the right verdict, I did. What about it?’
Again Weatherup hesitated.
‘I rather fancied, sir, that the police didn’t.’
‘It looks like it now. But they didn’t say so at the time.’
‘They couldn’t get proof.’
Charles’s nerves were wearing thin. ‘Well, once again, what about it?’ he said irritably. ‘I wish you’d come to the point, Weatherup, whatever it is.’
‘It has occurred to me since then that I possibly could give them the proof they wanted.’
‘You could?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
Weatherup seemed taken aback. Presently, however, he went on: ‘It might prove inconvenient in other ways. Perhaps, sir, I’d better tell you what they thought.’
‘That’s what I’ve been waiting for.’
‘They thought, sir, that one of the master’s pills had been poisoned.’
In spite of Charles’s iron control he shrank back as if he had been struck. He felt he was giving himself away, but he could not help it. Then with a sudden instinct of self-defence he got himself in hand once more.
‘And you think you can give proof of that?’ he as
ked quietly.
‘I think so, sir.’
‘How?’
‘It was one evening several weeks ago now,’ Weatherup said slowly. ‘We had a caller to dinner, a gentleman. After dinner the ladies withdrew, and he and Mr Andrew were left alone in the dining-room. As usually happens, sir.’
‘Well?’
Charles grew angry. Here was this business coming out of Peter’s handling the bottle. But why should Weatherup tell him? Was he going to attempt blackmail? If so, Charles told himself, the man had come to the wrong shop.
‘Well, sir, I don’t know if you are aware that in the wall of the dining-room opposite the fireplace there’s a serving-hatch. It leads through from the pantry. That evening after dinner I happened to enter the pantry. The hatch was almost but not entirely closed. I glanced up and couldn’t help seeing through it into the dining-room.’
‘You were spying, you mean?’
‘Oh, no, sir, not at all. It was purely accidental. When I saw it was open I put out my hand to close it. I would have closed it then and there if it had not been for what I saw. I admit I was interested. I did close it immediately afterwards.’
Suddenly a dreadful misgiving shot into Charles’s mind. ‘And what did you see?’ he asked, and in spite of himself his voice sounded hoarse.
‘I saw the visitor, sir, suddenly knock over Mr Andrew’s wine.’
For a moment there was a tense silence. ‘Well?’ Charles asked again in that curiously hoarse voice. For the life of him he couldn’t speak in any other.
‘I was naturally surprised and remained motionless, watching. Then I saw him do a strange thing. He put his other hand, his right hand, on the table, picked up Mr Andrew’s bottle of pills and set down another in its place. Mr Andrew didn’t notice.’
Now that Charles was really up against a danger that he could see, his nervousness dropped away and his courage rose to meet it.
‘You saw all that, Weatherup, and you didn’t report it to the police? Don’t you know that you’re now guilty as an accessory after the fact?’
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