No, she couldn’t imagine why anyone should want to kill a sweet-tempered girl like Winnie. It must have been some terrible mistake, unless it was part of a plot to make them move away from the Hydro. She knew that most of the other residents disliked them. It was Charles’ fault, of course; he had such a terrible temper, and it was hard for outsiders to realize that he didn’t mean half he said.
Everyone had been so kind to them today, but it was dreadful to feel that any hand which had been stretched out in sympathy might have been the one which took Winnie’s life from her. Mrs. Napier had been specially kind, but then she had actually been in the baths when Winnie was... had died... hadn’t she? And she wasn’t quite... was she? And she had never really liked Winnie, so it did look as if... didn’t it?
They sat in silence for a few moments, then Palk said softly:
“Mrs. Marston, I don’t want to intrude upon your grief, but can you think of any reason why anyone in this Hydro or outside it should want to kill your daughter?”
For a moment Mrs. Marston’s calm was replaced by grief and her next few words were broken with sobs.
“Such a lovable girl she was, Inspector, such a sweet nature. She never made an enemy in the world. Millie is different: she’s a little too outspoken for most people, though I’m sure she will grow out of it. But Winnie wouldn’t say a word to hurt a living soul. How anyone could...it must have been a lunatic escaped from some asylum... to kill her so callously. She must have looked so defenceless lying there like that. Winnie always looked so pretty when she was asleep. She always slept curled round like a kitten, with her head bent forward on the pillow.”
Palk helped her from her chair and escorted her to the door, but as she was going out he stopped her with another question.
“Did your husband believe that there was any truth in the rumours about Miss Winnie being in love with your chauffeur?”
“Oh no!” she replied quickly. “If he’d believed that, he’d have murdered her!”
Then, aghast at her words, she turned and fled.
Chapter 27
Try as he would, the Inspector could not rid his mind of the moment when he had swept back the curtain of the cubicle and revealed the incongruous figure of Mrs. Napier seated amongst Winnie Marston’s clothes. Both Dr. Williams and Miss Lewis had confirmed Nurse Hawkins’ statement that Mrs. Napier had had no appointment in the baths for that morning, and the more he thought about it the more he was inclined to believe that Mrs. Napier had stolen into the massage-room, stabbed Winnie, and, finding her retreat cut off by the nurse, had slipped into the cubicle and awaited discovery. But if she had been cool enough to achieve this, why had she failed to seize the opportunity to escape at the moment when Nurse Hawkins had discovered Winnie’s murder? He decided to ask her, with no real hope of receiving an intelligible, let alone an intelligent, answer.
Mrs. Napier’s entrance into the room did not help to allay the Inspector’s suspicions. She came in alone, walking with much greater ease than before, and while Sergeant Jago was still moving forward to assist her, she reached the chair and seated herself in it unaided, with surprisingly few bumpings and twistings.
It might of course be, thought Palk, that she was always of intention at her worst when the nurse was present, but all the same it looked decidedly strange. Was it possible that she was not so harmless as the doctor believed? That was his opinion as a medical man, of course, but even the best of doctors made a wrong diagnosis sometimes, and Nurse Hawkins, who saw a great deal more of Mrs. Napier than anyone else did, had believed her to be capable of murder. She had not been absolutely normal when she first came for treatment, and possibly the murder of Miss Blake had provided a shock sufficient to turn her brain and had produced a homicidal tendency in her. If this were so, the murder of Winnie Marston was purely imitative. This solution certainly provided a perfect reason for the choice of Winnie as a victim, for both she and Miss Blake were young, good-looking, unmarried girls. In his profession accuracy was a habit, and he had learned to be careful in his usage of the old-fashioned word “virgin” in these enlightened days.
The more he thought of this theory the more feasible it seemed. Mrs. Napier’s whole manner pointed to the fact that she was pleased about something. In her last interview she had been sullen and vindictive, now she was smiling and had a contented look as if some urgent desire had been fulfilled. Well, he must not allow his thoughts to run away with him. Theories were all very fine, but until you proved them they were not facts, and the Chief Constable was a stickler for facts. It wasn’t even wise to say “I think this” to him, but was always more advisable to preface remarks with “I believe” or “I consider.” Palk did so now to keep in practice.
“I believe I interviewed you before about the murder of Miss Blake.”
Mrs. Napier nodded.
“Yes. She was murdered. Sir Humphrey, they tell me. It was very sad.”
Palk hesitated. If he could only ask the right questions in the right way he might get the truth from her at once, he thought. Mrs. Napier appeared to be quite content to wait until he had made up his mind.
“What were you doing in the baths this morning?” he asked eventually.
Mrs. Napier smiled brightly.
“My treatment. I always have treatment in the baths, for my legs, you know. They’re very weak. Sometimes I can’t walk at all. I ought to use a bath-chair really, but there is only one.”
“Yes, I know, Mrs. Napier. But you were waiting there this morning at a quarter past one. Dr. Williams tells me that he never makes an appointment after half past twelve.”
Mrs. Napier looked in no way disconcerted.
“That nurse kept me waiting. She always does. Other people can be attended to on time but not me. Oh no! She keeps me waiting deliberately, but I’ll be even with her yet, you’ll see. She’s a wicked woman.”
“If you were waiting for a long time you must have been in that cubicle when Winnie Marston –”
“She was murdered. I was there. Yes, murdered just like that other girl.” Mrs. Napier beamed at him, and her eyes behind their thick-lensed spectacles positively gloated.
Palk drew a deep breath.
“Mrs. Napier,” he said impressively, “how do you know that she was murdered in the same way as Miss Blake?”
“I was there. I heard it all.”
Sergeant Jago gasped. This was an unexpected development.
“You mean that you were really there all the morning hidden in the cubicle? You heard the murderer enter the baths and kill Miss Marston? You know who did it?”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said excitedly. “I saw her. I was there. I was very frightened. She might have murdered me too.” She drew a handkerchief from the pocket of her woollen cardigan and began to dust her skirt down with it.
“Who was it? Whom did you see?” Her excitement was catching.
Mrs. Napier looked up in surprise.
“Who? Why, Nurse Hawkins, of course. Who else was it likely to be? If she stays here we shall all be murdered, and I shall be the next one. She hates us all, but she hates me the most. It’s because we see her flirting with the Admiral when she ought to be at work. The way she neglects me is a disgrace. She lets me fall down. I can show you the bruises. She’s a wicked woman, I tell you. You must lock her up, and then I shall be safe.”
Palk interrupted the familiar words with a snort of disgust and dismissed her. As if she suddenly remembered that she had entered the room with less trouble than usual, she endeavoured to make her exit as difficult as possible so that Sergeant Jago at length re-entered the room mopping his brow with a yellow handkerchief surprisingly decorated with pink elephants, and was for once too breathless to make any suitable comment.
So much for my handling of the situation, Palk thought irritably. She’s either entirely innocent or else too clever by half.
But in either case it was obvious that he would get no further information from Mrs. Napier, and as a matter of
routine he sent for Nurse Hawkins again. She affirmed again the fact that Mrs. Napier’s appointment was for the following day, and this was confirmed by Miss Lewis’s appointment book.
Palk then sent for Mrs. Dawson and greeted her with: “Well, Mrs. Dawson, did you foresee the second murder?” and she hesitated in her walk towards the chair to which Palk had waved his visitors in the previous case.
“Are you still suspicious of me, Inspector?” she asked in a forced, roguish manner which accorded ill with her flat-heeled appearance, and did not effectively cover her real feelings. “No, I never got so far as visualizing the second murder, thank goodness, or I might find myself under arrest. As it is, I could have done the murder, I suppose.”
“You admit that?” asked Palk.
Mrs. Dawson looked straight at him.
“I’m not a fool, Inspector, as I believe I’ve told you before. I realize that I was unpleasantly near to Winnie Marston when she was murdered, and that it’s to my benefit to tell the truth and do all I can to help you to solve the mystery.”
Trying to make a good impression on me, was Palk’s first thought, and, Talks like a detective novel, was his second.
“I understand that you were having treatment for your wrist. How long have you been having it?”
“For three weeks. I began it before the time of Miss Blake’s murder, and I go twice a week.”
“Is today one of your regular days?”
“No. Nurse Hawkins asked me to come today instead of yesterday.”
“Did she give you any reason for the change?”
“She said that Dr. Williams had altered her time-table for this week, and so she couldn’t fit me in yesterday.”
“Did anyone know that your time had been changed?” Mrs. Dawson smiled.
“Oh, everyone knew, I should think. You see, I was annoyed about it, because I like to work to a time-table. If you’re a writer, you have to.”
Inspector Palk restrained a snort.
“You arrived for treatment this morning, then, at what time?”
“Just after twenty to twelve. I was a few minutes early and had to wait. I heard Nurse Hawkins talking to Miss Marston in the massage-room when I came in, then I went into the electric-room and began to read my book.”
“How do you know that it was Miss Marston whom the nurse was talking to? Did you recognize her voice?”
“I heard...” Mrs. Dawson hesitated. “Well, I don’t know really. I just assumed that it must be she afterwards.”
“Then you actually heard another voice besides Nurse Hawkins’?”
“No, I can’t say that I did. I just heard the nurse’s voice and assumed that she was talking to another patient. Oh, you mean that Nurse Hawkins might have killed Winnie before I went into the baths, and was only pretending to talk to her for my benefit?”
Palk did not encourage her to pursue this line of thought. “Was Nurse Hawkins late in coming to you?” he asked. “No, she was on time by my watch. She fetched some hot water for the arm-bath. You see, for my treatment the arm is immersed—”
“That’s all right,” interrupted Palk. “I understand what the treatment consists of. Your arm is actually attached to the machine which sends an electric current through the water on to the metal plate clamped to the pad on your arm, so that you are unable to move. Isn’t that correct?”
“I... I could move if I wanted to, I’m sure, but I’ve never tried.”
“You understand the working of the machine?”
“Yes, partly. I know, that is, how to turn it on and off.”
“So that you could have turned it off this morning and taken the pad off your arm, and gone into the other room if you’d wanted to?”
Mrs. Dawson’s face paled.
“It would be difficult to replace the bandage with my left-hand,” she said, “but I think I could. Only I didn’t.”
“You realize that a girl was being murdered in a room alongside the one in which you were sitting? You’re sure you heard no sound?”
“No. The machine makes such a noise that you’d have to shout to make yourself heard even if you were in the same room. I couldn’t possibly have heard anyone call from the next room.”
“There are two doors to the electric-room; one leading to the ladies’ baths, and one leading to the men’s. I suggest that you saw someone come through the one door and go out through the other.”
There was no doubt about Mrs. Dawson’s fear now.
“No, no. I saw nobody,” she said.
“But if anyone had passed through that room you must have seen him.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied nervously. “The machine would drown any sound, and I was sitting reading my book, with my back turned towards the doors. Oh, Inspector, you don’t really think that the murderer did pass behind me, do you?”
“1 think it quite possible,” he replied. He leaned forward and said, “Mrs. Dawson, who do you think killed Winnie Marston?”
“Oh, the chauffeur, of course,” she replied. “Everyone knows that they were carrying on an affair together, and I suppose he’d got her into trouble.”
“So you would make Matthews responsible for the second crime?” he asked sarcastically.
“Oh no,” replied Mrs. Dawson. “If I were writing it as a thriller I should make the same murderer responsible for the two murders. Both were young, pretty girls; both were murdered with knitting-needles; surely the similarity is striking.”
“How do you know that Winnie Marston was murdered with a knitting-needle?’’ Palk asked pointedly.
Mrs. Dawson looked very much taken aback.
“I... I... wasn’t she?” she stammered.
Palk ignored her question and returned to her previous remark.
“If your detective had arrested Sir Humphrey Chervil,” he inquired, “whom would you have made responsible for the second murder?”
Mrs. Dawson smiled brightly.
“My detective would never have been such a fool!” she replied.
Chapter 28
Bert Matthews, his brown eyes serious, his firm chin showing even greater firmness than that which Winnie Marston had admired, came into the library. His chocolate-coloured uniform was beautifully brushed and pressed; his leggings shone with polish, and his hair with cheap-scented brilliantine. He held his brown peaked cap in his horny, well-scrubbed right hand, on the little finger of which he wore a tight-fitting gold ring. He was altogether a dapper figure, and if the rumours about him and Winnie were true, it was not difficult to understand why he had appeared attractive to her in a place where young, good-looking men were rare. If he had been applying for a post as chauffeur Palk felt that he would have engaged him on the spot, and in that first instant he did not believe him guilty of murder. It was not Palk’s business, however, to judge people by first impressions, and he turned to the task of questioning Matthews.
“Your name is Bert Matthews?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are employed as chauffeur to Mr. Marston?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You knew his daughter, Miss Winnie Marston?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have lately been giving her driving-lessons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you at any time become intimate with her?”
“Intimate, sir?”
“Yes. Did you make love to her? Kiss her?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she make any advances to you?”
“No, sir.”
Palk realized that the man was playing with him. These answers were rehearsed; they were not natural. Only by surprise could he hope to gain any proper information from him.
“Miss Winnie Marston was murdered this morning in the ladies’ massage-room,” he said suddenly, looking sharply at the chauffeur.
Matthews’ start of surprise was overdone.
“Murdered?” he cried.
“You knew,” snapped Palk. “Who told you?”
Matthews twisted his cap round in his hands.
“Ted Cox, sir.”
The Inspector swore audibly. He should have guarded against this possibility, he thought, but there were so many doors in the Hydro that it was almost impossible not to overlook one, and Ted Cox must have slipped through that one to waylay Matthews on his return from the car.
“You went to the treatment-rooms this morning and asked for Miss Marston,” stated Palk.
Matthews nodded.
“What did you go for?”
“I went to speak to Ted Cox, sir. I had a few minutes on my hands.”
“If you’ve seen Ted Cox since, you’ll know that he told us that you went specially to ask if Miss Marston was having treatment. Wasn’t that a very unusual thing to do?”
“Well, yes, I suppose it was,” said Matthews sullenly, “but I only wanted to leave a message for her. It was about her driving-lesson at ten to twelve.”
Palk checked him, then, thinking better of it, said:
“Go on. At ten to twelve, you said. When was that arranged?”
“Yesterday evening, sir. Miss Winnie came into the garage when I was cleaning the car.”
Knock, Murderer, Knock! Page 15
