“What message did you want to give her, then?”
“I wanted to let her know –” The chauffeur’s voice faltered, then he made an effort and continued, “I couldn’t give her a lesson after all. The boss sent round word this morning for me to have the car ready for him at twelve-thirty, and I had to let her know.”
“Can’t you see that it looks very strange for you to have gone to the ladies’ baths yourself?” persisted Palk.
“What else could I do?” returned Matthews. “I couldn’t send a note, could I? And I had to let her know somehow, didn’t I?”
“How did you know that she would be there?”
“Because she told me. She said: ‘I’ve got to have some massage in the morning, but we... we can go afterwards. Be ready about ten to twelve.’”
Palk tapped the table with his pencil. The story was a straightforward one and was most probably true, yet he had an unaccountable feeling that Matthews was lying.
“How long have you been teaching Miss Marston to drive?” he asked.
“Six weeks, sir.”
“And couldn’t she drive yet?”
“She drove well enough, sir, for a woman, that is, but the boss wouldn’t let her go out alone yet,” replied Matthews, and again Palk felt that though he might be telling the truth, he was not telling the whole of the truth.
“Matthews, did you murder Miss Blake?” he asked.
“May I be struck down dead if I did, sir,” he cried passionately.
There was a long pause. At the end of it Matthews still remained standing.
Palk dismissed Matthews and sent for Sergeant Jago.
“Any clues?” he asked.
“Nary a one, sir. Not even a scrap of blank paper. Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar, sir, that two different girls should be murdered in the same way by two different men? Do you think that baronet fellow is really guilty of Miss Blake’s murder?”
“You’ve been talking to Mrs. Dawson,” returned Palk. “Of course he’s guilty. From what I can gather he wasn’t so well-off as he pretended to be, and the few thousands he’d have been able to raise on her jewels would have set him up for quite a time. This other murder is an imitative one. You know yourself that any crime, however small, brings a crowd of imitations.”
But Palk almost seemed to be talking to convince himself, and the sergeant, encouraged by his superior’s perplexity, went on:
“As you say, sir, but I think Mrs. Napier did both of them myself. She walked in while the nurse was upstairs with Lady Warme, in the second crime, then undressed herself and sat in the cubicle after she had stabbed Miss Marston. She knew we’d find her there, and that we shouldn’t suspect anyone who stayed near like that. We all know that she’s a bit peculiar, and people like that are very cunning.”
“It’s a possibility,” replied Palk. “That’s the trouble. As long as we don’t know where everyone was during that half-hour, everyone is suspect, and everything’s a possibility. I don’t mind admitting that I’m not satisfied with that nurse.”
Jago looked surprised.
“But she’s about the only one who has an alibi,” he objected. “She was upstairs with Lady Warme during that half-hour.”
“I know,” replied Palk; “that’s partly why I’m not satisfied. Alibis can be faked too easily, and have you noticed the way she keeps looking at the doctor all the time when I’m questioning her, as if she wants him to give her a hint about what to say? Half the time this morning I didn’t know which one of them I was supposed to be talking to. There’s always the possibility that there were two people in league together.”
“What about the chauffeur?” asked Jago. “He knew Miss Marston was in the baths. He may have gone in to her without being seen. He could have got a knitting-needle from Cox. You may depend that if there was one amongst the instruments there was another too.”
“If there was, we can’t prove it,” returned Palk. “Time enough to talk about Matthews when we get the P.M. result and find out whether she was as good a girl as her mother thinks she was. Matthews is playing at being a tar-baby at present, and ‘ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. If we can pin a motive on him we might be able to alter all that, but the trouble is that, so far as I can see, no one had any motive whatever for murdering Winnie Marston.”
The result of the medical examination on Winnie Marston did not give Palk the help he had hoped for. Winnie was pronounced virgo intacta, the motive remained obscured, and the Inspector had to content himself with a temporary verdict of “murder by imitation by some person or persons unknown, but probably residing in Presteignton Hydro.” He set one of his men to shadow Matthews, and issued an order in his arbitrary way, forbidding anyone to leave the Hydro; but, failing to gain any further information about anyone’s movements at the time of the murder, he realized that his inquiry was virtually at a standstill.
Chapter 29
As a result of Palk’s order, everyone in the Hydro began to suffer from a specialized form of claustrophobia; a fear of being shut up with their fellow creatures. They realized fully that the Inspector had no authority to enforce such an order, and that they were free to leave the Hydro if they wished, but fearing lest any such departure would be taken as an indication of complicity in the murder, no one would be the first to leave. And so they remained on, each suspecting the others, and spending their time in solitary confinement behind the locked doors of their bedrooms. But after a few days of this they herded together again even more than usual, having found isolation unbearable. For one could not talk to oneself, and habit had made it necessary for the Hydro residents to hear the sound of their own voices.
It was therefore with a feeling of great pleasure that they welcomed a new arrival into their midst.
At any other time Mr. Winkley would have passed unnoticed among the visitors to the Hydro, so unassuming and insignificant was his appearance, and so gentle and unobtrusive his manner. His skin was pink, his hair and moustache fair, the latter stained brown at the straight-clipped edge with nicotine, and matched by the skin between the first and second fingers of his left hand. His eyes were of a mild blue, and he blinked frequently as if he ought to have worn glasses. One felt that he should have been short and stout, and it was rather surprising to discover that he was well above the average height, and that his carriage was upright and soldierly.
Lady Warme put him down as a retired grocer (“and she ought to know if anyone does, having been in that trade herself, my dear!”), and this seemed borne out by the fact that he wore red leather slippers with his dinner-suit. But after she had spoken with him by accident one evening, Lady Warme was not quite so sure, for there was no getting away from the fact that he spoke like a gentleman, “and really if he brushed his hair back instead of wearing it in that ridiculous bang over his forehead he would look quite distinguished!”
Miss Astill was convinced that he was a detective from Scotland Yard, and though everyone else laughed at the idea of Mr. Winkley’s being anything so decisive as a detective, she maintained her belief and obstinately refused to have anything to do with him. This seemed all the more noticeable since Mr. Winkley appeared to be a great man for the ladies, and needed no invitation to join any one of them when he happened to be passing through the lounge and saw her sitting alone. For the matter of that, he was equally anxious to chat with the men, and was altogether a very friendly and comforting person to have about the Hydro at this trying time. Even the doctor, who was notoriously unfriendly, and in the opinion of all the residents overdid the standoffishness of his position, made no secret of the fact that he liked Mr. Winkley’s company, and invited him more than once to his private rooms for a quiet smoke. But Mr. Winkley did not often accept the doctor’s invitation, and this more than anything, perhaps, made him sure of a high position in the good opinion of the residents, who abominated any sign of favouritism, especially as he played a really useful though uninspired hand at whist, and could be relied on to lose at billiards.
It was soon noticeable that Mr. Winkley was fond of detective fiction, and was rarely seen about without the latest thriller under his arm. But though the residents had experienced more thrills at first hand than Mr. Winkley, to judge by his appearance, was ever destined to know, no one so much as mentioned the recent murders in the Hydro. Miss Astill explained to Miss Brendon that she personally kept silent “out of a sense of loyalty to the dear doctor,” but the others did not claim any such noble motive. They held their peace, partly because they had had their fill of cross-questioning from Palk, partly because they remembered that Winnie Marston’s murderer was still at large, and perhaps partly because they were badly in need of new faces around them, and feared lest a man of so gentle a nature as Mr. Winkley might be scared away by the knowledge that a drama as shocking as any he had ever read had been enacted in the Hydro.
So they talked of the weather and their ailments and family affairs and certain special days which stood out in the memory of the Hydro, such as the visit of Charles Laughton at luncheon one day, looking “not a bit like that dreadful Captain Bligh, and how the man can bear to take such a part I can’t imagine; though really I suppose it’s very naughty of me to say so, for after all, he was a Bligh, wasn’t he, and I suppose he was related to the Blighs, or wasn’t he, do you think?”
So the warm, sunny October drew to its close and ushered in November with such cold winds and persistent rain, that the tension which had been bearable when all could get out into the grounds to take their daily exercise, increased, and their nerves were frayed with the strain of keeping silent on the one subject about which their tongues longed to wag. Worst of all, perhaps, they were driven out of the room which, since the murder of Miss Blake, had become their general sitting-room, for the sun-lounge was the most depressing of all the public rooms in bad weather. Its three sides of clear glass showed vistas of mist-obscured tors and rain-swept coast. In the foreground the croquet and tennis lawns and paths, which appeared to be level in dry weather, showed themselves to be a mass of depressions, in which the rain gathered in little pools. The rain gurgled monotonously in the gutters and ran continuously down the windows; nevertheless, for several days the Hydro residents sat shivering in the cold draughts of the glassy room, until ever-widening damp patches appeared ominously on the ceiling and the one solid wall, and drove them reluctantly into the drawing-room, which few of them had entered since Miss Blake’s death.
They sat there in chairs drawn almost too close for bodily comfort, and plied themselves a little too earnestly to their several occupations; Admiral Urwin with the less difficult crossword puzzle from last Sunday’s Observer; Miss Astill with the altar cloth she was embroidering for the Vicar; Lady Warme with a bedjacket she was crocheting in pink wool; Mrs. Dawson with her little notebook; the Colonel with a newspaper marked “Not to be removed from the Library.”
It was noticeable that nobody was knitting, and that they all avoided the deep, comfortable settee which now stood crosswise at the left-hand side of the hearth. It was only natural that Mr. Winkley should walk towards it; and, looking around in his short-sighted way, should sit there after a smiling, “Does no one else want to sit here? Sure?”
Lady Warme shuddered, and drew her black velvet bridge-coat more closely round her, and casting long fearful glances towards the curtained window behind, murmured, “It’s very draughty in here tonight, isn’t it?” and began crocheting at a feverish rate.
The conversation languished until the only sounds in the room were the crackle of the fire and the Admiral’s laboured breathing. After half an hour’s silence, Mr. Winkley let his book slide from his fingers on to the settee, lit a cigarette, and leaning forward to toss the match into the hearth, said aloud:
“I wonder what would be the best way to commit a murder?”
The sudden question jerked the automatons into life. Lady Warme screamed, the Admiral dropped his pencil with an oath, Colonel Simcox jumped to his feet with a muffled, “My God!”, Mrs. Dawson pulled up her skirts as if a mouse had just run over her foot, Miss Astill pricked her finger and looked down at it with startled eyes, while Mrs. Napier, who had been sitting unnoticed in a corner muttered, “Blood... blood!”
Explanations inevitably followed, and they all began to talk at once, so that it was some time before Mr. Winkley could be made to understand what they were telling him.
“I... I’m sorry,” he stammered at length. “I assure you I had no idea. Crime interests me; I was merely speculating aloud. I really hadn’t any idea... you must forgive me. I quite understand that you don’t want to talk about it.”
But now that the subject had been brought into the conversation, they all wanted to relieve their repressed fears by talking about them.
Mr. Winkley’s blue eyes opened wider and wider, and his murmured exclamations of interested surprise stimulated the residents, who so often had to relate their scandal to unwilling ears. They each told him in their different ways the story of the two crimes, and even Miss Astill was prevailed upon to alter her first hastily formed opinion of him, and contribute her own experience, agreeing that no real detective could ever take such a morbid interest in murder.
“Well, well,” Mr. Winkley said when they had all paused for breath, “it is most astounding... such an amazing experience. I have always been interested in crime, and to think that I missed two murders by only a few days. I almost wish I had been here. I shall probably never have another chance. It does seem a pity, doesn’t it?” and his eyes blinked rapidly round the circle of faces.
Chapter 30
Reputations were quickly made in the Hydro. Because Lady Warme had once been to the Scala as an insignificant unit in a mighty audience, she had become, in the eyes of the residents, a musician; because Mrs. Dawson dabbled in writing, therefore she was pointed out on every possible occasion to casual visitors as “the well-known lady novelist, my dear!” It is not, therefore, surprising that by the following morning, everyone, from the doctor down to the boy who cleaned the shoes, knew that crime was Mr. Winkley’s hobby. Before long they had suggested that he should try and solve the murder of Winnie Marston.
Mr. Winkley seemed willing enough to oblige them, and apparently never grew tired of hearing the same things over and over again, for he would often come to one or other of the residents, and, peering into the little pocket-book which he now carried about with him in place of the neglected thrillers, he would begin, in words which soon became familiar to them all, “Oh, by the way, you know what you told me about...” and they would tell him their stories all over again with great relish.
They all seemed like so many Ancient Mariners, cursed to tell their tales to ease their minds, and somehow it did seem to take away part of the horror from the recent tragedies to talk about them to this good-natured, simple-minded man.
“Of course, the Inspector may be right in thinking that Sir Humphrey Chervil and the chauffeur are the two murderers,” he said diffidently, “but in all the books I’ve read on crime, the inspector is always wrong, and it is the private investigator who finds the missing clue.”
His “fame” spread over the Hydro. Miss Brendon, defying the severe Hydro conventions, invited him to tea in her bedroom, and even the Marstons received him in the private room which they had used since Winnie’s death, and presumably told him their stories too. Guests and staff alike grew accustomed to stumbling over him in dark corners, when he would rise to his feet, pocket magnifying-glass in one hand and miniature torch in the other, and blinking in embarrassment, would murmur something in-distinct about “examining the wainscot...” They would smile and, relating the incident over the tea-cups, would say, “Old Dr. Thorndyke-Holmes is at it again! Time he showed some results, isn’t it?”
One evening after dinner, they were sitting uneasily in the drawing-room, when Mr. Winkley came up to them with a stammered suggestion which for a moment made them think that his hobby had turned his brain.
“Don’t you think it would be
a good idea...? It’s quite in the right tradition... I wonder Palk didn’t think of doing it himself... I mean, we might learn something from it... But, of course, I can’t do it without your help.”
He continued in this incoherent strain until Colonel Simcox lost his temper.
“Goddammit, man!” he roared. “What are you blethering about like an old nanny-goat? Can’t you speak Queen’s English and have done with it?”
Mr. Winkley blinked at him apologetically.
“I thought I’d explained. I was only thinking... reconstruction, you know. It’s usual with a crime.”
Lady Warme gave a horrified gasp.
“Do you mean...you want us to act... murder?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Winkley, “that was the idea. Oh, not if you have any objection, but it couldn’t do anyone any harm, and it might do a little good.”
“It’s sacrilege, Mr. Winkley,” said Miss Astill, sitting up very straight in her chair. “I for one shall refuse to take part in it.
“Nonsense!” contradicted the Colonel, now thoroughly aroused. “You women use such hysterical expressions. I can’t imagine how you think of them. It’s certainly an unusual request, but sacrilege... Huh!”
“I agree that it can’t do any harm,” said Admiral Urwin, “but what good will it do, eh? What good will it do?”
Mrs. Dawson sucked at her cigarette. She did not really enjoy smoking, but thought it fitted in with her pose as a successful novelist. “Personally, I’m all for it,” she said. “It’s been miserable enough sitting here every evening, goodness knows. I’m in favour of anything that will cheer us up a bit.”
Lady Warme snorted.
“Well, if you think it will cheer us up to reconstruct a murder which has altered all our lives for the worse, and reacted on us all in a most unpleasant way,” she retorted, “you can do it. But you needn’t ask me to help you.” Nevertheless, she remained in the room, as if morbidly attracted by the idea.
Knock, Murderer, Knock! Page 16
