Chapter 33
Mr. Winkley was the first to reach the laurel shrubbery, with Colonel Simcox a close second. As they stood looking down at Bobby’s little crumpled body, the Colonel thought he heard his companion say, “I ought to have expected it.”
The rest of the Hydro residents, attracted by Grace’s screams, emerged from different parts of the grounds and converged on the shrubbery.
“Oh, my God! Another...” screamed Mrs. Marston, stumbling towards her husband, who essayed to give her clumsy comfort as he turned her away from the laurels, breathing heavily and swearing almost inaudibly under his breath.
Mr. Winkley took it upon himself to prevent anyone touching the slight, murdered body of the child, and warned them to keep their distance, while he himself peered at the ground immediately around as if searching for some clue. He sent Colonel Simcox for the doctor, and the others soon regained the composure which had been so badly shaken by the sight of a new murder, and grew suspicious of Mr. Winkley.
“How do we know that you didn’t do it yourself, and are keeping us away while you destroy some evidence?” demanded Lady Warme, who previously had been one of Mr. Winkley’s greatest admirers.
“Yes,” said the Admiral, hobbling restlessly on his sticks, his voice irascible with emotion, “you’d better be careful not to touch anything yourself. There might be footprints where you’re standing. Sleuthing when there’s nothing to sleuth, and sleuthing when there’s an actual murder, are two different things. This is no job for an amateur.”
But the shrubbery was open to the skies, and on the edge of the pine wood. The wind had flung generations of pine-needles over the clipped laurels, and had piled them up into a soft, resilient carpet on which even the heaviest footprints could not be retained. Mr. Winkley continued to prowl round, and the others watched, fascinated.
They were disturbed by a piercing shriek from the terrace as Mrs. Dawson came half running, half stumbling towards them.
“My darling! My baby! I killed him, I killed him!” she cried, and before anyone could put out a hand to stop her she had rushed into the shrubbery and flung herself on her knees on the spiny carpet. She picked Bobby up in her arms, smoothing his hair and speaking to him in an agony of dis-belief that he could be dead. And all the time the cruel length of steel, looking like some fantastic feather that a child might stick in his hair, protruded from the back of his head and gave her the lie.
Mr. Winkley shrugged his shoulders as if calling them all to witness that he had done his best to fulfil the prescribed police regulations under such circumstances, and turned away.
Mrs. Dawson was rocking Bobby backwards and forwards in her arms, as if to reawaken life in his still heart; her eyes were dulled, and she seemed faced with something which her brain could not understand.
Nurse Hawkins stepped forward and touched her shoulder. Mrs. Dawson looked up blankly, then her face puckered in an agony of grief.
“It’s my fault!” she cried again. “I killed him! I said there ought to be another murder to make it more interesting. It’s a judgment on me. Oh, my God! I said it would be good publicity!”
She allowed the nurse to take Bobby from her arms and place him gently back again on the ground, but it was Mrs. Marston who helped her to stand up, and coaxed her with infinite sympathy and understanding to move away on reluctant feet.
Dr. Williams, grave and pale, joined the little group in the shrubbery, and, going on one knee, examined the body perfunctorily, and shook his head. As he rose to his feet, Miss Astill stepped forward, and dropped to her knees in an attitude of prayer.
“He is safe,” she whispered. “Safe in the arms of Jesus.”
So they remained, each within earshot and sight of each other, until Inspector Palk came; a very agitated Inspector, who flung his arms about when he spoke to them, and swore when he found that the body had been moved. He was filled with the feeling that he could have averted this third tragedy, yet at the same time he knew that he still lacked the knowledge which would have enabled him to do so. He felt, also, that if he did not speedily gain that knowledge, a fourth tragedy, and then a fifth, might occur. He was pestered in his sleep by a nightmare in which murder followed murder in the Hydro until only the murderer was left alive, and he would awake in a sweat from a hand-to-hand fight with this murderer, whose face he could never see.
“Who found him?” he snapped.
“My little girl, Grace,” replied the doctor.
Palk’s annoyance increased a hundredfold. He was devoted to children, and to his mind the murder of one and the cross-questioning of another was the worst thing which his profession could hold for him.
“It’s quite impossible to question her today,” the doctor went on, reading the Inspector’s thoughts, which was not a difficult task. “They were playing hide-and-seek and she found him like that. The shock was enough to drive her insane. I’ve given her a strong sedative and put her to bed. It might be a month before you can question her.”
Palk’s muttered oath was one which he had learned from the Admiral.
“Does anyone know how it happened?” he asked.
Mr. Winkley stepped forward.
“I was just coming round the bend of the laurel thicket when the doctor’s little girl ran out screaming. I naturally went inside to see what was the matter, and found Bobby lying on the ground. I stayed here till the others came, then sent Colonel Simcox for the doctor.”
“Oh, naturally!” said Palk with heavy sarcasm. “You happened to be there, and you naturally slipped in to take a look. I should have thought that the most natural thing to do would have been to think that the girl had been hurt and to go and ask her what was the matter.”
Mr. Winkley’s face bore a look of amazement. He blinked rapidly at the Inspector.
“I... I think,” he stammered, “that with all these murders in the Hydro it was quite natural to suspect another one. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Harm!” roared Palk, venting his full feelings on Mr. Winkley. “I should hope not, but do you mean any good? Of course you don’t! You come here poking your nose into this place and generally upsetting everybody. I suppose you go snooping round examining the wainscoting through a magnifying-glass!” A murmur from the others, and Mr. Winkley’s air of embarrassment, told him that he had scored a hit. “That sort of stuff’s no good to anyone. I suppose you get your ideas from detective stories. Most people seem to think they’re written by detectives. Such rubbish! Most of them are written by women, let me tell you, and what do women know about detective-work? Nothing!”
Having worked off some of his resentment against the murderer on his favourite theme, Palk continued in a more normal tone:
“You take my advice and stick to your detective stories, Mr. Winkley, but don’t try to put them into practice; you’re sure to get into trouble if you do. Why, for all you know it might have been your detective-work that caused this murder.”
Mr. Winkley blinked harder than ever.
“Yes, Inspector, that’s what I’m afraid of,” was his astonishing reply.
Palk snorted, and turned his attention to the others. He found that, with the exception of Mrs. Dawson and Dr. Williams and his secretary, they had all been at some point in the grounds within easy reach of the shrubbery, and that, with the exception of Colonel Simcox and Mr. Winkley, none of them had been in sight of the others while the children were playing hide-and-seek. They had all heard Grace’s screams and her incoherent words about the shrubbery, and had come to see what was the matter.
Palk ordered them to wait for him outside the laurel thicket under Sergeant Jago’s eye, while he searched the ground inside, without much hope of finding a clue. The police doctor and photographer had soon finished their routine work, and Palk gave orders for Bobby’s body to be removed.
As he emerged again into the thin November sunshine, the white overall of Nurse Hawkins caught his eye, and he questioned her more closely.
“I though
t you had to give treatment in the mornings, Nurse,” he remarked. “What are you doing out here?”
Nurse Hawkins looked embarrassed.
“Not... not since the murder of Miss Marston,” she replied. “The patients won’t go into the baths now; they’re all afraid. I came out to bring Mrs. Napier into the sunshine.”
“But Mrs. Napier isn’t here now.”
“No, I left her on the terrace about half an hour ago.”
“Then what are you doing down here? If I remember, you said that you were on the path behind the laurel shrubbery when the little girl screamed.”
Nurse Hawkins looked quickly at the doctor, who appeared not to notice her, then at Palk, then looked down, moving her hands restlessly.
“Well?” snapped Palk.
“I... I came down for a short walk before going back on duty.”
“Are you supposed to take walks in the morning?”
Again the nurse glanced at the doctor.
“No... I... no.”
Palk decided that there was nothing to be gained by immediate questioning, and indicated that they were all to proceed to the house and to remain within the drawing-room, despite the sunshine, till he needed them. They formed a procession, with the nurse, Lady Warme, Miss Astill, the Admiral and the. Colonel at the head, followed by Mr. Marston and Millie. Then came Dr. Williams and Mr. Winkley in earnest conversation, followed by Jago and Palk, with a constable carrying Bobby.
As they reached the terrace, Mrs. Napier stumbled heavily towards them.
“Have any of you seen a knitting-needle?” she asked. “I’ve lost one somewhere!”
Chapter 34
Once inside the Hydro, Inspector Palk put everyone through an examination bordering on second – if not third – degree. Evidently his suspicions of Mr. Winkley and of Matthews were increased by this cross-questioning, for when at last he returned to Newton St. Mary, he took the former in his car with him, while the latter followed in the police car with Sergeant Jago. There seemed no doubt that Matthews was guilty of the murder both of Winnie and of Bobby, and the general opinion of the Hydro residents was that Mr. Winkley, who had an alibi through being with Colonel Simcox, was being made a bit of a scapegoat by Palk.
After they had recovered somewhat from the first shock of this third murder, they would merely find it a new subject for scandal, and would discuss it in these terms: “I didn’t wish the poor child to be murdered, but really it does rather serve Mrs. Dawson right for boasting about putting us all in her new book, doesn’t it? As for Mr. Winkley, no doubt the Inspector took him to the station to administer an official reprimand. He’s a very nice little man, and I know we all like him, but he did rather take too much on himself, ordering us all about as if he were the Commissioner of Police at the very least. No wonder Inspector Palk wouldn’t stand for that kind of behaviour.”
If they could have been present at the interview between Palk and Mr. Winkley, they would have received a great surprise. It took place, not at the police-station, but at that very luxurious hotel in Market St. known as “The Angel and Child,” and started over the best luncheon which the hotel cuisine could provide.
Neither the Inspector nor Mr. Winkley had spoken during the drive to the hotel, but when the first few spoonfuls of soup had been disposed of, Palk looked inquiringly at his companion.
“Perhaps you’ll be good enough to make your position clear, Mr. – er – Winkley,” he said in a reluctant manner. “It puts me in an awkward position in this affair.”
“Winkley is my real name, I assure you, Inspector. I presume that Dr. Williams has told you that I am a friend of his whom he met on Special Intelligence work during the War; that since then I have been attached to Scotland Yard, and that he naturally wrote to me for advice when he became involved in the two murders at the Hydro. As some leave was due to me, I came down on a busman’s holiday. It was nothing to do with the advertisement nor with journalism which brought me down here.”
“Quite so, sir,” replied Palk, “but you mustn’t take offence if you find me over-cautious. It’s my job to be suspicious of people, and in a triple murder case...”
“Oh, I don’t expect you to believe me without proof,” said Mr. Winkley, taking out his wallet and handing some papers across the table. “I prefer tackling a case in my own way, but I naturally came down prepared to get into touch with the local police. I think you’ll find those in order.”
Palk glanced through the papers, then returned them. “That’s all right, sir,” he said, smiling. “As a matter of fact I got Scotland Yard on the long-distance ’phone as soon as the doctor spoke to me about you.”
Mr. Winkley looked keenly across the table at the Inspector, and Palk noticed that he did not blink. Nor, when he spoke, was there a trace of a stammer in his voice.
“The devil you did!” he exclaimed, thinking that the Inspector of the Newton St. Mary constabulary was not so sleepy as the name of the little Devonshire town indicated.
“I have orders to co-operate with you in every way,” went on Palk. “They didn’t tell me to hand over the case to you, sir, but I imagine that instructions to that effect will come by post later. Well, in any case we should have had to report to them after this last affair, I’m afraid. It’s my first experience of murder, and I’ve failed miserably.”
“Now for heaven’s sake don’t start talking like that,” said Mr. Winkley. “I’m down here on holiday, remember, and my standing here is unofficial at present. If they want me to take up the case, they’ll have to write and tell me so, and if I know anything about the Yard, they won’t write for a few days. I’m untouchable for two days at least, and if we play our cards properly, you ought to have the criminal locked up safely by tomorrow or the next day. Yes, you, I said. Scotland Yard’s got as much work to do as it wants at the moment, without coming in on a new murder case. If you manage to get these three murders cleaned up, you’ll be a popular man, Inspector.” He brushed aside all Palk’s protests with, “Nonsense! It always seems unfair to me that the routine man gets no credit when the man with a fresh eye jumps in and interprets his information for him. In any case, I’m a nonentity at the Yard. I’ve no official rank or standing, and am simply known as ‘Mr. Winkley,’ or even as ‘Our Mr. Winkley,’ which makes me sound like a head salesman or a second-rate commercial traveller. I’ve an unadvertised department with special duties and a certain number of privileges, one of which is to remain unknown and unseen, so I shouldn’t thank you for any publicity over this case.”
“Hence the term ‘free-lance,’ I suppose,” laughed Palk. “You must have had a great kick out of pulling my leg all the time. I must say you played your part well, sir. You’d make a fortune on the stage. My spine feels like a porcupine’s when I remember some of the things I said to you this morning, but I was fairly worked up at the sight of that child.”
“I know,” replied Mr. Winkley, looking so much younger and more alert out of the surroundings of the Hydro. “You needn’t worry about that. You did exactly what I wanted, and established me as a harmless, interfering amateur in the eyes of the Hydro residents and staff. It dispelled any little undercurrent of suspicion there might have been attached to me as a newcomer.” He stretched his thin legs out under the table as the waiter removed his plate. “Now, Inspector,” he said, “let’s start at the end and work backwards. What do you think of the last murder?”
“I think,” said Palk slowly, “there’s a homicidal maniac loose in the Hydro, but who it is, God knows.”
“You think that the three murders are related to each other?”
“I think that the last two are,” replied Palk. “It was stretching it a little to suspect two men for two different murders on two different people for two different motives. I can’t suspect three: it doesn’t make sense, not unless they’re all mad in the Hydro.”
Mr. Winkley leaned back in his chair and put the tips of his forefingers and thumbs accurately together.
“I
have heard Dr. Williams express that opinion more than once,” he smiled. “As I see it now, there are several possible solutions to the three murders. Either one man was responsible for the three murders, or this fellow Sir Humphrey was responsible for Miss Blake’s murder and someone else did the other two. Or three people are equally responsible, which, as you say, doesn’t make sense. I suppose that you suspect Matthews of the murder of Miss Marston and Bobby Dawson?”
Palk hesitated.
“I’ve pulled Matthews in on suspicion,” he said, “because I think he knows more than he has told us about Winnie Marston’s murder, but I’ve no real evidence against him, and I really suspect them all again. I still believe that I’ve a fool-proof case against Sir Humphrey Chervil, and I certainly half believed that Matthews murdered the Marston girl. But I know Matthews didn’t murder Bobby Dawson, because the man I put on to shadow him says that Matthews didn’t leave the garage yard during the time when we know the murder must have been committed. If Matthews is out of it, and one murderer is still responsible for the last two crimes, then I strongly suspect Mrs. Dawson. She had the opportunity in both cases, and was actually in the baths when Winnie Marston was murdered. We may find a money motive against her for Bobby’s murder... if her husband left his money to his son, and to his wife on his son’s death, I mean.”
Mr. Winkley nodded.
“Quite feasible,” he agreed. “Personally I’m of the opinion that there’s only one murderer for the three murders, but that doesn’t mean that Mrs. Dawson is innocent.”
“It lets Sir Humphrey out, though,” reflected Palk, “and I’ve a cast-iron case against him. On that theory, where will you find a motive? Miss Blake, Miss Marston, Bobby Dawson... there’s nothing to connect them unless someone is stark, staring mad.”
“As I imagine someone is,” put in Mr. Winkley quietly, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “Mad in the worst possible way, for he –”
“Or she,” suggested Palk.
Knock, Murderer, Knock! Page 19
