“I acknowledge,” said Alan, measuring her with an appraising eye, “a lack of proportions which would have aroused enthusiasm in Rubens. At the same time –”
“Sh-h!”
At the end of the room opposite the windows there was a partly open door. From the room beyond two voices suddenly spoke together, as though after a long silence. One voice was dry and elderly, the other voice was younger, brisker, and more suave. The voices apologized to each other. It was the younger voice which continued.
“My dear Mr Duncan,” it said, “you don’t seem to appreciate my position in this matter. I am merely the representative of the Hercules Insurance Company. It is my duty to investigate this claim –”
“And investigate it fairly.”
“Of course. To investigate, and advise my firm whether to pay or contest the claim. There’s nothing personal in it! I would do anything I could to help. I knew the late Mr Angus Campbell, and liked him.”
“You knew him personally?”
“I did.”
The elderly voice, which was always preceded by a strong inhalation through the nose, now spoke as with the effect of a pounce.
“Then let me put a question to you, Mr Chapman.”
“Yes?”
“You would have called Mr Campbell a sane man?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“A man sensible, shall we say,” the voice sniffed, and became even more dry before it pounced, “to the value of money?”
“Very much so.”
“Yes. Good. Very well. Now, Mr Chapman, besides his life-insurance policies with your company, my client had two policies with other companies.”
“I would know nothing of that.”
“But I tell you so, sir!” snapped the elderly voice, and there was a little rap as of knuckles on wood. “He held large policies with the Gibraltar Insurance Company and the Planet Insurance Company.”
“Well?”
“Well! Life insurance now constitutes the whole of his assets, Mr Chapman. The whole of them, sir. It was the sole one of his possessions which he was sensible enough not to throw into these mad financial ventures of his. Each one of those policies contains a suicide clause . . .”
“Naturally.”
“I quite agree. Naturally! But attend to me. Three days before he died, Mr Campbell took out still another policy, with your company again, for three thousand pounds. I should – ah – imagine that the premiums, at his age, would be enormous?”
“They are naturally high. But our doctor considered Mr Campbell a first-class risk, good for fifteen years more.”
“Very well. Now that,” pursued Mr Alistair Duncan, law agent and Writer to the Signet, “made a grand total of some thirty-five thousand pounds in insurance.”
“Indeed?”
“And each policy contained a suicide clause. Now, my good sir! My very good sir! Can you, as a man of the world, for one moment imagine that three days after he has taken out this additional policy, Angus Campbell would deliberately commit suicide and invalidate everything?”
There was a silence.
Alan and Kathryn, listening without scruple, heard someone begin slowly to walk about the floor. They could imagine the lawyer’s bleak smile.
“Come, sir! Come! You are English. But I am a Scotsman, and so is the Procurator Fiscal.”
“I acknowledge –”
“You must acknowledge it, Mr Chapman.”
“But what do you suggest?”
“Murder,” replied the law agent promptly. “And probably by Alec Forbes. You have heard about their quarrel. You have heard about Forbes’s calling here on the night of Mr Campbell’s death. You have heard about the mysterious suitcase (or dog carrier, whatever the term is), and the missing diary.”
There was another silence. The slow footsteps paced up and down, carrying an atmosphere of worry. Mr Walter Chapman, of the Hercules Insurance Company, spoke in a different voice.
“But, hang it all, Mr Duncan! We just can’t go on things like that!”
“No?”
“No. It’s all very well to say, ‘Would he have done this or that?’ But, by the evidence, he did do it. Would you mind letting me talk for a minute?”
“Not at all.”
“Right! Now, Mr Campbell usually slept in that room at the top of the tower. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“On the night of his death, he was seen to retire as usual at ten o’clock, locking and bolting the door on the inside. Admitted?”
“Admitted.”
“His body was found early the following morning, at the foot of the tower. He had died of a broken back and multiple injuries caused by the fall.”
“Yes.”
“He was not,” pursued Chapman, “drugged, or overcome in any way, as the post-mortem examination showed. So an accidental fall from the window can be ruled out.”
“I rule out nothing, my dear sir. But continue.”
“Now as to murder. In the morning, the door was still locked and bolted on the inside. The window (you can’t deny this, Mr Duncan) is absolutely inaccessible. We had a professional steeplejack over from Glasgow to look at it.
“That window is fifty-eight and a quarter feet up from the ground. There are no other windows on that side of the tower. Below is a fall of smooth stone to the pavement. Above is a conical roof of slippery slate.
“The steeplejack is willing to swear that nobody, with whatever ropes or tackle, could get up to that window, or down from it again. I’ll go into details, if you like –”
“That won’t be necessary, my dear sir.”
“But the question of somebody climbing up to that window, pushing Mr Campbell out, and climbing down again; or even hiding in the room (which nobody was) and climbing down afterwards: both these are out of the question.”
He paused.
But Mr Alistair Duncan was neither impressed nor abashed.
“In that case,” the law agent said, “how did that dog carrier get into the room?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The bleak voice rolled on.
“Mr Chapman, allow me to refresh your memory. At half past nine that night there had been a violent quarrel with Alec Forbes, who forced himself into the house and even into Mr Campbell’s bedroom. He was – ah – ejected with difficulty.”
“All right!”
“Later, both Miss Elspat Campbell and the maidservant, Kirstie MacTavish, were alarmed for fear Forbes had come back, and might have hidden himself with the intention of doing Mr Campbell some injury.
“Miss Campbell and Kirstie searched Mr Campbell’s bedroom. They looked in the press, and so on. They even (as I am, ah, told is a woman’s habit) looked under the bed. As you say, nobody was hiding there. But mark the fact, sir. Mark it.
“When the door of Mr Campbell’s room was broken open the following morning, there was found under the bed a leather and metal object like a large suitcase, with a wire grating at one end. The sort of case which is used to contain dogs when they are taken on journeys. Both women swear that this case was not under the bed when they looked there the night before, just before Mr Campbell locked and bolted the door on the inside.”
The voice made an elaborate pause.
“I merely ask, Mr Chapman: how did that case get there?”
The man from the insurance company groaned.
“I repeat, sir: I merely put the question. If you will come with me, and have a word with Mr MacIntyre, the Fiscal –”
There were steps on the floor beyond. A figure came into the dim front room, ducking to avoid the rather low door-top, and touched a light-switch beside the door.
Kathryn and Alan were caught, guiltily, as the light went on. A large, brassy-stemmed chandelier, which could have contained six electric bulbs and did contain one, glowed out over their heads.
Alan’s mental picture of Alistair Duncan and Walter Chapman was more or less correct except that the law agent was rather taller and lea
ner, and the insurance man rather shorter and broader than he had expected.
The lawyer was stoop-shouldered and somewhat nearsighted, with a large Adam’s apple and grizzled hair round a pale bald spot. His collar was too large for him, but his black coat and striped trousers remained impressive.
Chapman, a fresh-faced young-looking man in a fashionably cut double-breasted suit, had a suave but very worried manner. His fair hair, smoothly brushed, shone in the light. He was the sort who, in Angus Campbell’s youth, would have grown a beard at twenty-one and lived up to it ever afterwards.
“Oh, ah,” said Duncan, blinking vaguely at Alan and Kathryn. “Have you – er – seen Mr MacIntyre about?”
“No, I don’t think so,” replied Alan, and began introductions. “Mr Duncan, we are . . .”
The law agent’s eyes wandered over to another door, one facing the door to the hall.
“I should imagine, my dear sir,” he continued, addressing Chapman, “that he’s gone up into the tower. Will you be good enough to follow me, please?” For the last time Duncan looked back to the two newcomers. “How do you do?” he added courteously. “Good day.”
And with no more words he held open the other door for Chapman to precede him. They passed through, and the door closed.
Kathryn stood staring after them.
“Well!” she began explosively. “Well!”
“Yes,” admitted Alan, “he does look as though he might be a bit vague, except when he’s talking business. But that, I submit, is the sort of lawyer you want. I’d back that gentleman any time.”
“But, Dr Campbell –”
“Will you kindly stop calling me ‘Dr Campbell’?”
“All right, if you insist: Alan.” Kathryn’s eyes were shining with a light of interest and fascination. “This situation is dreadful, and yet . . . Did you hear what they said?”
“Naturally.”
“He wouldn’t have committed suicide, and yet he couldn’t have been murdered. It –”
She got no further, for they were interrupted by the entrance of Charles Swan from the hall. But this was a Swan with his journalistic blood up. Though usually punctilious about his manners, he had still neglected to remove his hat, which clung in some mysterious fashion to the back of his head. He walked as though on eggshells.
“Is this a story?” he demanded: a purely rhetorical question. “Is this a story? Holy, jumping . . . look. I didn’t think there was anything in it. But my city editor – sorry; you call ‘em news editors over here – thought there might be good stuff in it; and was he right?”
“Where have you been?”
“Talking to the maid. Always go for the maids first, if you can corner ’em. Now look.”
Opening and shutting his hands, Swan peered round the room to make sure they were alone, and lowered his voice.
“Dr Campbell, Colin I mean, has just dug out the old lady. They’re bringing her in here to put me on view.”
“You haven’t seen her yet?”
“No! But I’ve got to make a good impression if it’s the last thing I ever do in my life. It ought to be a snip, because the old lady has a proper opinion of the Daily Floodlight, which other people” – here he looked very hard at them – “don’t seem to share. But this may be good for a daily story. Cripes, the old dame might even invite me to stay at the house! What do you think?”
“I think she might. But –”
“So get set, Charley Swan, and do your stuff!” breathed Swan in the nature of a minor prayer. “We’ve got to keep in with her anyway, because it seems she’s the autocrat of the place. So get set, you people. Dr Campbell’s bringing her along here now.”
6
It was unnecessary for Swan to point this out, since the voice of Aunt Elspat could already be heard outside the partly open door.
Colin Campbell spoke in a low-voiced bass rumble, of which no words were audible, evidently urging something under his breath. But Aunt Elspat, who had a particularly penetrating voice, took no trouble to lower it.
She said:
“Adjoinin’ rooms! Indeed and I’ll no’ gie ’em adjoinin’ rooms!”
The bass rumble grew more blurred, as though in protest or warning. But Aunt Elspat would have none of it.
“This is a decent, God-fearin’ hoose, Colin Campbell; and a’ yere sinfu’ Manchester ways canna mak’ it any different! Adjoinin’ rooms! Who’s burnin’ ma guid electric light at this time o’ the day?”
This last was delivered, in a tone of extraordinary ferocity, the moment Aunt Elspat appeared at the door.
She was a middle-sized, angular woman in a dark dress, who somehow contrived to appear larger than her actual size. Kathryn had suggested her age as “nearly ninety”; but this, Alan knew, was an error. Aunt Elspat was seventy, and a well-preserved seventy at that. She had very sharp, very restless and penetrating black eyes. She carried a copy of the Daily Floodlight under her arm, and her dress rustled as she walked.
Swan hastened over to extinguish the light, almost upsetting her as he did so. Aunt Elspat eyed him without favor.
“Swi’ on that light again,” she said curtly. “It’s sae dark a body canna see. Where’s Alan Campbell and Kathryn Campbell?”
Colin, now as amiable as a sportive Newfoundland, pointed them out. Aunt Elspat subjected them to a long, silent, and uncomfortable scrutiny, her eyelids hardly moving. Then she nodded.
“Aye,” she said. “Ye’re Campbells. Our Campbells.” She went across to the horsehair sofa beside the table which held the family Bible, and sat down. She was wearing, evidently, boots; and not small ones.
“Him that’s gone,” she continued, her eyes moving to the black-draped photograph, “caud tell a Campbell, our Campbells, i’ ten thousand. Aye, if he blacked his face and spoke wi’ a strange tongue, Angus wad speir him.”
Again she was silent for an interminable time, her eyes never leaving her visitors.
“Alan Campbell,” she said abruptly, “what’s yere releegion?”
“Well – Church of England, I suppose.”
“Ye suppause? Dinna ye ken?”
“All right, then. It is Church of England.”
“And that’d be your releegion tu?” Aunt Elspat demanded of Kathryn.
“Yes, it is!”
Aunt Elspat nodded as though her darkest suspicions were confirmed.
“Ye dinna gang tae the kirk. I kenned it.” She said this in a shivering kind of voice, and suddenly got steam up. “Rags o’ Popery!” she said. “Think shame tae yereself, Alan Campbell, think shame and sorrow tae yere ain kith and kin, that wad dally wi’ sin and lechery i’ the hoose of the Scairlet Woman!”
Swan was shocked at such language.
“Now, ma’am, I’m sure he never goes to places like that,” Swan protested, defending Alan. “And, besides, you could hardly call this young lady a –”
Aunt Elspat turned round.
“Who’s yon,” she asked, pointing her finger at Swan, “wha’ burns ma guid electric light at this time o’ the day?”
“Ma’am, I didn’t –”
“Who’s yon?”
Taking a deep breath, Swan assumed his most winning smile and stepped in front of her.
“Miss Campbell, I represent the Daily Floodlight, that paper you’ve got there. My editor was very pleased to get your letter; pleased that we’ve got appreciative readers all over this broad country. Now, Miss Campbell, you said in your letter that you had some sensational disclosures to make about a crime that was committed here –”
“Eh?” roared Colin Campbell, turning to stare at her.
“And my editor sent me all the way from London to interview you. I’d be very pleased to hear anything you’d like to tell me, either on or off the record.”
Cupping one hand behind her ear, Aunt Elspat listened with the same unwinking, beady stare. At length she spoke.
“So ye’re an American, eh?” she said, and her eye began to gleam. “Hae ye heard �
��”
This was much to bear, but Swan braced himself and smiled.
“Yes, Miss Campbell,” he said patiently. “You don’t need to tell me. I know. I’ve heard all about your brother Angus, who wouldn’t even give the bloodhounds a penny.”
Swan stopped abruptly.
He seemed to realize, in a vague kind of way, that he had made a slip somewhere, and that his version of the anecdote was not quite correct.
“I mean –” he began.
Both Alan and Kathryn were looking at him not without interested curiosity. But the most pronounced effect was on Aunt Elspat. She merely sat and stared at Swan. He must have realized that she was staring fixedly at the hat still on his head, for he snatched it off.
Presently Elspat spoke. Her words, slow and weighty as a judge’s summing-up, fell with measured consideration.
“Any why should Angus Campbell gie the bluidhoonds a penny?”
“I mean –”
“It wadna be muckle use tae them, wad it?”
“I mean, cent!”
“Sent wha’?”
“C-e-n-t, cent.”
“In ma opeenion, young man,” said Aunt Elspat, after a long pause, “ye’re a bug-hoose. Gie’in’ siller tae bluidhoonds!”
“I’m sorry, Miss Campbell! Skip it! It was a joke.”
Of all the unfortunate words he could have used in front of Aunt Elspat, this was the worst. Even Colin was now glaring at him.
“Joke, is it?” said Elspat, gradually getting steam up again. “Angus Campbell scarce cauld in his coffin, and ye’d come insultin’ a hoose o’ mournin’ wi’ yere godless jokes? I’ll no’ stand it! In ma opeenion, ye skellum, ye didna come fra the Daily Floodlight at all. Who’s Pip Emma?” she flung at him.
“Pardon?”
“Who’s Pip Emma? Ah! Ye dinna ken that either, du ye?” cried Aunt Elspat, flourishing the paper. “Ye dinna ken the lass wha’ writes the column i’ ye’re ain paper! Dinna fash yeresel’ tae mak’ excuses! – What’s yere name?”
“MacHolster.”
“Wha’?”
“MacHolster,” said the scion of that improbable clan, now so rattled by Aunt Elspat that his usually nimble wits had deserted him. “I mean, MacQueen. What I mean is: it’s really Swan, Charles Evans Swan, but I’m descended from the MacHolsters or the MacQueens – and –”
The Case of the Constant Suicides Page 5
