Dead Man’s Quarry: A Golden Age Mystery

by Ianthe Jerrold

  He framed his question thus vaguely to avoid startling or offending her; but she did not, it appeared, appreciate his thoughtfulness.

  “I can remember everything that happened, sir, but there was nothing unusual, if that is what you require.”

  “Were you at the Hall the whole evening?”

  “Yes, sir. I did not go outside the house all that day.”

  John paused. In the light of Waters’s confident, slyly amused look, this answer was unexpected. He must have shown a slight surprise in his face, for the housekeeper went on immediately:

  “Have I your permission, sir, to ring the bell?”

  “Certainly,” said John, a little mystified.

  Waters, the footman, appeared with suspicious promptitude.

  “May I ask Waters, sir, to send two of the maids here?”

  “If you like,” said John, who had not bargained for an interview with the entire staff.

  “Kindly ask Jenny and Lilian to come here, Waters. You see, sir,” went on Mrs. Maur when Waters had departed, “I think it would save you trouble if I brought witnesses to prove as I was here last Monday evening. I can’t expect you to take my bare word for it, of course, and I know that at a time like this everybody must be ready to answer questions, and prove their answers if they can, sir.” She smoothed the back of one soft, small hand with the palm of the other and looked at the floor.

  “I hope you don’t think that any suspicion attaches to you,” said John gently, with visions of Blodwen bereft of her ideal housekeeper through his clumsy handling.

  “Not at all, sir,” replied Mrs. Maur with respectful dignity, and having smoothed her hands to her satisfaction, clasped them together and turned to the door as two young girls entered and dropped quick, awkward curtsies. Their combined ages would not have totalled forty, and with their flushed pink cheeks, round, frightened eyes and white caps and aprons they looked almost like twins.

  “Shut the door, Lilian,” said Mrs. Maur sternly. “Now, tell Mr. Christmas what you were doing last Monday evening.”

  The two children looked at one another, at Mrs. Maur and at John, and appeared to be struck dumb.

  “Don’t be frightened,” said John, smiling. “You haven’t been doing anything wrong. Just see if you can remember.”

  Lilian, the taller of the two, swallowed and finally brought out in a nervous squeak:

  “Last Monday?”

  She looked anxiously round the floor, as if hoping to find last Monday under one of the chairs, and murmured desperately again:“Last Monday?” and at the housekeeper’s disapproving tongue-click looked ready to burst into tears.

  “Yes,” said John encouragingly, “last Monday, when Sir Charles was killed, you know. What did you do after tea?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I remember now. We had tea at five o’clock, and then we washed up, Jenny and me. And then—then we went to Mrs. Maur’s room”—she cast a shy glance at the dragon, who evidently inspired her with more awe than did John—”and helped with mending the linen.”

  “Who was there?” asked the housekeeper.

  “Why, there was me, and Jenny, and—and you, ma’am,” faltered the girl. “Don’t you recollect? There was a lot of mending, and we was all at it from six o’clock till near seven.”

  “I recollect, Lilian. Please to answer questions, not to ask them.”

  The unfortunate Lilian went crimson and looked helplessly at her companion, who took up the tale.

  “And then we was picking over bilberries to make jelly till near eight,” she said nervously. “We was in the kitchen, if you remember, ma’am, while you was looking over receipts and seeing to the jars. And then at eight we had our supper.”

  “Was I there?” asked Mrs. Maur expressionlessly.

  The girl darted a frightened glance at her.

  “Why—yes, ma’am,” she faltered in amazement. “You was there, in course.”

  Mrs. Maur slowly inclined her head, and Jenny’s voice died away.

  “Thank you very much,” said John cheerfully. “That’ll do. You can run away now, Jenny and Lilian.” Which they did, hastily and with little bobbed curtsies, and jostled each other in the doorway, so anxious were they to be off.

  Mrs. Maur looked placidly at John.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Maur. It’s good of you to help me like this.”

  “Not at all, sir. Is there anything further, sir?”

  “Monday is Waters’s evening out, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he go out last Monday as usual?”

  “Quite as usual, sir, so far as I know. He left just before six o’clock, directly we’d done tea.”

  “Oh! Thank you. Don’t fall over Waters as you go out.”

  The door closed gently behind her. John lit a cigarette and sat down on the window-seat. Evidently, then, Waters had not told the truth to Ellie Letbe. He had left Rhyllan Hall at the usual time, six o’clock, and arrived at Wintersbrook at a quarter to eight. One and three-quarter hours. Rhyllan to Wintersbrook— seven miles. Wintersbrook to the Tram Inn—five miles. Back to Wintersbrook—another five miles. Waters could hardly have cycled seventeen miles and committed a murder in the space of under two hours. Moreover, he could not have known that Charles was at the Tram Inn at that time; therefore the murder could not have been premeditated. But if the murder had not been premeditated, Waters would not have been carrying the revolver. Besides, there was the question of motive. Jealousy? Charles had certainly done his best to turn the head of Waters’s foolish little betrothed. No doubt men had been murdered for less. But to judge from the good Mrs. Lethe’s remarks Waters was not by any means a devout lover. No, John was inclined to think that Waters as a suspect was a bit of a washout. It would be as well, though, to hear his account of what had detained him on the way to Wintersbrook that Monday evening. Thoughtfully once again John rang the bell.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I HAPPENED TO GLANCE

  Before the bell had fairly finished ringing Waters was standing in the doorway with a look of respectful interrogation on his narrow face.

  * “You rang, sir?”

  “I did. I might almost say I am still ringing. What a very efficient bell-answerer you are, Waters!”

  “I happened to be passing through the hall, sir.”

  “Good. Did you also happen to hear any of my conversation with Mrs. Maur?”

  Not a flicker disturbed the bland serenity of Waters’s face.

  “In view of the fact that I am leaving in a fortnight, sir, I think I may say that I did.”

  “Good. Shut the door, Waters. Then I suppose I needn’t explain why I rang for you? What are you laughing at?”

  The man’s face took an expression of shocked gravity.

  “Laughing, sir?” he echoed reproachfully.

  “Laughing, I said. What at?”

  “Really, sir, I shouldn’t dream—”

  “Oh, come! In view of the fact that you are leaving in a fortnight, Waters, you may as well admit that something amuses you. You have my permission to forget your professional pride for five minutes and answer me as one man to another. What is it?”

  “Sir,” replied the intelligent Waters with a faint grin, “if I were really to answer you as one man to another, so to speak, I shouldn’t answer at all—not in the way of giving you any information, sir.”

  John laughed.

  “Don’t split hairs. Now then!”

  The footman’s faint grin grew more pronounced.

  “Well, sir,” he said deprecatingly, “I can’t help laughing a bit to myself when I think to myself that you think I might have murdered Sir Charles, sir. That’s all.”

  “And what makes you think I think you murdered Sir Charles?”

  “Well, sir, it stands to reason. You see, it was my turn to go to church this morning, sir.”

  John shook his head.

  “No, Waters, I can’t see that it stands to reason at all.”

  “Why, yes
, sir. After the service, I happened to meet the young woman I’m engaged to. The girl Letbe, sir. And she happened to mention—”

  “Quite. I see that it does stand to reason, after all.”

  “So, putting two and two together, sir, I gathered that you wished to test my alibi, as they say, sir.”

  “Quite so. And as you appear to find the matter amusing, I suppose you have an alibi? I should like to hear about it.”

  Waters smiled.

  “Well, I have and I haven’t, sir. That’s to say, I have an alibi, but I’d rather it didn’t come to the ears of my young woman, sir.”

  “There’s no reason why it should. But I should like it to come to my ears, if you please.”

  “Certainly, sir. I left here just before six last Monday.”

  “Half a minute. You told Ellie Letbe that you left late because Mrs. Maur was out and you had to wait for her to come in.”

  “Yes, I did, sir, but that wasn’t strictly true. I took my bicycle, as usual, and went down the lane towards Wintersbrook to see Ellie. But there’s friends of mine lives on the lane, and as I was passing one of them was in the garden a-picking of damsons, sir. So I stopped to pass the time of day, and I started to help pick, and then what with one thing, what with another, I was there an hour or more. And very pleasant it was, too, sir. But I didn’t think it would be discreet to tell Ellie, sir. It doesn’t answer, I find, to let one’s young woman know one has been kept late enjoying oneself. So I pitched that tale about Mrs. Maur and being kept at work, sir.”

  John looked at him severely. This, after what Mrs. Letbe had said of her future son-in-law, sounded like the truth.

  “Thank you, Waters. Do you mind giving me the name and address of your friends?”

  Waters hesitated.

  “If I may say so, I shouldn’t like it to get to Ellie’s ears.”

  “Nevermind. I can guess. It’s Mr. Lloyd of Linger-hatch, isn’t it? And his granddaughter.”

  Waters looked a trifle surprised, and nodded.

  “It saves a lot of trouble, Waters, to tell the truth— even to the young woman one’s engaged to.”

  Waters pinched his thin lower lip and appeared to think this over.

  “When she’s of a jealous nature, sir?” he inquired mildly.

  “Especially when she’s of a jealous nature. She’ll take all the more trouble to verify your statements. As a matter of fact, it was Mrs. Letbe who mentioned Lloyd of Linger-hatch to me.”

  Waters looked thoughtfully at John.

  “Of course, sir,” he observed philosophically, “the truth should prevail, I know. And in theory, sir, I always tell the truth, even to Ellie. But the flesh is weak. And when it comes to causing tantrums and spoiling an evening with one’s young woman, sir, one’s liable to slip into falsehood, just to make things pleasant.” He looked at the bowl of roses and sighed. “It isn’t me that objects to telling the truth to Ellie, sir. It’s her that objects to being told.” And on this delightful piece of sophistry Waters contentedly closed his thin lips and gazed pensively out into the garden.

  John looked at him with some amusement.

  “Well, you know, Waters, you can get round that difficulty by not doing anything she would object to hearing about.”

  The footman’s close-set eyes travelled back to John’s face and stayed there, thoughtful, while he appeared to consider every aspect of this suggestion.

  “No, sir,” he said gravely at last. “That wouldn’t do. Because, pardon me, sir, my way of looking at things is freer and better than hers, sir. She would object to so many innocent things. And if I was to take to her way of looking at things, I should be taking to a way I can’t approve, sir. And that would be falsehood all the time, instead of just occasional.”

  “Dear me, you’re very philosophical!”

  “I always had a turn for thinking things out, sir. Of course I see that the right procedure would be for me to educate Ellie to my ways, sir. But, oh dear! What unpleasantness there would be in the process! And when one only has one evening a week with one’s young woman, it does seem a pity one shouldn’t spend it pleasantly, sir!”

  “It certainly does. Well, thank you for being so frank with me. That’s all, I think.”

  But Waters still stood there, his hands at his sides, looking thoughtfully at John.

  “If I might make a suggestion, sir—” he murmured hesitatingly.

  “Well?”

  “There was a strange lady came a week ago yesterday, sir. Perhaps you have heard of her?”

  “I have.” John looked interrogatively at the servant, who seemed to be suddenly afflicted with diffidence. “Why?” he asked encouragingly. “Have you anything to tell me about her? Did you see her?”

  “No, sir,” said Waters uncertainly. “I didn’t see her. That is, I didn’t see her. But—”

  “Well? Go on. What’s the matter with you all of a sudden?”

  Waters sighed, and so far forgot himself as to scratch his head.

  “Servants always read their employers’ letters, you know, sir,” he remarked sadly at length. “That’s what the employers say, isn’t it, sir? As a matter of fact servants don’t, not very often, employers and servants living and having their interests in different worlds, sir, and one world not particularly interested in the other. I never made a habit of reading Sir Morris’s letters, not even when they was lying about asking to be read.”

  “Well?” asked John patiently, as Waters made another embarrassed pause. He could not see for a moment whither this apologetic preamble was tending. Then he remembered. Had not the strange lady gone into the library to write a note? If Waters was trying, with this unexpected delicacy, to convey that he had read it, there might be cause to be thankful for his impudence. John’s face expressed nothing of this. He had learnt from experience that information was apt to be most enlightening when it did not come in the form of answers to leading questions. To his surprise, Waters’s face went quite pink. He cleared his throat.

  “Well, you see, sir, Mrs. Maur having told us in the pantry about what a queer lady had called, and how she’d taken herself into the library without being shown, and that about Rhyllan Hall having a mistress—well, we was all a bit intrigued, as you might say.”

  “Naturally.”

  “So when I went into the library later to see if there was plenty of wood—the master liking a fire in the library of an evening—well, when I happened to glance at the desk, and saw the lady’s note lying there, not gummed down nor anything, well—”

  “I see.” John looked at the man curiously. “But what I don’t see is why you’re so squeamish about it.” Waters’s dark eyebrows rose in sincere astonishment.

  “Surely, sir, it’s wrong to read letters that aren’t meant for one!”

  “It certainly is. And I’m glad you realize it. But you didn’t turn a hair when I accused you of listening at the door just now. You seemed rather proud of it, in fact. What’s the subtle distinction?”

  There was a pause.

  “Well, sir,” answered Waters slowly, “as I look at it, there’s quite a difference. When I listened at the door, I knew it was my alibi you wanted to ask Mrs. Maur about. And I had to protect myself. I was listening, you might say, for a purpose. But when I happened to glance on the master’s desk, and saw the lady’s letter there, and opened and read it—then I hadn’t any object, sir. It was just curiosity, quite unjustifiable, like.”

  “You are the prince of sophists, aren’t you, Waters?”

  “I have a very ticklish conscience, sir,” replied he complacently. “And it’s worried me quite a lot since I read that note. That’s really why I’m telling you about it, sir—partly to be useful to you, and partly to relieve myself, sir.”

  “Strictly speaking,” said John dryly, “I suppose that passing on information gained in such a way ought to aggravate that conscience of yours, not relieve it. How many people have you told already?”

  Waters looked quite shocke
d.

  “Nobody, sir! How could I let anybody know I’d demeaned myself to read someone else’s letter? And that’s another reason for treating one’s employer’s letters with respect, sir. There’s no sense in filling oneself with information if one can’t pass it on and get some pleasure out of it. There was I simply bursting, and yet, so to speak, unable to burst with honour, sir. It wasn’t a pleasant situation, sir.”

  “You deserved it. But I think you’d better burst now. It may serve a good purpose, and I dare say that accommodating conscience of yours will even manage to extract a little honour from the situation, though you won’t get any from me.”

  “There is them who believes that the end justifies the means, of course, sir,” responded Waters with a wrinkled brow. “But I don’t go so far as that.” Perceiving that John was growing a little weary of these heart-searchings he hurried on: “Well, sir, it was quite a short note, in a big, dashing sort of hand. It said: ‘Dear Morris,— Meet me on Monday afternoon at three o’clock at the Queen’s Arms in Hereford. I’ve got a bargain to propose. Don’t be alarmed, you’ll get more out of it than I will. If you don’t come I shall call at Rhyllan every day till I see you.’ And it was signed just with a C. There! I won’t say the letter was exactly in those words, sir, but that’s as near as I remember and pretty near it is. Sounds as if the lady was some relation or something of Sir Morris, doesn’t it, sir? But Mrs. Maur, she never set eyes on her before that day, she said.”

  “Thank you, Waters,” said John absently. He felt a little disappointed. Here was proof, or near it, that the mysterious visitor to Rhyllan had been, as he had supposed, the wife of Morris Price; proof of the theory he had formed to account for Morris’s trip to Hereford on the day of the murder. But he had hoped that the letter would yield some new, unlooked-for information: rather absurdly, he realized, for Mrs. Price would not have been likely to give much information away in a letter left lying about for any inquisitive servant to read.

  “Thank you, Waters,” repeated John in a tone of dismissal.

  Waters hesitated with his hand on the door-knob.

  “I take it, sir, that you are quite satisfied with my explanation of my movements on the night of the murder?”