The Plague Court Murders hm-1

by John Dickson Carr

"What ho!" said McDonnell, and opened his eyes. He remained staring at the candles for so long that Masters slapped the work-bench. "Sorry, sir. But it's pretty significant, you see. It's a confirmation of funny business right enough. Elsie Fenwick," he said grimly, "is the reason why our people became interested in Darworth to begin with. That was sixteen years ago, and long before my time; but I got it out of the files when I was digging back on Darworth. It's been pretty well forgotten, but it was the bad odor of it that stirred up Number 8 Office when they heard Darworth was playing about with the occult. . . . Elsie Fenwick was Darworth's first wife."

  "Got it!" said Masters abruptly. "Ha. Yes, certainly. I've got a notion I remember that case. Elsie Fenwick was the old woman, the very wealthy one, eh? She died, or something like that—“

  "No, sir. At least, they tried to prove she was dead, and it would have been rather rough on Darworth if they had. She disappeared."

  "Facts," said Masters. "Out with it. Story briefly. Come, now!"

  McDonnell got out his notebook and leafed through it. "H'm. Dar - oh, yes. Elsie Fenwick was a romantic old girl, tied up with spiritualism, filthy rich, and no relations. She had a splay foot or shoulder, something to do with the deformity of the bones. At the tender age of sixty-five she married young Darworth. That was before the Married Woman's Property Act, so you can see what happened. Then the war came along. Darworth ducked out to avoid military service; he took his blushing bride, and a maid of hers, to Switzerland.

  "One night about a year later, distracted husband phones doctor ten miles away. Wife taken with a seizure; afraid she's dying; explains carefully she has been troubled with gastric ulcers. Mrs. Darworth was tough, apparently, and was still alive when the doctor got there. By a stroke of luck, this chap was as shrewd as they make 'em, and also knew his business better than the distracted husband had hoped. He pulled her through, then had a talk with Darworth. Darworth said: 'Horrible. Gastric ulcers.' The doctor said, 'Tut, tut.' He looked Darworth in the eye and said, 'Arsenic poisoning."'

  McDonnell lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

  "Not as smooth," grunted Masters, "as he became afterwards, eh? Go on."

  "There was trouble. A nasty scandal was only averted by the maid - Elsie Darworth's maid-swearing the old woman had swallowed arsenic herself."

  "Ah! The maid. Good-looking girl?"

  "I don't know, sir, but I rather doubt it. Darworth was too clever to play about when there was no cash in it."

  "What did the wife say?"

  "Nothing. She stood by Darworth; or forgave him, anyhow. That's the last we hear of them until the end of the war. They returned to England and settled down. One day Darworth, distracted again, walks in to our people and informs them that his wife has disappeared. They had a country place out Croydon way; the wife, according to Darworth, had simply taken a train to town to do some shopping, and never come back. He had a doctor's report to prove she had .been suffering from fits of melancholia, depression, and possible amnesia - he was learning. At first the Yard let it go at that, and instituted the customary missing-person inquiries. But somebody had a suspicious mind; dug into the past, found the arsenic-episode; and then there was trouble... I'll send you up the full report, sir; it's too long to go into now. The only result was that they never proved anything.... Masters hammered his fist slowly on the desk. He peered round at me.

  "Yes. That's the part I do remember, though I'd have to refresh my memory. Old Burton was working on that business in '19. He told me about it. Ah, Darworth was the very living picture of outraged innocence, he was! Threatened to sue. Yes, I remember. H'm. Well, we'll look it up. What'd he do, Bert, apply for a court-order to presume her dead?"

  "I believe so, but he didn't get it. He had to wait his seven years before it became automatic. Didn't much matter; he had the money."

  "Yes," said Masters. He rubbed his chin. "I was only thinking you said 'first wife.' Has he got another?"

  "Yes, but they don't seem to get on. She lives on the Riviera somewhere ... he keeps her out of the way, anyhow."

  "Money?"

  "I should suppose so-" McDonnell broke off. There was a shuffling of footsteps at the door, evidently to attract our attention, and somebody coughed.

  Halliday and Marion Latimer were standing in the doorway. I became conscious, with that instinct we all have, that they had overheard a good deal of what McDonnell had been saying. The girl's face looked hard and contemptuous. Halliday seemed embarrassed; he glanced quickly at his companion, and then sauntered into the room.

  Halliday said: "This, Inspector, is what you really call making a night of it. It's nearly five o'clock. I tried to bribe your constable into hopping out after some coffee and sandwiches from an all-night stall, but he wouldn't do it.... Look here," he frowned, "I hope you'll let us off quickly. We're at your service any time, and this place isn't exactly conducive."

  Whether deliberately or unintentionally, Masters then did something which destroyed the police-court atmosphere and gave to everybody a sense of intimacy and ease. With his hand over his mouth, he brought up. one of the most prodigious yawns I have ever seen; smiled at them, and blinked his eyes.

  "Ah-aha-h!" said Masters, waving the girl towards the chair. "No, by George! I shan't detain you. I thought I'd see you both at once; saves time. Besides, it's like this." He grew heavily confidential. "I'm bound to tell you that I've got to ask some questions you'll probably consider pretty impertinent. Funny, though; I thought if you both heard 'em, you'd both prefer it - eh?"

  Marion had a severe brown hat pulled down on her yellow hair now; the collar of the coat was turned up, and she sat down with her shoulders hunched. The dark-blue eyes regarded Masters coolly. Halliday stood behind her, and lit a cigarette.

  "Yes?" she said in a clear voice, with barely perceptible nervousness. "Ask anything you like, of course." Halliday grinned.

  Masters briefly reviewed the evidence about everyone's acquaintance with Darworth. "So you knew him fairly well, Miss Latimer?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he tell you anything about himself?"

  Her gaze did not waver. "Only that he had been married, a long time ago, to a woman he'd been very unhappy with. And that she was now - I don't know; dead, I gathered." Some faint mockery tinged the voice. "He grew quite sad-eyed and Byronic about it, really."

  Now, Masters has his failings, but he is quick to turn every possible situation, even a bad one, to his advantage.

  "Did you know he had a wife living, Miss Latimer?"

  "No. Not that it was of great interest to me. I certainly never inquired."

  "Just so." He switched, instantly. "Was it Mr. Darworth who suggested to you, miss, that - we'll say, that Mr. Dean Halliday's mind and future were - well, tied up at Plague Court?"

  "Yes!"

  "He talked about it a lot?"

  "Always," she replied, jerking the word out. "Always! I-I've tried to explain to Mr. Blake how I felt about Mr. Darworth."

  "I see. Did you ever suffer from headaches, miss, or nervous disturbances?"

  Her eyes opened slightly. "I don't quite see.... Yes, that's true."

  "Which he suggested he could cure through the proper medical use of hypnotic suggestion?" She nodded. Halliday twitched his head round, and seemed about to speak, but Masters caught his eye. "Thank you, Miss Latimer. Did he ever tell you, now, why he didn't exploit his psychic talents, say? You all believed he had great powers, for instance. But nobody ever inquired whether he was a member of the Psychical Research Society, or connected with any genuine scientific body of that nature; even whether he had any genuine associations.... I mean, miss, didn't he ever say why he hid his light under a bushel, or whatnot?"

  "He said he was interested in savings souls and giving peace...."

  She hesitated, and Masters lifted his hand inquiringly.

  "He said that sometime his powers might be demonstrated to the world, but that he wasn't interested in that. ... He said he was more interested, if you wa
nt the truth, in setting my mind at rest about Plague Court." She spoke vacantly, but in a rapid tone. "Ugh! I say, when I remember-! He told me it would be horribly dangerous. But that he wanted my gratitude. You see I'm frank, Inspector. I-I couldn't have said all this a week ago."

  She raised her eyes. Halliday's face was ugly and satirical; with an effort, he kept himself from speaking, and mouthed his cigarette as though he would jab it against his teeth like a pipe-stem.

  Masters got up heavily. The room was very quiet while he drew out the end of his watch-chain, to which was attached a small, brightly polished object. He said, smiling: "It's only a new latch-key, Miss Latimer. One of those flat ones. I happened to remember it. If you don't mind, I'd like to try a sort of experiment. ..."

  He went round the work-bench and picked up McDonnell's lantern. The girl flinched as he came towards her; she gripped the sides of the chair, and her eyes strained up at him. Close to her, he held the lantern high and steady over her head - a weird scene, with the shadow-barred glow streaming down over her upturned face, and Masters' bulk silhouetted against it. The key glittered a dazzling silver as he held it about three inches above the line of her eyes.

  "I want you, Miss Latimer," he growled softly, "to look steadily at this key. . .

  She started to get up, scraping back her chair. "No! I won't! I won't do it, I tell you, and you can't make me! Every time I look at that—“

  "Ah!" said Masters, and lowered the lantern. "It's quite all right, miss. Please sit down again. I - only wanted to test something." As Halliday strode forward the inspector lumbered back to his work-bench, turned, and regarded him with a sour smile. "Steady, sir. You ought to be grateful to me. I've broken at leapt one ghost. That there's a part of Darworth's trick of making people believe him. If the patient's a good hypnotic subject....

  Wheezing, he sat down. "Did he try to cure your headaches, Miss Latimer?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he ever make love to you?"

  The question was shot out so quickly after the lazy tone of the preceding one that the girl had said, "Yes," before she seemed to realize it. Masters nodded.

  "Ever ask you to marry him, Miss Latimer?"

  "Not - not exactly. He said that if he succeeded in cleansing this house of evil spirits, he would ask ... I say! It-it sounds so crazy, and absurd, and-" She swallowed hard, and her eyes were hysterically amused. "I mean, when I think of it. He was like a Monte Cristo and Manfred rolled into one; gloomy and apart; like a cheap film, like- But you didn't know him, you see. That's the point."

  "A rare sort of fellow, that gentleman," the inspector said dryly. "He had a different mood and character for everyone he approached.... But after all, you see, he was murdered. That's what we want to talk about now. It wasn't hypnotism or suggestion that let somebody walk through a stone wall or a bolted door and hack him to pieces. Now, Mr. Halliday! - I want to hear everything that went on in that front room from the time the lights were put out. Tell your story, and I'll ask Miss Latimer to confirm it."

  "Right you are. I'll tell it exactly," nodded Halliday; "because I've been thinking of nothing else all night." He drew a deep breath, and then glanced sharply at Masters. "You spoke to the others. Did they admit hearing somebody moving around in there?"

  "You're telling the story, sir," Masters reminded him, lifting his shoulders blandly. "But, um, didn't you have a conference among yourselves? All that time between witnesses, up there?"

  "I don't know about the conference. We jolly well nearly had a fight. Nobody would admit what they'd told you, and Ted was a bit loony. Nobody would go home with anybody else ... they all left in separate cars. Aunt Anne wouldn't even let Featherton help her out to the street. Fine, sweet gathering. Never mind.. .

  "This is what happened.

  "Aunt Anne insisted on sitting round and concentrating, trying to help Darworth out. I didn't want to do it; but Marion begged me not to make a fuss, so I said all right. Also, I wanted to make up the fire - it had gone out. I didn't see any sense in sitting around in a cold room when it wasn't necessary. But Ted said the wood was green and damp, and wouldn't burn anyway, and was I a pampered little duckling to be afraid of the cold? Ha! Well! we got our chairs-"

  The inevitable question followed. Both he and Marion verified the order of which he had been informed: Lady Benning on the right of the fireplace, then Halliday, Marion, Major Featherton, and Ted at the other end.

  "How far were the chairs apart?"

  The other hesitated. "A good distance. That's an immense fireplace in there, you know. I had to stand on tiptoe to blow out the candles on the ledge over it. I don't think any of us could have touched anyone else by stretching out a hand ... except" - he looked Masters in the eye "except Marion and myself."

  The girl was staring at the floor. Halliday put his hand on her shoulder. He went on: "I'd taken good care to get my chair only a little way from hers; couldn't get too close, because Aunt Anne was watching like a hawk; and I didn't want to seem - oh, damn it, you know!

  "I got hold of her hand, and we sat there. I don't know how long; and what was worse-I'll admit it-that darkness was beginning to get on my nerves. I don't care how matter-of-fact a man is" He looked at us defiantly, and Masters nodded. "Besides, somebody was whispering or mumbling, very low. The same words, over and over again, with a sort of rustling sound, and there was a noise like somebody swaying backwards and forwards in a chair. God, it was enough to make your hair stand on end!

  "I don't know how long afterwards it was, but I had a feeling that somebody had got up...."

  "You heard something?" demanded Masters.

  "Well, it's hard to explain, but if you've ever sat at a seance you'll understand. You can feel movement; a breath, or a rustle, a sense of something moving in the dark. You can only call it a feeling of nearness. I did hear a chair scrape, a little before that; but I'm not prepared to swear it was - whoever it was that got up."

  "Go on."

  "Then I did definitely hear two footsteps directly behind me; but I've got pretty good ears, and nobody else seemed to notice it until-well, all of a sudden I felt Marion go stiff, and she pressed my hand. I admit I nearly jumped out of my skin. I felt her other hand come out towards me, and she was trembling all over.... It wasn't till afterwards that I found out what had gone past and touched her.... You'd better tell him, Marion

  Though she tried to keep her former self-control, the old terrors were coming back. The lantern was at her feet, throwing spangles of light up across the white, lovely, tortured face as she slowly looked up.

  "It was the handle of a knife," she said, "touching the back of my neck."

  XII WHAT WAS MISSING AT DAWN

  THE last candle on the work-bench had puffed out in a welter of grease. A faint, grayish light was stealing into the passage beyond; but the shadows in the kitchen were still thick, and the lantern burned at their core below Marion Latimer's dull face. It was the climax of the night's horrors, the last voice of them before they paled at cockcrow. I looked round at Masters, and at McDonnell, almost invisible back in a corner. But I thought, curiously enough, of a room situated high over Whitehall; and, in the midst of the sedate government upholstery, a fat man sitting with his feet on the long desk reading a cheap novelette. I had not seen that room since 1922....

  "You see," Marion told us carefully, after a pause, "the idea of some one of us prowling like that was-was rather more ghastly than the other."

  Masters expelled his breath. "How did you know it was the handle of a knife, miss?"

  "It was feeling-it was the handle, you know, and then the crosspiece, the hilt, together: brushing past. I'd swear to it. Whoever had it must have been holding it by the blade, you see."

  "As though the person holding it had tried to touch you?"

  "Oh, no. No, I don't think so. It jumped back at once,, if you understand what I mean. It was as though somebody had gone in the wrong direction in the dark, and accidentally brushed me. . . . Anyway, it
was after that - maybe a minute afterwards, though it's awfully hard to be certain - I heard the only footstep I could be sure of. It seemed to come from the middle of the room somewhere."

  "You heard this too?" Masters asked Halliday.

  "Yes."

  "And then-?"

  "And then the door squeaked. There was a draft along the floor, too. Hang it all," said Halliday uneasily, "surely everybody must have felt it! You couldn't miss."

  "It 'ud seem so, wouldn't it? Now, sir, how long after all this did you hear the bell ringing?"

  "Marion and I have compared notes on that. She estimates something over ten minutes. but I say nearer twenty."

  "Did you hear anybody coming back?"

  Halliday's cigarette was burning his fingers; he glanced at it as though he had never seen it before, and dropped the stump. His eyes were vacant. "Shouldn't like to swear to more than that, Inspector. But I should say there was a pretty definite noise of somebody sitting down. That was before we heard the bell, but I don't remember how long. It's all a matter of guesswork, anyhow...."

  "When the bell rang, was everybody sitting down?"

  "I can't tell you, Inspector. There was a rush for the door, and either Marion or Aunt Anne screamed

  "It wasn't I," said the girl.

  Masters glanced slowly from one to the other of them. "The door to that room," he said, "was closed while you were having your meeting. I saw that myself. When you rushed out as the bell rang, was it open or closed?"

  "I don't know. Ted was first at the door, because he was the only one with a flashlight. Marion and I crowded after him - anywhere we could see a light we'd have gone, and he switched his on then. The whole affair was so confused that I don't remember. Except that Featherton got a match struck to light the candles, and shouted, 'Wait for me!' or something like that. Then I think we all realized the futility of dashing out that door - I don't know who started the rush in the first place; it was like sheep following a leader. So-" He waved his hand. "Look here, Inspector, haven't we told you enough for one night? Marion is dead exhausted...."