‘I’d best get back, if you don’t mind,’ said Cope. ‘I want a word with Sonia before she leaves.’
They returned to find the party breaking up and Tony Swindon, who’d remained quietly in the background, drawing Sonia gently away to his car.
‘You won’t forget me?’ she said. ‘Please don’t forget me.’
‘Of course we won’t forget you,’ said Connie. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow and see if you’re all right.’
‘Black suits her, don’t you think?’ said Dr Cope wistfully.
Chapter Fourteen
The Jacksons’ once handsome residence had a neglected, even abandoned look; the garden overgrown, the grass on the lawns knee-high. Mr Jackson, however, was at home.
‘What do you want?’ he said sourly.
‘We want to know if you can identify someone from a photograph, sir. It’ll only take a minute.’
‘You’d best come in, I suppose.’
Unsurprisingly, Mr Jackson’s ailing business had failed while he was in prison. His wife had left him and was living with their daughter and the property was for sale. He had lost weight and looked old and frail. Felix showed him the photo of Parker.
‘That’s him,’ confirmed Jackson dully. ‘That’s the man that ruined me. Have you got him?’
‘No, sir, but this will make it easier for us to do so, and you may yet have the satisfaction of helping to send him down.’
*
They were in the Chief Superintendent’s office, sitting and lounging in their usual places.
‘How did you finally get the beggar?’ asked Polly.
‘Remarkably easily, sir, as it turned out,’ said Felix. We were discussing the dirty book trade and it occurred to me that Parker’s two crates of books would have cost him a pretty penny at the inflated prices they charge. We estimated about three hundred pounds. Not, perhaps, the sort of thing you’d want to carry around for months or years in the back of a lorry, just on the off-chance of getting stopped and searched. Was he principally a bookseller who organised a little thieving on the side? That seemed unlikely, but there must be some connection. How did he even get the idea in the first place? Perhaps he was able to obtain the books directly from the printers? There’s a huge mark-up on these things, of course. Thirty or forty pounds might be considered a reasonable investment for materials that would likely distract a nosy policeman but were just within the law. I decided to put in a call to the printers myself. Very helpful people, as it turned out. “But of course, Monsieur. We can provide you with a mixed batch to start you off. Would you be able to collect from Southampton? We already have a shipment going there, and it will save you in carriage costs.”
‘Southampton, as it happens, is no great distance from Ickborne, possibly suggesting a local connection. Next stop was the shipping agent, from whom I was able to inveigle the name of the importer, who was not, of course, committing any crime. That was when we struck lucky. It was a Mr Pussett – not a common name – and there were just four listed within fifty miles. The third to open the door to us was Parker. It turns out the importer, who may not thank him for this, is his brother.
‘As to what they were really about. It was an interesting variation on the usual trick. Pussett, masquerading as Parker, contracted to steal a suitable dupe’s property so that he could claim on his insurance, and having done so proceeded to blackmail him over it. Pussett got the loot and he also got the blackmail money. When the victim could no longer pay he was directed to Nigel Cotton, who would loan him the wherewithal to do so at an extortionate rate of interest. He would pay anything of course, to avoid discovery and possibly going to prison. More often, perhaps, it worked the other way round. The loan came first, and when Nigel had bled the victim white, the insurance and theft were arranged and off they went again. Edgar Pussett would meet Nigel regularly to pay him his share of the proceeds, or receive one. No-one, of course, wanted to approach the police about it, and once they’d connived in fraud they were lost.’
‘And was the Countess involved?’
‘Probably not. You could say she was another victim. She was paying her so-called builders good money and providing them with room and board when in reality they were a nest of thieves, safely tucked away in the Hampshire countryside and saving for their old age. The one thing, unfortunately, that we can’t lay at their door is her death.’
‘Tragic,’ nodded Polly. He was respectfully silent for a moment or two. ‘However, well done for that everybody, a splendid bit of policing. Let us move on to the murder.’ He looked around him. ‘I suppose we are all agree it was Gault?’
‘Not entirely, sir,’ said Felix, rather diffidently. ‘I have a serious alternative to offer. There’s nothing against it, that I can see, though I’ve no very convincing evidence to back it up.’
‘And that is . . . ?’
‘That it was the Countess of Ickborne, not Gault, who murdered Nigel Cotton.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Polly. ‘You really have the capacity to surprise, don’t you? How on earth do you arrive at that?’
‘I don’t suppose you’ll like it much,’ said Felix, handing him a folder. These are copies of the pertinent statements. It all hinges on a possible mistake by Betty Cotton, whom I believe directed Sonia Butterworth to the wrong apartment to change frocks for her cabaret routine. It appears that she inadvertently sent my wife the wrong way to the ladies’ room during the ball, and it gave me to wonder if she was in the habit of confusing left and right — a common enough affliction as I’m sure you’ll agree. Betty’s apartment and Nigel’s are the first you come to off the top landing of Burton House, Nigel’s to the left, Betty’s to the right. I believe Sonia turned left. You may wonder that she didn’t immediately realise her mistake but Nigel’s apartment, kept tidy by a maid, was not much used except for sleeping, so there was little or nothing in its sitting room to warn her it was occupied by a man. There were no personal possessions, no masculine bits and pieces, no letters that might identify him, and the front door opens straight onto it from the corridor; there is no hallway. Also, of course, she was in a hurry and would not have been looking about her very much. Had she gone through to the bedroom she would certainly have realised her – or rather, Betty’s – mistake, but all she had to do was slip out of one dress and into another, so I’m assuming she did it where she stood. Nigel wasn’t there when she dropped off her costume on arrival, or the first time that she changed; he had already gone down to the ball. The second time, however, he found the woman whose photos he’d endlessly studied, to put it delicately, and with whom he’d so recently danced, apparently waiting for him, quite possibly stripping out of her costume, or even in her underwear. One can’t know, of course, what happened next, but it’s my view that at some point thereafter Sonia found herself on the sofa, with Nigel on his knees before her. That would explain the scuffs on the carpet, which I’ll come to in a moment.
‘Next we have the Countess; an impetuous and hot-tempered lady, as we have discovered. She probably already suspected that she had not the whole of Miss Butterworth’s heart and I’m guessing that when she saw Sonia and Swindon’s dance routine – almost erotic, as a friend of mine put it – she was overwhelmed by jealousy. For three or four minutes after the two of them ran back upstairs she sat in misery. Then, unable to bear the thought of what they might be doing at that moment, she followed them. She had presumably been with Sonia when Betty directed her to her apartment so she also turned left at the top of the stairs, bursting into Nigel’s sitting room and finding Sonia and Nigel as I’ve described.
‘What Nigel might have been saying or doing we again can’t know. It might have been attempted rape – he had two fly buttons undone – or he might have been impressing on her how much he admired her. Either way, kneeling before her, he’d have been perfectly placed to receive the fatal blow. At a glance, one slim, dark haired man i
n full evening dress, looks much like another from the back. Did the Countess, in her passion, see what she expected to see, which was her rival making love to Sonia, or did she see Nigel perhaps attacking her? Did she even stop to wonder? Either way, she grabbed the only heavy object that came to hand, the table lighter, and brought it crashing down on his head.
‘Afterwards I imagine the Countess helping Sonia out from under Nigel’s body by pulling it flat onto the floor, hence the scuffs on the carpet. This certainly foxed us, though perhaps it shouldn’t have done, as was the reason for the table-lighter hidden in the lavatory cistern. My guess is that she wanted nothing left in the room that could have been used as a weapon, the implication being that the murderer brought whatever it was with him. Beyond that, there was little they could do, so they locked the door and took away the key. They were, one supposes, very shocked and frightened. The best course, they must have decided, was to say that the Countess had found Sonia and Tony Swindon in romantic embrace and there had been a dreadful row. That explained perfectly what we discovered when we came back to our table, with everyone apparently sulking, especially as we’d been half-expecting it. It could so easily have been the truth.’
Blowing out his cheeks, Polly let out a deep, sceptical breath. ‘Given your rather improbable premise, Felix, I suppose that sounds plausible enough, but how do you know it wasn’t Swindon or Harry Saunders who attacked Nigel Cotton? According to your notes they were both in the vicinity, and Saunders has a record.’
‘Saunders had returned below stairs by then in the company of the maids, one of whom has made a statement to that effect. What he was doing in Nigel’s bedroom I don’t know, but the most likely thing is that he’d earlier found the door unlocked, and old habits die hard. He just had to take a look around. He may even have pinched something that we don’t know about. I wondered at first if that was why he cleared off with such alacrity after I’d interviewed him, but it seems now it was probably pure funk. He realised that with his background he was bound to be considered a suspect, and convinced himself we’d pin it on him, unfortunately with fatal results. Whatever he did that night, however, it would have been before Nigel left the ball, so he’s out of it. I considered Tony Swindon but he had no reason to attack Nigel in that way. He was tough and supremely fit and would have been more than a match for him in a regular fight. Nor was he in the throes of jealous rage. He would have been far more likely to drag the man to his feet and demand an explanation.
‘I’m assuming that after locking the door they fetched Swindon – probably from the gallery, where he’d most likely been waiting for Sonia – and retired to Betty’s apartment, which they’d now correctly identified, to consider their next move. Clearly they decided that Sybil must be protected from discovery at all costs. Sonia would have insisted on it and Swindon, however reluctantly, would have gone along with it. Meanwhile Gault arrived, let himself into Nigel’s apartment with the key provided by Amelia Cotton and discovered his intended victim’s still-warm body. Abstracting the watch and cufflinks from the bedside cabinet – he was wearing gloves, of course – he departed, to be seen as he did so by Sonia and Swindon who were just at that moment returning downstairs. If my theory is correct, it reflects no credit on them that they allowed us to think this unknown person might be the murderer; although, of course, he very nearly was. And there you have it,’ he said. ‘For what it’s worth.’
‘No evidence?’
‘Unfortunately not, unless you count the hiding of the table lighter. If I’m right as to what happened, all three played their parts almost to perfection, both then and subsequently. They only made one mistake of any consequence. Swindon told me he had been with Sonia all the time upstairs since she needed him to help pin up and unpin her costume; implying, of course, that she was never alone. Sonia told me the same. If I’m right, they lied about that. I have discovered that a simple modification had very likely been made to the costume so that his help, and therefore his presence, were not strictly necessary. The Countess must have known that too, but she said nothing. What, I asked myself, were they trying to hide?’
Frowning at his copies of the two statements, Polly raised a hand. ‘But how do you know that Swindon wasn’t just trying to protect Miss Butterworth’s good name? You interviewed him separately. He couldn’t know that the Countess had told you about the kiss.’
‘That’s exactly so, sir, he couldn’t officially know, so he had to behave as though he didn’t or look a bit of a cad for telling me. And none of them thought that I might have discovered about the modified costume. When I told Swindon that the Countess had spilled the beans he went very pale. For a moment he probably believed she had owned up to the murder.
‘There is also evidence, of a sort, in the table lighter. I can think of no reason why Gault would have shoved it in the lavatory cistern. It makes no sense. Whereas, as I’ve said, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why the Countess did it. She was also tall enough to have dropped it in without fetching a chair. I’m not sure any of this would have been enough to justify arresting her, had she lived – though she would have faced some tough questioning – but it serves, I think, to show how unsafe it would be to convict Gault.’
‘Hmm, I see you’ve questioned the other two again,’ said Polly. ‘They haven’t changed their story at all?’
‘Not one iota. They could still be tried as accessories, of course, and may have taken advice.’
‘Are you still friends with them?’
‘Probably not, sir. It’s all been very unpleasant and I’ve badly upset my wife. Had I reason to believe they might be involved I would never have taken the case.’
Polly sat for a moment in thought. ‘Felix, if anyone else had come to me with a theory like that, and with so little to back it up, I’d have dismissed it out of hand — too speculative by half. However, you do have the advantage of knowing these people. Also you were on the spot, and you’re not often wrong. What do you want to do about it? More time?’
‘Yes please, sir. There’s something I’d like to look into.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘I don’t want to carp, Howard,’ said Felix, ‘but a life may hang on this. Can you say definitely that Cotton was killed by that table-lighter?’
Benyson looked surprised. ‘I never said he was, and as I recall, I never actually saw the article in question. I merely suggested that the weapon needed to be quite heavy to inflict such an injury, so that it was probably something like a table lighter that did for him. In a domestic setting anyway. He looked severely at his friend over his spectacles. ‘You were a bit hung-over, as I recall.’
‘Yes I was,’ admitted Felix. ‘Mea culpa. But would it be possible to say if it definitely was or was not the table lighter, given closer examination?’
Benyson shook his head doubtfully. 'It may be, but it’s rather unlikely. Do you remember the false teeth?’
‘Yes, what happened?’
‘I gave the court my opinion that it was impossible to tell if it was the defendant who had bitten his inamorata on the bum or some other fellow. The evidence was critical and he got off.’
‘Do you think he did it?’
‘Of course he did it, but I couldn’t tell from the wound, or the teeth, and I wasn’t going to say that I could.’
‘Well will you at least have a look for me? I’ve got the lighter here.’
Benyson sighed and glanced at the clock. ‘Come back in an hour.’
They sat in Lyons Corner House, Felix moodily stirring his coffee, Rattigan finishing a Belgian bun.
‘What will you do if he comes down in favour of the table lighter?’ said Rattigan, salvaging the brittle scraps of sugar with a moistened finger. ‘It’ll do nothing for Gault, who could equally have used it, and it might bring the Countess under suspicion, and hence your friends.’
‘It would be seen as
a minor point, I think, whereas if it could be shown to be a pistol butt or something of that sort it would just about prove it was Gault. If not, I’ll have done all I can, and salved my delicate conscience.’
‘Is he worth it?’
‘He’s a monster, but he shouldn’t be hanged for something he hasn’t done.’
‘The best that I can say,’ said Benyson when they returned, ‘is that the murder weapon was somewhat angular in shape – not, for example, a club or blackjack – and that the part of it in contact with Mr Cotton’s skull was perhaps a square inch in area.’
‘Could it be a pistol butt?’
‘Yes, it could. Equally it could be a corner of your table lighter.’
‘Is that what you’d tell a court?’
‘Yes it is, were they to ask.’
‘Then I think,’ said Felix, ‘there’s nothing much else we can do.’
*
Dudley Gault’s case was heard at the Old Bailey in the August of that year. The jury was out for seven hours before returning a verdict of guilty as charged. An appeal was rejected and at eight o’clock on Monday, September 1st 1928 he was hanged at Pentonville Prison for the murder of Nigel Cotton. He protested his innocence to the last.
On Tuesday morning, Detective Chief Superintendent Polly opened the appropriate folder, stamped the covering sheet “Case Closed” and signed across it before handing it, with a pleasant smile, to his secretary. ‘To the A/C please, Dolly.’
Postscript.
Some ten months later, when sufficient time was deemed to have elapsed since the social embarrassment of Nigel Cotton’s murder, Betty Cotton married the dim-witted Cecil, only son and heir of the perpetually impecunious Duke of Oakdale. Both families agreed it was an excellent match.
Death in Patent Leather (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 7) Page 10
