by Zenith Brown
“She left it to me—accidentally,” Mr. Pinkerton got out, humbly.
Darcy Atwater lowered his head into his hands, his elbows propped on the table.
“I’ll bet you’re afraid to spend sixpence for fear she’ll pop out and clout you with her shroud,” he said.
Mr. Pinkerton stared at him open-mouthed. For the first time in his life, he had met someone who understood him—even if it was only the younger son, who didn’t matter, of a knight, and a murdered knight at that. His heart soared like a sparrow at dawning.
He leaned forward.
“You don’t want your brother’s jewels, really, do you?” he asked audaciously.
“Me? Good Lord, no,” Darcy Atwater gasped. “What would I do with a bloody collection of historical stones?”
He banged suddenly on the table.
“Here—let’s have another drink. What’s that damned boy’s name? Jo. Two doubles, Jo!”
The tow-thatched potboy—barboy when the bar was closed to the public—clattered out with a bottle and two glasses, and poured two pewter measures into each. Mr. Pinkerton stared weakly at his, and more weakly still when Mr. Darcy Atwater picked up the original glass and very cautiously poured exactly half of it into Mr. Pinkerton’s glass, and exactly the remaining half into his own glass. He poured an inch or so of soda into Mr. Pinkerton’s glass, and something less than an inch or so into his own.
“—to our common manhood, Mr. Davies.”
“Pinkerton is the name,” the appalled little man stammered.
“To our common manhood, Mr. Pinkerton,” Darcy Atwater amended, soberly. “And no heeltaps, old boy.”
Mr. Pinkerton hesitated. He really did not know what in the world to do. The result, should he touch the potent glassful in front of him, would be devastating, he did not doubt. He had never had whisky at all, as a drink—just once or twice when he had had a cold, and then it was hot and had lemon and sugar in it. However, he reflected, he had certainly not noticed any lasting bad effects from it then; and it was not often that he hob-nobbed with the son of an actual British knight, and furthermore, Darcy Atwater’s toast was one that no one had ever dreamed of proposing to him before.
Mr. Pinkerton blinked rapidly, took a quick glance round the bar and out into the passage, raised his glass with a firm hand and poured the whole liquid hell down his scrawny and appalled throat. He then choked violently. When he really came to, a moment or so later, the potboy was pounding him on the back, and Mr. Darcy Atwater, being a gentleman, was taking not the slightest notice of the whole affair. He leaned weakly back in his chair, the tears blinding his eyes, his stomach feeling more and more as if somebody had poured a brazier of burning charcoal into it.
“Who said I wanted my brother’s jewels?” Mr. Atwater asked.
Mr. Pinkerton, rapidly feeling more and more agreeable about all the world than he had ever before in his grey existence, heard a voice something like his coming out of his mouth. “Oh, it’s being bruited about.”
“Which brute?” said Darcy Atwater.
“Your wife wants them, they say,” Mr. Pinkerton replied. He hoped, as soon as he had said it, that Mr. Atwater would not take it as a literal answer to his question. In any case, he had never found it so simple and natural to say the most incredible and indiscreet things.
“Oh,” Darcy said, without interest. Mr. Pinkerton, apparently, was telling him nothing he did not already know. “She signs off with that every night.”
“She’s going to see Mrs. Bruce and try to buy her off,” Mr. Pinkerton said, boldly.
Atwater blinked. Then he shook his head. “Oh, no. She’s more afraid Jeff’ll marry a rich colonial.”
“I mean, persuade Mrs. Bruce to persuade your brother to take money instead of the collection,” Mr. Pinkerton persisted. “Mr. Fleetwood’s supposed to be trying to bring your brother round while she takes care of Mrs. Bruce.”
Mr. Atwater looked at him.
“So,” he said. “Whose money is she planning to use, do you know that?”
It seemed to Mr. Pinkerton that his voice was rather shaky, but, as everything seemed to him to have the character of heat waves above a pavement on a scorching day, he couldn’t be quite sure.
“She didn’t say,” he answered.
“You mean, that’s not being bruited about,” Darcy Atwater said, with meticulous enunciation. “Don’t ever admit eavesdropping, Mr. Davies. Stool pigeon, all right; eavesdropping, no. Not the thing.”
He turned his two thumbs down and drummed on the table with them.
Mr. Pinkerton felt himself flushing hotly, not so much for himself as for Scotland Yard in the large cinnamon-brown person of his friend Bull. Then, following that thought, it occurred to him through a pleasant fog that he really ought to go about his business. He tried vaguely to think what his business was. It came to him suddenly. His business was looking out for Kathleen Rawls. He looked across at his friend the second son.
“Did you ever hear them talk about a maid called Kathleen, at your house?” he asked, leaning forward confidentially.
Darcy nodded. “Frightful stink about Kathleen,” he said unsteadily.
Just then, and before he could go on, Mr. Pinkerton saw through the wavering air a glowing and not too stationary, though bulky, figure that he recognized perfectly as Inspector Bull.
“Hullo, Inspector!” he said cheerfully.
Something odd seemed to happen to Bull’s face. The only time Mr. Pinkerton, in his present condition, could remember an expression similar, if not quite so definite, on it was the day Mrs. Bull had come from town with her hair cut short and lipstick on her mouth. Margaret Bull had stood her ground. Mr. Pinkerton felt his slipping out from under him. He pushed his chair back and got shakily to his feet.
“Cheerio, pal,” said Darcy Atwater.
“Cheerio,” Mr. Pinkerton returned. It hadn’t the spirit in it that he would have liked it to have. Inspector Bull was still looking at him. Mr. Pinkerton was not sure, but he thought he heard him say, “Well, I’m damned,” and Bull seldom if ever swore. Then the Inspector reached out and took his arm, and did say, “If you aren’t a one!”
Mr. Pinkerton straightened his spectacles and walked as definitely as he could along the crooked passage, which seemed, in some odd way, to have got crookeder. A number of people seemed to have gathered in the lounge, but Inspector Bull did not let him stop. He piloted him firmly through the lot of them, up the narrow stairs to his room, opened the door, ushered him in, sat him down firmly on the side of the bed, and stood, just looking down at him. Then he crossed the room, pressed the bell and said, when the potboy’s head appeared where the door had been, “Coffee—strong and black.”
He turned back to Mr. Pinkerton.
“You’ve got to be at the inquest in half an hour,” he said stolidly. “I’d like you sober, if possible.”
CHAPTER 13
That it was not possible was the only way Mr. Pinkerton ever adequately explained to himself what seemed to him to go on at the inquest into the murder of Sir Lionel Atwater, late of Atwater House, Atwater, Bucks. Because it was quite unlike any inquest he’d been to or read about, in most respects. In the first place, the coroner apparently did not mistake himself for a great wit on the one hand, or the Lord Chief Justice on the other. He did not act as if the whole thing were a show especially put on by Mr. Cochrane for him to star in. He was quiet and businesslike, made every effort to co-operate with the police, and made no effort at all to make the witnesses look like fools. A sober group of townsmen acting as jury, furthermore, had not a village Sir Norman Birkett in the lot.
They listened attentively to the evidence given. They looked at the long silver skewer, still brown with Sir Lionel’s blood, looked at the dresser in the dining room, heard Mrs. Humpage and one of the waiters identify the skewer as one that had hung to the left of the silver urn used for wedding parties and suppers. They listened to Mr. Pinkerton tell manfully how he had heard Sir Lionel, had gone to him thin
king he was ill and that no one else had heard him, had found the skewer thrust into his body. He had removed it, he had heard the dying man gasp “My son . . . my heir.” Lady Atwater had then appeared in the doorway.
Not only was Mr. Pinkerton heard attentively; neither jury nor coroner laughed when he inadvertently stumbled as he was leaving the makeshift stand, although there was a choked guffaw from the potboy and Mrs. Humpage pulled his ear.
After Mr. Pinkerton, Lady Atwater took the stand. The coroner, far from becoming obsequious in the face of the nobility, questioned her more closely than Bull had done. When Mr. Eric Fleetwood followed her, with considerable more presence than either the coroner or the jury, Mr. Pinkerton glanced at the little row of people most concerned in all the dreadful business. Lady Atwater sat erect with head bowed a little, her hand in Jeffrey’s. His head was lowered a little too, but his eyes, full of conflict, were intent on the proceedings in front of him. On the other side of Lady Atwater was her daughter-in-law, heavily veiled in black. It made the widow’s unveiled face seem quite naked, in some way. Mr. Darcy Atwater sat hunched up in the next chair, and though it was quite close both to hers and the one Fleetwood had vacated, he nevertheless managed, Mr. Pinkerton thought a little dizzily, to give the impression that he was completely detached from them, and in a way from the whole proceedings.
Eric Fleetwood took the oath on the Bible held out to him by the coroner.
“You were the last person, I believe, to see the deceased?”
“I believe so. He called for me as Mr. Jeffrey Atwater was leaving.”
“What impression had you of his mental state?”
“It was alarming,” Fleetwood said shortly.
“What did the deceased want you for?”
“I think you’ll find that that question is hardly within the scope of this inquest, sir,” Fleetwood said. “To put it bluntly, it’s none of this court’s business. For reasons of public policy I don’t feel it my duty to answer it.”
The coroner looked down at the papers in front of him, and up.
“You are not the Prime Minister, Mr. Fleetwood,” he said dryly. “Answer the question please.”
Mr. Fleetwood’s lips tightened.
“Very well,” he said curtly. “He directed me to undertake the disagreeable business of having my father, who is his solicitor as well as friend, take steps to . . . make it worthwhile for Mr. Jeffrey Atwater to go abroad to live, and to give up his claim to the Atwater collection of jewels.”
A sharp flutter of interest stirred the dining room of the Old Angel. Mr. Pinkerton glanced at Jeffrey Atwater. He had not moved a muscle. The coroner rapped on his table.
“That is all, Mr. Fleetwood. Detective-Sergeant York.”
Mr. Pinkerton could feel the wave of excitement that accompanied the shifting of chairs as the London policeman went to the stand.
“You are engaged in the present investigation with Inspector Bull of the Criminal Investigation Department?”
“I am.”
“Where were you last night at half-past twelve?”
“I was standing at the corner of Traders Passage in the shelter of the Hope and Anchor, out of the wind.”
“Tell us what you saw, please.”
“I saw a man come out of the door of the Old Angel, with his hat down over his eyes and his collar up about his ears, and slip along in the shadow of Watchbell Street. I followed him to Lion Street and saw him go in a house there.”
“Do you see him in this gathering?”
Sergeant York’s eyes travelled to where Bull sat by the door, and rested on the slender white-faced figure sitting there.
“That is him, sir.”
Mr. Pinkerton saw Mrs. Humpage get up quickly and hurry out. He looked round for Kathleen, but she was not in the room.
“Mr. Harry Ogle,” the coroner said. “Your employment?”
“Clerk in the London Central Midland Bank in the Mint.”
“Married or single?”
“Single.”
Mr. Pinkerton, sitting precariously on the edge of one of the Old Angel’s hard dining-room chairs, edged forward a little further.
“Where were you last night, between the hours of eight and half-past twelve?”
“In this inn, sir.”
“What part of it, please?”
The young man hesitated, the pallor deepening in his face. All the smugness and self-assurance that had annoyed Mr. Pinkerton so much was gone.
“In the attic room, with a young lady, sir,” he said in a low voice.
Mr. Pinkerton glanced hastily round again, feeling very relieved indeed that Mrs. Humpage had been called out.
“Quiet, please!” the coroner said. “What is the young lady’s name?”
“Do I have to answer that, sir?” Ogle asked.
The coroner nodded.
“Kathleen Rawls.”
“Quiet, please!” the coroner said. “Or I shall have to ask all of you to leave this room!”
Mr. Pinkerton could feel the excited silence darting over the dining room in sharp-tongued waves. He moistened his lips and sat forward still more.
“When did you leave Miss Rawls’ room?”
“About twelve thirty, I should expect, from the sergeant’s evidence,” Ogle said. His voice was still lower.
“Did you hear any sound, or see anything that might bear on the murder of Sir Lionel Atwater, while you were here?”
“No, sir.”
“You didn’t see or speak to Sir Lionel, at any time you were here?”
“No, sir. At no time.”
“That will do, Mr. Ogle.”
The young man sat like a wooden statue, the colour burning in his cheeks.
“That will be all, unless you wish to add something yourself.”
Ogle got up and hurried back to his place by Bull.
“Quiet!” the coroner repeated. “Miss Kathleen Rawls, please. And I wish to say once more that if there is another unauthorized sound in this room, you will all of you be asked to leave it.”
Mr. Pinkerton ventured to crane his neck, as indeed virtually everyone else was doing.
“Miss Kathleen Rawls,” the coroner said.
“She’s just coming, sir,” Inspector Bull said stolidly, and Mr. Pinkerton saw Mrs. Humpage returning, her arm about the slim shoulders of the dark blue-eyed girl. Mrs. Humpage’s face was a picture of righteous indignation, and Mr. Pinkerton instantly liked her much better than he had done since the unfortunate business of the coals.
The girl edged her way through the chairs to the coroner’s table, the colour burning in two bright spots on her cheeks. She really looked, Mr. Pinkerton thought, very much like Snow White, except that she was much prettier.
“Your name, please?”
“Kathleen Rawls.”
“Your age.”
“Twenty.”
“Are you employed?”
“Yes, sir—by Mrs. Humpage as chambermaid in this inn.”
“Are you married, or single?”
The girl hesitated.
“You have taken your Bible oath, Miss Rawls, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God,” the coroner said quietly. Mr. Pinkerton caught his glance at Inspector Bull.
Kathleen Rawls looked desperately from one side to the other.
“I’m . . . married, sir,” she said falteringly.
“To whom?”
“To . . .”
Her voice faltered again. Then she turned desperately.
“Oh, Harry, I couldn’t swear a lie, not on my Bible oath I couldn’t!”
The room was utterly silent.
“To Harry Ogle?” the coroner asked quietly.
She nodded, sobbing in her handkerchief. Mr. Pinkerton stole a misty glance at Ogle. His face was white again as he stared down at the floor.
“Have you got your marriage certificate?”
She fumbled in the pocket of her cardigan and brought out a folde
d piece of paper. The coroner took it, examined it and handed it back.
“That is all, Mrs. Ogle,” he said. “—I shall now adjourn this inquest, at the request of the authorities from Scotland Yard, until a later day. If you will go out quietly, please.”
CHAPTER 14
Mr. Pinkerton, wiping the cold perspiration from his forehead with his purple handkerchief, his hand shaking a little and his head still extremely dizzy, watched Lady Atwater clinging to her son, or perhaps, he thought, only shrinking a little from the well-meaning attempts of her daughter-in-law to shield her from the goggling eyes of the townspeople, go quickly up the stairs. Bull’s eye followed her thoughtfully. He then turned back to Harry Ogle.
“Well,” he said.
Ogle’s eyes were curiously bright, almost, Mr. Pinkerton thought, as if he’d taken a drug, and on his face there was an expression of intense excitement, almost, that made Mr. Pinkerton stare.
“What do you want with me now?” he said, almost hysterically. “You’re not as clever as you think you are. A wife can’t be made to give evidence against her husband. You’d forgot that, hadn’t you?”
Kathleen, standing with Mrs. Humpage’s protecting arm again about her, took a step toward him.
“He hadn’t forgot it, Harry. He told me about it himself.”
The young man turned to her.
“That’s the way it is.” he said sullenly. “You think I murdered him, do you? So you’re trying to ruin me every way you can. That’s the kind of a wife—”
“No, no, Harry! I didn’t tell first, I swear I didn’t. I didn’t care what anybody thought of me. I’d have told a lie, but they already knew—”
Mrs. Humpage took a step forward herself.
“Now look here, young man!”
The spots in her plump cheeks were livid, her eyes were snapping coals of fire.
“I told the Inspector—Kathleen didn’t. I’ve got the reputation of my house to think of, and that girl’s reputation too, since you’re too much of a coward to do it as should be the one to do it. I told him you came to me after I took Kathleen in and explained all about it, and showed me your papers, and I was too soft-hearted not to help you out, because Kathleen was a nice honest girl. So don’t you go taking it out on her, you bloody little bounder.”
