Crime in Kensington

by Christopher St. John Sprigg

  “Good heavens, man!” answered Menzies reprovingly, “you don’t need to ask what a Church is doing in the circus business—they’ve been in it for ages. This particular branch of the family have been managers of a prosperous little travelling circus for at least five generations. I dimly remember the grandfather—a fine-looking man and remarkably well-educated. He married the daughter of a local bigwig, Sir John Fitzhatter, at Market Hatterton—a runaway match it was and created a terrible scandal in those days, so that Church’s Circus never visited Market Hatterton again. The girl was completely ostracized by the family, but I believe she was quite happy.

  “There was no son, but one daughter. She used to give acrobatic turns—trapeze work and so on—but when her father died she took over the management of the circus and did it remarkably well. She was a brilliant woman, who would have succeeded in almost any line, I think. She had been in expensive schools, and talked and behaved like a lady, but the circus was in her blood and she married Ferdinand Church, a distant cousin of hers and a very decent sort, so that the show still remained Church’s Circus.

  “They also had no son—only a daughter—and that was your Human Swallow. I always maintained that she was wasted on those acrobatic turns, although admittedly she had a perfect body. But she was beautiful, really beautiful, and she should have gone on the stage. But the father wouldn’t hear of it—didn’t consider it respectable—and that ended it.

  “Then came the tragedy. There was an Italian juggler named Giovanni Sarto, brilliant at his job and a pleasant enough fellow personally, I thought, with that classic curly handsomeness that you see in some Italians. Mary lost her head with the completeness of the spoiled only child who had been rather shielded from that sort of thing all her life, and they were married in a Coventry registry office. Sarto wouldn’t stay with the Church Circus; he thought it was too small for either of them, and as a business man I agreed with him. They went to America.”

  Menzies paused. His pale face clouded with the memory of an ancient wrong. Charles divined that even to the indurated press agent, the Human Swallow had been something more than a mere client.

  “No one knows what exactly took place on that American tour. But she came back with the eyes of a ghost, of somebody dead who would never come to life again. Sarto drank, apparently, and that was the least of his failings. Some people have a genius for cruelty; they make an art of it. There was none of the crudity of wife-beating about Sarto, I gathered. Instead, he made her suffer every imaginable humiliation—if possible publicly—and shocked every sensitive nerve in her mind into horror. Yet so strong was his mental ascendancy over her that it was not until one day when he fell off the ladder on which he was juggling and was in bed for three days, that she could key herself up to revolt and run back home.

  “Soon after that this branch of the Churches disappeared from circus life. The father died—they said the shock killed him, but he was getting on and probably the doctor’s verdict of pneumonia was nearer the truth. Mrs. Church suddenly had plenty of money, and my theory is that the grandson of the original Fitzhatter—this grandson was a charming fellow who had died not long before—had ended the family feud and left some of his money to Mrs. Church—his cousin. Anyway, she never said anything, and I wasn’t sufficiently curious to go to Somerset House and find out for certain. The last thing I remember about them was seeing Mrs. Church in my office, sitting where you are sitting now. She had been by way of being a good friend of mine, and although her visit was ostensibly to pay me for the press publicity I had done in connection with the sale of the circus animals and properties, I think it was really to say good-bye. ‘My daughter’s an invalid, Menzies,’ she said to me, ‘not physically, but mentally. I’ve got to nurse her back to health, and I’ve got to cut away from all the old associations. We shall have to storm a new world together. I feel terribly responsible for the tragedy—I, who pride myself on my perception, not to see the sort of poisonous reptile Sarto was! Well, I’m going to devote the rest of my life to restoring her to health and happiness. It’s too late to do anything with Sarto now—I can’t even trace him in America—but, by heavens, if any other man tries to wreck my daughter’s happiness again——’ Mrs. Church was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken woman—one of those charming old ladies that beam on everyone—but when she said that I thought that not for a million pounds would I like to be in the shoes of Sarto, or of any other man who was responsible for that look appearing in Mary’s eyes again.”

  Menzies flicked the ash off the end of his cigar. “Since then I’ve never heard another word from them, or about them. I don’t know whether Mrs. Church ever nursed poor Mary Sarto back to a state where she looked at a thing as if it existed, or at a person without cringing. But she managed to disappear. As a pressman, I reckon to run across most people, but I’ve never run across either of them. Probably, though, they’re here in London—in one of London’s many worlds which are as separate as planets—the West End fashionable world, or the Jermyn Street naughty world, or the Kensington respectable world, or the suburban bourgeois world, or the Bloomsbury intellectual world. Anyway, they’re gone, and there’s an end of it. How the years flee, my Posthumus. Have a drink?”

  “Thanks,” said Charles. “I haven’t quite finished troubling you. Here’s the last straw. Have you a photograph of Sarto?”

  “I’ll see if I can dig one up,” he answered.

  Like many people whose office is apparently littered with hopelessly confounded and scattered rubbish, he really had a secret but highly effective filing system which enabled him to find what he wanted in a short time, at the price of somewhat dusty fingers. After a few minutes’ rummaging he pulled out a wooden tray marked “Church’s Circus,” and ran through the contents.

  “Here you are,” he said at last. “A photograph of the wedding-party, with Mary Church and Sarto, fond mother and father, and various circus friends.”

  Charles glanced at it. His casual regard stiffened to concentration. He gazed open-mouthed at the photograph. Menzies saw his face whiten and the jaw muscles grow tense.

  “Is anything wrong?” he asked, peering at the photo.

  “There is,” answered Charles, galvanized into an embodiment of action. “For God’s sake don’t ask any questions, but do what I tell you.” His voice was shaking. “It is a matter of life and death.”

  Charles spoke slowly and distinctly. “’Phone up Inspector Bray at Scotland Yard—say you are speaking for me—and tell him to call with the flying squad tender at this address. Tell him not to fail me—tell him I’ve found the murderer.”

  Menzies stared. He still stared as Charles whirled out of the room, and he continued staring as he heard his clatter down the ancient stairs die away. Then he picked up the ’phone and asked for Scotland Yard.

  As he spoke, there was a shout in the street outside. It was from the indignant owner of a Grand Prix Mercedes, who had arrived in time to see its tail disappear as it skidded round the corner in Charles’s capable hands. A little later he heard a subdued whine as Charles cut in the supercharger half-way up Charing Cross Road.

  The indignant owner was put through to Scotland Yard about three minutes after Menzies had been connected to Bray.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Murderer is Cornered

  I

  “PENTECOST” was a rambling old house that looked as if it had been the centre of a large estate in the days when Tooting was “in the country.” Now the tide of villadom had surged around and over its former splendours, but had still left it enough garden and grounds to make it one of the outstanding houses of the suburb.

  Viola wandered up a path flanked by dusty shrubs. There were weeds everywhere. Amateur of the circus though she may have been, Mrs. Mortimer was no garden lover. A “To Let” board slouched oafishly in the front—evidently the depression of “Pentecost” had been too much even for Mrs. Mortimer. A disquieting thought struck Viola. “I hope she hasn’t moved since Miss Sanctuary he
ard from her last.”

  A pull at the old-fashioned bell woke echoes in the house. She heard someone walk briskly up from the basement. The door opened, and in the semi-shadow stood an old woman with a lace mantilla which shadowed her face. She was leaning on a stick.

  “Can I see Mrs. Mortimer?” asked Viola.

  “I’m Mrs. Mortimer,” answered the old lady, peering at her inquiringly from the darkness.

  “I was sent to you by Miss Sanctuary. You see, I wanted to trace someone in the circus world, and she said you would be able to help me.”

  “I expect I can,” answered the other in her low, curiously gruff voice, “if anyone can. Come in.” The door was closed and the corridor was in darkness. “Straight ahead,” said the old lady, and put her hand on Viola’s shoulder to guide her.

  Suddenly the frail hand stiffened to a grip of steel. It met its fellow round Viola’s throat, and the cry she uttered changed into a gurgling. Intense lights danced on the darkness before Viola’s eyes; and then she became unconscious...

  II

  For a time phantasma merged with characters of ordinary life in the weird dreams that hurried through her mind. When she came into full consciousness she saw a bare grey room with the dust of years upon it. She felt bare boards under her, and her legs were devoid of feeling. They were bound. Her breath came slowly and with difficulty, for she was gagged. She was alone for a time; then the door opened, and the old woman came in. Instinctively, bound as she was, she shrunk away, and then the old woman stepped into the light of the window. The black lace that had shadowed her face was thrown back and the light fell full upon it. It was Miss Sanctuary.

  Miss Sanctuary saw recognition blaze in the girl’s eye. She came and sat down beside her on a wooden box, looking down calmly and indifferently at the bound girl.

  “Yes, it is I,” she said wearily. “I murdered the Budges. They blackmailed my daughter. They never guessed that the demure little lady who insisted on staying at the hotel was Mrs. Walton’s mother. But the police would have found out if you had told them of your discovery, and so I sent you here. The house agent thought I was a very likely purchaser when I asked for the key.” Miss Sanctuary laughed mirthlessly, and looked at the girl, her lips pursed. “I brought you here to kill you, of course.” She stated the fact calmly, without malice or fury.

  Viola, frightened though she was, and still shaky from the physical effects of the assault, could yet fathom the deep-seated purpose of this woman.

  “I have come into this room twice,” stated Miss Sanctuary, “with the intention of strangling you while you were unconscious, yet I haven’t been able to do it. Her tone was faintly surprised. “These hands”—her voice quivered as she looked down at them—“somehow wouldn’t obey the orders of the brain. You are not like the Budges, I suppose. Anyway I simply cannot do it.”

  There was neither remorse nor the petty fear of guilt in her level tone. Her purpose, which had enabled her to contemplate capital crime with equanimity, may have verged on mania, may have been mania, but she couldn’t murder this girl, even for the sake of her daughter, and she was puzzled.

  “Will you promise not to shout if I remove your gag?” she said at last.

  Viola nodded her head, and with deft fingers Miss Sanctuary removed the cramping bandage. Their eyes met—would-be murderer and unwilling victim.

  “I might let you go free,” said Miss Sanctuary after a while, “if you promised on your solemn word of honour not to breathe a syllable of your discovery of my daughter’s identity, or of what has taken place to-day, or of anything that might lead to the discovery of my daughter’s identity.”

  “Why are you so anxious to keep it secret?” asked Viola.

  “It is the price of my daughter’s happiness,” affirmed the other. “Five years ago my daughter was married. The man was a scoundrel. It is impossible to describe the unhappiness he brought into my daughter’s life; and I thought for a time she would never really and truly smile again. It was just as if something had snapped in her mind, and as if she could never see any goodness or kindness in humanity again. Then she went for a cruise to the West Indies, and when she came back it was just as if she had come back to life again. It wasn’t so much that she was happier. It was more that her heart had been turned to ice before and now it had melted and she could cry—and therefore laugh as well.

  “It was not till a year ago that I found out the reason for this change. It was a man she had met on the boat and whom she met again—St. Clair Addington. He loves her, in his way, and he is a gentleman, and she is violently and absolutely in love with him—drinks up his consideration and his little kindnesses as a flower drinks up rain.”

  Miss Sanctuary paused, and when she spoke again her voice was icy with a cold distaste. “Then she fell into the hands of those abominable Budges! As if she had not had enough misfortune, she came to that hotel without realizing its true character, and was taken in as a guest whose innocence would cover up their suspicious activities. One day Budge recognized her and ferreted out the truth. When he saw her engagement to Addington he saw his opportunity. One word to Addington, the soul of respectability, would be enough—bigamy!”

  Miss Sanctuary laughed mirthlessly. “My daughter and I had long put Sarto out of our minds—to us he was dead and she was a widow. But in the eyes of the law—bigamy! So he bled her steadily, and anxiety began to give that dead look to her eyes that she had when she ran away from Sarto. The past was overtaking her again.” Miss Sanctuary sat bolt upright looking beyond the horizon, her eyes pools of fire. “I decided to put an end to it. As a harmless old spinster I came and stayed at the hotel.”

  The fires of fury died away in her cold eyes. “Both knew me before they died. I was judge and jury and executioner.”

  Even in that room and those surroundings, Viola found it difficult to grasp the suddenness of the transition from Miss Sanctuary, the kindly old maid, to the avenging Nemesis who sat beside her and spoke calmly of murder and strangulation. She shuddered as she realized that twice the woman had been in the room while she lay unconscious, and eyed her throat with speculative eyes, and then had drawn back because she was not fundamentally a killer, but a harassed mother with the atavistic fixity of purpose of a less squeamish age.

  “If you release me,” said Viola at last, as steadily as she could, “I will give you my solemn word of honour not to give away the slightest hint of your secret to anyone.”

  “I am compounding a felony,” she thought to herself, “and promises made under duress are not legally binding, but I shall have to make the promise and I shall have to keep it. I wonder if the murderer will ever be discovered?”

  Miss Sanctuary was looking at her as if to fathom her most secret thoughts. The results of her scrutiny seemed to satisfy her. “Very well.”

  Suddenly Viola recollected her letter to Charles. “Good heavens!” she said. “Before I came here I wrote to Charles!”

  Miss Sanctuary’s eyes glittered. “You told him?” she said.

  III

  Her question was answered. With a crash that seemed to shock the silence of the house the window was shattered and a man leaped into the room, his face shielded with a macintosh.

  “Venables!” exclaimed Miss Sanctuary, rising to her feet.

  Charles did not waste time in formalities. He sprang on Miss Sanctuary and seized her by the wrist. With a strength incredible in anyone of her age she struggled with him, but he had the advantage of surprise and skill. In a few minutes she was sitting on the box with her hands and feet more neatly trussed than Viola’s.

  Charles untied the rope round Viola’s wrists and ankles, and chafed them. “Thank God you are all right! I thought I should be too late. I never guessed who she was till I saw her photograph in Menzies’ room.”

  He helped Viola to her feet. She pressed her hand to her forehead. She felt uncommonly shaky now that the ordeal was over. She laughed weakly.

  “When it came to the pinch she foun
d that she couldn’t do me in,” Viola said. “So we were just evolving a gentleman’s agreement, or rather a lady’s agreement, whereby I should promise to keep things dark and in return I should be released.”

  “Yes, it was rather foolish of me,” said Miss Sanctuary briskly. “Yet when it came to the pinch I found I wasn’t as ruthless as I thought!”

  Charles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It sounds rather banal to thank you,” he said. “It certainly complicates matters. Heavens, what’s that?”

  “That” was the bell, clanging imperiously in the basement. “Oh, Lord! Of course,” Charles went on, “it’s Bray.”

  It was Bray, with four constables spoiling for the fray. Bray metaphorically rubbed his eyes at the tableau—Charles with blood dripping from a cut in his hand, Miss Sanctuary sitting bound hand and foot on a wooden box, and Viola leaning shakily against the wall.

  “What’s all this?”

  Miss Sanctuary spoke. Her voice was clear and unemotional. “I wilfully murdered Mrs. Budge and Mr. Budge,” she said. “I must categorically refuse to make any other statement, however, until I have had legal advice.”

  “You!” exclaimed Bray incredulously. He turned to Charles. “What is the meaning of all this?” he asked.

  “It looks like being a very involved story,” answered Charles. “As Miss Sanctuary mentioned just now, she was responsible for both murders.” He looked at Bray significantly. “I think at this stage, Viola and I had better have a further talk with Miss Sanctuary alone.”

  It was with the greatest reluctance that Bray withdrew. Charles saw a policeman take up his station outside the window. Then he turned to Miss Sanctuary. “Well, what shall we do?” he said.

  “I feel that my action was thoroughly justified in both cases,” answered Miss Sanctuary calmly, “but one never knows. Perhaps I should be happier if I paid the penalty. At any rate my conscience would be tidier. I am getting an old woman anyway, and there is not much left of life for me. I don’t think I shall like being hanged by the neck till dead, but I shall prefer it to being respited and dying in prison.” She paused, then she continued earnestly: “Mr. Venables, the one thing that must not happen is for this to taint my daughter’s happiness. The guilty life for the taken life is the law’s demand. I am ready to satisfy it. But must my daughter, innocent even of the knowledge of my part in this affair, pay also with the wreckage of her happiness when her past is dragged through the mire of a big murder trial? Miss Sanctuary committed the crime. Cannot Miss Sanctuary pay for it?”