Half-Mast Murder

by Milward Kennedy

  It was the Chief Constable, requesting him, if he could spare the time, to drive over at once : Sir Ernest Mapperley was with him, the Professor’s solicitor.

  The Superintendent felt almost flustered at the prospect of .meeting the eminent solicitor—not so much because of his eminence, but because this seemed to bring him into actual contact with the world-wide aspect of the late Professor’s career, the side of the case which might be too much for him, with his local limitations.

  He had fully recovered his habitual equipoise when the interview began ; it was brief and not particularly informative.

  Evidently Sir Ernest had already said the “proper things” to the Chief Constable. The latter briefly introduced the Superintendent and said to him :

  “Sir Ernest came down inresponse to my request.”

  Guest murmured that it was good of him ; the Major ignored this, and went on :

  “The main thing is that he can tell us about Professor Paley’s will.I got you over here because there may be points about which you’d like to consult him.”

  Guest had a suspicion that “consult” had hastily been substituted for “examine.” He coughed, but said nothing.

  “The main outline of the will, of which I am prepared—quite unofficially and—ah—irregularly—to leave you a copy, is simple.”

  Sir Ernest’s manner was as impressive and urbane as his attire and appearance. Morning coat and immaculate trousers, the thin gold and platinum chain across the smooth and expansive waistcoat, were in sad contrast with the “country gentleman” look of Major Dillon’s tweeds.

  The solicitor paused weightily, picked up the typewritten sheets which he had laid neatly on the small table beside his arm-chair, slightly shifted his gold pince-nez on his large nose, glanced up and down the sheets in the manner of an elderly schoolmaster reminding himself of the contents of a puerile essay of a schoolboy to whom he was about to expound its blemishes, laid the papers down again, removed his pince-nez and tapped them with his right hand against the thumb of his left, coughed, and said, “Yes.”

  The Superintendent fidgeted with his feet. After all, he said to himself, time matters to me : I’ve got to find a murderer.

  “Quite simple,” Sir Ernest continued, as if he pitied the two · country bumpkins for their ignorance. “Mrs. Arkwright—that is, the Professor’s sister——”

  “Quite so,” said the Superintendent, and Sir Ernest slightly moved one eyebrow, in recognition of the note of impatience in the policeman’s voice.

  “Ah, of course. You have no doubt seen her. Very good. I was about to say that Mrs. Arkwright figures but little in the will. She is left certain personal objects of—ah—greater sentimental than intrinsic value, and the sum of one thousand pounds. Servants who have been in the Professor’s service for five years and are in his service at the time of decease receive twenty-five pounds for each year of service. A number of—ah—societies and institutions—mainly—ah—of an anti-war character receive sums varying from one hundred guineas to the large sum of two thousand pounds. Ah, yes. A personal bequest to a Mr. Edward Trent. Two thousand pounds. The residue of the estate to be divided equally between the Professor’s nephew, Mr. Julian Paley, and the niece, Miss Cynthia Paley. The house of Cliff’s End is left to Miss Cynthia Paley. I should have mentioned that before.”

  The eminent solicitor closed his eyes, as if exhausted by the mere simplicity of the will.

  “Good,” said the Chief Constable briskly. “Now, Superintendent, any questions ?”

  “H’m. Can Sir Ernest give us any idea of the size of the residue ?”

  A delicate smile flitted over the large smooth face.

  “Of course, only an approximate figure. I have estimated that the niece and nephew, when all duties are paid, will divide something over a quarter of a million.”

  The Superintendent was hard put to it to restrain an audible gasp. The comparative simplicity of Cliff’s End had not prepared him for any such figure as this. The smile returned—almost a high tide of a smile—to Sir Ernest’s countenance, and the heavy wrinkle which divided the grins suddenly seemed to be a kind of suppressed grin.

  Major Dillon openly chuckled.

  “That surprises you, Superintendent ?” he asked.

  Guest rapidly recovered himself.

  “A bit,” he admitted, “but I dont find it the most surprising thing in the will.”

  “You don’t ? What surprises you more ?”

  “Why, Major—I’m afraid I expressed myself wrongly——What surprises me most is what is not in the will. Of course, when I’ve had time to look through it myself——”

  At this audacity Sir Ernest resumed his pince-nez and stared at the Superintendent, who hastily explained that of course the solicitor had only given a brief outline. The great man smiled tolerantly.

  “What are the startling omissions ? Perhaps they are there all the time.”

  “Well, first, Sir Ernest, I’ll confess that I’m a bit surprised that Mr. Julian Paley figures so prominently. I mean to say, he and his uncle didn’t hit it off. It’s true, I was warned that that would probably not have affected the dispositions, but, to be frank, I didn’t believe it. Is it certain that there is no later will?”

  “Quite certain,” said Sir Ernest, in a tone of finality. This time it was Guest who raised his eyebrows. The solicitor answered the look almost amusedly. “You’ll see why I’m sure in a moment,” he observed. “But as regards Julian Paley, you will find that a hope is expressed in the will that he will sever his connection with his present—ah—occupation.”

  “I see,” Guest nodded thoughtfully. “But that’s not a condition attached to his inheritance ?”

  “By no means. A hope,” the lawyer repeated reprovingly.

  “Now what about these omissions ?” Dillon put in a rifle hurriedly.

  “Executors,” said Guest briefly.

  Sir Ernest moved his large person in a manner which suggested that he was startled.

  “Curious you should mention that,” he said, quite mildly. “I should not have supposed that it would interest you in the circumstances. It was in the nature of a bonne bouche which I was saving up for you, Major. I am one executor : the other —I think I may say he is Mr. Edward Trent. I think so. Though I doubt whether he will act.”

  The other two looked at him in some bewilderment.

  “The—ah—fact is,” he continued, with irritating slowness, “I received a letter by the first post—ah—yesterday morning. It is that letter which makes me certain that there is no later will.”

  He turned again to the table beside him and picked up another paper, with the air of a stamp collector producing a penny stamp with the effigy of the Prince of Wales.

  “Shall I—ah—read it!” he suggested, and, before they could reply, continued : “It is addressed to myself ‘ Dear Sir Ernest ’ —ah—‘ I have decided that I must make a small alteration in my will, which, you will recollect, is in your keeping. I do not think J can properly ask Mr. Edward Trent to act as my executor. Perhaps you will prepare the necessary codicil amending the will in that respect. I believe that that is the proper procedure. Yours very truly, Henry Paley.’”

  Sir Ernest lowered the paper and glanced at his auditors. As Guest was about to make a remark, he added, “There is a postscript. ‘ P.S.—Will you be good enough to advise me about the enclosed document. I am inclined to take no notice of it.’”

  The paper was finally replaced on the table.

  “What was the enclosure, Sir Ernest ?” asked the Chief Constable.

  “I regret that I cannot tell you.” The Superintendent silenced his protest as the solicitor continued again with that elusive smile. “The Professor—ah—omitted to enclose the enclosure.”

  “And you’ve no idea what it was, sir ?”

  “None.”

  “D’you suppose that letter definitely makes you the sole executor, Sir Ernest ?” enquired Major Dillon.

  “Hard
ly that,” he replied. “I consider—ah—that in the circumstances Mr. Trent would be justified in refusing to act.”

  The Superintendent wore a worried look.

  “What was the exact wording of that letter, sir ?” he asked. “Perhaps you’ll let us have a copy of that too,” put in the Chief Constable.

  “Certainly. I have, in fact, brought a copy. The—ah—exact wording was”—he picked up the letter again—“I do not think I can properly ask Mr. Edward Trent to act as my executor.”

  “So that might mean,” said Guest, “either that it was for Mr. Trent’s sake, or for Professor Paley’s, so to speak.”

  “I agree,” said Sir Ernest. “That is one doubtful point.”

  “Is there another ?” the Chief Constable asked.

  “I think so. The letter speaks of executor. Now does that mean that he wished to remove Mr. Trent from what I may loosely term the ‘ ordinary function ’ of executor, or does it mean that he no longer wished him to be his literary executor ?”

  “Oh. Is Mr. Trent the literary executor ?” Guest asked sharply.

  “He is.”

  There was a pause. The Superintendent was thinking hard about this new development.

  Well, if there’s nothing else,” said Sir Ernest briskly, “I must be getting along. I shall call at Cliff’s End, as I am in the neighbourhood, to see Mrs. Arkwright, and then drive back to town. Doubtless I can find a place to dine en route. I will explain to her the arrangements in connection with the inquest” (he was addressing Major Dillon) “and offer to represent her and so forth. Here—ah—are the copies. You quite understand that officially I cannot give them to you ?”

  “That’s quite understood, Sir Ernest,” the Major assured him, and invited him, not very pressingly, to return and dine after he had seen Mrs.a Arkwright. Sir Ernest politely declined ; he must get back to London in good time, he said.

  “Before you go, sir,” Guest put in, “may I just glance at the list of societies which stand to benefit ? I mean, there may be something arising out of that about which you could help us.”

  “Very well.” The great man sounded rather impatient.

  The Superintendent hastily ran his eye over the copy of the will till he found the bequests to institutions. There seemed nothing here about which to question the solicitor, and he said so, with all proper apologies. Probably, however, he observed with some interest that the society which received the largest bequest was the British section of the Association for World Harmony. He wondered whether little Mr. Quirk . . .

  Sir Ernest’s departure in a limousine as sleek and prosperous as himself had a ceremonious touch about it, and there was a twinkle in Major Dillon’s eye as he returned to the study with the Superintendent.

  “Well ?” he demanded. “What about it ? Does it help ?”

  “I can’t say it does,” was Guest’s reply. “Seems to leave me much where I was before. Except that Mrs. Arkwright doesn’t stand to gain by her brother’s death. But the rest do—more especially the nephew and the niece.” He added to himself, “And that, I suppose, means Mr. Shipman. And there’s this Harmony affair.”

  “What about this man Trent ?” the Major asked.

  The Superintendent shook his head.

  “You can take that either way, can’t you ? Though, between the two of us, I think the removal of his name was not at Mr. Trent’s request. And I should say it was the literary executorship which was in question.”

  “And the missing enclosure ?”

  “There’s a chance that it is amongst the papers which were in that safe. It should be pretty easy to identify a document which called for a legal opinion. Or it may be in the house. Gives me a nice excuse for a good look round there, anyhow.”

  “All right,” said the Chief Constable. “Go ahead. And don’t forget to tell me when you want any more help—or if you do. What are you on to at present ?”

  The Superintendent briefly explained the steps which he had taken, and the Chief Constable expressed his approval.

  “As for the publisher,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to meet another knight.”

  Both men smiled.

  “Rather a different type, though,” the Major added. “And now look here. If it’s important to see the publisher—and I’m inclined to think it is—can you manage to-night ? Of course, if you’d rather someone else saw him—or, I should say, don’t think it essential to see him yourself——”

  Guest intimated that he thought a personal interview would be best.

  “Very well,” Major Dillon resumed. “I’ve spoken to Sir Guy Rogers by telephone. He suggested—very civilly, I thought —that we should both go up and dine with him. Let’s see. It’s now going on for half-past five, isn’t it ? Can you catch the 6.10 to town, d’you think ? No need to dress. Dine at his club. You can ? Good ! Then you’d better be off, and get into mufti. I’ll put on something a little more decorous than this kit, and join you at Torgate Station.”

  Guest hesitated for a moment.

  “I suppose we can get away home in fairly decent time, sir ?” he asked.

  “By all means. Dine at quarter to eight. Catch the 10.12 down again. That do ? After all, you must feed somewhere. And they can get on to you at the club—the Kemble—if there’s any development. But I don’t think there’ll be much to-night from what you’ve told me. You can bring reports along and read ’em in the train.”

  The Superintendent assented to the proposal and hastened back in his car to Torgate. On the way to his flat, he called at the police station.

  “Let me have any reports that are ready—or notes, if that’s all there’s time for—and send them to the station. No, you bring them yourself, Sergeant. The 6.10 to London.”

  He changed his clothes with great rapidity, and hoped that he was presentable enough for the Kemble Club. He reached the station in plenty of time, and fumed till the Sergeant appeared with a large envelope in his hand.

  He thrust it into his despatch-case, and gave a couple of new instructions : Mr. Quirk was added to the number of people on whom “an eye” was to be kept, and in the second place discreet enquiry was to be made as to which had been the Professor’s bank.

  “Probably one in London, and one here,” he guessed. “Mrs. Arkwright probably knows. But, mind—discreet enquiry.”

  The Sergeant departed. The Superintendent observed with dismay that the hands of the station clock pointed to 6.8, and there was no sign of the Chief Constable. He was horrified by the idea that he might have to dine tête-à-tête with a publisher who had attained such literary eminence as to have received a knighthood. Perhaps, after all, this was a Scotland Yard affair, and he ought never——

  Major Dillon appeared, sauntering quietly down the platform, reading an evening paper.

  “Here you are, sir,” called Guest, advancing to meet him.

  “Kent are doing jolly well,” was the reply. “Or were, up to lunch. We’ll get a late paper in London.”

  They had hardly taken their seats when the signal was given for the train’s departure.

  CHAPTER XIV

  POSTULATES A PUBLISHER

  The Chief Constable buried himself in his paper, in a somewhat determined fashion. The Superintendent, rather relieved at not having to shout opinions on the case in rivalry with the racket of the train, likewise buried himself, but in papers of a more serious kind.

  The reports were disappointing, although, as Guest reminded himself, in several cases there had not been time for full enquiries to be made.

  Still, it was surprising, if Dr. Cummings’s appearance had really been as it had been described and not a mere disguise, that no one seemed to have noticed him except the chemist, the hotel people, and a constable on point-duty near the chemist’s shop. The man, disguised or not, must have left the hotel during the night ; from eleven o’clock onwards, or at an even earlier hour, the sea-front at Torgate, for all that it was a seaside resort, was fairly unfrequented, and a constabl
e was on duty close to the hotel—part of the Council’s scheme for preventing “goings on.” The constable had seen no one leave the hotel.

  The Superintendent made a note that every effort must be made to discover witnesses, one way or the other, to supplement the constable. He attached very little importance to negative reports from the station and from garages ; the man’s departure from the hotel, in whatever guise, seemed to be, so to speak, a bottle-neck in the search.

  There was no report yet from wanderers on the cliff who might have seen Mr. Quirk or perhaps the lowering of the flag : this would take time. But there was news of Mr. Julian Paley’s movements during the afternoon. The boatman had been found who had let out a motor-boat to him, at about half-past two or rather sooner. Mr. Paley had set off rather slowly, and had disappeared round the corner of the cliffs—in fact, towards Cliff’s End. The Superintendent pursed up his lips and perhaps whistled ; if so, the sound was drowned by the train and did not distract Major Dillon in his study of the back page of his paper.

  Nor was this all. A fisherman was positive that the flag was at half-mast before a quarter to three. More than that he could not say. It appeared that the flagstaff was a mark frequently used for the locating of a bank of sand on which various small flat fish could be caught by the veriest novice, and which was not so far from the shore as to involve the boatman in much hard rowing to reach it.

  A couple of boats had been out on that fatal afternoon ; only one of the two boatmen had been interviewed so far, the other being out on an all-day job. There was a chance that he could fix more exactly the time when the flag had been lowered. Still, it was a step forward to know that it had been lowered by a quarter to three. It seemed safe to infer that the murder had been committed by then.

  Lastly the friendly scientist had got busy with his little conundrum. The photograph, he reported, in a note between the lines of which his self-satisfaction could easily be read, had been taken between four o’clock and a quarter past. He added that it had been taken from a distance of eleven feet, approximately ; and the reason why it was not all foreground was that the camera had been actually on the ground when the photograph was taken. “An old trick,” the note observed.