The Mad Hatter Mystery

by The Mad Hatter Mystery (retail) (epub)

  This time General Mason did speak. He said, with cold courtesy, “Madam, may I request you not to use that word? The guards at the Tower are called Yeomen Warders, not Beefeaters. The term is applied—”

  Mrs. Bitton seemed to catch rather eagerly at the correction.

  “I’m sorry. Of course I didn’t know. You hear people talk, that’s all. I pointed to that place where the stone slab is, where it says they used to chop people’s heads off, you know, and I asked the Bee—the man, ‘Is that where Queen Elizabeth was executed?’ And he nearly fainted. He cleared his throat a couple of times, and said, ‘Madam—er—Queen Elizabeth had not the honor to be—ah—I mean, Queen Elizabeth died in her bed.’ And then he reeled off a list of people who got their heads chopped off there; and I said, ‘What did she die of?’ and he said, ‘Who, ma’am?’ and I said, ‘Queen Elizabeth,’ and he made a sort of funny noise.”

  “They’ll get their reward in heaven,” General Mason said gloomily.

  Hadley was not impressed. “Please keep to the subject, Mrs. Bitton. When did you leave?”

  “My dear man, I don’t carry a watch. But I know that I came down from the parade-ground under the arch of that big place called the Bloody Tower. And I saw a group of people standing over by the rail around these steps, and there was a Beefeater who asked me if I would mind going on. So I suppose it was after you found—Phil. Anyway, when I got to the front gate they wouldn’t let me out. And that’s all I know.”

  “Did you run into Mr. Driscoll at any time?”

  “No. Naturally, I didn’t know he was there.”

  Hadley absently tapped his fingers on the desk for some time. He resumed suddenly. “Now, Mrs. Bitton, according to your own statement you arrived here in the vicinity of one o’clock.”

  “Sorry. I told you I didn’t know what time it was.”

  “But it was shortly after one?”

  “Perhaps. I may have been mistaken.”

  “The body was discovered at two-thirty, and of course you started to leave after that time, or you wouldn’t be here. So you spent all that time looking at the Crown Jewels and wandering about the parade-ground in the fog? Is that correct?”

  She laughed. Her cigarette had burnt down to her fingers, and she jumped a little as she felt the fire. Dropping it on the floor, she regarded Hadley with some defiance. But she was not so cool as before.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m afraid of a bit of mist or rain? That belongs in the days of Mr. Gladstone, you know. It’s comical. Yes, I suppose that’s what I must have done. Good Lord! You surely don’t think I had anything to do with killing Phil, do you?”

  “It is my duty to ask these questions, Mrs. Bitton. Since you carried no watch, I suppose you do not know whether you were anywhere near the Traitors’ Gate between half past one and a quarter to two?”

  She crossed one silk-clad leg over the other and frowned. “The Traitors’ Gate,” she repeated. “Let’s see. Which one is that?”

  Hadley nodded towards her handbag. “May I ask what you have there, under the strap on the other side of your bag? Folded over, I mean; a greenish pamphlet of some sort?”

  “It’s— I say, I’d forgotten all about it! It’s a guide to the Tower of London. I bought it for twopence at the ticket window.”

  “Were you anywhere near the Traitors’ Gate between half-past one and a quarter to two, Mrs. Bitton?”

  She took out another cigarette, lighted it with a sweep of the match against the table, and regarded him with cold anger.

  “Thanks for repeating the question,” she returned. “It’s most considerate. If by the Traitors’ Gate you mean the one where Phil was found, as I assume you do, the answer is no. I was not near it at any time except when I passed it going in and coming out.”

  Hadley grinned. It was a placid, slow, homely grin, and it made his face almost genial. The woman’s face had hardened, and there was a strained look about her eyes; but she caught the grin, and suddenly laughed.

  “All right. Touché. But I’m hanged if I let you pull my leg again, Mr. Hadley. I thought you meant it.”

  “You’re—ah—impulsive, Laura,” Sir William put in, stroking his long chin. Aggressive as he was, he seemed bewildered by this sister-in-law of his. “Excuse me, Inspector. Go on.”

  “We now come to the inevitable. Mrs. Bitton, do you know anybody who would desire to take Mr. Driscoll’s life?”

  “I’ll never forgive you,” she replied in a low, fierce voice, “if you don’t find out who killed him. Nobody would want to kill him. It’s absurd. It’s insane. Phil was wonderful. He was a precious lamb.”

  General Mason shuddered, and even Hadley winced a trifle.

  “Ah,” he said. “He may have been—ah—as you say, a—never mind. Though I question whether he, or anybody else, would have relished the description. When did you last see him?”

  “H’m. Well, it’s been some time. It was before Lester and I went to Cornwall. He only comes to the house on Sundays. And he wasn’t there yesterday, now that I come to think of it.” She frowned. “Yes. Will was so cut up over losing that manuscript, and turning the house upside down—or did you know about that?”

  “We know,” Hadley answered, grimly.

  “Wait a bit. Wait. I’m wrong,” she corrected, putting her hand down on the desk. “He did come in for a short time rather late Sunday night, to pay his respects to us. He was on his way to the newspaper office to turn in his story, I remember: about the barrister’s wig on the cab horse. Don’t you remember, Will?”

  Sir William rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him, but then I was—occupied.”

  “Sheila told us about this new newspaperline of his, chasing hats.” For the first time Laura Bitton shuddered. “And I told him what Sheila told me, about Will’s hat being stolen the night before.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Say? Well, he asked a lot of questions, about where it had been stolen, and when, and all about it; and then I remember he started to pace up and down the drawing room, and he said he’d got a ‘lead,’ and went hurrying away before we could ask what he meant.”

  At last Hadley was pleased. He glanced over at Dr. Fell, who had taken the dog in his lap now, but Hadley did not speak. A knock at the door preceded the appearance of an oldish, tired man carrying a bundle made out of a handkerchief. He saluted.

  “Sergeant Hamper, sir. I have the dead man’s belongings here. And the police surgeon would like to speak to you.”

  A mild-mannered, peering little man with a goatee doddered in at the door and regarded Hadley with a vague stare.

  “Howdy!” he said, pushing his derby hat slightly back on his head with the hand containing his black satchel. In the other he held a straight length of steel. “Here’s your weapon, Hadley. Hur-rumph. No, no fingerprints. I washed it. It was messy. Hurrumph.”

  He doddered over to the table, examined it as though he were looking for a suitable place, and put down the crossbow bolt. It was rounded, thin, and about eighteen inches long, with a barbed steel head.

  “Funny-lookin’ things they’re usin’ nowadays,” commented the doctor, rubbing his nose. “Now I can see a use for the things my wife picked up at Margate. Harrumph.”

  “It’s a crossbolt from the late fourteenth century.”

  “My eye,” said the doctor, “and Betty Martin.”

  “What?”

  “I said, ‘My eye and Betty Martin.’ Look what’s engraved down it. ‘Souvenir de Carcassonne.’ The pirate French sell ’em at little souvenir booths. That’s the curse of travelin’, that is. Harrumph.”

  “But, Doctor—” said Sir William.

  The other blinked at him. “My name,” he observed, with a sudden querulous suspicion, “my name, sir, is Watson. Doctor Watson. And if any alleged humorist—” squeaked the doctor, flourishing his satchel—“if any alleged humorist makes the obvious remark, I’ll brain him. For thirty years on this force I’ve been hearin�
�� nothing else. And I’m tired of it. People hiss at me round corners. They ask me for needles and four-wheelers and Shag tobacco, and have I my revolver handy? Every fool of a plainclothes constable waits patiently for my report so he can say, ‘Elementary, my dear—’”

  Laura Bitton had paid no attention to this tirade. She had grown a trifle pale, and she was standing motionless, staring down at the crossbow bolt. Even Dr. Watson broke off to look at her.

  She said, in a voice she tried to keep matter-of-fact, “I know where this belongs, Mr. Hadley.”

  “You’ve seen it before?”

  “It comes,” said Mrs. Bitton, in a careful voice, “from our house. Lester and I bought it when we were on that walking trip in southern France.”

  VII

  Mrs. Larkin’s Cuff

  “SIT DOWN, everybody!” Hadley said, sharply. “This place is turning into a madhouse. You’re certain of that, Mrs. Bitton?”

  She seemed to recover herself from an almost hypnotized stare at the bright steel. She sat down again, drawing jerkily at the cigarette.

  “I—I mean—of course I can’t say. Things like that are on sale at Carcassonne, and hundreds of people must buy them.”

  “Quite,” Hadley agreed, dryly. “However, you bought one just like it. Where did you keep it at your home?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I haven’t seen it for months. I remember when we returned from the trip I ran across it in the baggage and thought, ‘Now, why on earth did I buy that stupid thing?’ My impression is that I chucked it away somewhere.”

  Hadley turned the bolt over in his hands, weighing it. Then he felt the point and sides of the head.

  “Mrs. Bitton, the point and barb are as sharp as a knife. Was it like that when you bought it?”

  “Good Lord, no! It was very blunt. You couldn’t possibly have cut yourself with it.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said the chief inspector, holding the head close, “I think it’s been filed and whetted. And there’s something else. Has anybody got a lens? Ah, thanks, Hamper.” He took the small magnifying glass which the sergeant passed over, and tilted up the bolt to scrutinize the engraving along the side. “Somebody has been trying to efface this Souvenir de Carcassonne thing with a file. H’m. And it isn’t as though the person had given it up as a bad job. The s-o-u part is blurred and filed almost out, systematically. It’s as though the person had been interrupted and hadn’t finished his job.”

  He put down the bolt glumly. Dr. Watson, having evidently satisfied himself that nobody was in a joking mood, had grown more amiable. Removing a stick of chewing gum from his pocket, he peeled off its wrapper and popped it into his mouth.

  “Well, I’m goin’,” he volunteered. “Anything you want to know? No use tellin’ you that did for him. I’m not givin’ you the technical gubble-gubble. I hate pedants,” he explained to the company. “Clean puncture; plenty of strength behind it. Might have lived half a minute. Harrumph. Oh yes. Concussion. Might have got it falling down the steps, or maybe somebody batted him. That’s your job.”

  “What about the time of death, Watson? The doctor here says he died between one-thirty and one-forty-five.”

  “Oh, he does, does he?” said the police surgeon. He took out an enormous gun-metal watch, peered at it, shook it beside his ear, and put it back with satisfaction. “Harrumph. Later. Yes. Wasn’t a bad guess, though. He died about ten minutes to two. Maybe a few minutes this side, that side. I’ll take him along in the ambulance for a good look, and let you know. Well—er—goo’-bye. Harrumph.”

  He doddered out, swinging his black bag.

  “But look here!” protested Sir William, when the door had closed. “He can’t possibly know it so exactly, can he? I thought doctors gave a good deal of leeway on a thing like that.”

  “He doesn’t,” said Hadley. “That’s why he’s so invaluable. And in twenty years I’ve never known him more than ten minutes wrong about the time of death. He says he conducts a physical examination after death. Still he was showing off. If we say one-forty-five or slightly less we shall be close to the mark.”

  He turned to Laura Bitton.

  “To proceed, Mrs. Bitton. Let’s assume that this bolt came from your house. Who knew it was there?”

  “Why, everybody, I imagine. I don’t remember, but I suppose I must have shown the junk we accumulated on that trip.”

  “Had you seen it before, Sir William?”

  “I’m not sure,” the other answered, slowly. His eyes were hazy. “I may have. But I can’t recall ever having seen it. Ah yes. Ha! Now I know, Laura. You and Lester made the trip while I was abroad in the States, and I came back after you. That accounts for it.”

  Hadley drew a long breath. “There’s no use speculating,” he said. “We shall have to make inquiries at the house. And now, Mrs. Bitton, I don’t think we need detain you any longer. One of the warders will escort you to a cab. Or perhaps Sir William will do it. And look here, old man”—he put his hand on the knight’s arm—“you’ve a perfect right to stay, if you like; at least, I shan’t try to drive you away. But you’ve had a trying day. Don’t you think it would be better if you went home with Mrs. Bitton?”

  “No. I’m waiting for something,” Sir William answered, woodenly. “I’m waiting to hear what you have to say to Arbor.”

  “Which is exactly what you mustn’t do, don’t you see? It would spoil everything. I don’t want to have to give you an order—”

  “Tell you what, Bitton,” the general suggested, gruffly, “go up to my rooms. Parker will give you a cigar and a brandy, and if there’s any news we’ll let you know. That Devereux record is in the portfolio in my desk; have a look at it.”

  Sir William rose to his great and stooping height. As he turned towards the woman, Rampole turned also; and Rampole was startled to see on Laura’s face—for a space as brief as a snapping of your fingers—an expression of stark terror. It was not caused by anything she saw; it was the expression of one who remembers something momentarily forgotten; who stops breathless, eyes opening wide. It was gone immediately, and Rampole wondered whether Hadley had noticed it.

  “I don’t suppose I might be allowed to remain?” she asked, in her cool, clear voice. But two kinks were working at the corners of her nostrils, and she seemed almost to have stopped breathing. “I might be helpful, you know.” As Hadley smiled and shook his head, she seemed to weigh something in her mind. Then she shrugged. “Ah, well. Excuse the morbid curiosity. And I will go home in a cab. I’m not in the state of mind to enjoy a good walk. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  She nodded curtly. Followed by her brother-in-law, she swung out of the room.

  “Hum!” said General Mason, after a long pause. The fire was getting low, and he kicked at it. Then he noticed Sergeant Hamper, who had been standing, patient and forgotten, since Dr. Watson’s entrance; and the general did not continue.

  “Oh, ah yes,” the chief inspector coughed, as though he had just noticed it, too. “Sorry, Hamper, for keeping you waiting. Those are the contents of the pockets you have there, eh? Very well. Put them down here, and see if you can pick up any news from the chief warder.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But before you do, go across the way and find Mrs. Amanda Larkin. Wait about five minutes, and send her in here.”

  The sergeant saluted and withdrew. Hadley contemplated the small bundle on the desk before him, but he did not immediately open it. He glanced at Dr. Fell, who was regarding him benevolently, a pipe in his mouth and the front of his cloak full of hair from the demonstrative Airedale. The chief inspector’s expression was sour.

  “I say, Mr. Hadley,” said the general, after scuffling his feet hesitantly. “What did you make of that woman?”

  “Mrs. Bitton? I wonder. She’s an old hand at evasion, and a very good one. She sees the traps as soon as you set them. And she has rather an ingenious counterattack. She either tries to make somebody angry and jar the proceedings out of lin
e, or else she babbles. But she’s not the babbling kind. H’m. What do you know about her?”

  “I’d never met her. She seemed to take me for a police officer. But I know her husband slightly, through Bitton.”

  “What’s this Lester Bitton like?”

  “I don’t like to say,” the general answered, doubtfully. “Don’t know the man well enough. He’s older than she is; considerably, I should think. Can’t imagine him enjoying these athletic activities of hers. I believe he made a lot of money in some financial scheme. And he doesn’t smoke or drink. Bah!” said General Mason, blowing through his whiskers.

  Hadley seemed about to reply, but he thought better of it. Instead he turned his attention to the handkerchief, knotted up like a bundle, which contained the dead man’s effects.

  “Here we are. Wristwatch; crystal broken, but still running. Bunch of keys. Fountain pen and stylo pencil. Banknotes, silver and coppers—a whole handful of coppers. Only one letter. Oh Lord! Here it is. Pure trash—pale mauve envelope, and scented. Woman’s handwriting.”

  He drew out a single sheet of paper, and Rampole and the general bent over it as he spread it out on the table. There was no date or heading. The message was written in the center of the sheet. Be careful. Tower of London, one-thirty. Suspect. Vital.—Mary.

  Hadley read it aloud, scowling. “Mary?” he repeated. “Now we’ve got to find a Mary. Let’s see. Postmarked London, W., ten-thirty last night. This thing is beginning to get on my nerves.” Pushing the letter out on the desk, he turned to the contents of the handkerchief again. “I must say the sergeant is thorough. He even included the dead man’s ring and tie pin. But here’s our hope. Loose-leaf notebook, black leather.”

  Opening the notebook, he let his eye run along the few scrawled lines on the first sheet. Then Hadley struck the desk despairingly.