The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Starvel Hollow tragedy, by Freeman
Wills Crofts
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Title: The Starvel Hollow tragedy
An Inspector French case
Author: Freeman Wills Crofts
Release Date: June 30, 2023 [eBook #71073]
Language: English
Credits: Brian Raiter
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STARVEL HOLLOW
TRAGEDY ***
The Starvel Hollow Tragedy
An Inspector French Case
by Freeman Wills Crofts
Contents
I The Tragedy
II The Inquest
III Mr. Tarkington Develops a Theory
IV Inspector French Goes North
V French Picks Up a Scent
VI Talloires, Lac D’Annecy
VII Posthumous Evidence
VIII Dr. Philpot’s Story
IX The Value of Analysis
X Whymper Speaks at Last
XI A Startling Theory
XII A Somewhat Gruesome Chapter
XIII The Piece of Yellow Clay
XIV The Secret of The Moor
XV French Baits His Trap
XVI A Double Recall
XVII Concerning Wedding Rings
XVIII Cumulative Evidence
XIX The Last Lap
XX Conclusion
To
MY WIFE
who suggested the idea
from which this story grew
CHAPTER ONE
The Tragedy
Ruth Averill moved slowly across the drawing room at Starvel, and
stood dejectedly at the window, looking out at the Scotch firs swaying
in the wind and the sheets of rain driving across the untidy lawn
before the house.
The view was even more depressing than usual on this gloomy autumn
afternoon. Beyond the grass-grown drive and the broken-down paling of
posts and wire which bounded the grounds, lay the open moor, wild and
lonely and forbidding. A tumble of dun-coloured sedgy grass with
darker smudges where rock out-cropped, it stretched up, bleak and
dreary, to the lip of the hollow in which the dilapidated old house
had been built.
To the girl standing in the window with a brooding look of melancholy
on her pretty features the outlook seemed symbolical of her life, for
Ruth Averill was not one of those whose lives could be said to have
fallen in pleasant places.
But, in spite of her unhappy expression, she was good to look at as
she stood watching the storm. Though rather under medium height she
had a charming figure and something of a presence. She was dark, as
though in her veins might flow some admixture of Spanish or Italian
blood. Her features were small and delicate, but her firmly rounded
chin gave promise of character. She scarcely looked her twenty years
of age.
But though she had the fresh vitality of youth, there was something
old-fashioned in her appearance not out of accord with her
surroundings. She wore her long dark hair piled up in great masses
over her broad forehead. Her dress was of the plainest, and in the
fashion of three years earlier. Though scrupulously neat, it was worn
threadbare. Her shoes were cracked and her stockings showed careful
darns.
For Ruth Averill was an orphan, dependent on the bounty of her uncle,
Simon Averill, for every penny. And Simon Averill was a miser.
Ruth was born in Southern France, and she had dim recollections of a
land of sun and warmth, of jolly people and bright colours. But since
she had come to this gloomy old house in the wilds of the Yorkshire
moors the joy had gone out of her life. Her companions during
childhood had been the two not very prepossessing servants and the
still less attractive gardener and out-door man. With her uncle Simon
she had nothing in common. Even at the time of her arrival he was
elderly and morose, and every day he seemed to grow more self-centred
and less approachable.
After some years a break had come in her life; she had been sent to a
boarding school. But she had not been happy there, so that when she
was “finished” she was almost glad to return to the dullness and
loneliness of Starvel.
There she had found changes. Her uncle Simon was now an invalid,
querulous and solitary, and living only for the accumulation of money.
His passion took the form of collecting actual coins and notes and
hoarding them in his safe. He made no attempt to cultivate the
friendship of his niece, and had it not been that he required her to
read to him once a day, she would have seen him but seldom.
At this time also the two old women servants and the gardener had
gone, and their places had been taken by a comparatively young married
couple called Roper. Though more efficient than their predecessors,
Ruth did not take to either of the newcomers, with the result that the
fourteen months which had passed since her return from school were
lonelier than ever.
Had it not been that Ruth had developed an interest in flowers and
gardening, she would have found herself hard put to it to fill her
life. Gardening and her friendship with a semi-invalid entomologist
who lived close by, together with occasional excursions to the
neighbouring market town of Thirsby, were the only distractions she
could count on.
But recently another factor had come into her life. She had met on a
number of occasions a young man named Pierce Whymper, the junior
assistant of an ecclesiastical architect in Leeds. Whymper was acting
as clerk of works during some renovations to the parish church at
Thirsby, and when Ruth had gone with one or two of the local ladies to
inspect the work he had been particularly attentive. He had begged her
to come again to see how the job progressed, and she had done so on
more than one occasion. Then one day she had met him walking near
Starvel, and she had invited him to come in and have tea. This visit
had been followed by others and they had made excursions together on
the moor. Though no word of love had been spoken during any of these
interviews, she knew that he was attracted to her, and though she
would hardly admit it to herself, she knew also that she would marry
him if he should ask her.
Such was the general condition of affairs in the old house of Starvel
on this gloomy September afternoon, an afternoon which was to be
remembered by Ruth as the end of her old life and the prelude to a new
existence in a different world.
As she was standing, staring mournfully out of the window, the
attendant, Roper, entered the room. She did not know then, though she
realised it afterwards, that the message he was bringing her was to be
the herald of a series of terrible and tragic happenings, so dark and
sinister and awful that had she foreseen them she might well have
cried out in horror and dismay. But she did not foresee them, and she
turned with her instinctive courtesy to hear what the man had to say.
The message, though almost unprecedented, was in itself the reverse of
alarming. Roper explained that Mr. Averill had instructed him to hand
this note, which he had received in a letter to himself, to Miss Ruth,
and to say that he hoped Miss Ruth would accept the invitation it
contained. Further, that as there would be expenses in connection with
the visit, he wished Miss Ruth to have the ten pounds enclosed in this
other envelope. She could go in to Thirsby in the morning, get any
little thing she might want, and go on to York in the afternoon.
With rapidly beating heart Ruth unfolded the dog-eared corner of the
note, which was addressed simply “Ruth,” and read as follows:—
“Oakdene,” Ashton Drive,
York. _September_ 10_th_.
“My Dear Ruth,—I hope you will allow me to address you in this way,
as your father and I were old friends. I nursed you when you were a
baby, and though we have not met for many years, I do not feel that
you are a stranger.
“This is to ask if you will come and stay here for a few days and
meet my daughters Gwen and Hilda. I do hope you can.
“Our autumn flower show opens on Wednesday, and the roses are always
worth seeing. I am sure you would enjoy it, so try to reach here on
Tuesday afternoon and you will be in time to go there with us.
“Yours very sincerely,
“Helen Palmer-Gore.”
Ruth could scarcely believe her eyes as she read this friendly letter.
Mrs. Palmer-Gore she dimly remembered as a large, kindly,
fussily-mannered woman, whom she had liked in spite of her trick of
giving unpleasantly moist kisses. But she had never visited her, or
ever been to York, and the prospect thrilled her.
But unexpected as the invitation was, it was as nothing compared to
her uncle’s attitude towards it. That he should have given her
permission to go was surprising enough, but that he should have sent
her ten pounds for her expenses was an absolute miracle. _Ten Pounds!_
_What_ a sum! Why, she had never had the tenth part of it in her
possession before! And _what_ she could buy with it! Visions of
frocks, shoes, hats and gloves began to float before her imagination.
Feeling as he did towards money, it was good of her uncle Simon. She
turned impulsively to Roper.
“Oh, how kind of uncle,” she exclaimed. “I must go up and thank him.”
Roper shook his head.
“Well, miss, I shouldn’t if I were you,” he advised in his pleasant
Scotch voice. He came from somewhere in Fife. “The master’s not so
well, as you know, and he particularly said he didn’t want to be
disturbed. I’d wait and see him in the morning before you go. You will
go, I suppose?”
“Of course I shall go, Roper.” She hesitated, undecided. “Well,
perhaps if he said that, I’d better see him in the morning, as you
suggest.”
“Very good, miss. Then I’d best arrange for a car to take you in to
Thirsby in the morning? About ten, maybe?”
“Thank you. Yes, about ten will do. And you might send a telegram to
York which I will write for you.”
The man bowed and withdrew, and Ruth gave herself up to glorious
dreams of the next few days: not so much of visiting the Palmer-Gores
and York, but of getting away from Starvel. Yes, she admitted it to
herself at last. It was to get away from Starvel that she really
welcomed the invitation. While there had been no chance of quitting
it, she had not realised how terribly bitter was her hatred of the
place. And not the place only, but of every one in it. She hated her
uncle—in spite of the ten pounds. She hated Roper with his sleek
civility, and most of all she hated Mrs. Roper, who always treated her
with a veiled insolence, as if silently taunting her because of her
dependent position. Oh, how splendid it would be to get away from the
place and everything connected with it, even for a few days! And she
determined she would use the opportunity of this visit to find out
what her chances would be of getting some job by means of which she
could support herself, so that she might never be forced to return to
Starvel or see any of its inhabitants again.
That night she could scarcely sleep from excitement, and next morning
she was ready with her shabby little suitcase long before the time at
which the car was to arrive.
She was somewhat uneasy about her uncle’s condition. For several days
he had been ailing, and when she had gone in to say good-bye to him
before leaving she had thought him looking very ill. He was asleep,
but breathing heavily, and there was something in his appearance which
vaguely disquieted her.
“I don’t think he’s at all well,” she said to Roper when she came
down. “I believe he should have the doctor.”
“I was of the same opinion, miss, and I took the liberty of calling at
Dr. Philpot’s when I went in to order your car. But the doctor’s ill.
He’s got influenza and is confined to bed. I thought of going on to
Dr. Emerson, and then I thought if it’s only influenza that’s wrong
with Dr. Philpot we might just as well wait. He’ll likely be about
again in a day or two.”
Dr. Philpot was Mr. Averill’s usual attendant. He was a youngish man
who had come to the place some three or four years earlier, and who
had already built up a reputation for care and skill. The other
practitioner, Dr. Emerson, was old and past his work, and had retired
in all but name.
Ruth paused in some perplexity.
“That’s very unfortunate. But I think you are right that if it’s only
a matter of a day or two we should wait for Dr. Philpot. I hadn’t
heard he was ill.”
“Neither had I, miss. He was all right on Thursday, for he was out
that day to see Mr. Giles.”
“So I understand. How is Mr. Giles to-day?”
“I haven’t heard this morning, miss, but last night he was far from
well. Mrs. Roper is just going up to see if there is anything wanted.”
“I’ll go round to see him on my way to Thirsby,” Ruth decided. “Can I
give Mrs. Roper a lift?”
“Thank you, miss, it would be a convenience. I’ll tell her.”
Markham Giles, the entomologist, was their nearest neighbour. He was
the son of an old friend of Mr. Averill’s and lived alone in a little
cottage half a mile away across the moor. He was a pathetic instance
of the wreckage left by the War. Never physically strong, he had been
rejected for the earlier army drafts, but when the struggle had
dragged out and the standard for recruitment had been lowered he had
again volunteered and had got through. He had served in Flanders, had
been badly gassed and wounded, and six months later had left the
hospitals the shadow of his former self. Being alone in the world and
penniless save for his pension, he had headed north to his father’s
old friend. A small cottage belonging to Starvel being then vacant,
Mr. Averill had offered it to him at a nominal rent. There he had
since lived, occupying his time by keeping bees and by studying the
insect life of the moor. On this subject he had become somewhat of an
authority, and had written articles which had attracted attention in
entomological circles. He and Ruth were good friends and she had
helped in the capture and arrangement of his specimens.
Some days previously he had developed influenza, and though he did not
seem seriously ill, he was not shaking it off. Mrs. Roper had been
kind in looking after him and Ruth also had done what she could.
Ten minutes later the two women arrived at the tiny cottage which lay
just outside the lip of Starvel Hollow, the big saucer-shaped
depression in the moor in the centre of which stood Simon Averill’s
house. Markham Giles looked worse than when Ruth had last seen him. He
lay with half-closed eyes and seemed too dull and listless to more
than notice his visitors. But he feebly thanked them for coming and
said he was quite comfortable and wanted nothing.
“If he’s not better by to-morrow, I think you should send for Dr.
Emerson,” Ruth declared as she returned to her car.
“I think so, too, miss. Very good, I’ll arrange it. And if he seems
bad to-night either John or I will come over and sit with him. I don’t
like his look this morning somehow.”
“It’s very good of you, Mrs. Roper. But I expect he’ll be all right.”
“I hope so, miss. Good-morning, miss.”
Ruth’s mind was troubled as she turned away. She had always been
intensely sorry for Markham Giles, and now she hated leaving him lying
there alone. But there was nothing that she could do, and with a half
sigh she re-entered her vehicle and was driven into Thirsby.
There she spent the morning shopping, packing her purchases in her
suitcase. This was followed by a frugal meal at the local tea shop,
and then arose the question of how she should spend the hour remaining
until train time.
She left her suitcase at the tea shop, and sallied forth.
Involuntarily her steps turned towards the church, though she assured
herself that under no circumstances would she enter the building.
There could, however, be no objection to walking past the gate.
What she would have done eventually if left to herself will never be
known, as Fate intervened and arranged her visit for her. Turning a
corner she all but ran into Mrs. Oxley, the wife of one of the local
solicitors. Mr. Oxley had charge of all Simon Averill’s business, and
on his occasional visits to Starvel he had made a point of asking for
Ruth and chatting to her in his pleasant cheery way. Mrs. Oxley she
had known for years, and had experienced many kindnesses at her hands.
They stopped to talk and Mrs. Oxley heard of the visit to York with
interest and sympathy.
“Well,” she said, “if you’re not doing anything until half-past three,
come with me to the church. Boyd, the sexton, promised to send me some
of the old flags for the rock garden, and I want to know when I’m
likely to get them.”
There was nothing for it but to go, and whether Mrs. Oxley had any
suspicion of how matters stood, or whether she was genuinely anxious
about her paving-stones, Ruth was left alone to talk to Whymper for a
good ten minutes. And the young man did not fail to improve the
occasion. It appeared that he had to go to the station to make
inquiries about a consignment of cement, so it was natural that he
should leave the church with the ladies. Mrs. Oxley, it then turned
out, had business in the opposite direction and to her great regret
was unable to accompany the others. So the task of seeing Miss Averill
off fell to Mr. Whymper.
It was with shining eyes and heightened colour that, half an hour
later, Ruth Averill sat in the corner of a third-class compartment,
while the train moved out of Thirsby. That Whymper loved her she was
now positive. It was true that he had not actually spoken of love, but
his every word and look proclaimed his feelings. He had, moreover,
insisted on telling her about his family and his position and
prospects—a good sign. As to her own feelings, she was no longer in
any doubt whatever. She loved him, and in loving him the gray clouds
that pressed down upon her life seemed to break and the rosy light of
hope to pour in through the rift.
She duly reached York and found Mrs. Palmer-Gore waiting for her on
the platform. With her for two days she spent a pleasant holiday,
enjoying the unwonted good-fellowship. The visit was to have lasted a
week, but on the afternoon of the second day, there fell the first of
the several blows that she was to experience, and her stay was brought
to an abrupt termination.
They had just sat down to lunch when a telegram was handed to her. It
was the first she had ever received. Excited and a trifle embarrassed,
she hesitated to open it.
But when in answer to Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s kindly: “Read it, dear. Don’t
mind us,” she learned its contents, all thought of herself was swept
from her mind.
It was signed “Oxley,” though whether it came from the solicitor or
his wife she could not tell. It read: “Terrible accident at Starvel.
Your uncle injured. Return Thirsby and stay night with us.”
It was characteristic of the girl that her thoughts and feelings were
all for old Simon Averill. Was the poor old man badly injured? Was he
suffering? Could she do anything to help him? It was kind of the
Oxleys to ask her to stay the night, but of course she could not do
so. She must go out to Starvel and help with the nursing. Not one
thought of the possible effect on herself of the disaster entered her
mind. That the old man might die of his injuries and that she might be
his heir never occurred to her. Nor did she repine at the cutting
short of her first real and altogether wonderful holiday.
By Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s advice she wired to the Oxleys that she would be
with them at 5.40, and after a hurried lunch she found herself once
more in the train. During the journey she had time to ponder over her
news. A “terrible accident” at Starvel! What _could_ have happened? It
must surely be bad or that ominous word “terrible” would not have been
used. She began to invent possibilities. Had her uncle taken the wrong
medicine, perhaps some awful burning stuff that would hurt him
horribly? Or had he fallen downstairs or into the fire? Or cut himself
and been unable to summon help?
She gave full rein to her imagination, but when she learned the truth
she found it vastly more terrible than anything she had thought of.
The Oxleys met her at the station, and having driven her to their
home, broke the news.
It seemed that when about eleven o’clock that morning the baker was
approaching Starvel to make his customary Thursday call, he had
noticed a faint pall of smoke hanging in the sky above the hollow. On
crossing the shoulder he had glanced down as usual into the curious
circular dell, and had instantly been overwhelmed with incredulous
amazement. There were the trees, the thin, stunted pines which
surrounded the old house, but—_the house was gone!_ The long line of
slated roof which had stood out above the trees had absolutely
vanished. No trace remained. At first sight the man thought that the
entire building had disappeared, but a closer approach revealed
blackened windowless walls surrounding a still smouldering interior,
all that remained of the old place.
No sign of life appeared about the ruins, and the horror-stricken man
was forced to the conclusion that all three occupants had lost their
lives in the flames.
He drove hurriedly into Thirsby and gave the alarm, and soon Sergeant
Kent of the local police force with some of his men, Dr. Emerson, Mr.
Oxley and a number of others were hastening to the scene. They found
matters as the baker had described, the smouldering ruins standing
gaunt and sinister at the bottom of the dell, lonely and deserted,
hidden from the surrounding country by the rim of the strange natural
Hollow.
The fire had evidently raged with extraordinary fury. With the
exception of an outhouse separate from the main building not a scrap
of anything inflammable remained. Floors, roof, staircase, window
sashes, all were gone. And in that glowing mass of red-hot débris
within the blackened and twisted walls lay, almost certainly, the
bodies of Simon Averill, and of John and Flora Roper.
Anxious that Ruth should not have to learn the terrible news from the
papers, Mr. Oxley had returned to Thirsby and sent his wire. He had
thought it best to make this only a preparation, intending that the
full story should be broken more gently on the girl’s arrival.
Ruth was terribly shocked and upset. It was the first time, since
reaching years of discretion, that she had been brought in contact
with tragedy and death, and she was appalled by its horror. She begged
to be allowed to go out to Starvel, but neither of the Oxleys would
hear of it, pointing out that a visit would only harrow her feelings,
and that she could do nothing there to help.
As the long evening dragged away she found herself hoping against hope
that Whymper would call. But there was no sign of him and she supposed
he had not heard of her return.
Sergeant Kent, however, had heard of it, and about eight o’clock he
called and asked to see her. He was a tall, rather brusque man, though
in Oxley’s presence he was polite enough. He questioned her as to the
household and its personnel, but she had nothing to tell him which
could throw any light on the tragedy.
The next day it was found possible to attempt some research work among
the ruins, and by ten o’clock a number of men were engaged in removing
the cooler portions of the débris. Ruth insisted that she must see the
place for herself, and the Oxleys, not liking to let her go alone,
drove her out in their car. But the terrible picture which met her
eyes and the thought of what lay below the sinister mound where the
men were working made her feel almost sick with horror. Her feelings
too, had changed. Gone was her hatred of the place, and particularly
of the three poor people who had met with such an appalling fate. She
felt she had been wicked to hate them. Her uncle had been a recluse
and fond of money no doubt. But in his own way he had always been kind
to her. He had opened his door to her when she was a homeless child,
and had since supported her without grudging the money she must have
cost him. And he had been ill—continuously ill; and when people are
ill they cannot help being depressed and a little trying to others.
And the Ropers, had she not misjudged them also? In their own way,
they, too, had always been kind to her. For the first time, Ruth saw
that the lives of the couple must have been as dull and gray as her
own. Though their jobs were underpaid, and rather thankless, they had
not complained. And she, Ruth, had never shown an appreciation of
their services. She saw now that she had really had no reason at all
for hating them, and when she thought of their terrible death, her
tears flowed. In silence she allowed Mrs. Oxley to lead her back to
the car and drive her to Thirsby.
On their way to the little town the second blow fell on the young
girl, and coming so quickly on the first, left her weak and trembling.
As they mounted the rim of the Hollow they saw a funeral approaching
along a converging road. It was a sorry procession; only the hearse,
and the vicar and Dr. Emerson in the former’s car. As the two ladies
drew up for it to pass, the vicar also stopped, and he and the doctor
came over to express their sympathy with Ruth.
“You will be sorry for poor Mr. Giles, also, Miss Ruth,” the vicar
went on. “I understood you were kind enough to help him in his
scientific researches.”
Ruth stared at him in horror.
“You don’t mean,” she stammered, “that Mr. Giles is—is dead?”
“He died on Tuesday, I’m sorry to say. After a short illness he passed
away in his sleep. He had no suffering. But, only thirty-six! Truly,
another tragedy of the War.”
Ruth was stunned. Markham Giles, also! To lose at one blow all four
persons whom she had known best—the only four persons in the world she
had known at all well! It was too much.
She pulled herself together, however, and insisted on following her
friend’s body to its last resting-place, but when she reached the
Oxleys’ house she broke down altogether. Mrs. Oxley put her to bed and
at last she sobbed herself to sleep.
That evening the charred remains of three human bodies were found
within the tragic walls of Starvel.
CHAPTER TWO
The Inquest
When Ruth Averill awoke next morning she found that the overwhelming
sense of sick horror which had weighed her down on the previous
evening had lightened. She had been worn out in body from the shock
and the nervous strain, but sleep had restored her physical
well-being, and her mind reacted to her body. She was young, she was
in perfect health, and—she was in love.
While her feelings of compassion for the trio who had lost their lives
in so terrible a way were in no whit lessened, she would have been
less than human had she not begun to look upon the tragedy as it
affected herself. And here at once was something exciting and a little
terrifying. What would happen to her now? She had hated her life at
Starvel; would the life that lay before her be better or worse?
Scarcely worse, she thought; any change must surely be for the better.
She had intended while at York to make some inquiries about earning
her own living so that she might leave Starvel. Now this was no longer
a matter of choice; in some way she must learn to support herself.
Vaguely she wondered if any of her uncle’s money would come to her.
But she dismissed the idea as too good to be true. Perhaps with luck
there might be enough to keep her until she could train for some post,
but even about this she could not be certain. However, Mr. Oxley was
kind and clever. She need not worry overmuch. He would advise her.
While making up her mind to rise and face what the day might bring
forth, Ruth was greatly comforted by a visit from Mrs. Oxley. That
lady presently knocked to inquire if her charge were awake, and she
was so kind and understanding and kissed her in such a motherly way
that Ruth felt a glow of warmth in her heart. Mrs. Oxley brought with
her a tiny tray with the daintiest little tea service and the thinnest
of bread and butter, and while Ruth enjoyed this unheard-of luxury the
elder woman sat on the bed and proceeded to feed the girl’s mind with
healing news. She mentioned, casually and yet with such a wealth of
detail, that Mr. Whymper had called on the previous evening to inquire
for Miss Averill. With really praiseworthy ingenuity she spun out the
subject for nearly ten minutes, then she went on to tell something of
almost—though of course not quite—equal importance. Mr. Oxley had
wished her to say, in the strictest confidence—no one at this stage
was supposed to know anything about it—but in order to relieve Ruth’s
mind, he thought he might tell her—that she was not to worry as to her
future. He had drawn up old Mr. Averill’s will and there would be some
money. Mr. Oxley had not said how much, but Mrs. Oxley was sure there
would be enough. At all events Ruth was not to worry. And now,
breakfast would be ready in half an hour and there was plenty of hot
water in the bathroom.
During the morning Ruth went down into the little town and engaged in
the melancholy business of buying mourning. Mr. Oxley had lent her
twenty pounds, explaining that she could repay him when she got her
own money. This prospect of money coming to her made Ruth feel excited
and important, and she could not refrain from daydreaming about all
the wonderful things she would do when she received it. It was well
for her indeed that she had something so absorbing to take her mind
off the ghastliness of the tragedy which surrounded her. In fact, if
only Pierce Whymper had come to see her again, she would have been
really happy. But, as she afterwards learned, the young architect was
out of town on business all that morning.
During Sergeant Kent’s call on the evening after the tragedy he had
warned Ruth that she would be required to give evidence at the
inquest. Now he came round to say that this was to be held in the
courthouse at three o’clock that afternoon, and that she must be sure
to be there in good time. The girl was naturally nervous at the
prospect of giving evidence, which she had always heard was a terrible
ordeal. But Mrs. Oxley reassured her in her kindly way, explaining
that she had nothing to do but answer the questions she was asked, and
promising that Mr. Oxley would see that nothing untoward befell her.
Shortly before the hour, therefore, the little party approached the
courthouse. The building was already crowded, but Mr. Oxley’s position
as the leading solicitor of the town and Ruth’s as one of the most
important witnesses procured them an immediate entrance and places on
the seats usually reserved for counsel. As Ruth looked round the small
old-fashioned building she saw many familiar faces. There, surrounded
by policemen and looking weighed down with importance and
responsibility, was Sergeant Kent. He was moving restlessly about,
whispering to various persons and consulting at times a sheaf of
papers he held in his hand. Some of the policemen she recognised also.
There was the young smiling one with the light blue eyes whom she had
met so many times when shopping in the town, and his companion with
the long drooping nose and the hollow cheeks. In the seat behind was
Mr. Snelgrove, the butcher, and Mr. Pullar, of the shoe shop. That
tall very thin man with the little moustache and the bald head was Mr.
Tarkington, the bank manager, and the slight, medium-sized man beside
him was Mr. Bloxham, the clerk whom he used to send out to Starvel
with Mr. Averill’s money. The venerable-looking old gentleman with the
short white beard who was just pushing to the front was Dr. Emerson.
And there—how could she have failed to see him before?—there, at the
back of the court, was Pierce Whymper. He looked anxious and troubled,
and though when she caught his eye and smiled, he smiled back, there
was a something of embarrassment or reserve in his manner that seemed
to her strange and disquieting. And just beside him—but a sudden
shuffle took place about her, and looking in front of her, she saw
that a stout thick-set man with a square face and a walrus moustache
had entered from some invisible side door and was taking his seat in
the judge’s chair.
“Dr. Lonsdale, the coroner,” Mr. Oxley whispered, and Ruth nodded. She
was surprised to find that the affair began so tamely. She had
expected an elaborate and picturesque ritual, but nothing of the kind
took place. The coroner opened his bag, and taking out some papers,
began to turn them over. Other persons sitting round the table before
her also took out papers and shuffled them, while Sergeant Kent,
turning round, shouted out “Robert Judd!” so suddenly and loudly that
Ruth jumped. Some one at the back of the court answered “Here!” and
was promptly ordered to come forward and enter the jury box. Other
names were called—to some of which there was no reply—until all the
places in the box were occupied. Then all stood up and stared vacantly
at Kent while he murmured something about “justly try and true
deliverance make,” after which every one sat down again.
“Have the jury viewed the remains?” asked the coroner, and Kent,
answering, “They’re going to do it now, sir,” shepherded his charges
out of the box and away through a door just behind it. Every one began
conversing in low tones except the coroner, who kept on steadily
writing. Presently the jury trooped in again and the proceedings began
in real earnest.
“Call Peter Spence!” Sergeant Kent shouted.
“Peter Spence!” repeated two or three policemen, and a stout redfaced
man pushed to the front, and entering the witness box, was sworn.
Spence told his story in great detail. In answer to the sergeant’s
questions he explained that he drove a breadcart belonging to Messrs.
Hinkston of Thirsby, and that for over twelve years he had, three
times a week, delivered bread at Starvel. He remembered the day before
yesterday. On that day, about eleven in the morning when he was
approaching Starvel to deliver bread, he had observed a cloud of smoke
in the sky. On crossing the lip of the Hollow he happened to look down
at the house. He was amazed to notice that the roof, which formerly
showed up above the surrounding trees, had totally disappeared. He
drove on quickly to the place, and then he saw that the house had been
burnt down. Only the walls were standing. There was no one about. He
hurried into Thirsby, and reported the matter to Sergeant Kent.
Simple as these facts were, their recital was a lengthy business.
After each question a pause ensued while the coroner wrote a précis of
the man’s reply. Finally Dr. Lonsdale, after vainly inviting the jury
to ask the witness any questions, read over what he had written. Peter
Spence, having agreed that it was a correct transcript of his
evidence, was asked to sign the document, and then allowed to step
down.
The next witness was a lugubrious looking man in gray tweeds. He
deposed that his name was Abel Hesketh, and that he was Town Officer
of Thirsby. He also acted as chief of the fire brigade. On the
Thursday in question he received a telephone message from Sergeant
Kent, informing him that Starvel had been burnt down. He inquired if
he should get the brigade out, but the sergeant answered that it would
be of no use, the damage being already done. Sergeant Kent asked him
to go with him to see the place. He did so, and he would describe what
he saw. The entire buildings at Starvel were gutted except a detached
outhouse at the opposite side of the yard. He had never seen such
complete destruction. Nothing that could be burnt was left. Between
the walls the débris was still a red-hot glowing mass. In answer to
the coroner, he thought it quite impossible to say either where or how
the fire had originated. There was no wind that night and the
outbreak, once started, would creep through the entire building.
Hesketh went on to say that the very heavy rain which fell on the
following night had cooled down the red-hot interior, enabling his men
to search the ruins. They had come on the charred remains of three
human beings. Yes, he could say just where the remains were found. The
house was in the shape of the inverted letter “┓” with the shorter
wing pointing to the west and the longer to the south. At the
extremity of the shorter wing—in the north-western corner—were two
bodies. The third body was about ten feet from the end of the southern
wing. All the bodies were unrecognisable, but he assumed they were
those of the three inmates of the house.
After the bodies had been removed he continued his investigations, but
he found nothing of interest except a safe, which was in the southern
wing, not far from the single body. It was locked, and he had set it
up on a pile of débris so that the expert that he understood Sergeant
Kent was getting to open it should be able more conveniently to carry
out the work.
Sergeant Kent corroborated the evidence of the last two witnesses in
so far as their testimony concerned himself, and added that an expert
from Hellifield had that morning opened the safe. In it he had found
£1952 in sovereigns and a mass of burnt papers.
“It seems to me an extraordinary thing,” the coroner remarked when he
had noted these details, “that a fire of such magnitude could take
place without being seen. I quite understand that the Hollow is deep
enough to hide the actual flames, but there must have been a
tremendous glare reflected from the sky which would have been visible
for miles round. How do you account for that, sergeant, or can you
account for it?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, it was noticed by at least three people,
and I have one of them here in case you would like to call him. But I
agree with you, sir, that it is very strange that it was not more
generally observed. All I can suggest is that it was a clear night
with a quarter moon, and there wouldn’t, therefore, be such a glare as
if it had been quite dark or if there had been clouds to reflect the
glow. Then, as you know, sir, this is a quiet district, and it would
be only by chance that any one would be awake or looking out at the
time.”
“Who were the three who saw it?”
“First, sir, there was James Stokes, a tramp. He was sleeping in one
of Mr. Herbert Reid’s outhouses at Low Tolworth, about a mile and a
half to the west across the moor. He said nothing about it at the time
because he thought it wasn’t his business and he didn’t want his
whereabouts inquired into. But he mentioned it in Thirsby in the
morning and it came to my ears, though not before the baker had
reported. I have Stokes here, if you wish to call him. Then, sir, it
was seen by Mrs. Eliza Steele, a labourer’s wife living just outside
the town on the Hellifield Road. Her husband was ill and she was
sitting up attending to him. She did nothing about it because she was
busy with her husband and the glare looked far away. She said she
thought those nearer it would do all that was possible. The third
party, or rather parties, were the two Miss Lockes, elderly ladies who
live alone about a mile on the road to Cold Pickerby. Miss Julia saw
the glare and awoke her sister Miss Elmina, but they thought the same
as Mrs. Steele, that they were not called on to do anything, as they
would only get to the town to find that everyone knew about it and
that the brigade had gone out.”
“I can understand that attitude,” the coroner admitted. “It is a pity,
however, that no one noticed it in time to give a warning, though
indeed it is doubtful whether a warning would have been of any use. I
will hear the man Stokes.”
But the tramp had little to say, and nothing which threw any light on
the subject of the inquiry. He had seen a glow through the door of the
outhouse and had looked out. From the direction of Starvel great
masses of smoke were belching up, with a bright flickering glare and
occasional jets of fire. The night was calm and even at the distance
of a mile and a half he could hear the roaring and crackling of the
flames. That was about four in the morning.
Ruth’s feelings were harrowed by these recitals, which seemed to bring
home the tragedy to her in all its grim starkness. But she had not
time to dwell on the terrible pictures, as after the tramp had signed
his deposition and stepped down from the box, her own name was called.
With her heart beating rapidly she left her seat and entered the
little pulpit-like enclosure. There she stood while the sergeant
repeated a phrase about truth, and then, having given her name, she
was told to sit down. The coroner bent towards her.
“I am sorry, Miss Averill,” he said kindly, “to have to ask you to
attend and give evidence in this tragic inquiry, but I promise you I
shall not keep you longer than I can help. Now, sergeant.”
In spite of this reassuring beginning, Ruth soon began to think
Sergeant Kent’s questions would never cease.
Half the things he asked seemed to have no connection whatever with
the tragedy. She stated that she was the late Simon Averill’s niece,
the daughter of his brother Theodore, that she was aged twenty, and
that she had come to Starvel when she was four. She told of her
schooldays in Leeds, saying that it was now over a year since she had
returned to Starvel and that she had lived there ever since.
Her uncle had recently been in very poor health. She thought his heart
was affected. At all events, to save climbing the stairs he had had a
room on the first floor fitted up as a bed-sitting room. For the last
year he had not been downstairs and some days he did not get up.
Recently he had been particularly feeble, and she told of his
condition when she saw him two mornings before the tragedy. Then she
described her visit to York, mentioning Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s invitation
and the episode of the ten pounds.
There seemed no end to Sergeant Kent’s inquisition. He switched over
next to the subject of the house and elicited the facts that her
uncle’s and the Ropers’ beds were situated in the extremities of the
southern and western wings respectively.
“You heard the last witness describe where the bodies were found,” he
went on. “Would I be correct in saying that if Mr. Averill and the
Ropers had been in bed when the fire took place their bodies would
have been found in just those positions?”
Ruth assented, and then the sergeant asked how the house was lighted.
There was oil, Ruth told him, oil for the lamps other than Mr.
Averill’s and for the cooker which was used sometimes instead of the
range. There was also petrol. Her uncle’s sight was bad and he used a
petrol lamp. The oil and petrol were kept in a cellar. This cellar was
under the main building, and if a fire were to start there, in her
opinion the whole house would become involved. The lamps were attended
to by Roper, who had always been most careful in handling them.
“Now, Miss Averill,” the sergeant became more impressive than ever, “I
think you said that during the last fourteen months, when you were
living at Starvel, Roper and his wife were in charge of the house?”
“Yes, they were there when I came back from school.”
“Now, tell me, during all that time have you ever known either of them
the worse for drink?”
“Oh, no,” Ruth answered, surprised at the question. “No, never.”
“You have never even noticed the smell of drink from either of them?”
the sergeant persisted.
“No.” Ruth hesitated. “At least—that is—”
“Yes?” went on the sergeant encouragingly.
“Once or twice Roper has smelt of whisky, but he was never the least
bit the worse of it.”
“But you have smelt it. Was that recently?”
“Yes, but Roper explained about it. He said he felt a cold coming on
and had taken some whisky in the hope of getting rid of it.”
“Quite so. And how long ago was that?”
“A couple of times within the last fortnight, perhaps once or twice
before that.” But to Ruth her answer did not seem quite fair, and she
added: “But he was as sober as you and I are. I never saw him the
least bit drunk.”
“I follow you,” the sergeant answered, and began to ask questions
about Mrs. Roper. Here Ruth could truthfully say that she had never
even smelled drink, and she insisted on giving each of the deceased an
excellent character.
The sergeant next attempted to draw from her an opinion as to how the
fire might have originated. Did Mr. Averill read late in bed? Might he
have knocked over his petrol lamp? Could he have fallen in the fire?
Did he take a nightcap of whisky? And so forth. But Ruth had no ideas
on the subject. Any accident might have happened, of course, but she
didn’t think any that he had suggested were likely. As to her uncle
taking drink, he was a strict teetotaller.
This ended Ruth’s examination. None of the jurors wished to ask her
any questions, and after her evidence had been read over to her and
she had signed it, she was allowed to return to her seat with the
Oxleys.
Dr. Emerson was the next witness. He deposed that he had examined the
remains disinterred from the débris. It was, of course, quite
impossible to identify them, but so far as he could form an opinion of
the body found in the southern wing it was that of an elderly, tall,
slightly built man and the others were those of a man and a woman of
medium height and middle age. These would correspond to Mr. Averill
and the Ropers respectively, and so far as he was concerned he had no
doubt whatever that the bodies in question were theirs.
Questioned as to the conditions obtaining at Starvel before the fire,
Dr. Emerson said that for the last four years he had not attended Mr.
Averill. At his advancing age he found it too much to visit outlying
patients, and Dr. Philpot had taken over almost all of them.
“Is Dr. Philpot here?” the coroner asked.
“Dr. Philpot is suffering from influenza at present,” Dr. Emerson
returned, though it was to Sergeant Kent that the question had been
addressed. “I saw him this morning. He wished to attend, but I
persuaded him not to run the risk. It would have been most unwise. He
had a temperature of over 101.”
“I’m sorry to hear he is laid up. But I don’t suppose he could have
helped us. I should have liked to ask him about Mr. Averill’s
condition and so forth, but it doesn’t really matter.”
“Well,” Dr. Emerson returned, “I can tell you a little about that, if
I should be in order in mentioning it. I attended him for some eight
years, during the last two of which he aged very considerably, growing
slowly and steadily weaker. Without going into details I may say that
he had an incurable complaint which must eventually have killed him.
Four years ago he was already feeble, and since then he can only have
become gradually worse.”
“Thank you, Dr. Emerson, that was what I wanted to know. Would you say
that his condition rendered him liable to sudden weakness during which
he might have dropped his lamp or had some similar accident?”
“I should say so decidedly.”
A Miss Judith Carr was next called. She proved to be a rather
loudly-dressed young woman whom Ruth had not seen before. She was
pretty in a coarse way, and entered the witness-box and took her seat
with evident self-confidence.
Her name, she admitted heartily, was Judith Carr, and she was barmaid
at the Thirsdale Arms, the largest hotel in Thirsby. She knew Mr.
Roper, the attendant at Starvel. He occasionally called for a drink,
usually taking one or at most two small whiskies. She remembered the
evening of the fire. That evening about seven o’clock Mr. Roper had
come into the bar. He seemed to have had some drink, but was not
drunk. He asked for a small Scotch, and believing he was sober enough
she had given it to him. He had taken it quickly and gone out.
The last witness was a young man with bright red hair who answered to
the name of George Mellowes. He was, he said, a farmer living at
Ivybridge, a hamlet lying some miles beyond Starvel. On the day before
the tragedy he had been over in Thirsby on business, and he had left
the town in his gig shortly after seven to drive home. He had not
passed beyond the lights of the town when he had overtaken Mr. Roper,
whom he knew. Roper was staggering, and it was not difficult to see
that he was drunk. The deceased was by no means incapable, but he had
undoubtedly taken too much. Mellowes had stopped and offered him a
lift, and Roper had thanked him and with some difficulty had climbed
into the gig. He had talked in a maudlin way during the drive.
Mellowes had gone a little out of his way and had set the other down
at the gate of Starvel. Roper had opened the gate without difficulty,
and had set off towards the house, walking fairly straight. Mellowes
had then driven home. That was close on to eight, and there was no
sign of a fire.
When Mellowes had signed his deposition and returned to his seat, the
coroner made a little speech to the jury. He said that every one must
feel appalled at the terrible tragedy which had happened so near to
them all. The police had been unable to find relatives of any of the
deceased other than Miss Averill, who had given evidence that day, and
he took that opportunity of conveying to her their respectful sympathy
in her loss. He would remind the jury that their duty on this occasion
was threefold: first, to state the identity of the deceased if they
were reasonably convinced by the evidence on this point; second, to
find the cause of death in each case, and third, to state whether, in
their opinion, blame attached to any person or persons, and if so, to
whom. He did not think their task would be difficult. On neither of
the first two points was there any doubt. He had only one observation
to make with regard to the third point—the fixing of responsibility
for the catastrophe. It had been shown that the manservant, John
Roper, had been to some extent under the influence of drink on the
evening in question. The suggestion, of course, was that some careless
act of Roper’s might have caused the fire. Now, while he approved the
action of the police in bringing out this matter—they could not have
done anything else—he must point out to the jury that there was no
evidence that Mr. Roper’s condition had had anything to do with the
fire. If anything, the evidence tended in the opposite direction. The
position of the remains suggested that the three unfortunate people
had been burnt in their beds, and if this was so it seemed to involve
the presumption that they had been suffocated by the smoke while
asleep. If the jury accepted this view they would see that it ruled
out the possibility of any accident with lamps, or by falling in the
fire or by igniting petrol or paraffin oil. The argument was, of
course, not conclusive, but he thought it tended as he had said. In
any case he should be sorry that a slur should be cast on the memory
of Mr. Roper, to whose zeal and efficiency different witnesses had
testified, unless that slur were really deserved. It was, of course,
for the jury to decide, but he suggested that they might find that
Simon Ralph Averill, John Roper and Flora Roper had lost their lives
in a fire at Starvel on the night of the fifteenth of September, the
cause of which there was no evidence to show.
Without leaving the box the jury found as the coroner directed, the
verdict was entered on the records and signed, and the inquest was
over.
CHAPTER THREE
Mr. Tarkington Develops a Theory
As Ruth emerged from the comparative gloom of the courthouse into the
bright September sunshine her spirits seemed to rise. A reaction had
set in from the strain of the inquiry, with its continuous suggestion
of the hideous details of the tragedy. Now with the ending of the
inquest, it seemed to her that the terrible affair was all but over.
The final episode, the funerals, would not be anything like so
harrowing. Not since the first hint of disaster had come in the shape
of Mr. Oxley’s telegram to York had she felt so lighthearted and in
love with life. She seemed to have awakened from an evil dream.
It was therefore no indication of heartlessness that she should glance
eagerly around as she and her friends advanced from the shadow of the
old building into the little square. She was young and the claims of
the living were more to her than those of the dead. And who will
reproach her for the thrill of pleasurable excitement which she
experienced as the sight she was hoping for met her eyes? There was
Pierce Whymper evidently waiting for a chance of speaking to her. With
a smile she invited him over, and he came and joined her. At the same
moment Mr. Tarkington, the thin hawk-like bank manager, whom she had
seen in the courthouse, approached and spoke to Mr. Oxley.
“Will you go on?” the latter said to his wife. “I want to go round to
the bank with Mr. Tarkington. I’ll follow in a few minutes.”
Mrs. Oxley, Ruth and Whymper moved off in one direction while Mr.
Oxley and Mr. Tarkington disappeared in the other. For a time the trio
chatted with animation, then Ruth grew gradually more silent, leaving
the burden of the conversation to the others. She was in fact puzzled
and a little hurt by a subtle change which she felt rather than
noticed in Whymper’s manner. He seemed somehow different from the last
time she had seen him—that time in another existence when she had left
Thirsby for her visit to York. Then he had been obviously eager for
her company, anxious to talk to her, even before Mrs. Oxley making no
secret of his admiration and regard. But now, though he was just as
polite as ever, his manner was less spontaneous, indeed at times she
thought it almost embarrassed. It occurred to her that possibly the
change might be in herself, and even when their ways parted at the
turn to the church she had not completely made up her mind. But
whatever the cause, a certain disappointment remained, and when she
went up to change for dinner she had lost a good deal of the
lightheartedness she had felt on emerging from the courthouse.
Mr. Oxley, when he arrived shortly after, also showed a change of
manner. He was a kindly, jovial man, fond of a joke and the sound of
his own voice, but during dinner he was strangely silent and wore an
expression of concern and disappointment. But he did not offer any
explanation until the meal was over, and then he followed the ladies
into the drawing-room and unburdened his mind.
“I am awfully sorry, Miss Ruth,” he began hesitatingly, “but I am
afraid I have brought you some more bad news. It’s about money,” he
added hurriedly as the girl turned a piteous glance towards him. “I’ll
tell you exactly what has happened. You know, or perhaps you don’t,
that in spite of the way he lived, your uncle was a rich man. As his
solicitor I have known that for many a year, but I had no idea of just
how much he had. Tarkington knows I was his solicitor and he was
talking about it just now. He tells me that Mr. Averill must have been
worth between thirty and forty thousand pounds when he died. Of course
one would naturally suppose that the money was in securities of some
kind, but here is my terrible news. Tarkington assures me that it was
not, that practically the whole sum was in Mr. Averill’s safe.”
“Oh, Arthur!” Mrs. Oxley burst out. “You can’t mean that it’s gone.”
“I’m afraid I do,” her husband answered. “It’s awful to think about,
but there were only some five hundred pounds in the bank. The rest was
in Mr. Averill’s safe in notes and gold. The nineteen hundred odd
pounds in gold are there all right, but the whole of the paper money
has been destroyed.”
“Oh, how perfectly dreadful! But surely it can be replaced? Surely
something can be done by the bank?”
Mr. Oxley shook his head.
“Nothing, I’m afraid. I talked it over with Tarkington. The money is a
total loss.”
Mrs. Oxley took Ruth into her arms.
“You poor child,” she commiserated. “I just can’t tell you how sorry I
am.”
But Ruth took the news coolly.
“Dear Mrs. Oxley,” she answered. “How kind you are! But indeed I look
upon this as a comparatively little thing. I shall have far, far more
than I ever expected. I want to get some work, and I shall have plenty
to support me while I am training and perhaps even a little after
that. I am more than content.”
Mrs. Oxley kissed her and commended her spirit, though she felt the
girl’s attitude was due more to her unworldliness and ignorance of
life than to courage under disappointment. She wished to change the
subject, but Ruth asked to have her position made clear to her and
begged the others’ advice as to her future. The Oxleys, delighted by
her common sense, willingly agreed to discuss the situation, and after
a long talk a proposal of Mr. Oxley’s was provisionally agreed to.
It appeared that, assuming the old man’s money had really been lost,
Ruth’s capital would amount to about £2400. Of this Mr. Oxley was to
invest all but £100, so as to bring Ruth about £130 per annum. The
remaining £100 was to be spent in taking a secretarial course at one
of the London training colleges. With the backing of the £130 a year
and what she could earn for herself she ought, Mr. Oxley believed, to
be quite comfortably off. “But you must,” Mr. Oxley went on, “stay
here for as long as you like, until you have rested and got over the
shock of this terrible affair.”
Mrs. Oxley warmly seconded this invitation, and Ruth thankfully
accepted it. It was true that she was anxious to start work as soon as
possible, and life in London and the undergoing of the course of
training appeared to her as a glorious and thrilling adventure. But
even more anxious still was she to meet Pierce Whymper and find out if
there really was a change in his feelings towards her. At the time she
had imagined that there was, but now she thought that perhaps she had
been mistaken and that after the inquest he had simply been suffering
from a headache or some other trifling indisposition. That he loved
her she had not the slightest doubt, and she could not bring herself
to go away until she was sure that no stupid, unnecessary
misunderstanding should have been allowed to come between them.
Two days later she met him in the main street of the little town. She
stopped to chat and he turned about and walked with her, and presently
they had tea at the local confectioner’s. But the interview left her
more puzzled than ever. Her belief that Whymper loved her was
confirmed beyond any doubt by his manner, by the way he looked at her,
by the tones of his voice. But it was evident to her that something
was weighing on his mind which prevented him making the proposal
which, if the truth must be admitted, she had been expecting. He gave
her the impression that he would speak if he could, but that he was
being held back by matters outside his own control. And the same state
of mind was evident at their subsequent encounters, until Ruth’s pride
asserted itself and she grew colder and more distant and their
intimacy bade fair to come gradually to an end.
She would have made a move for the metropolis to begin her course of
training had not Mrs. Oxley, from what was probably a quite mistaken
sense of kindliness, suggested that a rest would be good for her after
the shocks she had experienced. On the excuse of desiring the girl’s
assistance in the remodelling of her garden, which, owing to the
difficulty of obtaining labour, she was doing with her own hands, the
good lady invited her to stay on for a few weeks. Ruth did not like to
refuse, and she settled down with the intention of remaining at
Thirsby for at least another month.
During the month the little town also settled down again after its
excitements and alarms, and events once more began to pursue the even
tenor of their ways. The Starvel Hollow Tragedy ceased to be a nine
days’ wonder and was gradually banished from the minds of the
townspeople, until an event happened which was to bring up the whole
matter again, and that in a peculiarly sensational and tragic manner.
One morning in mid-October, some five weeks after the fire, Mr.
Tarkington called to see his friend Oxley. The bank manager’s thin
face wore a serious and mystified expression, which at once informed
Mr. Oxley that something out of the ordinary had occurred to disturb
the other’s usual placid calm.
“Good morning, Oxley,” said Mr. Tarkington in his thin, measured
tones. “Are you busy? I should like a word with you.”
“Come along in, Tarkington,” the solicitor rejoined heartily. “I’m not
doing anything that can’t wait. Sit you down, and have a spot.”
“Thanks, no, I’ll not drink, but I’ll take one of these cigarettes if
I may.” He drew the client’s big leather covered chair nearer to Mr.
Oxley and went on: “A really extraordinary thing has just happened,
Oxley, and I thought I’d like to consult you about it before taking
any action—if I do take action.”
Mr. Oxley took a cigarette from the box from which the other had
helped himself.
“What’s up?” he asked, as he struck a match.
“It’s about that terrible Starvel affair, the fire, you know. I begin
to doubt if the matter is really over, after all.”
“Not over? What on earth do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you, and it is really a most disturbing thought. But before
you can appreciate my news I must explain to you how Averill carried
on his bank business. The poor fellow was a miser, as you know, a
miser of the most primitive kind. He loved money for itself—just to
handle and to look at and to count. His safe was just packed full of
money, but of course you know all this, and that it was through this
dreadful weakness of his that poor girl lost what should have come to
her.”
“I know,” Mr. Oxley admitted.
“Averill’s income passed through the bank, and that’s how I come to be
aware of the figures. He had between sixteen and seventeen hundred a
year and it came from three sources. First he had a pension; he had
held a good job with some company in London. That amounted to about
three hundred pounds. Next he had an annuity which brought him in
£150. But the major portion came from land—land on the outskirts of
Leeds which had been built over and which had become a very valuable
property. In this he had only a life interest—not that that affects my
story, though it explains why that poor girl didn’t get it.”
“I know about that property,” Mr. Oxley interjected. “I’ve had a deal
to do with it one way and another. The old man got it through his wife
and it went back to her family at his death.”
“I imagined it must be something of the kind. Well, to continue.
Averill’s income, as I said, was passed through the bank. He received
it all in cheques or drafts and these he would endorse and send to me
for payment. He had a current account, and my instructions were that
when any cheque came I was to pay in to this account until it stood at
something between £40 and £60—whatever would leave an even £20
over—and I was to send the surplus cash in £20 notes out to Starvel.
Averill evidently looked upon this as a sort of revenue account and
paid all his current expenses out of it. It never of course rose above
the £60 and seldom fell below £20. To carry on my simile, any monies
that were over after raising the current account to £60 he considered
capital, and they went out to swell the hoard in the safe at Starvel.
In addition he kept a sum of £500 on deposit receipt. I don’t know
exactly why he did so, but I presume it was as a sort of nestegg in
the event of his safe being burgled. You follow me?”
“I follow you all right, but, by Jove! it was a queer arrangement.”
“Everything the poor old man did was queer, but, as you know, he
was——” Mr. Tarkington shook his head significantly. “However, to go on
with my story. These monies that were to be sent out to Starvel I used
to keep until they reached at least a hundred, and then I used to send
a clerk out with the cash. The mission usually fell to Bloxham—you
know Bloxham, of course? Averill liked him and asked me to send him
when I could. Bloxham has seen into the safe on two or three
occasions, and it is from him I know that it was packed with notes as
well as the gold.”
“I never can get over all that money being burnt,” Mr. Oxley
interjected. “It makes me sick to think of even now. Such stupid,
needless, wicked waste!” Mr. Tarkington took no notice of this
outburst.
“It happened that about a week before the tragedy,” he went on in his
precise manner, “a cheque for £346 came in from the Leeds property.
The current account was then standing at £27, so I paid £26 into it,
raising it to £53, and sent Bloxham with the balance, £320, out to
Starvel. The money was in sixteen twenties, the numbers of which were
kept. As I said, it was one of the old man’s peculiarities that he
liked his money in £20 notes. I suppose it made it easier to hoard and
count. Bloxham saw Averill lock these notes away in his safe and
brought me the old man’s receipt.”
Mr. Tarkington paused to draw at his cigarette, then continued:—
“In my report about the affair to our headquarters in Throgmorton
Avenue, I mentioned among other things that these notes, giving the
numbers, had been destroyed in the fire. Well, Oxley, what do you
think has happened? I heard from headquarters to-day and they tell me
that one of those notes has just been paid in!”
Mr. Oxley looked slightly bewildered.
“Well, what of it?” he demanded. “I don’t follow. You reported that
these notes had been destroyed in the fire. But wasn’t that only a
guess? How did you actually know?”
“It was a guess, of course, and I didn’t actually know,” Mr.
Tarkington agreed. “But I think it was a justifiable guess. I am
acquainted with Averill’s habits; he made no secret of them. Monies he
paid out he paid by cheque on the current account—everything that one
can think of went through it, even the Ropers’ salaries. The cash sent
out to Starvel went into the hoard.”
“All of it didn’t.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“The ten pounds to Ruth Averill didn’t.”
Mr. Tarkington seemed slightly taken aback.
“Well, that’s true,” he admitted slowly. “I forgot about the ten
pounds. I——”
“And there’s another twenty that didn’t,” Mr. Oxley continued, “and
that’s the twenty that turned up in London. I don’t get your idea,
Tarkington. Just what is in your mind?”
Mr. Tarkington moved uneasily in the big arm-chair.
“It seems far-fetched, I know, and I hardly like putting it into
words, but are you satisfied in your own mind that business was all
just as it appeared to be?”
“What? The fire? How do you mean ‘as it appeared to be’?”
“That it really was the accident we thought it.”
Mr. Oxley whistled.
“Oh, come now, Tarkington, that’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Do you
mean arson? What possible grounds could you have for suggesting such a
thing?”
“I don’t exactly suggest it; I came to ask your opinion about it. But
what passed through my mind was this: There have been several
burglaries lately—skilful burglaries, and, as you know, the police
have been completely at fault. Averill was universally believed to be
wealthy—the legend of the safe was common property. Is it impossible
that some of these burglars might have decided to make an attempt on
Starvel? Remember the situation was one of the loneliest in England.
Assume that they got in and that something unexpected happened—that
they were surprised by Roper, for example. In the resulting
disturbance Roper might easily have been killed—possibly quite
accidentally. The intruders would then be fighting for their lives as
well as their fortunes. And in what better way could they do it than
to murder the other members of the household, lay them on their beds
and burn the house down?”
Mr. Oxley did not reply. The idea was chimerical, fantastic, absurd,
and yet—it was certainly possible. There _had_ been a number of daring
burglaries within the last few months, which were generally believed
to be the work of one gang, and in no single instance had the police
been able to effect an arrest. The belief in the old miser’s hoard
_was_ universal, and from the point of view of the thief, Starvel
would be one of the easiest cribs to crack. Moreover, on second
thought Tarkington’s suggestion as to the origin of the fire was not
so fanciful, after all. The safe containing the money was in Averill’s
bedroom, and the old man would have to be quieted in some way before
it could be opened. Roper’s attention might easily have been
attracted, and the burglars, either by accident or in self-defence,
might have killed him. If so, the fire would be their obvious way of
safety. Yes, the thing was possible. All the same there wasn’t a shred
of evidence that it had happened.
“But my dear fellow,” Oxley said at last, “that’s all my eye! Very
ingenious and all that, but you haven’t a scrap of evidence for it.
Why invent a complicated, far-fetched explanation when you have a
simple one ready to hand? Sounds as if you had been reading too many
detective stories lately.”
Tarkington did not smile with his friend.
“You think it nonsense?” he asked earnestly. “You think I needn’t tell
the police about the note?”
“I don’t think you have any evidence: not evidence to justify even a
suspicion. You’ve no real reason to suppose Averill did not hand that
twenty-pound note to some one from whom it passed to the man who paid
it in.”
“To whom, for example?”
“I don’t know. Neither of us knows what visitors the old man might
have had. But that doesn’t prove he had none.”
Mr. Tarkington seemed far from satisfied. He threw away his cigarette
and took another from the box, handling it delicately in his long,
thin fingers. He moved nervously in his chair and then said in a low
voice:—
“I suppose then, Oxley, I may take it that you were quite satisfied
about that business—I mean at the time?”
Mr. Oxley looked at his friend in surprise.
“Good gracious, Tarkington, what bee have you in your bonnet? Do you
mean satisfied that the fire was an accident and that those three poor
people were burned? Of course I was. It never occurred to me to doubt
it.”
The other seemed slightly relieved.
“I hope sincerely that you’re right,” he answered. “But I may tell you
that I wasn’t satisfied—neither at the time nor yet since. That’s the
reason that when I heard about the note I came at once to consult you.
There’s a point which you and the coroner and the police and every one
concerned seem to have overlooked.” He dropped his voice still further
and became very impressive. “What about the papers that were burnt in
the safe?”
Mr. Oxley was surprised at his friend’s persistence.
“Well, what in Heaven’s name about them? For the life of me I don’t
see what you’re driving at.”
“Haven’t you ever been in Averill’s bedroom?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Did you notice the safe?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, I’ve both been there and noticed it.” He bent forward, and his
thin face seemed more hawk-like than ever as he said impressively:
“Oxley, that safe was fireproof!”
Mr. Oxley started.
“Good Heavens, Tarkington! Are you sure of that?” he queried sharply.
“Not absolutely,” the other replied. “It was certainly my strong
opinion and if I had been asked before the fire I should have had no
doubt. When I heard the evidence at the inquest I concluded I had made
a mistake. But now this affair of the twenty-pound note has reawakened
all my suspicions.” He paused, but as Oxley did not reply, continued:
“Perhaps I’ve got a bee in my bonnet as you said, but I’m now
wondering if Roper’s drunkenness doesn’t support the theory? Could he
not have been enticed into Thirsby by some member of the gang and
treated so as to make him sleep well and not hear what was going on?
Remember, he was an absolutely temperate man.”
“Not absolutely. Ruth had smelt drink on other occasions.”
“You are right. Perhaps that is a trifle far-fetched. But what do you
think on the main point, Oxley? Ought I to tell the police of my
suspicions?”
Mr. Oxley rose and began to pace the room. Then he went to the window
and stood for some moments looking out. Finally he returned to his
chair, and sat down again.
“I declare, Tarkington, I think you ought,” he said slowly. “When you
first made your—I might perhaps say—your amazing suggestion I confess
I thought it merely grotesque. But if you are right about the safe it
certainly puts a different complexion on the whole business. I take it
it’s not too late to ascertain? The safe is not too much damaged to
trace the maker and find out from him?”
“I should think the police could find the maker quite easily.”
“Well, I think you should tell them. If you are wrong no harm is done.
If not, there are murderers to be brought to justice and perhaps a
fortune to be recovered for Ruth.”
Mr. Tarkington rose.
“I agree with you, Oxley. I’ll go down to the police station and tell
Kent now.”
Mr. Oxley waved him back into his seat.
“Steady a moment,” he said. “Don’t be in such a hurry.” He drew slowly
at his cigarette while the other sat down and waited expectantly.
“It seems to me,” went on Mr. Oxley, “that if your suspicions are
correct the thing should be kept absolutely quiet. Nothing should be
said or done to put the criminals on their guard. Now Kent, you know
as well as I do, is just a bungling ass. My suggestion is that we both
take the afternoon off and go see Valentine. I know him pretty well
and we could ring him up and make an appointment.”
“Valentine, the Chief Constable of the County?”
“Yes. He’s as cute as they’re made and he’ll do the right thing.”
“Kent will never forgive us if we pass him over like that.”
“Kent be hanged,” Mr. Oxley rejoined. “Can you come in by the
three-thirty?”
“Yes, I’ll manage it.”
“Right. Then I shall ring up Valentine.”
Five hours later the two friends found their way into the strangers’
room of the Junior Services Club in Leeds. There in a few moments
Chief Constable Valentine joined them, and soon they were settled in a
private room with whiskies and sodas at their elbows and three of the
excellent cigars the Chief Constable favoured between their lips.
Mr. Tarkington propounded his theory in detail, explaining that he was
not sure enough of his facts even to put forward a definite suspicion,
but that he and his friend Oxley agreed that Major Valentine ought to
know what was in his mind. The major could then, if he thought fit,
investigate the affair.
That the Chief Constable was impressed by the statement was obvious.
He listened with the keenest interest, interjecting only an occasional
“By Jove!” as Mr. Tarkington made his points. Then he thanked the two
men for their information, and promised to institute inquiries into
the whole matter without delay.
Two days later Mr. Tarkington received a letter from Major Valentine
saying that he thought it only fair to inform him in the strictest
confidence that his belief that the safe was fireproof was well
founded, that he, the Chief Constable, strongly suspected that more
had taken place at Starvel on that tragic night than had come out in
the inquest, and that as he considered the matter was rather outside
the local men’s capacity he had applied to Scotland Yard for help in
the investigation.
Mr. Tarkington, honouring the spirit rather than the letter of the
Chief Constable’s communication, showed the note to Mr. Oxley, and the
two men sat over the former’s study fire until late that night,
discussing possible developments in the situation.
CHAPTER FOUR
Inspector French Goes North
The stone which Messrs. Tarkington and Oxley had thrown into the
turbid waters of the British Police Administration produced ripples
which, like other similar wave forms, spread slowly away from their
point of disturbance. One of these ripples, penetrating into the grim
fastness of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland
Yard, had the effect of ringing the bell of a telephone on the desk of
Detective Inspector Joseph French and of causing that zealous and
efficient officer, when he had duly applied his ear to the instrument,
to leave his seat and proceed without loss of time to the room of his
immediate superior.
“Ah, French,” Chief Inspector Mitchell remarked on his entry. “You
should be about through with that Kensington case, I fancy?”
“Just finished with it, sir,” French answered. “I was putting the last
of the papers in order when you rang.”
“Well, you’ve had a lot of trouble with it and I should have liked to
have given you a breather. But I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Something come in, sir?”
“A Yorkshire case. A place called Thirsby, up on the moors not far, I
understand, from Hellifield. We’ve just had a request for a man and I
can’t spare any one else at present. So it’s you for it.”
“What is the case, sir?”
“Suspected murder, robbery and arson. The people there appear to know
very little about it and the whole thing may turn out a mare’s nest.
But they’re darned mysterious about it—say they don’t want it to be
known that inquiries are being made and suggest our man might go to
the Thirsdale Arms, the local hotel, in the guise of an angler or an
artist. So, if you’re a fisherman, French, now’s your chance. You’re
to call down at the police station after dark, when Sergeant Kent,
who’s in charge, will give you the particulars.”
It was with mixed feelings that Inspector French received his
instructions. He delighted in travelling and seeing new country, and
the Yorkshire moors comprised a district which he had often heard
spoken of enthusiastically, but had never visited. He was by no means
averse, moreover, to getting away from town for a few days. It would
be a welcome break in the monotony of the long winter. But on the
other hand he loathed working away from headquarters, bereft of his
trained staff and of the immediate backing of the huge machine of
which he was a cog. Local men, he conceded, were “right enough,” but
they hadn’t the knowledge, the experience, the technique to be really
helpful. And then the “Yard” man in the country was usually up against
jealousies and a more or less veiled obstruction, and to the worries
of his case he had to add the effort always to be tactful and to carry
his professed helpers with him.
However, none of these considerations affected his course of action.
He had his orders and he must carry them out. He completed the filing
of the papers in the Kensington murder case, handed over one or two
other matters to his immediate subordinate, and taking the large
despatch case of apparatus without which he never travelled, went home
to inform his wife of his change of plans and pack a suitcase with his
modest personal requirements. Then he drove to St. Pancras and caught
the 12.15 restaurant car express to the north.
He was neither an artist nor an angler, and in any case he considered
the month of November was scarcely a propitious time for worthies of
either type to be abroad. Therefore beyond dressing in a more
countrified style than he would have affected in town, he attempted no
disguise.
He changed at Hellifield and took the branch line which wound up in a
north-easterly direction into the bleak hills and moors of western
Yorkshire. Six o’clock had just struck when he reached the diminutive
terminus of Thirsby.
A porter bearing the legend “Thirsdale Arms” on his cap was at the
station, and having surrendered his baggage, French followed the man
on foot down the main street of the little town to a low, straggling,
old-fashioned building with half-timbered gables and a real old
swinging sign. Here a stout and cheery proprietor gave him a somewhat
voluble welcome, and soon he was the temporary tenant of a low and
dark, but otherwise comfortable bedroom, while an appetising odour of
frying ham indicated that the _pièce de résistance_ of his supper was
in full preparation.
He smoked a contemplative pipe in the bar, then about half-past eight
took his hat, and passing the landlord at the door, gave him a
cheerful good-night and said he was going for a walk before bed.
While he did not intend to hide the fact of his visit to Sergeant
Kent, he had no wish to draw attention thereto. He believed that in a
small town such things invariably get out, and to shroud them in an
air of mystery was only to invite publicity. He therefore did not ask
for a direction, but instead strolled through the streets until he saw
the police station. Walking quietly but openly to the door, he
knocked. Two minutes later he was shaking hands with the sergeant in
the latter’s room.
“I’m sure I’m grateful to you for giving me the chance of a change
from London,” French began in his pleasant, cheery way as he took the
chair the other pulled forward to the fire. “Will you join me in a
cigar, or do you object to smoking in the office?”
The sergeant dourly helped himself from French’s case, and gruffly
admitted he was not above the use of tobacco after office hours.
French seemed in no hurry to come to business, but chatted on about
his journey and his impressions of the country, drawing the other out
and deferring to his views in a way that was nothing less than
flattering. Before ten minutes Kent had forgotten that his visitor was
an interloper sent to him over his head because his superiors imagined
that he was not good enough for his own job, and was thinking that
this stranger, for a Londoner and a Yard man, was not as bad as he
might reasonably have been expected to be. Under the soothing
influences of flattery and good tobacco, he gradually mellowed until,
when French at last decided the time had come, he was quite willing to
assist in any way in his power.
At French’s request he gave him a detailed account of the tragedy
together with a copy of the depositions taken at the inquest, and then
went on to describe the bomb which Mr. Tarkington had dropped when he
mentioned his theories to Major Valentine.
“Chief Constable, he told me to find out what kind of safe it was in
the house,” the sergeant went on. “I knew, for I had seen it at the
time, but I went out again to make sure. It was made by Carter &
Stephenson of Leeds, number—” he referred to a well-thumbed
notebook—“12,473. I went down to Leeds, and saw the makers, and they
said the safe was twenty years old, but it was the best fireproof safe
of its day. I asked them would the notes have burned up in it, and
they said they wouldn’t scarcely be browned, not no matter how fierce
the fire might be.”
“And what exactly was in the safe?”
“Just paper ashes and sovereigns. No whole papers—all was burned to
ashes.”
“Could I see those ashes? Are any of them left?”
“I think so. We took out the sovereigns and left the rest. The safe is
lying in the rubbish where we found it.”
French nodded, and for some minutes sat silent, drawing slowly at his
cigar while he turned over in his mind the details he had learned. As
he did so the words of Chief Inspector Mitchell recurred to him: “The
people down there don’t appear to know much about it, and the whole
thing may turn out to be a mare’s nest.” Now, having heard the story,
he wondered if this was not going to be another of his chief’s amazing
intuitions. It certainly looked as like a mare’s nest as anything he
had ever handled. The only shred of evidence for foul play was the
safe-builders’ statement that their safe would protect papers even in
the fiercest fire, and that statement left him cold. What else could
the builders say? They had sold the thing as fireproof; how could they
now admit they had made a false claim? And this Tarkington’s theory of
the twenty-pound note was even less convincing. There was no real
reason to believe that Averill had not handed it to his servant or to
a visitor or sent it away by post. In fact, the whole tale was the
thinnest he had listened to for many a day, and he saw himself taking
a return train to St. Pancras before many hours had passed.
But he had been sent up to make an investigation, and make an
investigation he would. He rapidly planned his line of action. The
first thing to be done was to get rid of this sergeant. He might be
right enough for his own job, but French felt that he would be no help
in an affair of this kind. Left to himself, he would go out and
examine the house and then interview Tarkington. By that time he
should have learned enough at least to decide whether or not to go on
with the case. He turned to Kent.
“Your statement, sergeant, has been so very complete that I do not
believe there is anything left for me to ask you. But I think I should
understand the affair even better if I went and had a look at the
house. I’ll do that to-morrow. But, much as I should like your
company, I cannot ask you to come with me. I entirely agree with and
admire your wisdom in keeping the affair secret, and if we were seen
together the cat would be out of the bag. I will give out that I am a
representative from the insurance companies and I think no suspicion
will be aroused. If now you will kindly tell me where the place lies,
I think that’s all we can do in the meantime.”
Five minutes later French turned from the main street into the door of
the Thirsdale Arms. The landlord was standing in the hall and French
stopped in a leisurely way, as if ready for a chat. They discussed the
weather for some moments, and then French asked the other if he would
join him in a drink.
It was not long before they were seated before a glowing fire in the
private bar, when French proceeded to account for himself.
“I like your country,” he began, “what I’ve seen of it. I’ve been a
bit run down lately, and though it’s not the time one would choose for
a holiday, my doctor thought I should take a week or two’s rest. So,
as I had a bit of business here I thought I would kill two birds with
one stone and do my business and take my holiday at the same time. And
about that bit of business I thought that if you would be good enough
you could maybe give me some help.”
The landlord, evidently curious, was anxious to do anything in his
power and French, following out his theory that where absolute truth
is inadmissible, deviations therefrom should be as slight as possible,
went on confidentially:—
“It’s about a place called Starvel where there was a big fire
recently. You know all about it, of course.” The landlord nodded
eagerly. “Well, I may tell you strictly between ourselves that I am a
detective. A fire unaccounted for is a very disturbing matter to
insurance companies, and I have been sent down to try to find the
cause of the outbreak. I’ve seen the police sergeant, and he has very
kindly promised to show me his notes of the inquest, but I should like
more general information than that. I wondered if you could, perhaps,
tell me something about the affair; about the people who lived in
Starvel, and so on?”
With this beginning, and the help of whiskies and sodas and two more
of his cigars French was soon in possession of all the landlord knew
and surmised about the Starvel Hollow tragedy. But he learned nothing
helpful. The man’s story agreed with that of Sergeant Kent, though it
was obvious that the idea of foul play had never entered his mind.
One thing he remarked on which Kent had not mentioned—about which
indeed, as French afterwards learned, Kent knew nothing—and that was
the incipient affair between Ruth Averill and Pierce Whymper. When
French learned later on how slight this affair had been he was filled
with amazement, as he had been so many times before, at the range and
exhaustiveness of local gossip.
“Nice young fellow, Mr. Pierce Whymper,” the landlord went on. “He’s a
son of Mr. Stephen Whymper, the Leeds surgeon, and a junior assistant
of Nixon and Arbuthnot’s, the church architects. He’s here as clerk of
works of the renovation of the church—a fine old church, this of ours!
I got to know Mr. Whymper a bit, for he stayed here for a few days
when he came first, and before he got lodgings. Our terms are a bit
high for him, you know, for a constancy. They don’t overpay these
young fellows that are just starting on their jobs.”
“It’s a fact,” French admitted. “And how is the affair with the young
lady getting on?”
“No one rightly knows. It seemed to be going on thick enough before
the fire and then, somehow, it seemed to be cooled off. I suppose one
of these here lovers’ quarrels.” And the landlord smiled tolerantly,
as one man of the world to another.
But whether or not the landlord was a man of the world, there was no
doubt whatever that he was a thoroughly accomplished and successful
gossip. French soon found that by the mere interjection of an
occasional phrase he could obtain a detailed description of the life,
habits and character of any of the inhabitants of Thirsby that he
cared to name. Very willingly, therefore, he suggested more whisky and
proffered further cigars, while he sat registering in his memory the
impressions of his neighbours which the other sketched with such
evident relish.
He was a likeable old fellow, the landlord, or so French thought.
Though a gossip first and always, he was something of a philosopher
and his outlook was human and kindly. The people he spoke of were real
people, and French could picture them living in the little town and
going about their businesses, with their loves and hates, their
ambitions and their weaknesses. Old Mr. Averill—well, the landlord
hadn’t a great opinion of him. He was dead, and one didn’t ought to
say too much about the dead, but there was no denying that he was
mean—a regular miser, he was. The way he had treated that niece of
his—as nice a young lady as ever stepped—was just a fair scandal. A
young lady just grown up, like Miss Ruth was, should have a bit of
pleasure sometimes, and the poor girl hadn’t even decent clothes to
wear. Mean, the landlord called it. And what use, he asked, growing
oratorical, was the old man’s money to him now? That was what he
said—and he waved his cigar to give point to his remark—that was what
he said: What had the old man got for all his screwing and saving? It
would have paid him better . . .
French insinuated the idea of Roper.
Roper, the landlord did not know so much about, though he had to
confess he had not particularly liked him. Roper had a squint, and if
French took the landlord’s advice, he would just keep his weather eye
open when dealing with a man with a squint. Roper was quiet enough and
civil spoken, and they said he was good enough at his job, but he was
close—very close. Sly, the landlord would call it, though, mind you,
he hadn’t known anything wrong about the man. Mrs. Roper? He had only
met her once. He didn’t know much about her, but she was well enough
spoken of. Neither of them could have had much of a time out at
Starvel, but they had served the old man well and made no complaint.
About Tarkington, the landlord waxed almost lyrical. Tarkington was a
white man, straight as a die and no fool neither. He was more than a
bank manager. He was, so French gathered, a sort of financial father
confessor to the neighbourhood. Every one trusted Tarkington, and took
their difficulties to him for help and advice. And Tarkington gave
both, in good measure pressed down and shaken together. He did not
spare himself, and if he could help a lame dog over a stile, he did
it. What Tarkington said went, as far as most things were concerned.
The landlord also approved of Oxley. Oxley would have his joke, if he
was to be hung for it the next minute, but he was a very sound man and
a good lawyer. If you had Oxley on your side he would make a keen
fight for you, and for all his jokes and his breezy manner he wouldn’t
give nothing away. Oxley was well liked and he deserved it.
Of the medical profession in Thirsby the landlord was equally ready to
impart information. Dr. Emerson was a good doctor and well respected,
but he was growing old. He hardly did any work now, but he had made
plenty and he could afford to retire. Not that he had been a
money-grubber—the landlord had known many a case where he had treated
poor patients free—but until Dr. Philpot had come he had the whole of
the practice, and he hadn’t done badly with it. The landlord wished
that hotel keeping was half as profitable. Well off, Dr. Emerson was.
French next murmured Dr. Philpot’s name, but the landlord spoke with
more reserve. He was a clever man, first rate at his job, the landlord
believed, though he was thankful to say he hadn’t ever needed to call
him in. But he had made some good cures and people that had had him
once wouldn’t have anybody else. And he was pleasant spoken and
likeable enough, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t have done
extra well at Thirsby, for there was an opening for just such a man on
account of Dr. Emerson’s age. But—the landlord sank his voice and
became more confidential than ever—the truth was he had made a muck of
things, and no one would be surprised to see him take down his plate
any day. He was all right in every way, but the one—he was a wild
gambler. Fair ruining himself, he was. Horses mostly. It was a pity,
because he was well liked otherwise. But there you were. The landlord
had nothing to say about backing an occasional horse—he did it
himself—but, systematic gambling! Well, you know, it could go too far.
French was interested to learn that Sergeant Kent was a fool. The
landlord did not put it quite in those words, but he conveyed the idea
extraordinarily well. Kent was bumptious and overbearing, and carried
away by a sense of his own importance. French, the landlord was
afraid, wouldn’t get much help there.
The landlord showed signs of a willingness to go on talking all night,
but by the time eleven-thirty had struck on the old grandfather’s
clock in the hall French thought he had all the information that was
likely to be valuable. He therefore began insinuating the idea of bed,
and this gradually penetrating to the other’s consciousness, his flow
of conversation diminished and presently they separated.
The next day was Sunday, and after a late breakfast and a leisurely
pipe, French asked for some sandwiches, saying he was going out for a
long tramp over the moor. Having thus explained himself he strolled
off and presently, by a circuitous route, reached the lip of Starvel
Hollow.
In spite of the fact that his professional and critical interests were
aroused, French could not help feeling impressed by the isolation of
the ruins and the morbid, not to say sinister atmosphere which seemed
to brood over the entire place. Around him were the wild rolling
spaces of the moor, forbidding and desolate, rising here into rounded
hills, dropping there into shallow valleys. The colouring was drab, in
the foreground the dull greens of rushes and sedgy grass, the browns
of heather and at intervals a darker smudge where stone outcropped, on
the horizon the hazy blues of distance. Scarcely a tree or a shrub was
to be seen in the bare country, and the two or three widely separated
cottages, crouching low as if for protection from the winds, seemed
only to intensify the loneliness of the outlook.
At French’s feet lay the Hollow, a curious, saucer-like depression in
the moor, some quarter of a mile or more across. Its rim looked
continuous, the valley through which it was drained being winding and
not apparent at first sight. In the centre was the group of pines
which had surrounded the old house, stunted, leaning one way from the
prevailing wind, melancholy and depressing. Of the walls of the house
from this point of view there was no sign.
French walked down toward the ruins, marvelling at the choice which
would bring a man of means to such a locality. He could understand now
why on that night some five weeks earlier a building of the size of
this old house could be burned down without attracting more attention.
The Hollow accounted for it. Even flames soaring up from such a
conflagration would not surmount the lip of the saucer. Truly a place
also, as Tarkington had pointed out, where burglars could work their
will unseen and undisturbed.
French had seen the remains of many a fire, but as he gazed on the
wreckage of Starvel he felt he had never seen anything quite so
catastrophic and complete. He felt a growing awe as he began to
examine the place in detail.
The walls were built of stone, and except these walls and the small
outhouse at the opposite side of the yard, nothing remained standing.
The house was two storied and “L” shaped, with the remains of a single
story porch in the angle of the two wings. French compared the ruins
with the sketch plan given him by Kent and identified the places where
the bodies had been found. Then after a general survey he stepped
through the gaping hole that had evidently been the front door and
ploughed his way across the débris to the safe.
It was red with fire and rust, but the makers’ name and number, in
raised letters on a cast iron plate, were still legible. The safe had
been lifted upright and fixed on a roughly built pile of stones, as
the town officer of Thirsby had deposed at the inquest. The doors were
now shut, but with some difficulty owing to the rusty hinges French
was able to swing them open. Inside, as he had been told, was a mass
of paper ash.
Fortunately it was a calm day or the heap might have whirled away in
dust. As it was, French sat down on a stone, and putting his head into
the safe, began to examine the ash in detail.
The greater part had been ground to dust, doubtless by the fall of the
safe from the second story, and the churning of the sovereigns, though
there still remained a number of small flakes of burnt paper. These
French began to turn over with a pair of forceps, examining them at
the same time with a lens.
He was delighted to find that on nearly all he could distinguish marks
of printing. But, as he turned over piece after piece he became
conscious of growing astonishment. For this printing was not the
printing of bank notes. Rather it seemed to him like newspaper type.
Wrapping paper, he supposed. But why should the contents of the safe
have been wrapped up in newspapers? More important still, why should
portions of the newspapers rather than of the notes have been
preserved?
His interest keenly aroused, he set to work in his careful, methodical
way to check over all the fragments he could find. As he did so
something very like excitement took possession of him. There were no
fragments of notes! Every single piece that bore any marking was
newspaper!
What, he asked, himself, could this portend? What other than robbery?
And if robbery, then murder! Murder and arson! Could Tarkington and
the Chief Constable be right, after all? Certainly, after this
discovery he couldn’t drop the investigation until he had made sure.
He had brought with him a small case of apparatus, and from this he
now took a bottle of gum and some thin cards. Painting over the cards
with the gum, he laid on them such flakes of ash as bore legible
words. From one piece in particular he thought he might be able to
identify the newspaper of which it had been a part. It was a roundish
scrap about the size of half a crown, along the top of which were the
words: “—ing as we—” in small type, with below it in capitals, as if
the headline of a small paragraph: “RAT-CATCHER’S F——”
French secured the cards in a case specially designed to preserve
specimens, and re-closed the safe. It certainly looked as if
Tarkington’s suggestions might be true, and as he put the case away in
his pocket, he wondered if there was any further investigation he
could make while he was on the ground.
Stepping outside the building, he considered how a hypothetical
burglar might have forced an entrance. The window frames and doors
were all gone; moreover, any marks which might have been made
approaching them must long since have been defaced by time and the
footprints of sightseers and workmen. French, nevertheless, walked all
round the house and about the grounds, looking everywhere in the hope
of coming on some clue, though he was scarcely disappointed when his
search ended in failure.
He was anxious, if possible, to find out what newspaper had been
burned. He did not think the point of vital importance, but on general
principles the information should be obtained. There was no knowing
what clue it might not furnish. On his way back to Thirsby, therefore,
he turned aside to Mr. Oxley’s house and sent in his card.
In the privacy of the solicitor’s study French introduced himself and
in confidence declared his mission to the town. He apologised for
troubling the other on Sunday, but said that at the moment he wished
only to ask one question: Could Mr. Oxley tell him, or could he find
out for him from Miss Averill, what daily paper the late Mr. Averill
had taken?
Mr. Oxley did not know, and excused himself to interrogate Ruth.
Presently he returned to say it was the _Leeds Mercury_.
Next morning French took the first train to Leeds, and going to the
_Mercury_ office, asked to see the files of the paper for the month of
September. Commencing at the 15th, the day of the fire, he began
working back through the papers, scrutinising each sheet for a
paragraph headed “RAT-CATCHER’S F——”
He found it sooner than he had expected. Tucked in among a number of
small news items in the paper of Tuesday, 14th September, he read:
“RAT-CATCHER’S FATAL FALL.” And when he saw that the type was similar
to that on the burnt scrap and the last line of the preceding
paragraph was “Mr. Thomas is doing as well as can be expected,” with
the “—ng as we—” in the correct position relative to the
“RAT-CATCHER’S F——” he knew he had really got what he wanted.
French was extraordinarily thorough. Long experience had taught him
that everything in the nature of a clue should be followed up to the
very end. He did not therefore desist when he had made his find.
Instead he worked on to see if he could identify any of the other
scraps he had found. And before he left he had found eight out of the
eleven he had mounted, and proved that the burnt papers were those of
the 13th, 14th, and 15th; the three days before the fire.
So far, then, the indications were at least for continuing the
investigation. Leaving the _Mercury_ office, French walked up the
Briggate to Messrs. Carter & Stephenson’s, the makers of the safe. He
asked for one of the principals, and was presently shown into Mr.
Stephenson’s room. Introducing himself in the strictest confidence in
his true guise, he propounded his question: Was the safe absolutely
fireproof?
Mr. Stephenson rose and went to a drawer from which he took a number
of photographs.
“Look at those,” he invited, “and tell me was the fire at Starvel any
worse than those fires?”
The views were all of burnt-out buildings, most of them completely
gutted and resembling the wreckage of Starvel. French assured him that
the cases seemed on all fours.
“Very well, there were safes in all those fires—safes just the same as
that at Starvel, and all those safes had papers in them, and there
wasn’t a single paper in any one of them so much as browned.”
French took out his burnt fragments.
“Look at those, Mr. Stephenson,” he invited in his turn. “Suppose
there were newspapers in that safe before the fire, could they have
come out like that after it?”
“Not under any conceivable circumstances,” Mr. Stephenson declared
emphatically, “that is, of course, unless the door had been left open.
With the door shut it’s absolutely impossible. And I’ll be prepared to
stand by that in any court of law if you should want me to.”
The man’s manner was convincing, and French saw no reason to doubt his
statement. But he saw also that its truth involved extremely serious
consequences. If Mr. Stephenson was right the newspapers had not been
burnt during the Starvel fire. They could only have been burned while
the safe door was open. But the door was locked during the fire; Kent
had had to get an expert to open it. They must therefore have been
burned before it was locked. A sinister fact truly, and terribly
suggestive!
On his way back to Thirsby French sat smoking in the corner of a
carriage, weighing in his mind the significance of his discoveries. He
considered the points in order.
First. Old Averill was a miser who had filled up his safe with notes
and gold. The notes had been seen on more than one occasion by Mr.
Tarkington’s clerk, Bloxham, the last time being only a few days
before the tragedy. Mr. Tarkington estimated there must have been some
£30,000 to £40,000 worth of notes in the safe, though this was
probably only a guess. But it was at least certain that before the
fire it contained a very large sum in notes.
Second. After the fire the gold was intact, or at least part of it was
there, but there was no trace of the notes. It was perfectly true that
a number of notes might have been burned and been crushed to powder by
the falling sovereigns. But it was straining the probabilities too far
to believe that no single fragment of any one note should remain. On
the other hand fragments did remain—but these were all of newspapers.
Third. The newspapers, according to Mr. Stephenson’s evidence, were
burned before the door of the safe had been closed.
Gradually French came to definite conclusions. As far as his
information went the following facts seemed to be established:—
First. That the safe was unlocked, and the notes were taken out before
the fire.
Second. That three or four newspapers were put in to replace them.
Third. That the newspapers were set on fire and allowed to burn to
ashes while the safe door was open.
Fourth. That after they were burned the safe was locked.
If these conclusions could be sustained it unquestionably meant that
French was on to one of the most dastardly and terrible crimes of the
century. He felt the sudden thrill of the hunter who comes across the
fresh spoor of some dangerous wild beast. But he did not disclose his
feelings. Instead he kept his own counsel, simply reporting to
headquarters that the case seemed suspicious and that he was remaining
on to make further inquiries.
CHAPTER FIVE
French Picks Up a Clue
The more Inspector French pondered over the problems which his
discoveries had raised, the more difficult these problems seemed to
grow. There was so desperately little to go on. It was a common enough
trouble in detective work certainly, but this business was worse than
the average. He could not recall a case which offered fewer clues or
“leads.”
As he turned over in his mind all that he had learned it seemed to him
indeed that there was but one channel to be explored, and that a
channel which offered a very poor chance of success—the £20 bank note.
If he were unable to trace the £20 bank note, and the odds were
enormously against his doing so, he did not see what other line of
inquiry he could follow up.
Of course, there was the usual police question: Who was seen in the
vicinity of the crime at the time of its commission? But he had
already put this inquiry to Kent and the answer had been: “No one.”
If, as seemed likely, Tarkington’s theory were true and this crime had
been committed by the burglars who had already brought off so many
_coups_ in the district, French was up against a very able gang. For
over six months the police had been searching for these men and they
seemed no nearer finding them now than in the beginning.
The bank note, then, appeared to be the only chance, and French
decided that he would begin operations by trying to trace the passer,
trusting that if this line failed, some other would by that time have
opened out.
The night was still young, and desiring to lose no time, French left
his comfortable corner in the bar and went out to call on Mr.
Tarkington.
The bank manager was greatly interested when French revealed his
calling and mission. He willingly repeated all he knew about old Simon
Averill and his finances and explained his theories at length.
“The only other thing I wish to ask you,” French remarked when the
other showed signs of coming to an end, “is about previous sums sent
out to Starvel. Your clerk kept a record of the numbers of all the
twenty-pound notes sent in the last consignment, but have you a
similar record of former consignments?”
Mr. Tarkington nodded.
“I early appreciated that point and made inquiries,” he replied in his
precise, measured tones. “By my own instructions it has been the
practice to keep such records of all notes over ten pounds in value,
and this was done in the case of those sent to Starvel. The records,
however, are not retained very long, and I did not hope to be able to
lay my hands on those of earlier consignments. But by a piece of pure
chance my clerk, Bloxham, found some earlier records in an old
notebook, and I am able to give you the numbers of the notes of
eleven; not consecutive consignments, but stretching at intervals over
nearly five years. They cover £3860, all of which was sent to Starvel
in twenties; that is 193 twenties. I have their numbers here.”
“That’s a piece of luck for me,” French commented, as he pocketed the
list which the other passed him. “Curious that Mr. Averill collected
twenty-pound notes. Why not fifties or hundreds or tens?”
Mr. Tarkington shook his head.
“Like most of us,” he said, a hint of human kindness showing beneath
his rather dry manner, “the poor old fellow had his weakness. Why he
should prefer twenties to notes of other denominations I don’t know. I
can only record the fact that he did.”
The next morning French occupied in making the acquaintance of the
obvious _dramatis personæ_ in the case. He paid a long visit to Ruth
Averill, hearing her story at first hand and questioning her on
various details which occurred to him. Oxley he saw at his office and
the lugubrious Abel Hesketh, the town officer, he found at the toll
room in the markets. He was waiting for Dr. Emerson as the latter
concluded his morning round, and he went to the trouble of an
excursion over the moor to interview the red-haired farmer, George
Mellowes, who had driven Roper home on the fatal night. Dr. Philpot he
also called on, to obtain his impressions of the Starvel household.
Lastly, he saw the bank clerk, Bloxham, who struck him at once as a
man of character. Though seemingly not more than thirty, he had a
strangely old face, sardonic and determined looking, almost sinister.
He gave his testimony with a refreshing restraint of words, and seemed
to have observed carefully and to know just what he had seen. He said
that on three occasions when he was at Starvel Mr. Averill had opened
his safe and he had had a glimpse of its contents. From the size of
the stacks of notes he would estimate that these contained possibly
1500 separate notes. If these were twenties that would mean £30,000.
There was also a cardboard box of sovereigns. If he had not heard the
number he would have estimated that it contained about two thousand.
To all of these people, except Oxley, who already knew the truth,
French accounted for himself by the story of the detective employed to
ascertain the cause of an unexplained fire. All seemed anxious to help
him, but unfortunately none could tell him anything more than he
already knew.
Having thus completed the obvious local inquiries, he felt free to
follow up the matter of the £20 note. He therefore left Thirsby by the
afternoon train and late that night reached St. Pancras. Next morning
saw him at the headquarters of the Northern Shires Bank in Throgmorton
Avenue. In five minutes he was closeted with the manager, who shook
his head when he heard what was required of him.
“I naturally imagined some such question might arise,” the manager
said, “and I questioned the clerk who had received the note. At first
he was unable to give me even the slightest hint, but on thinking over
the matter he said the balance of probability was in favour of its
having been paid in by the messenger from Cook’s office in Regent
Street. He explained that in Cook’s deposit, which was an unusually
heavy one, there were no less than seventeen notes for twenty pounds,
and he remarked to the messenger: ‘You’re strong in twenties to-day.’
It was shortly afterwards that the clerk discovered he held one of the
numbers sent in by Mr. Tarkington. He had twenty-two twenties in hand
when he made his discovery and he believed he had not parted with any
since the Cook lodgment, therefore, the chances that the note came
from Cook’s are as seventeen to five.”
“There is no certainty about that,” said French.
“No certainty, but a good sporting chance,” the manager returned with
a smile as he bade his visitor good day.
The next step was obviously Cook’s office. Here again French asked for
the manager, and here again that gentleman shook his head when French
stated his business.
“I should be only too glad to help you, Mr. French,” he declared, “but
I fear it is quite impossible. In the first place we don’t know the
numbers of any of the notes which passed through our hands, and we
don’t, therefore, know if we had the one in which you are interested.
Apparently you don’t even know it yourself. But even if we did know,
we couldn’t possibly tell you who paid it in. So much money comes in
over the counter that individual notes could not be traced. And then
we have no idea of the date upon which we received this one, if we did
receive it. You think we lodged it yesterday week. We might have done
so and yet have received it weeks before. You see, we keep a fairly
large sum in our safe in connection with our foreign exchange
department.”
“Do you give receipts for all monies received?”
“For most transactions. But not all. If a man came in for a ticket to
Harrogate, for example, we should hand him the ticket, and the ticket
would be his receipt. Again, no note other than that of the actual
sums passing is taken in our exchange department.”
French smiled ruefully.
“It doesn’t seem to get any more hopeful as it goes on, does it?” he
remarked, continuing after a moment’s silence. “You see what I’m
trying to get at, don’t you? If I could look over your receipts for
some time prior to yesterday week I might find a name and address
which would suggest a line of inquiry.”
“I follow you,” the manager returned. “It is just possible that you
might get something that way, though I must warn you it’s most
unlikely. You see, the balance of the payments in notes would not, in
the nature of things, require receipts, and conversely most of the
accounts requiring receipts are paid by cheque. However, if you wish
to make a search, I am prepared to help you. How far back do you want
to go?”
“The note in question was known to be in the possession of the dead
man on Friday, 10th September. It was discovered in the bank here on
Monday, October 18th. That is,” he took out his engagement book and
rapidly counted, “thirty-three working days: a little over five
weeks.” He looked deprecatingly at the other, then added: “Rather a
job to go through all that, I’m afraid.”
“It’ll take time,” the manager admitted. “But that’s your funeral. If
you wish to see our books, I shall be pleased to facilitate you in
every way I can.”
French thanked him and a few minutes later was hard at work under the
guidance of a clerk going through interminable lists of names and
addresses. For two hours he kept on steadily, then suddenly surprised
his companion by giving a muttered curse. He had come on a name which
dashed all his hopes and showed him that his one clue was a wash out.
The item read:—
“Oct. 6th. Pierce Whymper, Oaklands, Bolton Road, Leeds,—£16 8s. 4d.”
“Curse it!” French thought. “There goes all my work! There’s where the
twenty-pound note came from all right. That young man has been out at
Starvel before the fire and Averill has given him the note for some
purpose of his own.”
French was disgusted. Though he had known his clue was weak, he had,
nevertheless, subconsciously been building on it, and now that it was
gone he felt correspondingly at a loss. However, thoroughness before
all things! He continued his study of the books, working through the
period until he reached the end, but nowhere else did he get any hint
of a possible connection with the tragedy.
But the same habit of thoroughness prevented his dropping the matter
until he had explored its every possibility. He asked the clerk to
take him once again to the manager.
“Your kind help, sir, and this young gentleman’s, have not been
wasted,” he began. “I’ve almost certainly got the man who gave you the
note. Unfortunately, however, he turns out to be some one who could
have obtained it from its owner in a perfectly legitimate way. So I
fear its usefulness as a clue is nil. At the same time I should like
to follow up the transaction and make quite sure it is all right. It
is this one that I have marked—name of Whymper.”
“Fortunately,” the manager answered, “that is an easier proposition
than the last.” He directed the clerk to conduct French to a Mr.
Bankes. “Mr. Bankes will give you details about that case,” he went
on, “and if there is anything further you require, just come back to
me.”
Mr. Bankes proved most willing to assist, and in a few moments the
whole of the transactions between Mr. Pierce Whymper of the one part
and Messrs. Thos. Cook & Son of the other part, stood revealed. They
were as follows:—
On Saturday, 18th September, the day of the inquest at Thirsby,
Whymper had written to ask the cost of a second class return ticket
from London to Talloires, near Annecy, Savoy, and to know if a
passport would be necessary for the journey, and if so, where such was
to be obtained. This letter was received at Cook’s on Monday evening
and replied to on Tuesday 21st. Two days later Whymper wrote asking
Messrs. Cook to provide the tickets as well as various coupons for
meals, etc., en route, which, he said, he would call for on the
afternoon of Wednesday, October 6th. He evidently had done so, as on
that date a receipt had been made out to him for the £16 8s. 4d.
“What was the route covered?” French inquired.
“Dover-Calais, Paris Nord, Paris P.L.M., Bourg, Amberieu, Culoz, and
Aix-les-bains. Return the same way. Meals on the outward journey were
included as well as three days’ pension at the Hotel Splendide,
Annecy.”
“I don’t know Annecy at all. What kind of place is it?”
“Delightful little town on the lake of the same name. A tourist place,
becoming better known in recent years. I could recommend it for any
one who liked a fairly quiet change.”
“But surely October is too late for it?”
“Well, yes, it’s rather late. Still, I have no doubt it would be
pleasant enough even then.”
Next day French travelled back to Thirsby. He was in a very despondent
frame of mind, for he did not see a single clue or line of inquiry
which might lead to the solution of his case. He would, of course,
interview Whymper and follow up the affair of the bank note, but he
felt certain that the young man had obtained it in a legitimate way,
and that his inquiries would lead nowhere.
From the talkative Miss Judith Carr, the barmaid at the Thirsby Arms,
French learned that Whymper had lodgings on the outskirts of the town,
at 12 Stanhope Terrace, and when dusk had fallen he went out to make
the young man’s acquaintance.
Whymper was at work on some plans when French was shown into his
sitting-room. He was a typical, healthy-looking Englishman of the
upper middle class. French observed him with some favour, as not at
all the type to be mixed up in criminal enterprises. He rose on
French’s entry, and with a slight look of surprise, indicated an
arm-chair at the fire.
“Mr. Pierce Whymper?” French began with his pleasant smile. “My name
is French, and I called to see you on a small matter in which I am
going to ask your kind help.”
Whymper murmured encouragingly.
“I must explain in the very strictest confidence,” French went on,
glancing searchingly at the other, “that I am an inspector in the
Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, and it is in
connection with an investigation I am making that I want your
assistance.”
As he spoke French had been watching his companion, not with inimical
intent, but as a matter of mere habit. He was surprised and interested
to notice a look of apprehension amounting almost to fear in the young
man’s eyes, while his face paled perceptibly, and he moved uneasily in
his seat. French decided at once to be more careful in his examination
than he had intended.
“I have been,” he resumed, “working at Messrs. Cook’s office in Regent
Street. I need not go into details, but there has been a robbery, and
they have been handling some of the stolen money. Your name appeared
among others who had been dealing with them during the period in
question, and I am trying to find out if you or these others could
unwittingly have passed in the money.”
That Whymper was experiencing considerable relief French was sure. He
did not reply, but nodded expectantly.
“I can ask everything I want in a single question.” French’s voice was
friendly and matter of fact, though he watched the other intently.
“Where did you get the twenty-pound note with which you paid for your
trip to Annecy?”
Whymper started and the signs of uneasiness showed tenfold more
strongly.
“Where did I get it?” he stammered, while French noted the admission
his bluff had drawn. “Why, I couldn’t tell you. I had it for a
considerable time. It probably came in my pay.”
“You get your pay in notes?” French’s voice was stern.
“Well, sometimes—that is, I may have got the note from my father. He
makes me an allowance.” The young man twisted nervously in his chair
and gave every sign of embarrassment. French, whose experience of
statement makers was profound, said to himself: “The man’s lying.”
It did not occur to him that this thoroughly normal looking youth
could be guilty of the Starvel Hollow crime, but it suddenly seemed
possible that he might know something about it.
“I should like you to think carefully, Mr. Whymper. The matter is more
serious than perhaps you realise. You handed Messrs. Cook a stolen
twenty-pound note. I am not suggesting that you stole it or that you
are in any way to blame for passing it. But you must tell me where you
got it. You cannot expect me to believe that you don’t know.
Twenty-pound notes are too uncommon for that.”
Rather to French’s surprise the young man began once more to show
relief.
“But that’s what I must tell you, Inspector,” he declared, but he did
not meet French’s eye, and again the other felt he was lying. “I have
had that note for a long time and I don’t really remember how it came
into my possession.”
“Now, Mr. Whymper, as a friend I should urge you to think again. I am
not making any threats, but it may become very awkward for you if you
persist in that statement. Think it over. I assure you it will be
worth your while.”
French spoke coaxingly and the other promised he would try to
remember. He seemed to French like a man who felt he had been exposed
to a danger which was now happily past. But if he thought he had got
rid of his visitor he was mistaken.
“When were you last at Starvel, Mr. Whymper?”
At this question Whymper seemed to crumple up. He stared at his
questioner with an expression of something very like horror. When he
answered it was almost in a whisper.
“The day after the fire. I have not been there since.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, when were you last there before the fire?”
Whymper’s composure was coming back. He seemed to be nerving himself
for a struggle. He spoke more normally.
“Really, I couldn’t tell you, Inspector. It was a long time ago. I was
only there half a dozen times in my life. Once it was by Miss
Averill’s invitation, the other times on the chance of seeing her.”
“Were you there within a week of the fire?”
“Oh no. The last time was long before that.”
“Had you any communication with Mr. Averill—I mean within a week of
the fire?”
“No. I never had any communication with Mr. Averill. I have never seen
him.”
“Or with any one in the household; either by letter, telegram,
telephone, personal interview or in any other way whatever?”
“Yes. I met Miss Averill accidentally on the day before the fire. Mrs.
Oxley, the wife of a solicitor here, came round to the church where I
am working to see about some stones she was buying, and Miss Averill
was with her. Miss Averill was on her way to stay with some friends
and I saw her to the station.”
“Did she give you the twenty-pound note?”
“She did nothing of the kind,” Whymper returned with some heat.
“Was Miss Averill the only member of the Starvel household with whom
you communicated during the week before the fire?”
Whymper hesitated and appeared to be thinking.
“Well, Mr. Whymper?”
“I met Roper, Mr. Averill’s valet and general man, for a moment on the
evening of the fire. We met by chance and merely wished each other
good-evening.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“On the street just outside the church gate. I was leaving work for
the night.”
“At what hour was that?”
“About half-past five.”
“And do you assure me that you had no other communication with any
member of the Starvel household during the period in question?”
“None.”
“Nor received any message through any third party?”
“No.”
“Well, Mr. Whymper, it is only fair to tell you that the note in
question was in Mr. Averill’s safe five days before the fire. You will
have to explain how it came into your possession, if not to me, then
later on in court. Now think,” French’s voice was suave and coaxing,
“would you not rather tell me here in private than have it dragged out
of you in the witness box?”
“I would tell you at once, Mr. French, if I had anything to tell, but
I’ve nothing. There must be some mistake about the note. The one I
gave to Messrs. Cook couldn’t possibly have been in Mr. Averill’s safe
at any time.”
The words sounded reasonable, but Whymper’s manner discounted them.
More than ever was French convinced that the man was lying. He pressed
him as hard as he could, but Whymper stuck to his story and nothing
that French could say shook him. French, of course, could only bluff.
He was quite unable to prove that Whymper had really passed the stolen
note, and though he believed he had done so, he fully realised that he
might be mistaken.
Recognising he had failed for the moment, French set himself to calm
the other’s anxieties before taking his leave. He pretended to accept
the young man’s statement, saying he was afraid his journey had proved
a wild-goose chase, and that he would now have to interview the other
persons whose names he had obtained from Cook’s. Whether his efforts
were successful he wasn’t sure, but the look of relief on Whymper’s
face made him think so. Outwardly at all events both men seemed to
consider the incident closed when, after French had again warned the
other as to secrecy, they bade each other good-night.
But to French it was very far indeed from being closed. He saw that
the matter must be probed to the bottom. There was, however, nothing
he could do that night except to take one obvious precaution. Whymper
must be watched, and going to the police station he surprised Sergeant
Kent considerably by asking him to put the young man under careful
surveillance.
This precaution was a bow drawn at a venture, but to French’s surprise
and delight, on the very next day it proved that the arrow had found
its way between the joints of Whymper’s harness. While he was
breakfasting a note was brought to him from Kent. In it the sergeant
said that as a result of the order to put a watch on Whymper,
Constable Sheldrake had made a statement which he, Kent, thought the
inspector should hear. Sheldrake said that on the evening of the fire
he had spent a couple of his free hours in taking a walk in the
direction of Starvel with a friend of his, a young lady. Between
half-past nine and ten the two were approaching the junction where the
Starvel lane diverged from the road which circled round the outside of
the hollow, when they heard steps approaching. Not wishing to be
observed, they had slipped behind some bushes, and they had seen a man
coming from the Starvel lane. He had passed close to them, and by the
light of the moon Constable Sheldrake had not only recognised Whymper,
but had seen that his face bore an expression of horror and distress.
At the time there was no suspicion either of Whymper or of foul play
at Starvel, and the constable, not wishing to be chaffed about the
girl, had not mentioned the matter. But now he believed it to be his
duty to come forward with his report.
Here was food for thought. The Starvel lane after passing through the
Hollow almost petered out. As a rough track it wound on past one or
two isolated cottages, debouching at last into a cross road some four
miles farther on. It was therefore most unlikely that Whymper could
have been coming from anywhere except Starvel. But if he had been
coming from Starvel he had lied, as he had stated that he had not been
there within a week of the fire.
This fact made French’s next step all the more imperative. He went
down to the police station and saw Kent.
“Look here, sergeant,” he explained, “I want to search that young
man’s rooms and I want your help. Will you do two things for me?
First, I want you to find out at what time he goes home in the evening
and let me know, and second to make some pretext to keep him half an
hour later than usual at the church to-night. Can you manage that?”
“Of course, Mr. French. You may count on me.”
Kent was as good as his word. When French returned to the hotel in the
afternoon a note was waiting for him, saying that Whymper always
reached home about six. Accordingly ten minutes before six found
French once more knocking at the door of 12 Stanhope Terrace.
“Has Mr. Whymper come back yet?” he asked the stout, good-humoured
looking landlady.
She recognised her visitor of the night before and smiled.
“Not yet, sir. But he won’t be long. Will you come in and wait?”
This was what French wanted. It was better that she should suggest it
than he. He paused doubtfully.
“Thanks,” he said at last, “perhaps it would be better if you think he
won’t be long.”
“He might be here any time. Will you go up, sir? You know your way.”
French thanked her and slowly mounted the stairs. But once in
Whymper’s sitting-room with the door shut behind him his deliberation
dropped from him like a cloak and he became the personification of
swift efficiency. Noiselessly he turned the key in the lock and then
quickly but silently began a search of the room.
It was furnished rather more comfortably than the average
lodging-house sitting room, though it retained its family resemblance
to the dreary species. In the centre was a table on half of which was
a more or less white cloth and the preparations for a meal. Two
dining-room chairs and two easy chairs, one without arms, represented
the seating accommodations. A sideboard, a corner cabinet laden with
nondescript ornaments, a china dog and a few books, together with a
small modern roll-top desk completed the furniture. On the walls were
pictures, a royal family group of the early eighties and some
imaginative views of sailing ships labouring on stormy seas. A gilt
clock with a bell glass cover stood on the chimney-piece between a
pair of china vases containing paper flowers.
French immediately realised that of all these objects, only the desk
was of interest to him. It was evidently Whymper’s private property,
and in its locked drawers would lie any secret documents the young man
might possess. Silently French got to work with his bunch of skeleton
keys and a little apparatus of steel wire, and in two or three minutes
he was able to push the lid gently up. This released the drawers, and
one by one he drew them out and ran through their contents.
He had examined rather more than half when he pursed his lips together
and gave vent to a soundless whistle. In a small but bulky envelope at
the back of one of the drawers was a roll of banknotes. He drew them
out and counted them. They were all twenties. Twenty-four of
them—£480.
With something approaching excitement French took from his pocket the
list given him by Tarkington of the numbers of twenty-pound notes sent
to Starvel. A few seconds sufficed to compare. Every single one of the
twenty-four was on the list!
CHAPTER SIX
Talloires, Lac D’Annecy
Having noted the twenty-four numbers, French hurriedly replaced the
notes and with even more speed looked through the remaining drawers.
He was now chiefly anxious that Whymper should not suspect his
discovery, and as soon as he was satisfied that he had left no traces
of his search, he silently unlocked the door and then walked noisily
downstairs. As he reached the hall the landlady appeared from the
kitchen.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said politely, “that I cannot wait any longer
now. I have another appointment. Please tell Mr. Whymper that I’ll
call to see him at the church to-morrow.”
The door closed behind him, but he made no attempt to return to the
hotel. Instead he hung about the terrace until he saw Whymper
approaching in the distance: Then walking towards him, he hailed him
as if their meeting was accidental.
“Good-evening, Mr. Whymper. I’ve just been calling at your rooms to
ask if you could see me at the church to-morrow. One or two points
occurred to me in connection with our discussion of last night, and I
wanted to get your views on them. Unfortunately I have an appointment
to-night, and cannot wait now.”
Whymper, evidently not too pleased at the prospect, curtly admitted he
would be available, and with a short “Good-night,” passed on.
French went his way also, but when in a few seconds the shadowing
constable put in an appearance, he stopped him.
“Look here, Hughes. I have a suspicion that Whymper may try to get rid
of some papers to-night. Be specially careful if you see him trying to
do anything of the kind, and let me hear from you about it in the
morning.”
He reached the hotel and in his pleasant way had a leisurely chat with
the landlord before turning in. But when once he reached his room for
the night he lit a cigar and settled down to see just where he stood.
It was obvious in the first place that the evidence which he had
obtained against Pierce Whymper would have been considered by most
police officers sufficient to justify an arrest. To find a man
suspected of the theft with the stolen property in his possession was
usually reckoned an overwhelming proof of his guilt. And if to this be
added the fact that the accused was seen in the neighbourhood of the
crime about the time of its commission, having previously denied being
there, and further, that his whole bearing when questioned was evasive
and embarrassed, any lingering doubt might well have been swept away.
But French was not wholly satisfied. A ripe experience had made him an
almost uncanny judge of character and he felt a strong impression that
Pierce Whymper was not of the stuff of which thieves and murderers are
made. That the young man knew something about the crime he had no
doubt; that he was guilty of it he was not so certain.
He racked his brains as to whether there was no other statement of
Whymper’s which he could check. Then he remembered that the young
architect had admitted having seen Roper on the afternoon of the
tragedy. This was a point of contact with Starvel, and French wondered
whether more might not have passed between the two men than Whymper
had divulged. He decided that it would be worth while trying to find
out.
According to his own statement Whymper had met Roper outside the
church gate at about 5.30 on the evening in question. Next morning
French therefore strolled to the church, and getting into conversation
with one of the workmen, learned that the sexton was usually waiting
to lock up when the men left at 5.15. From the notice board he learned
the sexton’s address, ran him to earth and explained that he wished to
speak to him confidentially.
To his customary story of the insurance company who wished to discover
the cause of the Starvel fire he added some slight embroidery. At the
inquest a suggestion was made of contributory negligence—in other
words, drink—and his instructions were to find out what he could about
this possibility.
Now he had heard that Roper was seen outside the church gate about
5.30 on the afternoon of the tragedy and he, French, wondered whether
the sexton might not have noticed him when locking up.
It was a long shot, but rather to French’s surprise, it got a bull’s
eye. The sexton had seen Mr. Roper. Mr. Whymper, the young gentleman
in charge of the renovation, had been ten or fifteen minutes late
finishing up that evening and he, the sexton, had waited by the gate
till he should leave. While there he had noticed Roper. The man seemed
to be hanging about as if waiting for some one, and when Mr. Whymper
appeared, Roper went up and spoke to him. The two men talked together
as if Roper were delivering a message, then they separated, walking
off in opposite directions. They talked, the sexton was sure, for two
or three minutes. No, he did not observe the slightest sign of drink
on Mr. Roper. As a matter of fact the man wished him good-evening and
he could swear he was then perfectly sober.
“Well, I’m glad to know that,” French declared, “though I suppose it
is really against my company. But I expect we shall have to pay in any
case. Now, I think I’d best see this Mr. Whymper you speak of, and get
his confirmation of your views.”
“You’ll find him in the church, probably in the north transept where
they’re rebuilding the window.”
French did not, however, go immediately to the north transept of the
church. Instead he found his way to the residence of a certain Colonel
Followes, a prominent magistrate with a reputation for discretion,
whose name had been given him by Sergeant Kent. He took the colonel
into his confidence, made the necessary formal statement and obtained
a warrant for the arrest of Pierce Whymper. Whether or not he would
execute it would depend on the young man’s answers to his further
questions, but he wished to be able to do so if, at the time, it
seemed wise.
Returning to the church, French found his quarry superintending the
resetting of the stone mullions of the beautiful north transept
window. He waited until the young man was free, then said that he
would be glad if they could now have their talk.
“Come into the vestry room,” Whymper returned. “I use it as an office
and we won’t be disturbed.”
Of all the sights which the groined roof of the old vestry had looked
down on during the three centuries of its existence, none perhaps was
so out of keeping with the character of the place as this interview
between a detective of the C.I.D. and the man whom he half suspected
of murder, arson, and burglary. And yet there was nothing dramatic
about their conversation. French spoke quietly, as if their business
was everyday and matter of fact. Whymper, though he was evidently
under strain, gave none of the evidence of apprehension he had
exhibited on the previous evening. Rather had he the air of a man who
feared no surprise as he had braced himself to meet the worst. He
waited in silence for the other to begin.
“I am sorry, Mr. Whymper,” French said at last, “to have to return to
the subject we discussed last night, but since then further facts have
come to my knowledge which render it necessary. I think it right to
tell you that these facts suggest that you may be guilty of a number
of extremely serious crimes. I am, however, aware that facts,
improperly understood, may be misleading, and I wish, therefore, to
give you an opportunity of explaining the matters which seem to
incriminate you. I would like to ask you a number of questions, but
before I do so I must warn you that if your answers are unsatisfactory
I must arrest you, and then anything you have said may be used in
evidence against you.”
Whymper had paled slightly while the other was speaking. “I shall try
to answer your questions,” he said in a low voice, and French
resumed:—
“The main question is, of course, the one I asked you last night:
Where did you get the twenty-pound note with which you paid Messrs.
Cook? You needn’t tell me that you don’t know. Apart from the
improbability of that I have absolute proof that you know quite well.
Now, Mr. Whymper, if you are innocent you have nothing to fear. Tell
me the truth. I can promise you I will give your statement every
consideration.”
“I have already explained that I don’t know where the note came from.”
French paused, frowning and looking inquiringly at the other.
“Very well,” he said at last, “let us leave it at that for the moment.
Now tell me: Did you receive any other money from Mr. Averill or Miss
Averill, or Roper or Mrs. Roper within three or four days of the
fire?”
“None.”
“There was a matter of a certain £500. It was in Mr. Averill’s safe
four days before the fire. All but twenty pounds of it was in your
possession last night. Now where did you obtain that money?”
In spite of his being prepared for the worst, Whymper seemed
completely taken aback by the question. He did not answer, but sat
staring at the Inspector, while an expression of utter hopelessness
grew on his face. French went on:—
“You see, Mr. Whymper, I know all about your having that money. And I
know that you were at Starvel on the night of the fire. I know also
that your interview with Roper outside the church on that same evening
involved a good deal more than a mere exchange of good-nights. Come
now, I want to give you the chance of making a statement, but I don’t
want to press you. If you would like to reserve your replies until you
have consulted your solicitor, by all means do so. But in that case I
shall have to take you into custody.”
For some moments Whymper did not speak. He seemed overcome by French’s
words and unable to reach a decision. French did not hurry him. He had
sized up his man and he believed he would presently get his
information. But at last, as Whymper remained silent, he said more
sternly:—
“Come now, Mr. Whymper, you’ll have to make up your mind, you know.”
His words seemed to break the spell and Whymper replied. He spoke
earnestly and without any of the evidences of prevarication which had
marked his previous statements. “The truth this time,” said French to
himself, and he settled down to listen, thinking that if the other
really had a satisfactory explanation of his conduct, it was going to
be worth hearing.
“I wanted to keep this matter secret,” Whymper began, “for quite
personal reasons. The £500 you speak of, of which the money I paid to
Cook was a part, was not stolen. It never occurred to me to imagine I
could be accused of stealing it. I don’t see now what makes you think
I did. However, I see that I must tell you the truth so far as I can
and I may begin by admitting that what I have said up to now was not
the truth.”
French nodded in approval.
“That’s better, Mr. Whymper. I am glad you are taking this line.
Believe me, you will find it the best for yourself.”
“I’m afraid I can’t take any credit for it. I needn’t pretend I would
have told you if I could have helped myself. However, this is what
happened:—
“On that Wednesday evening of the fire, as I left the church about
half-past five, I saw Roper outside the gate. He seemed to be waiting
for me and he came up and said he had a message for me from Mr.
Averill. Mr. Averill wasn’t very well or he would have written, but he
wanted to see me on very urgent and secret business. Roper asked could
I come out that night to Starvel and see Mr. Averill, without
mentioning my visit to any one. I said I should be out there shortly
after eight o’clock, and we parted.”
Again French nodded. This was a good beginning. So far it covered the
facts.
“I walked out as I had promised. Roper opened the door. He showed me
into the drawing-room and asked me to wait until he had informed Mr.
Averill. He was absent for several minutes and then he came back to
say that Mr. Averill was extremely sorry, but he was feeling too ill
to see me. He had, however, written me a note, and Roper handed me a
bulky envelope.
“I was fairly surprised when I opened it for it contained banknotes,
and when I counted them I was more surprised still. There were
twenty-five of them and they were all for £20: no less than £500
altogether. There was a note with them. I don’t remember the exact
words, but Mr. Averill said he was sorry he was too unwell to
undertake what must be a painful interview, that he didn’t wish to put
the facts in writing, that Roper was entirely in his confidence in the
matter and would explain it, and that as I should want money for what
he was going to ask me to do, he was enclosing £500, to which he would
add a further sum if I found I required it.
“Roper then went on to tell me a certain story. I can only say that it
is quite impossible for me to repeat it, but it involved a visit to
France. Mr. Averill would have preferred to have gone himself, but he
was too old and frail, and he could not spare Roper. He asked me would
I undertake it for him. The money was for my expenses, if I would go.
The matter was, however, very confidential, and this I could see for
myself.
“I agreed to go to France, and took the notes. I left Starvel about
half-past nine, and walked back to my rooms. Next day came the news of
the tragedy. This put me in a difficulty as to the mission to France.
But I saw that my duty would be to go just as if Mr. Averill was still
alive. So I went, as you seem to know, but I was unable to carry out
the work Mr. Averill had wished me to do. Instead, therefore, of
spending four or five hundred pounds as I had expected to, the trip
only cost me my travelling expenses, and I was left with £480 of Mr.
Averill’s money on my hands. At first I thought I had better hand it
over to Mr. Oxley, Mr. Averill’s solicitor, but afterwards I decided
to keep it and go out again to France and have another try at the
business.”
French was puzzled by the story. It certainly hung together and it
certainly was consistent with all the facts he had learned from other
sources. Moreover, Whymper’s manner was now quite different. He spoke
convincingly and French felt inclined to believe him. On the other
hand, all that he had said could have been very easily invented. If he
persisted in his refusal to disclose his business in France, French
felt he could not officially accept his statement.
“That may be all very well, Mr. Whymper,” he said. “I admit that what
you have told me may be perfectly true. I am not saying whether I
myself believe it or not, but I will say this, that no jury on the
face of this earth would believe it. Moreover, as it stands, your
story cannot be tested. You must tell the whole of it. You must say
what was the mission Mr. Averill asked you to undertake in France. If
I can satisfy myself about it there is no need for any one else to
know. Now, be advised, and since you have gone so far, complete your
statement.”
The hopeless look settled once more on Whymper’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he said despondently. “I can’t. It’s not my secret.”
“But Mr. Averill is now dead. That surely makes a difference. Besides,
it is impossible that he could wish to get you into the most serious
trouble any man could be in because of even a criminal secret. Tell me
in confidence, Mr. Whymper. I’ll promise not to use the information
unless it is absolutely necessary.”
Whymper shook his head. “I can’t tell,” he repeated.
French’s tone became a trifle sterner.
“I wonder if you quite understand the position. It has been
established that some person or persons went to Starvel on the evening
we are speaking of, murdered Mr. Averill and Roper and his wife,”
Whymper gave an exclamation of dismay, “stole Mr. Averill’s fortune
and then set fire to the house. So far as we know, you alone visited
the house that night, some of the stolen money was found in your
possession, and when I give you the chance of accounting for your
actions, you don’t take it. Do you not understand, Mr. Whymper, that
if you persist in this foolish attitude you will be charged with
murder?”
Whymper’s face had become ghastly and an expression of absolute horror
appeared on his features. For a moment he sat motionless, and then he
looked French straight in the face.
“It’s not my secret. I can’t tell you,” he declared with a sudden show
of energy and then sank back into what seemed the lethargy of despair.
French was more puzzled than ever. The facts looked as bad as
possible, and yet if Whymper’s tale were true, he might be absolutely
innocent. And French’s inclination was to believe the story so far as
it went. The secret might be something discreditable affecting, not
Mr. but Miss Averill, which would account for the man’s refusal to
reveal it. On the other hand could Whymper be hiding information about
the Starvel crime? Was he even shielding the murderer? Could he,
learning what had occurred and finding proof of the murderer’s
identity, have himself set fire to the house with the object of
destroying the evidence? Somehow, French did not think he was himself
the murderer, but if he knew the identity of the criminal he was an
accessory after the fact and guilty to that extent.
Whether or not he should arrest the young man was to French a problem
which grew in difficulty the longer he considered it. On the whole, he
was against it. If Whymper turned out to be innocent such a step
would, of course, be a serious blunder, but even if he were guilty
there were objections to it. Arrest might prevent him from doing
something by which he would give himself away or at least indicate the
correct line of research. Free, but with arrest hanging over him, the
man would in all probability attempt to communicate with his
accomplice—if he had one—and so give a hint of the latter’s identity.
French made up his mind.
“I have more than enough evidence to arrest you now,” he said gravely,
“but I am anxious first to put your story to a further test. I will,
therefore, for the present only put you under police supervision. If
you can see your way to complete your statement, I may be able to
withdraw the supervision. By the way, have you got the note Mr.
Averill enclosed with the £500?”
“Yes, it is in my rooms.”
“Then come along to your rooms now and give it to me. You had better
hand over the notes also, for which, of course, I’ll give you a
receipt. I shall also want a photograph of yourself and a sample of
your handwriting.”
When French reached the hotel he took out some samples of Mr.
Averill’s handwriting which he had obtained from Mr. Tarkington and
compared them with that of Whymper’s note. But he saw at a glance that
there was nothing abnormal here. All were obviously by the same hand.
That evening after racking his brains over his problem it was borne in
on him that a visit to Annecy was his only remaining move. It was not
hopeful, but as he put it to himself, you never knew. He felt there
was nothing more to be learned at Thirsby, but he _might_ find
something at Annecy which would give him a lead.
He saw Sergeant Kent and urged him to keep a close watch on Whymper’s
movements, then next day he went up to town and put the case before
Chief Inspector Mitchell. That astute gentleman smiled when he heard
it.
“Another trip to the Continent, eh, French?” he observed dryly. “Fond
of foreign travel, aren’t you?”
“It’s what you say, sir,” French answered, considerably abashed. “I
admit it’s not hopeful, but it’s just a possibility. However, if you
think it best I shall go back to Thirsby, and——”
“Pulling your leg, French,” the Chief Inspector broke in with a kindly
smile. “I think you should go to France. You mayn’t learn anything
about the tragedy, but you’re pretty certain to find out Whymper’s
business and either convict him or clear him in your mind.”
That evening at 8.30 French left Victoria and early next morning
reached Paris. Crossing the city, he bathed and breakfasted at the
Gare de Lyon, and taking the 8.10 a.m. express, spent the day watching
the great central plain of France roll past the carriage windows. For
an hour or two after starting they skirted the Seine, a placid, well
wooded stream garnished with little towns and pleasant villas. Then
through the crumpled up country north of Dijon and across more plains,
past Bourg and Amberieu and through the foothills of the Alps to Culoz
and Aix. At Aix French changed, completing his journey on a little
branch line and reaching Annecy just in time for dinner. He drove to
the Splendid, where Whymper had stayed, a large hotel looking out
across a wide street at the side of which came up what looked like a
river, but which he afterwards found was an arm of the lake. Scores of
little boats lay side by side at the steps along the road, and on the
opposite side of the water stood a great building which he saw was the
theatre, with behind it, the trees of a park.
After dinner French asked for the manager, and producing his
photograph of Whymper, inquired if any one resembling it had recently
stayed at the hotel. But yes, the manager remembered his guest’s
friend perfectly. He had stayed, he could not say how long from
memory, but he would consult the register. Would monsieur be so
amiable as to follow him? Yes, here it was. M. Whymper?—was it not so?
M. Whymper had arrived on Friday the 8th of October and had stayed for
three nights, leaving on Monday the 11th. No, the manager could not
tell what his business had been nor how he had employed his time.
Doubtless he had gone on the lake. To go on the lake was very
agreeable. All the hotel guests went on the lake. By steamer, yes. You
could go to the end of the lake in one hour, and round it in between
two and three. But yes! A lake of the greatest beauty.
French had not expected to learn more than this from the manager. He
remembered that in his original letter to Cook Whymper had asked for
Talloires, and he now spoke of the place. Talloires, it appeared, was
a small village on the east side of the lake, rather more than
half-way down. A picturesque spot, the manager assured him, with no
less than three hotels. If monsieur wished to visit it he should take
the steamer. All the steamers called.
Next morning accordingly French took the steamer from the pleasant
little Quay alongside the park. French thought the lake less lovely
than that of Thun, but still the scenery was very charming. High hills
rose up steeply from the water, particularly along the eastern side,
while towards the south he could see across the ends of valleys snow
peaks hanging in the sky. Villas and little hamlets nestled in the
trees along the shore.
Right opposite the pier at Talloires was a big hotel and there French,
having ordered a drink, began to make inquiries. But no one had seen
the original of the photograph, or recollected hearing a name like
Whymper.
Another large hotel was standing close by, and French strolled towards
it beneath a grove of fine old trees which grew down to the water’s
edge. This hotel building had been a monastery and French enjoyed
sauntering through the old cloisters, which he was told, formed the
_salle à manger_ during the hot weather.
Having done justice to an excellent _dejeuner_, he returned to
business, producing his photograph and asking his questions. And here
he met with immediate success. Both the waiter who attended him and
the manager remembered Whymper. The young architect had, it appeared,
asked to see the manager and had inquired if he knew where in the
neighbourhood a M. Prosper Giraud had lived. When the manager replied
that no such person had been there while he had been manager—over five
years—Whymper had been extremely disconcerted. He had then asked if a
Mme. Madeleine Blancquart was known, and on again receiving a negative
reply, had been more upset than ever. He had left after lunch and the
manager had heard that he had repeated his questions to the police.
In ten minutes French was at the local gendarmerie, where he learned
that not only had Whymper made the same inquiries, but had offered a
reward of 5000 francs for information as to the whereabouts of either
of the mysterious couple. Interrogations on the same point had been
received from the police at Annecy, so presumably Whymper had visited
them also.
This supposition French confirmed on returning to the little town.
Whymper had made his inquiries and offered his reward there also and
had seemed terribly disappointed by his failure to locate the people.
He had left his address and begged that if either of the persons was
heard of a wire should be sent him immediately.
As French made his way back to London he felt that in one sense his
journey had not been wasted. Whymper’s actions seemed on the whole to
confirm his story. French did not believe he would have had the guile
to travel out all that way, and to show such feeling over a failure to
find purely imaginary people. He felt sure that M. Prosper Giraud and
Mme. Madeleine Blancquart did really exist and that Mr. Averill had
mentioned them. If Whymper had invented these people he would have
spoken of them so that his inquiries might be discovered in
confirmation of his statement. If Whymper, moreover, had had
sufficient imagination to devise such a story, he would certainly have
had enough to complete it in a convincing manner.
The more French considered the whole affair, the more likely he
thought it that there really was a secret in the Averill family, a
secret so important or so sinister that Whymper was willing to chance
arrest rather than reveal it. And if so, it could concern but one
person. Surely for Ruth Averill alone would the young man run such a
risk. And then French remembered that until the fire, that was, until
Whymper’s visit to Starvel, the courtship of the young people had been
going strong, whereas after the tragedy the affair had seemed at a
standstill. There was some secret vitally affecting Ruth. French felt
he could swear it. And what form would such a secret be likely to
take? French determined that on his return he would make some guarded
inquiries as to the girl’s parentage.
But when he reached London he found a fresh development had taken
place, and his thoughts for some time to come were led into a
completely new channel.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Posthumous Evidence
The cause of Inspector French’s change of outlook on the Starvel case
was a note from Sergeant Kent which was waiting for him on his arrival
at Scotland Yard. The sergeant wrote enclosing a letter addressed to
“The Heirs or Assigns of the late Mr. John Roper, Starvel, Thirsby,
Yorkshire, W.R.” The postmaster, he explained, had shown it to him,
asking him if he knew to whom it should be forwarded. Though he did
not suppose it could have anything to do with the tragedy, the
sergeant thought that French should see it.
“No good,” French thought. “Nothing to me.” Nevertheless he slit open
the envelope and withdrew the contents.
It was a letter headed “The Metropolitan Safe Deposit Co., Ltd., 25b
King William Street, City,” and read as follows:—
“Dear Sir or Madam,—We beg to remind you that the late Mr. John Roper
of Starvel, Thirsby, Yorkshire, W.R., was the holder of a small safe
in our strongrooms. The rent of the safe, 30/- (thirty shillings stg.)
is now due, and we should be glad to receive this sum from you or
alternatively to have your instructions as to disposal of its
contents.
“Yours faithfully,
“For The Metropolitan Safe Deposit Co., Ltd.”
To French it seemed a rather unusual thing that a man in Roper’s
position should require the services of a safe deposit company. He
could not but feel a certain curiosity regarding the object which
required such careful guarding. As things were he supposed he had as
much right as anybody to deal with the affair, and as it was but a
short distance to King William Street, he decided he would go down and
investigate.
Half an hour later he was explaining the position to the manager. As
far as was known, Roper had no relatives or heirs. His safe would
therefore be given up, and on behalf of Scotland Yard, he, French,
would take charge of its contents.
The contents in question proved to be a small sealed envelope, and
when French had once again reached the seclusion of his own office he
tore it open and ran his eye over its enclosure. As he did so his eyes
grew round and he gave vent to a low, sustained whistle. To say that
he was at that moment the most astonished man in London would be a
very inadequate description of his sensations.
The enclosure consisted of a single sheet of gray note paper with an
address, “Braeside, Kintillock, Fife,” printed in small embossed
letters at the top. One side was covered with writing, a man’s hand,
cultivated, but somewhat tremulous. It read:—
15_th_ _May_, 1921.
“I, Herbert Philpot, doctor of medicine and at present assistant on
the staff of the Ransome Institute in this town, under compulsion
and in the hope of avoiding exposure, hereby remorsefully confess
that I am guilty of attempting the death of my wife, Edna Philpot,
by arranging that she should meet with an accident, and when this
merely rendered her unconscious, of killing her by striking her on
the temple with a cricket bat. I do not state my overwhelming sorrow
and despair, for these are beyond words.
“May God have mercy on me,
“Herbert Philpot.”
French swore in amazement as he read this extraordinary document. Dr.
Herbert Philpot! Surely that was the Thirsby doctor? He turned to his
notes of the case. Yes, the name was Herbert all right. Presumably it
was the same man. At all events it would be easy to find out.
But what under the sun did the document mean? Was it really a
statement of fact, a genuine confession of murder, written by Philpot?
If so, how had it fallen into the hands of Roper, and what had the man
been keeping it for? Had he been blackmailing Philpot? Or was the
whole thing a forgery? French was completely puzzled.
But it was evident that the matter could not be left where it stood.
It must be gone into and its monstrous suggestion must be proved or
rebutted.
French’s hand stole toward his pocket and half unconsciously he filled
and lit his pipe, puffing out clouds of blue smoke while he thought
over this latest development. _If_ the confession were genuine and
_if_ Roper were blackmailing Philpot, Philpot would want to get rid of
Roper. Could it therefore be possible that Philpot was in some way
mixed up with the Starvel crime? Not personally of course; there was
medical evidence that the doctor was ill in bed at the time of the
tragedy. But could he be involved in some way that French could not at
the moment fathom? It seemed too far-fetched to consider seriously,
and yet here was undoubtedly a connection with Roper of the most
extraordinary kind.
But this was sheer idiocy! French pulled himself together. An
inspector of his service ought to know better than to jump to
conclusions! Hadn’t bitter experience again and again taught him its
folly? Let him get hold of his data first.
And then French recalled the statement of the landlord of the
Thirsdale Arms in Thirsby. He had taken all that the landlord had said
with a grain of salt—gossips were seldom entirely reliable—but if
Philpot _had_ been gambling to the extent of embarrassing himself
financially. . . . It was worth looking into anyway.
Obviously the first thing was to make sure that the Philpot of the
confession really was the Thirsby doctor. This at least was easy. He
sent for a medical directory and traced the Thirsby man’s career. A
few seconds gave him his information.
Herbert Philpot was born in 1887, making him now 39 years old. He
passed through Edinburgh University, taking his final in 1909. For a
year he was at sea and for two more years he worked in one of the
Edinburgh hospitals. In 1913 he was appointed junior assistant at the
Ransome Institution at Kintilloch, where he remained for eight years.
In September 1921—four months after the date of the confession, French
noted—he set up for himself in Thirsby.
So that was that. French’s interest grew as he considered the matter.
If the confession were genuine, the affair would be something in the
nature of a scoop, not only for himself personally, but even for the
great organisation of the Yard. It would create a first-class
sensation. The powers that be would be pleased and certain kudos and
possible promotion would be forthcoming.
French left the Yard and drove to the office of _The Scotsman_ in
Fleet Street. There he asked to see the files of the paper for the
year 1921, and turning to the month of May, he began a search for news
of an accident to a Mrs. Philpot at Kintilloch.
He found it sooner than he had expected. On the 17th May, two days
after the date of the confession, there was a short paragraph headed
“Tragic Death of a Doctor’s Wife.” It read:—
“The little town of Kintilloch, Fife, has been thrown into mourning
by the tragic death on Tuesday evening of Mrs. Edna Philpot, wife of
Dr. Herbert Philpot, one of the staff of the Ransome Institute. The
deceased lady in some way tripped while descending the stairs at her
home, falling down the lower flight. Dr. Philpot, who was in his
study, heard her cry and rushed out to find her lying unconscious in
the hall. She was suffering from severe concussion and in spite of
all his efforts she passed away in a few minutes, even before the
arrival of Dr. Ferguson, for whom Dr. Philpot had hurriedly
telephoned. Mrs. Philpot took a prominent part in the social life of
the town and her loss will be keenly felt.”
“It’s suggestive enough,” French thought, as he copied out the
paragraph. “It looks as if she had been alone with him in the house. I
must get more details.”
He returned to the Yard and put through a telephone call to the
Detective Department of the Edinburgh police, asking that any
information about the accident be sent him as soon as possible.
While he was waiting for a reply his thoughts reverted to Whymper. He
was rather troubled in his mind about the young architect. While he
was now strongly inclined to believe in his innocence, he was still
not certain of it, and he hesitated upon starting off on this new
inquiry until he had made up his mind definitely about the other
matter. But some further thought showed him that there was no special
reason for coming to an immediate decision about Whymper. Sergeant
Kent was keeping him under police supervision and might well continue
to do so for a day or two more.
Two days later French received a voluminous dossier of the case from
the authorities in Scotland. There were cuttings from several papers
as well as three columns from the _Kintilloch Weekly Argus_. There was
a detailed report from the local sergeant embodying a short history of
all concerned, and a copy of Dr. Ferguson’s certificate of “death from
concussion, resulting from a fall.” Finally there was a covering
letter from the head of the department, marked “confidential,” which
stated that, owing to some dissatisfaction in the mind of the local
superintendent, the matter had been gone into more fully than might
otherwise have been the case, but that this inquiry having evolved no
suspicious circumstances, the affair had been dropped.
Considerably impressed and beginning to think he was on a hot scent,
French settled down to study the documents in detail. And the more he
did so, the more determined he became that he would sift the affair to
the bottom. Apart from the possible murder of Mrs. Philpot and the
bringing of her murderer to justice, he saw that if such a crime had
been committed it might have a very important bearing on the Starvel
tragedy. Roper might have been blackmailing Philpot, and though he did
not see how, Philpot might have some association with the crime.
Therefore, from two points of view it was his duty to carry on.
By the time he had read all the papers twice he had a very good idea
in his mind of what at least was supposed to have taken place. Dr.
Philpot was third in command on the medical staff of the Ransome
Institute, a large mental hospital about a mile from Kintilloch, a
small town in Fifeshire. He was a man of retiring disposition, neither
popular nor exactly unpopular, and pulling but a small weight in the
public and social affairs of the little township. In May 1914 he had
married Miss Edna Menzies, the daughter of the manager of a large
factory near Dundee. Miss Menzies was a pretty young woman with a
vivacious manner and was a general favourite, particularly among the
athletic and sporting sets of the community.
The Philpots, who had no children, lived at Braeside, a small detached
house some half-mile from the town and a few hundred yards from the
gate of the Ransome Institute. The only other member of the household
was a general servant, Flora Macfarlane, who had been with them for
over three years at the date of the tragedy and who was believed to be
an efficient servant. But she was “ay one for the lads,” as the local
gossips expressed it, and though the breath of scandal had so far
passed her by, dark hints were given and heads shaken when her doings
came under review.
This girl, Flora, lived only a short distance from Braeside. For some
weeks before the tragedy her mother had been ailing, and she had
formed the habit of running over to see her for a few minutes when her
duties permitted. About 5.30 on the afternoon of the accident she had
asked and obtained permission to make one of these visits, undertaking
to be back in time to prepare dinner. This would normally have meant
an absence of about half an hour. But as the girl left a heavy shower
came on, with the result that, after sheltering under a tree for a few
minutes, she abandoned her purpose and returned to the house some
fifteen minutes earlier than she had expected. Braeside is built on
sloping ground, the hall door being level with the road in front while
the basement kitchen has an independent entrance to the lower ground
behind. Flora used this lower entrance, and as she passed through she
heard Dr. Philpot speaking in a loud and agitated voice. Something in
the sound suggested disaster and she ran up the back stairs to the
hall to see if anything was wrong. There she found Mrs. Philpot lying
on the floor at the foot of the stairs, motionless and the colour of
death. As a matter of fact the lady was then dead, though Flora did
not know this until later. Dr. Philpot, with an appearance of extreme
anguish and despair, was telephoning for help. His call made, he put
down the receiver and then, noticing the girl, cried: “She’s dead,
Flora! She’s dead! She has fallen downstairs and been killed!” He was
terribly upset and indeed seemed hardly sane for some hours. Presently
Dr. Ferguson, the senior medical officer of the Institute, arrived and
a few minutes later Sergeant MacGregor of the local police.
Dr. Philpot afterwards explained that he was writing letters in his
study when he heard a sudden scream from his wife and a terrible noise
like that of a body falling down the stairs. He rushed out to find
Mrs. Philpot lying in a heap at the bottom of the lower flight. She
was unconscious and a large contusion on her temple showed that she
had struck her head heavily on the floor. He laid her on her back and
tried everything that his knowledge suggested to bring her round, but
it was evident that she had been fatally injured and in a minute or
two she was dead. The doctor had been so busy attending to her that he
had not had a moment to summon aid, but directly he saw that all was
over he telephoned for his chief and the police.
The lower flight consisted of sixteen steps. At the top was a small
landing. On this the stair carpet was worn and there was a tiny hole.
After the tragedy the edge of this hole next the lower flight was
found to be raised and torn. That, coupled with the fact that the
deceased lady was wearing very high-heeled shoes, suggested the theory
that she had met her death by catching her heel in the carpet while
descending the stairs.
Such was the gist of the story as understood by French. He thought it
over in some doubt, considering it from various angles. The tale
certainly hung together, and there was nothing impossible in it.
Everything indeed might well have taken place exactly as described,
and French felt that had he not known of the confession, no suspicion
of foul play would have entered his mind. But in the light of the
confession he saw that the events might bear another interpretation.
Philpot was alone with his wife at the time of the occurrence; and he
probably knew beforehand that he would be alone, that Flora had
obtained half an hour’s leave of absence. When Flora returned Mrs.
Philpot was dead. There was no witness of the accident. No one other
than Philpot knew how the lady died. To have staged the accident would
have been easy, and a blow on the temple with some heavy weapon such
as a cricket bat would have produced a bruise similar to that caused
by a fall. Moreover, a resourceful man could have produced the
suggestion that she had tripped by deliberately raising the edge of
the carpet at the hole. Yes, it could all have been done exactly as
the confession suggested.
Were these the considerations, French wondered, which had caused the
dissatisfaction in the mind of the local superintendent, or were there
still further circumstances throwing suspicion on Philpot? Whether or
not, he felt the case against the doctor was strong enough to justify
a visit to Kintilloch.
But one point—a vital one—he could settle before starting, or so he
believed. Walking down the Embankment to Charing Cross, he went to the
writing room of the station hotel and wrote a letter on the hotel
paper.
“5_th_ _November_.
“Dear Sir,—I should be grateful if you would kindly inform me if a
man named Henry Fuller ever worked for you as gardener, and if so,
whether you found him satisfactory. He has applied to me for a job,
giving you as a reference.
“Apologising for troubling you,
“Yours faithfully,
“Charles Musgrave.”
French addressed his letter to “Herbert Philpot, Esq., M.D., Thirsby,
Yorkshire, W.R.” and dropping it into the hotel letter box, returned
to the Yard.
Two days later he called for the reply, explaining to the porter that
he had intended to stay in the hotel but had had to change his plans.
Dr. Philpot wrote briefly that there must be some mistake, as no one
of the name mentioned had ever worked for him.
But French was not interested in the career of the hypothetical Henry
Fuller. Instead he laid the letter down on his desk beside the
confession and with a powerful lens fell to comparing the two.
He was soon satisfied. The confession was a forgery. The lens revealed
a shakiness in the writing due to slow and careful formation of the
letters which would not have been there had it been written at an
ordinary speed. French had no doubt on the matter, but to make
assurance doubly sure he sent the two documents to the Yard experts
for a considered opinion. Before long he had their reply. His
conclusion was correct, an enlarged photograph proved it conclusively.
But even if the confession were forged, French felt that the
circumstances were so extraordinary that he could not drop the matter.
The whole affair smacked of blackmail, and if blackmail had been going
on he thought it might in some way have a bearing on the Starvel
tragedy. At all events, even though a forgery, the confession might
state the truth. It seemed necessary, therefore, to learn all he could
about the affair and he went in and laid the whole matter before his
Chief for that officer’s decision.
Chief Inspector Mitchell was surprised by the story.
“It’s certainly puzzling,” he admitted. “If the document were genuine
one could understand it a bit. It’s possible, though it’s not easy, to
imagine circumstances under which it might have been written. It
might, for example, be that Roper had proof of the doctor’s guilt,
which he held back on getting the confession to enable him to extort
continuous blackmail. Even in this case, however, it’s difficult to
see why he couldn’t have blackmailed on the proof he already held. But
none of these theories can be the truth because the document is not
genuine. A forged confession is useless. Why then should Roper value
it sufficiently to store it in a safe deposit? I confess it gets me,
French, and I agree that you should go into it further. I don’t see
that it will help you in any way with the Starvel affair, but you
never know. Something useful for that too may come out. Say nothing to
Philpot in the meantime, but get away to this place in Scotland and
make a few inquiries.”
That night French took the 11.40 sleeping car express from King’s
Cross. He changed at Edinburgh next morning and, having breakfasted,
continued his journey into Fifeshire in a stopping train. Eleven
o’clock saw him at Cupar, the headquarters of the Kintilloch district,
and fifteen minutes later he was seated in the office of the
superintendent, explaining to that astonished officer the surprising
development which had taken place.
“They told me from Headquarters that you were not satisfied about the
affair when it occurred,” French concluded. “I wondered if you would
tell me why?”
“I will surely,” the other returned, leaning forward confidentially,
“but you’ll understand that we hadn’t what you’d call an actual
suspicion. There was, first of all, the fact that it wasn’t a very
common kind of accident. I’ve heard of an occasional person falling
downstairs, but I’ve never heard of any one being killed by it. Then
there was nobody there when it happened except Philpot: there was no
one to check his statement. What’s more, he knew the servant was going
out. The girl’s statement was that Mrs. Philpot was with the doctor in
the study when she asked permission to go. It all looked possible, you
understand. But the thing that really started us wondering was that
the Philpots were supposed to be on bad terms, and it was whispered
that Philpot was seeing a good deal of one of the nurses up at the
Institute. It’s only fair to say that we couldn’t prove either of
these rumors. The only definite things we got hold of were that the
Philpots never went anywhere together, Mrs. Philpot being socially
inclined and he not, and that he and the nurse were seen one day
lunching in a small hotel in Edinburgh. But of course there was
nothing really suspicious in these things and the rest may have been
just gossip. In any case he didn’t marry the nurse. The talk made us
look into the affair, but we thought it was all right and we let it
drop.”
French nodded. The superintendent’s statement was comprehensive and he
did not at first see what more there was to be learned. But he sat on,
turning the thing over in his mind, in his competent, unhurried way,
until he had thought out and put in order a number of points upon
which further information might be available.
“I suppose that other doctor—Ferguson, you called him—was quite
satisfied by the accident theory?”
“Sergeant MacGregor asked him that, as a routine question. Yes, there
was no doubt the blow on the temple killed her and in his opinion she
might have received it by falling down the stairs.”
“And the servant girl had no suspicion?”
“Well, we didn’t exactly ask her that in so many words. But I’m
satisfied she hadn’t. Besides, her story was all right. There was
nothing to cause her suspicion—if she was telling the truth.”
“Is she still in the town?”
“I don’t know,” the superintendent returned. “I have an idea that she
married shortly afterwards and left. But Sergeant MacGregor will know.
Would you have time to go down to Kintilloch and see him? I could go
with you to-morrow, but I’m sorry I’m engaged for the rest of to-day.”
“Thank you, I’d like to see the sergeant, but I shouldn’t think of
troubling you to come. I think indeed I shall have to see all
concerned. It’s a matter of form really; I don’t expect to get
anything more than your people did. But I’m afraid I shall have to see
them to satisfy the Chief. You see, there may be some connection with
this Starvel case that I’m on. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I’ll give you a note to MacGregor. These country
bumpkins become jealous easily.”
“Thank you. I think there’s only one other thing I should like to ask
you, and that’s about Roper. Do you know anything of him?”
“I don’t, but he might have lived at Kintilloch all his life for all
that. I don’t know the local people very well. The sergeant will help
you there. He is a useful man for his job—a shrewd gossip. There’s not
much happens in his district that he doesn’t know about.”
A short run in a local train brought French to Kintilloch and he was
not long in finding the local police station and introducing himself
to Sergeant MacGregor. That worthy at first displayed a canny reserve,
but on seeing his superintendent’s note became loquacious and
informative. With the exception of two pieces of information, he had
little to tell of which French was not already aware. Those two items,
however, were important.
The first was that he had known John Roper well. Roper had been for
six years an attendant at the Ransome Institute. He had been, the
sergeant believed, directly under Dr. Philpot. At all events he and
the doctor knew each other intimately. As to the man’s character;
MacGregor knew nothing against him, but he had not liked him, nor
indeed had many other people. Roper was an able man, clever and
efficient, but he had a sneering, satirical manner and was unable to
refrain from making caustic remarks which hurt people’s feelings and
made him enemies. He left his job and the town some three or four
years after Dr. Philpot as a result of trouble at the Institute, and
so far as the sergeant could tell, no one was very sorry to see the
last of him. The sergeant had supposed he had gone to Brazil, as he
had applied for a passport for that country. He had informed the
sergeant that he had a brother in Santos and was going out to him.
The second piece of news was that Flora Macfarlane, the Philpots’
maid, had been married a month or so after Mrs. Philpot’s death, and
to no less a person than John Roper. The girl who had all but
witnessed her mistress’ tragic death had herself five years later been
a victim in that still more terrible tragedy at the old house in
Starvel Hollow.
As French shortly afterwards walked up the long curving drive of the
Ransome Institute, he felt that he was progressing. He was getting
connections which were binding the isolated incidents of this strange
episode into a single whole, and if that whole was not yet completely
intelligible, he hoped and believed it soon would be. There was first
of all the confession. He had started with the confession as a single
fact, connected incomprehensibly with Roper through the medium of
possession, but not connected with Philpot at all. Now the connection
between Roper and Philpot had been demonstrated. Roper had first-hand
information about the doctor from their respective positions on the
staff of the Institute, and he had as good as first-hand information
about the doctor’s household from the girl he afterwards married. It
all looked bad. Every further fact discovered increased the
probability that Roper was blackmailing Philpot, and that the
confession was a true statement of what had happened.
French’s interview with Dr. Ferguson was disappointing. He asked first
about Roper and received very much the same information that Sergeant
MacGregor had given him. Roper had been attendant to an invalid
gentleman, a great traveller, with whom he had been over most of
Europe and America. On the invalid’s death he had applied for a job at
the Ransome. He was a fully qualified nurse, very intelligent and
efficient, but he had not been personally liked. He seemed rather
inhuman and did not mind whom he offended with his sharp tongue. He
was, however, good with the patients, except for one thing. On two
occasions he had been found giving troublesome patients unauthorised
drugs to keep them quiet. The first case was not a bad one, and on
promising amendment, he was let off with a caution. When the second
case was discovered he was immediately dismissed. He had not asked
for, nor been given, a discharge.
Anxious to see whether Roper’s handwriting contained any
idiosyncrasies which had been reproduced in the forged documents,
French with some difficulty obtained some old forms which he had
filled up. These he put in his pocket for future study.
He then turned the conversation to Philpot. But he was here on
difficult ground and had to be very wary and subtle in his questions.
Between doctors, he knew, there is a considerable freemasonry, and he
felt sure that if Ferguson imagined Philpot was suspected of murder,
he would take steps to put him on his guard; not in any way to take
the part of a murderer, but to see that a colleague in trouble had a
fair chance. That Philpot should get any hint of his suspicions was
the last thing French wanted, as he hoped the man’s surprise at an
unexpected question would force him into an involuntary admission of
guilt.
At all events Ferguson told him nothing about Philpot that he had not
known before. He asked and obtained permission to interrogate a number
of the staff who remembered the two men, but from none of these did he
learn anything new about either.
He could see nothing for it, therefore, but to interview Philpot
forthwith, and returning to the station, he caught the last train to
Edinburgh. There he stayed the night, and next day took a train which
brought him through the Border country to Carlisle and thence in due
course to Hellifield and Thirsby.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dr. Philpot’s Story
Doctor Philpot lived in a small detached house at the end of the High
Street of the little town, close enough to the centre of things to be
convenient for patients, and far enough away to have a strip of garden
round his house and to avoid being overlooked by his neighbours.
The reply to the letter he had written from “Charles Musgrave” about
the mythical gardener told French that the doctor’s consulting hours
were from six to eight o’clock in the evening, and at two minutes to
eight on the day he had returned from Edinburgh French rang the
doctor’s bell. The door was opened by an elderly woman who led the way
to the consulting room.
There seemed to French a vaguely unprosperous air about the place. The
garden was untended, the railing wanted paint and the house, while
well enough furnished, looked neglected and dirty. French wondered if
these were the outward and visible signs of the betting proclivities
of their owner, of which the hotel landlord had taken so serious a
view.
Dr. Philpot was seated at a writing table, but he rose on French’s
entry. His appearance was not exactly unprepossessing, but it
suggested a lack of force or personality. Physically he was frail,
neither tall nor short, and washed out as to colouring. His tired,
dreamy-looking eyes were of light blue, his fair hair, thinning on the
top, was flecked with gray and his complexion had an almost unhealthy
pallor. He had well-formed, rather aristocratic features, but his
expression was bored and dissatisfied. He struck French as a dreamer
rather than a practical man of affairs. But his manner was polite
enough as he wished his visitor good-evening and pointed to a chair.
“I have called, Dr. Philpot, not as a patient, but to consult you on a
small matter of business.”
Dr. Philpot glanced at the clock on the marble chimney piece.
“It is just eight,” he answered. “I shall not have any more patients
to-night. I am quite at your service.”
French sat down and made a remark or two about the weather, while he
watched the man opposite to him keenly but unobtrusively. He was
playing for time in which to ascertain what manner of man this doctor
really was, so that he might handle the interview in the way most
likely to achieve its end. Philpot replied politely but shortly,
evidently at a loss to know why his visitor could not come to the
point. But French presently did so with surprising suddenness.
“I am sorry, Dr. Philpot, that I am here on very unpleasant business,
and I must begin by telling you that I am a detective inspector from
New Scotland Yard.”
As he spoke French made no secret of his keen scrutiny. His eyes never
left the other’s face, and he felt the thrill of the hunter when he
noticed a sudden change come over its expression. From inattentive and
bored it now became watchful and wary, and the man’s figure seemed to
stiffen as if he were bracing himself to meet a shock.
“I regret to say,” French proceeded, “that information has recently
been received by the Yard which, if true, would indicate that you are
guilty of a very serious crime, and I have to warn you that if you are
unable to offer me a satisfactory explanation I may have to arrest
you, in which case anything which you may now say may be used in
evidence against you.”
French was deeply interested by the other’s reception of this speech.
Dr. Philpot’s face was showing extreme apprehension, not to say actual
fear. This was not altogether unexpected—French had seen apprehension
stamped on many a face under similar circumstances. But what was
unexpected was that the doctor should show no surprise. He seemed
indeed to take French’s statement for granted, as if a contingency
which he had long expected had at last arisen. “He knows what is
coming,” French thought as he paused for the other to speak.
But Philpot did not speak. Instead he deliberately raised his
eyebrows, and looking inquiringly at French, waited for him to
continue. French remained silent for a moment or two, then leaning
forward and staring into the other’s eyes, he said in a low tone: “Dr.
Philpot, you are accused of murdering your wife, Edna Philpot, at your
home at Braeside, Kintilloch, about 5.30 on the afternoon of the 15th
May, 1921.”
The doctor started and paled. For a moment panic seemed about to
overtake him, then he pulled himself together.
“Ridiculous!” he declared coolly. “Your information must be capable of
some other explanation. What does it consist of?”
“It purports to be the statement of an eyewitness,” French returned,
continuing slowly: “It mentions—among other things—it mentions—a
cricket bat.”
Again Philpot’s start indicated that the shot had told, but he
answered steadily:—
“A cricket bat? I don’t follow. What has a cricket bat to do with it?”
“Everything,” French said grimly: “if the information received is
correct, of course.”
Philpot turned and faced him.
“Look here,” he said harshly, “will you say right out what you mean
and be done with it? Are you accusing me of murdering my wife with a
cricket bat, or what are you trying to get at?”
“I’ll tell you,” French rejoined. “The statement is that you arranged
the—‘accident’—which befell your wife. The ‘accident,’ however, did
not kill her, as you hoped and intended, and you then struck her on
the temple with a cricket bat, which did kill her. That, I say, is the
statement. I have just been to Kintilloch and have been making
inquiries. Now, Dr. Philpot, when I mentioned the cricket bat you
started. You therefore realised its significance. Do you care to give
me an explanation or would you prefer to reserve your statement until
you have consulted a solicitor?”
Dr. Philpot grew still paler as he sat silent, lost in thought.
“Do you mean that you will arrest me if I don’t answer your
questions?”
“I shall have no alternative.”
Again the doctor considered while his eyes grew more sombre and his
expression more hopeless. At last he seemed to come to a decision. He
spoke in a low voice.
“Ask your questions and I’ll answer them if I can.”
French nodded.
“Did you ever,” he said slowly, “admit to any one that you had
committed this murder?”
Philpot looked at him in surprise.
“Never!” he declared emphatically.
“Then how,” French went on, slapping the confession down on the table,
“how did you come to write this?”
Philpot stared at the document as if his eyes would start out of his
head. His face expressed incredulous amazement, but here again French,
who was observing him keenly, felt his suspicions grow. Philpot was
surprised at the production of the paper; it was impossible to doubt
the reality of his emotion. But he did not read it. He evidently
recognised it and knew its contents. For a moment he gazed
breathlessly, then he burst out with a bitter oath.
“The infernal scoundrel!” he cried furiously. “I knew he was bad, but
this is more than I could have imagined! That——Roper is at the bottom
of this, I’ll swear! It’s another of his hellish tricks!”
“What do you mean?” French asked. “Explain yourself.”
“You got that paper from Roper—somehow, didn’t you?” The man was
speaking eagerly now. “Even after he’s dead his evil genius remains.”
“If after my warning you care to make a statement, I will hear it
attentively, and you will have every chance to clear yourself. As I
told you I have learned about the case from various sources. I retain
that knowledge to check your statement.”
Philpot made a gesture as if casting prudence to the winds.
“I’ll tell you everything; I have no option,” he said, and his manner
grew more eager. “It means admitting actions which I hoped never to
have to speak of again. But I can’t help myself. I don’t know whether
you’ll believe my story, but I will tell you everything exactly as it
happened.”
“I am all attention, Dr. Philpot.”
The doctor paused for a moment as if to collect his thoughts, then
still speaking eagerly though more calmly, he began:—
“As you have inquired into this terrible affair, you probably know a
good deal of what I am going to tell you. However, lest you should not
have heard all, I shall begin at the beginning.
“In the year 1913 I was appointed assistant on the medical staff of
the Ransome Institute. One of the attendants there was called Roper,
John Roper: the John Roper who lost his life at Starvel some weeks
ago. He was a sneering, cynical man with an outwardly correct manner,
but when he wished to be nasty, with a very offensive turn of phrase.
He was under my immediate supervision and we fell foul of each other
almost at once.
“One day, turning a corner in one of the corridors I came on Roper
with his arms round one of the nurses. Whether she was encouraging him
or not I could not tell, but when he saw me he let her go and she
instantly vanished. I spoke to him sharply and said I would report
him. I should have been warned by his look of hate, but he spoke
civilly and quietly.
“‘I have nothing to say about myself,’ he said, ‘but you’ll admit that
Nurse Williams is a good nurse, and well conducted. I happen to know
she is supporting her mother, and if she gets the sack it will be ruin
to both of them.’
“I told him he should have considered that earlier, but when I thought
over the affair I felt sorry for the girl. She was, as he had said, a
thoroughly attentive, kindly girl, and a good nurse. Well, not to make
too long a story, there I made my mistake. I showed weakness and I
made no report.”
Philpot had by this time mastered his emotion and now he was speaking
quietly and collectedly, though with an earnestness that carried
conviction.
“But though I hadn’t reported him, Roper from that moment hated me. He
was outwardly polite, but I could see the hatred in his eyes. I, on my
part, grew short with him. We never spoke except on business and as
little as possible on that. But all the time he was watching for his
revenge.
“In May, 1914, I married and set up house at Braeside. Then came the
war and in ’15 I joined up. After two years I was invalided out and
went back to Kintilloch. Roper, I should say, was exempted from
service owing to a weak heart.
“On my return after that two years I was a different man. I am not
pleading neurasthenia, though I suffered from shell-shock, but I had
no longer the self-control of my former days. Though I still dearly
loved my wife, I confess I felt strongly attracted to other women when
in their company. Thus it happened—I don’t want to dwell on a painful
subject—that I, in my turn, became guilty of the very offence for
which I had threatened to report Roper.” He spoke with an obvious
effort. “There was a nurse there—I need not tell you her name: she’s
not there now—but she was a pretty girl with a kindly manner. I met
her accidentally in Edinburgh and on the spur of the moment asked her
to lunch. From that our acquaintance ripened and at last, by Fate’s
irony—well, Roper found her in my arms one evening in a deserted part
of the Institute shrubbery. I can never forget his satanic smile as he
stood there looking at us. I sent the girl away and then he disclosed
his terms. The price of his silence was ten shillings a week. If I
would pay him ten shillings a week he would forget what he had seen.
“Well, just consider my position. The incident was harmless in itself
and yet its publication would have been my ruin. As you probably know,
in such institutions that sort of thing is very severely dealt with.
If Roper had reported me to the authorities my resignation would have
followed as a matter of course. And it was not I alone who would have
suffered. The nurse would probably have had to go. My wife also had to
be considered. I needn’t attempt to justify myself, but I took the
coward’s way and agreed to Roper’s terms.
“Then there was triumph on his evil face and he saw that he had me.
With outward civility and veiled insolence he said that while my word
was as good to him as my bond, the matter was a business one, and
should be settled in a business way. To ensure continued payment he
must have a guarantee. The guarantee was to take the form of a
statement written and signed by myself, stating—but I can remember its
exact words. It was to say:—
“‘I, Herbert Philpot, doctor of medicine and at present assistant on
the staff of the Ransome Institute in this town, under compulsion and
in the hope of avoiding exposure, hereby admit that I have been
carrying on an intrigue with Nurse So-and-so of the same institution.
I further admit unseemly conduct with her in the grounds of the
Ransome Institute on the evening of this 2nd October, 1920, though I
deny any serious impropriety.’”
Philpot was now speaking in low tones with every appearance of shame
and distress, as if the memory of these events and the putting of them
into words was acutely painful to him. His manner was convincing, and
French felt that the story, at least so far, might well be true.
“You can’t think less of me than I do of myself, Inspector, when I
tell you that at last after a protest and a long argument I submitted
even in this humiliation. I am not trying to justify myself, but I
just couldn’t face the trouble. I wrote the statement. Roper took it,
and thanking me civilly, said he would keep it hidden as long as the
money was paid. But if there was a failure to pay he would send it
anonymously to the Institute authorities.
“After that everything seemed to become normal again. Every Saturday I
secretly handed Roper a ten-shilling note and our relations otherwise
went on as before. And then came that awful afternoon when my wife
lost her life.
“I can never forget the horror of that time and I surely need not
dwell on it? If you have made inquiries at Kintilloch you will know
what took place. Every word I said then was the literal truth. I shall
pass on to what happened afterwards, but if there is any question you
want to ask I will try to answer it.”
“There is nothing so far.”
“One evening about a week after the funeral Roper called at my house
and asked for an interview. I brought him into my study and then he
referred to the ten shillings a week and said that he was sure I would
see that his knowledge had now become vastly more valuable, and what
was I going to do about it? I said that on the contrary it was now
almost worthless. My wife was dead and I didn’t care what became of
myself. There was only the nurse to think of, and even about her I
didn’t now mind so much, as she had gone to America. At the same time
for peace’ sake I would continue the payments. He need not, however,
think he was going to get any more out of me.
“His answer dumbfounded me. It left me terribly shaken and upset. He
said he expected I hadn’t known it, but the police suspected me of
murdering my wife, and were making all sorts of inquiries about me. He
pointed out that it was generally believed my wife and I hated each
other: that we were seldom seen together and that she had been
overheard speaking disparagingly of me. Then he said I was alone in
the house when she met her death; no one had seen the accident and
there was only my word for what had taken place. He said it was known
there was a cricket bat in the hall, and that it would be obvious to
any one that a blow on the temple from the flat side of the bat would
look just like a bruise caused by striking the floor. All this, he
said, the police had discovered, but what prevented them taking action
was the fact that they didn’t think they could show a strong enough
motive to take the case into court. That, he said—and I shall never
forget the devilish look in his eyes—that was where he came in. He had
but to go forward and relate the incident in the shrubbery to complete
their case. He explained that he could do it in a perfectly natural
way. He would say that while the affair was only a mere intrigue he
did not consider it his business to interfere, but when it came to
murder it was a different thing. He did not wish to be virtually an
accessory after the fact.
“His remarks came as a tremendous shock to me. The possibility of such
a terrible suspicion had not occurred to me, but now I saw that there
was indeed a good deal of circumstantial evidence against me. I need
not labour the matter. The result of our long conversation is all you
wish to hear. In the end I was guilty of the same weakness and folly
that I had shown before; I asked him his price and agreed to pay it.
Two pounds a week, he demanded, until further notice, and I gave way.
But when he went on to say that as before he required a guarantee and
must have a written confession of the crime, I felt he had passed the
limit. I refused to avow a crime of which I was not guilty, and dared
him to do his worst.
“But once again he proved himself one too many for me. With his
cynical evil smile he took two photographs out of his pocket and
handed me one. It was an extraordinarily clear copy of my confession
of the intrigue with the nurse. Then he handed me the other photograph
and at first I just couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a copy of this,”
and Dr. Philpot picked up the note that French had found in Roper’s
safe deposit.
“I asked him, of course, for an explanation and he admitted brazenly
that he had forged the letter. He had spent the week since the
accident making copy after copy until he had got it perfect. When I
stormed at him and threatened him with arrest he just laughed and said
the boot was on the other foot. He said I needn’t have the slightest
uneasiness, that so long as the money was paid the letter would never
see the light of day. Otherwise the document would be enclosed
anonymously to the police. You may guess how it ended up. I promised
to pay: and I paid.”
Dr. Philpot’s face looked more gray and weary than ever and his eyes
took on a deeper sombreness as he said these words. He waited as if
for French to speak, but French did not move and he resumed:—
“After all that had happened, life at Kintilloch became inexpressibly
painful for me and I began to look out for another job. Then I heard
that the principal doctor of this little town was old and in failing
health, and there was a possible opening for a new-comer. I resigned
the Ransome job and set up my plate here. But every week I sent two
treasury notes to Roper.
“Some fifteen or sixteen months ago, when I had been here between
three and four years, I had a letter from Roper saying that he had
seen an advertisement for a man and wife to act as servants to a Mr.
Averill of Starvel in my neighbourhood. As he had shortly before left
the Ransome he wished to apply. As a matter of fact, I found out later
that he had been dismissed for drugging a patient. I forgot to say
also that he had married my former servant. If, he went on, I would
use my influence with Mr. Averill to get him the job he would cease
his demand for the two pounds a week and send me the note he had
forged.
“Mr. Averill was by this time my patient, and I mentioned Roper to
him. I could do so with a clear conscience for with all his faults
Roper was an excellent attendant. His wife, Flora, also was a good
servant and I believed they would suit Mr. Averill well. At the same
time I told Mr. Averill just why he had left the Ransome. But Mr.
Averill thought that for that very reason he could get them cheap and
after some negotiations they were engaged.
“The very same week Roper called on me and said I had kept my word in
the past and he would keep his now. He said he was tired of crooked
going and wished to live straight. He would blackmail me no longer. He
handed me the forged note and watched me put it in the fire. I ceased
paying him the money. From then to the day of his death he was civil
when we met, and no unpleasant subjects were touched on. I began to
believe his reformation was genuine, but now since you show me this I
see he was unchanged. It is evident he must have made a copy of his
forgery and kept one while he let me destroy the other. I wish you
would tell me how you got it. What his motive can have been you may be
able to guess, but I cannot.
“That, Inspector, is the whole truth of this unhappy affair. I had
hoped never to have to speak of it again, and now that I have told you
of it I trust that the whole miserable business may be decently buried
and forgotten.”
French nodded gravely. He was puzzled by this long story of the
doctor’s. The tale was certainly possible. As he reviewed each point
he had to admit that not only was it possible, but it was even
reasonably probable. Given a man of weak character as this doctor
appeared to be, and a clever and unscrupulous ruffian, as Roper had
been painted, the whole affair could have happened quite naturally and
logically. Moreover it adequately covered all the facts.
On the other hand, if Philpot had killed his wife he would tell just
some such tale as this. There was no one to refute it. Roper and his
wife were dead and the nurse had left the country. Of course, it might
be possible to trace the nurse, but it certainly couldn’t be done
easily or rapidly.
As he turned the matter over in his mind it seemed to French that the
crucial point was the authenticity of the confession. If Philpot had
written it, he had done so because he was guilty and because he,
therefore, could not help himself. However terrible the putting of
such a statement in black and white would be to him, it would be the
lesser of two evils, the alternative being immediate betrayal. But if
the confession were a forgery all this would be reversed. It could
only have come into being in some such way as the doctor had
described. In fact, in his case it would amount to a powerful
confirmation of his story.
Now, upon this point there was no doubt. The confession definitely
_was_ a forgery. The Yard experts were unanimous, and their opinion
under such circumstances might be taken for gospel. French might
therefore start with a strong bias in favour of Philpot.
This French realised, and then he found himself again weighed down by
doubt. Was it credible that a man would really pay blackmail for fear
of having an obviously forged confession produced? At first French did
not think so—he would not have done it himself—but as he considered
the special circumstances he saw that this question did not accurately
describe the situation as it would appear to the doctor. In the first
place, Philpot did not know how bad a forgery the document was. It
seemed to him his own writing, and he had no guarantee that it would
not be accepted as such. But he knew that if it were produced he would
almost certainly have the misery of arrest and imprisonment and
possibly of trial also. Moreover, the episode of the nurse would come
out, and the result of the whole business would have been ruin to his
career. If Philpot had been a strong man he would no doubt have faced
the situation, but as it was, French felt sure that he would take the
coward’s way. No, there was nothing in this idea to make him doubt the
man’s story.
On the contrary, Philpot’s admission that he had submitted to
blackmail was actually in his favour. If he had intended to lie surely
he would have invented a tale less damaging to himself. He had not
hesitated to tell French about the nurse and so present him with the
very motive for his wife’s murder which was lacking in the case
against himself.
On the whole it seemed to French that the probabilities were on
Philpot’s side and he himself inclined to the view that he was
innocent. Whatever the truth, he saw that he had no case to bring into
court. No jury would convict on such evidence.
And if here was no evidence to convict the man of the murder of his
wife, there was still less to associate him with the Starvel affair.
In fact there was here no case against him at all. Even leaving
Philpot’s illness out of the question, there was nothing to indicate
any connection with the crime. It would be just as reasonable to
suspect Emerson or Oxley or even Kent.
French had an uncomfortable feeling that he had been following
will-o’-the-wisps both in this affair and in Whymper’s. The
circumstances in each had been suspicious and he did not see how he
could have avoided following them up, but now that he had done so it
looked as if he had been wasting his time. Ruefully he saw also that
he had rather got away from his facts. He had forgotten that the
motive of the Starvel crime had not to be sought in anything indirect
or ingenious or fanciful. The motive was obvious enough and
commonplace enough in alt conscience; it was theft. And such a motive
French could not see actuating either Philpot or Whymper.
No, he must get back to the facts. Who had stolen the money? That was
what he had to find out. And he would not get it the way he was going.
He must start again and work with more skill and vision. First, he
must reassure this doctor, and then he must get away to some place
where he could think without interruption.
“I am sorry, Dr. Philpot, to have had to give you the pain of
reopening matters which I can well understand you would have preferred
to leave closed. It was necessary, however, that my doubts on these
matters should either be confirmed or set at rest. I may say that I
accept your story and am satisfied with the explanation you have given
me. I hope it may be possible to let the affair drop and at the
present time I see no reason to prevent it.” He arose. “I wish you
good-night, doctor, and thank you for your confidence.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Value of Analysis
The next morning was fine and bright, with an invigorating autumn nip
in the air. The kind of day for a good walk, thought French, as after
breakfast he stood in the hotel coffee room, looking out on the placid
life of the little town, exemplified at the moment in the dawdling
passage of three tiny children with school satchels over their
shoulders. He liked the place. He had taken a fancy to it on that
first evening of his arrival, and what he had seen of it since had
only confirmed his first impression. The surroundings also seemed
attractive, and he hoped to explore them more fully before he left.
As he stood gazing into the main street it occurred to him that for
his explorations no time more propitious than the present was likely
to offer. For the moment he was at a dead lock in his case. After he
had finished writing out the doctor’s statement on the previous
evening he had thought over the affair and he had not seen his way
clear. What he required was a detailed study of the whole position in
the hope of lighting on some further clue or line of research. And
what better opportunity for such contemplation could there be than
during a long tramp through lonely country? Surely for once duty and
inclination coincided?
Whether this latter was strictly true or not, ten minutes later saw
him starting out with a stick in his hand and a packet of sandwiches
in his pocket. He turned in the Starvel direction, and climbing up the
side of the valley, came out on the wide expanse of the moor. Ahead of
him it lay, stretching away in irregular undulating waves into the
gray-blue distance, with here and there a rounded hill rising above
the general level. For miles he could see the ribbon of the road
showing white against the browns and greens of the grass where it
wound up over shoulders and ridges and mounted the far sides of
hollows. Extraordinarily deserted was the country side, a solitude
quite astonishing in so densely populated a land as this of England.
For a time French tramped on, his mind occupied with his surroundings,
but gradually it turned back to his case and he began reckoning up his
progress, and considering how he could best attack what still remained
to be done. And the more he thought of it, the less rosy the outlook
seemed. Ruefully he had to admit that in point of fact he was
practically no further on than when he started. He had done a good
deal of work, no doubt, but unfortunately it had brought him only a
negative result. His researches into the movements of Whymper and
Philpot had been unavoidable, but these had proved side lines and he
did not believe that either would help him with the main issue.
He let his mind rest once again on Philpot’s statement. If it were
true, Roper showed up very badly. From every point of view he seemed a
thorough-paced blackguard. Though this had come out more particularly
from the doctor’s story it was fairly well-confirmed by what French
had been told at Kintilloch. Neither Sergeant MacGregor nor Dr.
Ferguson had a good word to say about the man. No one appeared to like
him, and in the end he had been dismissed from the Institute for a
fault of a particularly serious nature.
But he was a clever rascal also. French was amazed when he considered
how he had succeeded in worming himself into old Averill’s confidence.
Even making allowances for the old man’s weak-minded senility, it was
almost incredible that this shifty scoundrel should have been trusted
with a secret which Whymper would risk a murder charge rather than
reveal.
French tramped on, pondering over the matter in his careful,
painstaking way. Yes, that was the point. Misers were proverbially
suspicious, and Averill’s knowledge of Roper’s break at the Ransome
would not tend to increase his trust in him. His confidence was
certainly rather wonderful.
And then French suddenly stood stock still as an idea flashed into his
mind. Was his confidence not too wonderful to be true? Had Roper
really wormed his way thus far into old Averill’s confidence? He had
not hesitated to blackmail Philpot; had he played some similar trick
on Whymper?
As French considered the suggestion, a point which had before seemed
immaterial now took on a sinister significance. Though Averill was
represented as the moving spirit of the affair, his connection with it
had never been directly proved. Roper, and Roper alone, had appeared.
It was true that a note purporting to come from Averill had been
produced, but in the light of Philpot’s revelation of Roper’s skill as
a forger, who had written it? Was there any reason why Roper should
not have engineered the whole thing?
French reviewed the circumstances in detail. The first move was
Roper’s. He had met Whymper outside the church gate and told him that
Mr. Averill wished to see him, asking him to go out there that
evening. Secretly, mind you; no one was to know of the visit. Whymper
had accordingly gone out. But he had not seen Averill. He had seen
Roper, and Roper only. It was true that he was presented with a note
purporting to be from Averill, but had Averill written it? French
remembered that the handwriting was extremely like Averill’s, but in
the absence of any reason for suspecting its authenticity he had not
given it the careful scrutiny which he might have done. That was an
error he must repair at once, and if the shadow of a doubt was aroused
in his mind he must send the papers to the Yard for expert opinion.
Altogether it undoubtedly looked as if the whole of the Whymper
episode might have been Roper’s work. But if so, what about the £500?
Surely in this case Roper must have stolen it? And if he had stolen
it—French grew almost excited as step after step revealed itself—if
Roper had stolen it, did it not follow that he had murdered Averill,
rifled the safe, taken out the notes and replaced them with burnt
newspapers?
And then French saw a step farther. If he were right so far, Roper’s
motive in the Whymper incident became clear as day. If Roper had
stolen thousands of pounds’ worth of notes he must find out whether it
was safe to pass them. Were the numbers of the notes known? This was a
matter of vital importance, and it was one on which he could not
possibly ask for information. If suspicion became aroused, to have
made inquiries on the point would be fatal. He must therefore arrange
for some one else to pass a number of the notes, and preferably a
number of those most recently acquired by Averill. Moreover, this
person must not, if suspected, be able to account satisfactorily for
their possession. Given the knowledge of Whymper’s feeling for Ruth
and some acquaintance with Averill’s family affairs, a clever and
unscrupulous man like Roper could easily have invented a story to make
Whymper his dupe.
All this, French recognised, was speculation. Indeed it was little
more than guesswork. But it was at least a working theory which
covered all the facts, and he believed it was worth while following it
up.
He turned aside off the road, and sitting down in the thin, autumn
sunshine with his back against an outcropping rock, slowly filled and
lit his pipe as he pursued his cogitations.
If Roper had stolen the notes and put burnt newspapers in the safe, he
must have intended to burn the house. And here again the motive was
clear. In no other way could he so conveniently get rid of Averill’s
body and the traces of his crime. In fact, the plan had actually
succeeded. It was not the doings at Starvel which aroused suspicion,
but Whymper’s passing of the note some three weeks later. The
coroner’s court had brought in a verdict of accidental death. If
Tarkington had not kept the numbers of the notes sent out to Averill
and advised his headquarters that those notes had been destroyed, no
doubts would ever have arisen.
But just here was a snag. Could so able a man as Roper have bungled so
hideously as to have allowed himself and his wife to be caught in the
trap he had arranged for Averill? Or had he intended to murder Mrs.
Roper also? There was certainly no evidence for suspecting this. But
whether or not, what terrible Nemesis could have overtaken Roper? Had
he really been drunk and paid for his indulgence with his life? French
did not think so. He could not devise any convincing explanation of
Roper’s death, and he began to wonder if this objection were not so
overwhelming as to upset the theory of the man’s guilt which he had
been so laboriously building up.
He gazed out over the wide expanse of the moor with unseeing eyes as
he dreamily puffed at his pipe and wrestled with the problem. And then
a further point occurred to him. Did not this theory of the guilt of
Roper throw some light on Ruth Averill’s visit to York? French had
noted it as a curious coincidence that she should have left the house
on the day before the tragedy. But now he wondered if it was a
coincidence. Had her absence been arranged; arranged by Roper? He
reconsidered the facts from this new angle.
First, it was significant that all the arrangements had been carried
through by Roper. Just as in Whymper’s case, Mr. Averill was supposed
to be the prime mover, but his power was manifested only through
Roper. Roper it was who handed Ruth the note from Mrs. Palmer-Gore;
doubtless a forged note. Roper had produced the ten pounds. Roper had
arranged about the journey, and Roper had used his influence to
prevent Ruth from seeing her uncle. When she had persisted she found
the old man asleep, breathing heavily and looking queer and unlike
himself. As to the cause of that appearance and that sleep French
could now make a pretty shrewd guess. Roper had been faced with a
difficulty. He could not keep Ruth from her uncle without arousing
suspicion. Nor could he allow her to have a discussion with him or his
plot would have been exposed. He had, therefore, taken the only way
out. He had drugged the old man. Ruth could pay her visit, but she
would learn nothing from it.
French was thrilled by his theory. It was working out so well. He was
congratulating himself that at last he was on the right track, when
another snag occurred to him and brought him up, as it were, all
standing.
The Palmer-Gore invitation could not have been forged! Had Mrs.
Palmer-Gore not written it, the fact would have come out on Ruth’s
arrival at York.
Here was a rather staggering objection. But the more French thought
over the case as a whole, the more disposed he became to believe in
Roper’s guilt. The man was a clever scoundrel. Perhaps he had been
able to devise some way to meet this difficulty also.
On the whole French was so much impressed by his theory that he
determined to go into it without loss of time in the hope that further
research would lead to a definite conclusion.
He ate his sandwiches, then leaving his seat in the lee of the rock,
walked back to Thirsby. Among his papers was the letter which Roper
had given to Whymper, and this he once again compared with the samples
of old Mr. Averill’s handwriting he had obtained from Tarkington.
Possibly because of the doubt now existing in his mind, this time he
felt less certain of its authenticity. After some study he thought
that some further samples of the genuine handwriting might be helpful,
and walking down to Oxley’s office, he asked if the solicitor could
oblige him with them. Oxley handed him four letters, and when French
had critically examined these he found his suspicions strengthened.
While by no means positive, he was now inclined to believe Whymper’s
was a forgery. He therefore sent the lot to the Yard, asking for an
expert opinion to be wired him.
In the meantime he decided he would concentrate on a point which he
felt would be even more conclusive than forged letters: the matter of
Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s invitation to Ruth. If Roper had got rid of Ruth so
that the coast might be clear for the robbery, he had provided the
invitation. He had either written it himself or he had arranged the
circumstances which caused Mrs. Palmer-Gore to do so. If he had done
either of these things he was pretty certain to be guilty.
The only way to learn the truth was to interview Mrs. Palmer-Gore.
French therefore took the evening train to York, and nine o’clock
found him at Oakdean, Ashton Drive, asking if the lady of the house
could see him.
Mrs. Palmer-Gore was a big, rather untidy, kindly-looking woman of
about fifty. French, rapidly sizing her up, introduced himself in his
real character, apologised for his late call and begged her kind
offices. If she wouldn’t mind his not giving her the reason of his
inquiry for the moment, he should like to ask a question. Would she
tell him just why she had asked Miss Ruth Averill to York some eight
weeks previously?
Mrs. Palmer-Gore was naturally surprised at the inquiry, but when she
understood that the matter was serious she answered readily.
“Why, I could scarcely have done anything else. Mr. Averill’s note was
phrased in a way which would have made it difficult to refuse.”
“Mr. Averill’s note? I didn’t know he had written.”
“Yes, he wrote to say that he hoped he was not presuming on an old
friendship in asking me whether I would invite Ruth to spend a day or
two. He explained that she had recently been rather run down and
depressed, and that the one thing she wanted—a day or two of cheerful
society—was just the thing he couldn’t give her. If I would condone a
liberty and take pity on her he did not think I would regret my
action. He went on to say Ruth was greatly interested in roses, and as
he was sure I was going to the flower show, he wondered if I would add
to my kindness by allowing her to accompany me. He said that Ruth was
longing to see it, but that he had no way of arranging for her to go.”
“I’m quite interested to hear that,” French returned. “It rather falls
in with a theory I have formed. Had you often had Miss Ruth to stay
with you?”
“Never before. In fact I had only seen her three or four times. Some
twelve years ago I spent a day at Starvel and she was there. Besides
that I met her with Mr. Averill a couple of times in Leeds.”
“But you were pretty intimate with Mr. Averill surely? I don’t want to
be personal, but I want to know whether your intimacy was such that
you might reasonably expect him to ask you to put his niece up?”
Mrs. Palmer-Gore seemed more and more surprised at the line the
conversation was taking.
“It’s a curious thing that you should have asked that,” she declared.
“As a matter of fact, I was amazed when I read Mr. Averill’s letter.
He and I were friendly enough at one time, though I don’t know that
you could ever have called us intimate. But we had drifted apart. I
suppose we hadn’t met for five or six years and we never corresponded
except perhaps for an exchange of greetings at Christmas. His letter
was totally unexpected.”
“You thought his asking for the invitation peculiar?”
“I certainly did. I thought it decidedly cool. So much so, indeed,
that I considered replying that I was sorry that my house was full.
Then when I thought what a terrible life that poor girl must have led
I relented and sent the invitation.”
“It was a kind thing to do.”
“Oh, I don’t know. At all events I am glad I did it. Ruth is a sweet
girl and it was a pleasure to have her here and to let my daughters
meet her. I would have given her as good a time as I could if she had
not been called away.”
“You haven’t kept Mr. Averill’s letter?”
“I’m afraid not. I always destroy answered letters.”
“You recognised Mr. Averill’s handwriting, of course?”
“Oh yes. I knew it quite well.”
“Now, Mrs. Palmer-Gore, I am going to ask you a strange question. Did
you ever suspect that that letter might be a forgery?”
The lady looked at him with increasing interest.
“Never,” she answered promptly. “And even now when you suggest it I
don’t see how it could have been. But, of course, it would explain a
great deal. I confess I can hardly imagine Mr. Averill writing the
note. He was a proud man and the request was not in accordance with my
estimate of his character.”
“That is just what I wanted to get at,” French answered as he rose to
take his leave.
What he had learned was extraordinarily satisfactory. It looked very
much as though his theory about Roper was correct. The great snag in
that theory had been Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s invitation, and now it was
evident that Roper could have arranged for it to be given. Some remark
of Mr. Averill’s had probably given the man Mrs. Palmer-Gore’s name,
and by skilful questions he could have learned enough about her to
enable him to construct his plot.
As French sat in the smoking room of his hotel, not far from the great
west front of the minster, he suddenly saw a way by which he could
establish the point. The letter Mrs. Palmer-Gore had received had
stated that Ruth was longing to see the flower show. Was she? If she
was, the letter might be genuine enough. If not, Averill could
scarcely have written it, and if Averill had not written it no one but
Roper could have done so.
It was with impatience at the slowness of the journey that French
returned next morning to Thirsby to apply the final test. He was lucky
enough to catch Ruth as she was going out and she took him into the
drawing-room.
“I was talking to a friend of yours a little while ago, Miss Averill,”
French said when they had exchanged a few remarks: “Mrs. Palmer-Gore,
of York.”
“Oh yes?” Ruth answered, her face brightening up. “How is she? She was
so kind to me, especially when the terrible news came. I can never
forget her goodness.”
“I am sure of it. In the short time I was with her I thought she
seemed most attractive. You went to York to see the flower show?”
Ruth smiled.
“That was the ostensible reason for her asking me. But, of course,
show or no show, I should have been delighted to go.”
“I dare say; most people like to visit York. You hadn’t then been
looking forward to the show?”
“I never even heard of it until Mrs. Palmer-Gore mentioned it in her
letter. But naturally I was all the more pleased.”
“Naturally. You’re a skilful gardener, aren’t you, Miss Averill?”
She smiled again and shook her head.
“Oh, no! But I’m fond of it.”
French, in his turn, smiled his pleasant, kindly smile.
“Oh, come now, I’m sure you are not doing yourself justice. Mr.
Averill thought a lot of your gardening, didn’t he?”
“My uncle? Oh, no. I don’t think he knew anything about it. You
remember he was an invalid. He hadn’t been in the garden for years.”
“But do you mean that you never discussed gardening with him? I should
have thought, for example, you would have talked to him of this York
flower show.”
“But I thought I explained I didn’t know about that until Mrs.
Palmer-Gore’s letter came, and after it came my uncle was too ill to
speak about anything.”
Here was the proof French had hoped for!
With some difficulty keeping the satisfaction out of his voice, he
continued his inquiries.
“Of course I remember you told me that. But I must get on to business.
I’m sorry to have to trouble you again, Miss Averill, but there are
one or two other questions I have thought of since our last meeting.
Do you mind if I ask them now?”
“Of course not.”
French leaned forward and looked grave.
“I want to know what kind of terms Roper was on with his wife. You
have seen them together a good deal. Can you tell me?”
Ruth’s face clouded.
“I hate to say anything when the two poor people are dead, but if I
must tell the truth, I’m afraid they were not on good terms at all.”
“I can understand what you feel, but I assure you my questions are
necessary. Now please tell me what exactly was the trouble between
those two?”
“Well,” Ruth said slowly, and an expression almost of pain showed on
her face, “they had, I think—what is the phrase?—incompatibility of
temperament. Mrs. Roper had a very sharp tongue and she was always
nagging at Roper. He used to answer her in a soft tone with the
nastiest and most cutting remarks you ever heard. Oh, it was horrible!
Roper really was not a nice man, though he was always kind enough to
me.”
This was really all that French wanted, but he still persisted.
“Can you by any chance tell me—I’m sorry for asking this question—but
can you tell me whether Roper was attached to any other woman? Or if
you don’t know that, have you ever heard his wife mention another
woman’s name in anger? Just try to think.”
“No, I never heard that.”
“Have you ever heard them quarrelling?”
“Once I did,” Ruth answered reluctantly. “It was dreadful! Roper said,
‘By ——,’ he used a terrible curse—‘I’ll do you in some day if I swing
for it!’ And then Mrs. Roper answered so mockingly and bitterly that I
had to put my hands over my ears.”
“But she didn’t make any definite accusation?”
“No, but wasn’t it dreadful? The poor people to have felt like that to
one another! It must have been a terrible existence for them.”
French agreed gravely as he thanked Ruth for her information, but
inwardly he was chuckling with delight. He believed his theory was
proved, and once it was established, his case was over. If the
murderer lost his life in the fire Scotland Yard would no longer be
interested in the affair and he, French, could go back to town with
one more success added to the long list which already stood to his
credit.
He returned to the Thirsdale Arms, and getting a fire lighted in his
room, settled down to put on paper the data he had amassed.
CHAPTER TEN
Whymper Speaks at Last
By the time French had completed his notes the theory he had formed
had become cut and dry and detailed. He was immensely delighted with
it and with himself for having evolved it. Except for the failure to
explain Roper’s death it seemed to him flawless, and for that one weak
point he felt sure that a simple explanation existed. In the hope of
lighting on some such he decided before putting away his papers to go
once more in detail over the whole case as he now saw it.
First there was the character of Roper. Roper was a clever and
unscrupulous man with a cynical and discontented outlook on life. He
was, in fact, the sort of man who might have planned and carried out
the Starvel crime.
His anxiety to get the job at Averill’s was an interesting feature of
the case. It must have been a poor job for a man who had been male
nurse in the Ransome Institute. It was not only a hard and thankless
job in itself, but it meant being buried in one of the bleakest and
most barren solitudes of England. Moreover, such a job would lead to
nothing, and as Averill was paying, it was unlikely that the salary
was other than miserable. Of course after dismissal from the Institute
Roper might have been glad of anything, but French did not feel
satisfied that this really explained the matter. His thoughts took
another line.
The belief in Averill’s wealth was universal and Roper could scarcely
have failed to hear of it when inquiring about the place. The
feebleness of the old man and the isolation of the house were, of
course, patent. Was it too much to conclude that the idea of robbery
had been in Roper’s mind from the first? If so, a reason why he had
ceased to blackmail Philpot might be suggested. The doctor was the one
person in the neighbourhood who knew his real character. If anything
untoward happened at Starvel, the doctor would immediately become
suspicious. It was, therefore, politic to suggest a reformation of
character to Philpot, and the best way in which this could be done was
undoubtedly the way Roper had chosen. But he was not going to spoil
the affair by haste. This was the one great effort of his life and he
was out to make a job of it. No time nor trouble nor inconvenience was
too great to devote to it. So he waited for over a year. How many a
wife murderer, thought French, has aroused suspicion by marrying the
other woman within the twelve months. Roper was not going to make the
mistake of acting too soon.
During this time of waiting the man had doubtless been perfecting his
scheme. And then another factor had entered into it. He had come to
hate his wife. Why not at one fell stroke achieve both wealth and
freedom? The same machinery would accomplish both.
In the nature of the case French saw that all this must necessarily be
speculative, but when he came to consider the details of the crime he
felt himself on firmer ground.
The first move was to get Ruth Averill out of the way, and here the
_modus operandi_ was clear. Roper had evidently either heard enough
about Mrs. Palmer-Gore from Mr. Averill to give him his idea, or he
had discovered her existence from old letters. He had forged the note
to her from Averill, and intercepting its reply, had used its
enclosure to induce Ruth to go to York. As he couldn’t prevent the
girl from visiting her uncle, he had drugged the old man so that the
fraud would remain hidden.
His next care was to make sure that Averill’s bank notes could be
passed without arousing suspicion; in other words, that their numbers
were unknown. To this end the fraud on Whymper was devised. Whymper
was to be used to test the matter, and in the event of the theft being
discovered, Whymper was to pay the penalty. So Whymper was brought out
to the house on the night of the crime and there given the fateful
money, being told some yarn which would make him spend it in a
mysterious way for which he would be unable to account. That that yarn
was connected with something discreditable about Ruth’s parents French
shrewdly suspected, and he determined to see Whymper again and try to
extract the truth from um.
Whymper duped and sent away from Starvel, French thought he could
picture the next sinister happenings in the lonely old house. Averill
first! The frail old man would prove an easy victim. Any method of
assassination would do which did not involve an injury to the
skeleton. A further dose of the drug, smothering with a pillow, a
whiff of chloroform: the thing would have been child’s play to a
determined man, particularly one with the training of a male nurse in
a mental hospital.
Then Mrs. Roper! How the unfortunate woman met her end would probably
remain for ever a mystery. But that she died by her husband’s hand
French was growing more and more certain.
Witnesses to the theft removed, the safe must have claimed Roper’s
attention next. French in imagination could see him getting the keys
from under their dead owner’s pillow, opening the safe, and packing
the notes in a suitcase. How it must have gone to Roper’s heart to
leave the gold! But obviously he had no other course. Gold wouldn’t
burn. It must therefore be found in the safe. Then came the
substitution and burning of the newspapers. Here Roper made his first
slip. Doubtless he was counting that the safe would fall to the ground
level when the floor it stood on burned away and the churning of the
sovereigns would reduce the paper ashes to dust. But there he had been
wrong. Enough was left to reveal the fraud.
There was plenty of petrol and paraffin in the house and Roper’s next
step must have been to spill these about, so as to leave no doubt of
the completeness of the holocaust. In that also he was only too
successful.
So far, French felt he was on pretty firm ground. He was becoming
convinced that all this had happened, substantially as he had imagined
it. But now came the terrible snag. Or rather two snags, for the one
did not entirely include the other. The first was: What had happened
to Roper? The second: Where was the money?
The more French puzzled over the first of these problems the more he
came to doubt his first idea that some quite simple explanation would
account for it. That nearly every criminal makes some stupid and
obvious blunder during the commission of his crime is a commonplace.
Still French could not see so astute a man as Roper making a blunder
so colossal as to cost him his life. What super-ghastliness had
happened upon that night of horrors? Had Roper started the fire before
killing his wife and been overcome by fumes while in the act of
murder? Had he taken too much drink to steady his nerves and fallen
asleep, to meet the fate he had prepared for others? French could
think of no theory which seemed satisfactory.
Nor could he imagine where the money might be. Was it burned after
all? Had the receptacle in which it had been packed been left in the
house and had its contents been destroyed? Or had Roper hidden it
outside? Here again the matter was purely speculative, but French
inclined to the former theory. All the same he determined that before
he left the district he would make a thorough search in the
neighbourhood of the house.
There was still the matter of the Whymper episode to be fully cleared
up, and French thought that with the help of his new theory he might
now be able to get the truth out of the young man. Accordingly he left
the hotel and walked up the picturesque old street to the church.
Whymper was busily engaged with a steel tape in giving positions for a
series of new steps which were to lead up to the altar and French,
interested in the operation, stood watching until it was complete.
Then the young fellow conducted him for the second time to the vestry
room, and seating himself, pointed to a chair.
“As no doubt you can guess, I’ve come on the same business as before,”
French explained in his pleasant, courteous tones. “The fact is, I’ve
learned a good deal more about this Starvel business since I last saw
you, and I want to hear what you think of a theory I have evolved. But
first, will you tell me everything that you can of your relations with
Roper?”
“I really hadn’t any relations with Roper except what I have already
mentioned,” Whymper returned. “Of course I had seen him on different
occasions, but the first time I spoke to him was the first time I
called on Miss Averill. He opened the door and showed me into the
drawing-room. The next time I went we spoke about the weather and so
on, but I had no actual relations with him until the night of the
tragedy, when he gave me Mr. Averill’s message at the church gate.”
“It never occurred to you to doubt that the message did come from Mr.
Averill, I suppose?”
“Of course not,” Whymper answered promptly. “You forget the note Mr.
Averill sent me when I got to Starvel.”
“I don’t forget the note. But suppose I were to suggest that Roper had
forged the note and that Mr. Averill knew nothing whatever about it? I
should tell you that it has been established that Roper was a very
skilful forger.”
“Such an idea never occurred to me. Even if Roper was a skilful forger
I don’t see why you should think he forged this note. What possible
motive could he have had?”
“Well, I think we possibly might find a motive. But let that pass for
the moment. Go over the circumstances again in your mind and let me
know if you see any reason why Roper should not have arranged the
whole business himself.”
Whymper did not at once reply. French, anxious not to hurry him,
remained silent also, idly admiring the pilasters and mouldings of the
octagonal chamber and the groining of the old stone roof.
“I don’t see how Roper could have done it,” Whymper said presently.
“There’s the money to be considered. The £500 couldn’t have been
forged.”
“No. But it could have been stolen, and I have no doubt it was.”
“Surely not! You don’t really believe Roper was a thief?”
“At least he might have been. No, Mr. Whymper, you haven’t convinced
me so far. Does anything further occur to you?”
“Yes,” said Whymper: “the story he told me. No one could have known it
but Mr. Averill.”
French leaned forward and his face took on an expression of keener
interest.
“Ah, now we’re coming to it,” he exclaimed. “I suggest that that whole
story was a pure invention of Roper’s and that it had no foundation in
fact. Now tell me this.” He raised his hand as Whymper would have
spoken. “If the story were true would you not have expected to hear
something of M. Prosper Giraud and Mme. Madeleine Blancquart at
Talloires?”
Whymper seemed absolutely dumbfounded at the extent of the other’s
knowledge.
“Why,” he stammered with all the appearance of acute dismay, “how do
you know about that? I never mentioned it.”
“You did,” French declared. “To the police at Talloires. I traced you
there and found out about your inquiries. It was perfectly simple. If
the story had been true would you not have had an answer to your
inquiries?”
A sudden eagerness appeared in the young man’s face. He leaned forward
and cried excitedly:—
“My Heavens, I never thought of that! I supposed Roper had made a
mistake about the address. Oh, if it could only be so!” He paused for
a moment, then burst out again: “You may be right! You may be right!
Tell me why you thought it might be Roper’s invention. I must know!”
“In the strictest confidence I’ll tell you everything,” French
answered and he began to recount, not indeed everything, but a good
many of the reasons which had led him to believe in Roper’s guilt.
Whymper listened with painful intensity, and when the other had
finished he seemed almost unable to contain his excitement.
“I must know if you are right,” he cried, springing from his chair and
beginning to pace the room. “I must know! How can I be sure,
Inspector? You have found out so much; can’t you find out a little
more?”
“That’s what I came down for, Mr. Whymper,” French said gravely. “I
must know too. And there’s only one way out of it. You’ve got to tell
me the story. I’ll not use it unless it’s absolutely necessary. But
I’ll test it and get to know definitely whether it’s fact or fiction.”
Whymper paused irresolutely.
“Suppose,” he said at length, “suppose, telling you the story involved
letting you know of a crime which had been committed—not recently;
many, many years ago. Suppose the criminal had escaped, but my story
told you where you could find him. Would you give me your word of
honour not to move in the matter?”
French glanced at him sharply.
“Of course not, Mr. Whymper. You know it is foolish of you to talk
like that. Neither you nor I could have knowledge of that kind and
remain silent. If you learn of a crime and shield the criminal, you
become an accessory after the fact. You must know that.”
“In that case,” Whymper answered, “I can’t tell you.”
French became once more suave, even coaxing.
“Now, Mr. Whymper, that is quite an impossible line for you to take
up. Just consider your own position. I have ample evidence to justify
me in arresting you for the theft of Mr. Averill’s money. If I do so,
this story that you are trying to keep to yourself will come out: not
privately to me, but in open court. Every one will know it then. By
keeping silent now you will defeat the very object you are striving
for. Attention will be forced on to the very person you are trying to
shield. And when it comes out you will be charged as an accessory. On
the other hand, if you tell me the whole thing here and in private you
will ease your mind of a burden and may clear yourself of suspicion of
the theft. And with regard to the other crime we may find that it is a
pure invention and that no such thing ever took place. Now, Mr.
Whymper, you’ve got to take the lesser risk. You’ve got to tell me. As
I say, I’ll not use your evidence unless I must.”
Whymper made no reply and French, recalling his theory that the secret
concerned Ruth’s parentage, decided on a bluff.
“Well,” he said, quite sharply for him. “If you won’t speak I shall
have to get the information from Miss Averill. I shall be sorry to
have to force her confidence about her parents, but you leave me no
option.”
The bluff worked better than French could have hoped. Whymper started
forward with consternation on his face.
“What?” he cried. “Then you know?” Then realising what he had said, he
swore. “Confound you, Inspector, that was a caddish trick! But you
won’t get any more out of me in spite of it.”
French tried his bluff again.
“Nonsense,” he answered. “It would be far better for Miss Averill that
you should tell me than that she should. But that’s a matter for you.
If you like to tell me, well; if not, I shall go straight to her. Look
here,” he leaned forward and tapped the other’s arm, “do you imagine
that you can keep the affair secret? I’ve only got to trace Mr. Simon
Averill’s history and go into the matter of Miss Ruth’s parentage and
the whole thing will come out. It’s silly of you.” He waited for a
moment, then got up. “Well, if you won’t, you won’t. You’ll come along
to the station first and then I’ll go to Miss Averill.”
Whymper looked startled.
“Are you going to arrest me?”
“What else can I do?” French returned.
Whymper wrung his hands as if in despair, then motioned the Inspector
to sit down again.
“Wait a minute,” he said brokenly. “I’ll tell you. I see I can’t help
myself. It is not that I am afraid for myself, but I see from all you
say that I have no alternative. But I trust your word not to use the
information if you can avoid it.”
“I give you my word.”
“Well, I suppose that is as much as I can expect.” He paused to
collect his thoughts, then went on: “I have already explained to you
about Roper meeting me when I reached Starvel and his saying that Mr.
Averill was too ill to see me, and you have seen the letter that I
took to be from Mr. Averill, stating that he did not wish to put the
matter in question in writing, that Roper was his confidential
attendant, that he understood the affair in question and had been
authorised to explain it to me. Of course on receipt of that letter I
was prepared to believe whatever I heard, and I did believe it.”
“Quite natural,” French admitted suavely.
“Roper began by saying that his part in the affair was very
distasteful to him, that he felt he was intruding into a family and
very private matter, but that he had no alternative but to carry it
through as Mr. Averill had given him definite instructions to do so.
He added that he was particularly sorry about it, as the matter was
bound to be very painful to me. It was about Miss Averill.”
Whymper was evidently very reluctant to proceed, but he overcame his
distaste after a moment’s hesitation and in a lower voice continued:—
“He went on to ask me, again with apologies, whether Mr. Averill was
correct in believing I wished to marry Miss Averill. If I did not, he
said the information would be of no interest to me and he need not
proceed with the matter. But if I did wish to marry her there was
something I should know.
“As a matter of fact, I wanted the marriage more than anything else on
earth, and when I said so to Roper he gave me the message. He told me
that, a few days before, Mr. Averill had received a letter which upset
him very much and, Roper thought, had brought on his illness. But
before I could appreciate the significance of the letter he would have
to explain some family matters.
“Mr. Simon Averill had a brother named Theodore—I shall call them
Simon and Theodore to distinguish them. As a young man Theodore had
all the promise of a brilliant career. He had gone into business in
London and held a very good position as French representative of his
firm. He had married a French lady of old family and great beauty. One
child was born, a daughter, Ruth.
“But unfortunately he was not steady, and as time passed he grew
wilder and wilder and his relations with his wife became more and more
strained. At last when Ruth was four years old and they were living in
London, there was some fearful trouble which finished him up.
“Roper did not know the details, but it was a scandal in some illicit
gambling rooms in London. Theodore was caught cheating. They were all
half drunk and in the row that followed a man was killed. It was never
known who actually fired the shot, but Theodore was suspected. At all
events he disappeared and was never heard of again. It was the last
straw for his wife and she collapsed altogether. She brought Ruth, a
child of four, to Simon, begged him to look after her, and then
committed suicide.
“Nothing more was heard of Theodore Averill and every one concerned
believed him dead. Simon’s surprise may be imagined then, when during
the last two or three days he received a letter from him. This was the
letter which I told you had upset him so much.
“I didn’t see the letter, but Roper told me it said that Theodore was
living under the name of Prosper-Giraud at Talloires in Savoy. He had
escaped from London to Morocco and after wandering about for a year or
two had entered the French Foreign Legion. After serving several years
he left that and went to Talloires, where he supported himself by
writing short stories for the magazines. He did fairly well, and was
comfortable enough, but recently a disastrous thing had happened to
him. He had been in poor health for some time and had begun to talk in
his sleep. His old housekeeper, Mme. Madeleine Blancquart, must have
listened and heard something which gave his secret away, for one
morning she came to him and said she had discovered all, and asked
what he was going to pay to have the matter kept from the English
police. He was unable to give what she demanded and for the sake of
his family he prayed his brother Simon to help him. If Simon wouldn’t
do so, nothing could save him. He would be brought to England and
perhaps executed, and Simon and Ruth would have to bear the shame.”
The recital of these facts was evidently very painful to Whymper, but
he went on doggedly with his statement.
“Simon in his delicate state of health was much upset by the whole
thing, so Roper said. If the story was true he was willing to make
some allowance, both because he didn’t wish to have his brother come
to such an end and also for his own and Ruth’s sake. He had,
therefore, replied sending twenty pounds, and saying that he would
either go over himself to Talloires or send a representative within a
month to discuss the situation.
“He found he was too feeble to go himself and for the same reason he
couldn’t well spare Roper, so he cast round for some one who could do
it for him, and he thought of me. He thought that if I wanted to marry
Miss Averill the secret would be safe with me and also I should be
just as anxious to have the matter settled as he was.
“Of course I agreed to go. You can understand that I really hadn’t any
option, though as far as I was concerned myself I didn’t care two pins
what Theodore had done or hadn’t done. Roper said Simon would be
extremely relieved to hear my decision. He said also that Simon did
not wish me to go for about three weeks, lest it would look too eager
and Mme. Blancquart would think she had frightened us.
“Roper went on to say that Simon was giving me £500. Out of this I was
to take my expenses and the balance was to buy off Mme. Blancquart. He
did not want me to give her a lump sum, but to arrange a monthly
payment which she would know she would lose if she informed. I was to
find some one in Talloires who would take the money and dole it out
for a percentage. The _curé_ possibly might do it, or I could employ a
solicitor. He left the arrangements to my judgment. In any case I was
to make the best bargain I could with the woman.
“That was all on the Wednesday night before the fire started. Then
came the tragedy. With Simon dead I didn’t know what on earth to do.
Of course I saw that I must carry out my promise just the same, and go
out to Talloires and try to arrange for Theodore’s safety, but I
thought that if Simon’s money went to Ruth, Theodore might try to make
trouble with her. However, I could do nothing until I saw him and Mme.
Blancquart, and I arranged to go to Talloires at the end of the three
weeks as Simon had asked me.
“You can guess the rest. I took the money and went to Talloires. But
as you know, I could find no trace either of Prosper Giraud or Mme.
Blancquart.
“I was in a difficulty then. I had no doubt that the message was
really Simon’s. It never occurred to me that Roper could invent the
story or steal the money, and when I failed to find the people I
simply thought he had made a mistake in the address. I was pretty
bothered, I can tell you. I was expecting every day to read of
Theodore’s arrest, and I could do nothing to prevent it.” The young
man was very earnest as he added: “I swear to you that what I have
told you is the literal truth. I don’t know whether you will believe
me, but whether or not, I am glad I’ve told you. It is a tremendous
weight off my mind, and if you can prove that the story was only
Roper’s invention I’ll be ten thousand times more relieved.”
French felt that he might very well believe the statement. Not only
had Whymper’s manner changed and borne the almost unmistakable impress
of truth, but the story he told was just the kind of story French was
expecting to hear. No tale that he could think of would have better
suited Roper’s purpose: to make this young fellow change stolen bank
notes the possession of which he could not account for. The more
French thought it over in detail, the more satisfied he felt with it.
It was true that there were two minor points which he did not fully
understand, but neither would invalidate the tale, even if
unexplained. Of these the first was: Why had Roper asked Whymper to
wait three weeks before going to France? And the second: If the young
man was as enamoured of this girl as he pretended to be, why had he
not proposed to her so as to be in a proper position to offer her his
protection?
A little thought gave him the answer to the first of these problems.
Evidently no suspicion must fall on Whymper other than through the
notes. If he were to rush away directly the tragedy occurred, any
general suspicion which might have been aroused might be directed
towards him for that very reason. That would be no test of the safety
of passing the notes. But if three weeks elapsed before he made a
move, suspicion must depend on the notes alone.
With regard to the second point French thought he might ask for
information.
“I don’t want to be unnecessarily personal, Mr. Whymper, but there is
just one matter I should like further light on. You were, I understand
you to say, anxious to marry this young lady and desired to protect
her from trouble with Mme. Blancquart. If that were so, would it not
have been natural for you to propose to her and so obtain the right to
protect her?”
Whymper made a gesture of exasperation.
“By Heaven, I only wish I had! It might have come out all right. But,
Inspector, I have been a coward. To be strictly truthful, I was
afraid. I’ll tell you just what happened. After the tragedy I was very
much upset by this whole affair. And it made me awkward and
self-conscious with Miss Averill to have to keep secret a thing which
concerned her so closely. I tried not to show it in my manner, but I
don’t think I quite succeeded. I think my manner displeased her. At
all events she grew cold and distant, and—well! there it is. I didn’t
dare to speak. I was afraid I would have no chance. I thought I would
wait until I found something out about her father. Then when this
began to seem impossible, I determined to risk all and speak, but then
you came threatening me with arrest for theft. I couldn’t propose
until that was over. And the question is, is it over now? Are you
going to arrest me or how do I stand?”
“I’m not going to arrest you, Mr. Whymper. You have given me the
explanations I asked for, and so far I see no reason to doubt your
story. I am glad you have told me. But though I believe you, I may say
at once that I believe also the whole thing was Roper’s invention. Why
did he not show the letter he alleged Theodore Averill had written?”
“I don’t know. I assumed there was something further in it which Mr.
Averill wished to keep from Roper and me.”
French shook his head.
“Much more likely it didn’t exist and he wanted to save the labour and
risk of forging it. Now, Mr. Whymper, there is only one thing to be
done. You or I, or both of us together must go to Miss Averill and ask
her the truth. I do not mean that we must tell her this story. We
shall simply ask her where her father lived, and where she was born.
Records will be available there which will set the matter at rest.”
Whymper saw the common sense of this proposal, but he said that
nothing would induce him to ask such questions of Miss Averill. It
was, therefore, agreed that French should call on her and make the
inquiries.
Ruth was at home when French reached the Oxleys’, and she saw him at
once. French apologised for troubling her so soon again, and then
asked some questions as to the possible amount of petrol and paraffin
which had been at Starvel on the night of the fire. From this he
switched the conversation on to herself, and with a dexterity born of
long practice led her to talk of her relatives. So deftly did he
question her, that when in a few minutes he had discovered all he
wished to know, she had not realised that she had been pumped.
In answer to his veiled suggestions she told him that her father’s
name was Theodore Averill, that he had lived in Bayonne, where he had
held a good appointment in the wine industry, and that he had married
a French lady whom he had met at Biarritz. This lady, her mother, had
died when she was born and her father had only survived her by about
four years. On his death she had come to her uncle Simon, he being her
only other relative. She was born in Bayonne and baptised, she
believed, by the Anglican clergyman at Biarritz. Her father was a
member of the Church of England and her mother a Huguenot.
“This,” French said when, half an hour later, he was back in the
vestry room of the old church, “will lead us to certainty. I will send
a wire to the Biarritz police and have the records looked up. Of
course, I don’t doubt Miss Averill’s word for a moment, but it is just
conceivable that she might have been misled as to her birth. However,
we want to be absolutely sure.”
He wired that evening and it may be mentioned here that in the course
of a couple of days he received the following information:—
1. Mr. Theodore Averill was a wine merchant and lived at Bayonne.
2. Mr. Averill and Mlle. Anne de Condillac had been married in the
English church at Biarritz on the 24th of June, 1905.
3. Mrs. Averill had died on the 17th of July, 1906, while giving birth
to a daughter.
4. This daughter, whose name was Ruth, was baptised at the Anglican
church, Biarritz, on the 19th of August, 1906.
5. Mr. Theodore Averill had died on the 8th of September, 1910, his
little four-year old daughter then being sent to England.
So that was certainty at last. Roper was the evil genius behind all
these involved happenings. He it was who had got Ruth away from the
doomed house; he had sent Whymper off to pass the stolen notes so that
he might learn if their numbers were known; he had murdered Simon
Averill; he had stolen the notes from the safe; he had murdered his
wife; he had burned the house. All was now clear—except the one point
at which French, trembling with exasperation, was again brought up.
What had happened to Roper? What blunder had he made? How had he died?
And again; where was the money? Was it hidden or was it destroyed?
As French went down to the police station to tell Sergeant Kent he
might withdraw his observation on Whymper, he determined that next
morning he would begin a meticulous and detailed search of the ground
surrounding the ruins in the hope of finding the answer to his last
question.
But next morning French instead found himself contemplating with a
growing excitement a new idea which had leaped into his mind and which
bade fair to change the whole future course of his investigation.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Startling Theory
Inspector French’s change of plans was due to a new idea which
suddenly, like the conventional bolt from the blue, flashed across the
horizon of his vision.
For some reason he had been unable to sleep on that night on which he
had completed his proof that the Whymper incident had been engineered
by Roper. French, as a rule, was a sound sleeper: he was usually too
tired on getting to bed to be anything else. But on the rare occasions
when he remained wakeful he nearly always turned the circumstance to
advantage by concentrating on the difficulty of the moment. His brain
at such times seemed more active than normally, and more than one of
his toughest problems had been solved during the hours of darkness. It
was true that he frequently reached conclusions which in the sober
light of day appeared fantastic and had to be abandoned, but valuable
ideas had come so often that when up against a really difficult case
he had thankfully welcomed a sleepless night in the hope of what it
might bring forth.
On this occasion, when he had employed all the conventional aids to
slumber without effect, he turned his attention to the one problem in
the Starvel Hollow tragedy which up to now had baffled him: the cause
of Roper’s fate. How had the man come to lose his life? What terrible
mistake had he made? How had Nemesis overtaken him? French felt he
could see the whole ghastly business taking place, excepting always
this one point. And the more he thought of it, the more difficult it
appeared. It seemed almost incredible that so clever a man should have
blundered so appallingly.
He had asked himself these questions for the hundredth time when there
leaped into his mind an idea so startling that for a moment he could
only lie still and let his mind gradually absorb it. Roper’s death
seemed the incredible feature of the case, but _was this a feature of
the case at all?_ _Had Roper died?_ What if his death was a fake,
arranged to free him from the attentions of the police so that he
might enjoy without embarrassment the fruits of his crime?
French lay trying to recall the details of a paragraph he had read in
the paper a year or two previously and wondering how he had failed up
to the present to draw a parallel between it and the Starvel Hollow
affair. It was the account of the burning of a house in New York.
After the fire it was found that a lot of valuable property had
disappeared and further search revealed the remains of two human
bodies. Two servants were believed to have been in the house at the
time, and these bodies were naturally assumed to have been theirs.
Afterwards it was proved—French could not remember how—that the two
left in the house had planned the whole affair so as to steal the
valuables. They had visited a cemetery, robbed a grave of two bodies,
conveyed these to the house, set the place on fire and made off with
the swag. Had Roper seen this paragraph and determined to copy the
Americans? Or had the same idea occurred to him independently?
How Roper might or might not have evolved his plan was however, a
minor point. The question was—had he evolved and carried out such a
plan? Was he now alive and in possession of the money?
It was evident there were two possible lines of inquiry, either of
which might give him his information.
The first was the definite identification of the body which had been
found in the position of Roper’s bed. Was there any physical
peculiarity about Roper which would enable a conclusion to be reached
as to whether this body was or was not his? It was true that the
remains had been examined by Dr. Emerson and unhesitatingly accepted
as Roper’s, but the doctor had had no reason for doubt in the matter
and might therefore have overlooked some small point which would have
led to a contrary conclusion.
The second line of inquiry was more promising. If Roper had carried
out such a fraud he must have provided a body to substitute for his
own. Had he done so, and if he had, where had this body been obtained?
Here was an act which, French felt, could not have been done without
leaving traces. Roper had proved himself a very skilful man, but the
secret acquisition of a dead body in a country like England was an
extraordinarily difficult undertaking, and of course the more
difficult an action was to carry out, the greater were the chances of
its discovery. Proof or disproof of his theory would be quickly
forthcoming.
Hour after hour French lay pondering the matter, and when shortly
before daylight he at last fell asleep, he had laid his plans for the
prosecution of his new inquiry.
He began by calling on Dr. Emerson. The doctor was writing in his
consulting room when French was shown in, and he rose to greet his
visitor with old-fashioned courtesy.
“Sorry for troubling you again, doctor,” French began with his
pleasant smile, “but I wanted to ask you a question. It won’t take
five minutes.”
“My dear sir, there is no hurry. I’m quite at your disposal.”
“Very good of you, Dr. Emerson, I’m sure. It’s really a matter more of
idle curiosity than a serious inquiry. I was thinking over that
Starvel affair, and I wondered how you were able to identify the
bodies. It was a phrase in the evidence that struck me. I gathered
that you said that the bodies of each of the three occupants of the
house were lying on the sites of their respective beds. I should like
to ask if that was stated from definite identification of the remains,
or if it was merely a reasonable and justifiable assumption?”
“If that is what you read, I am afraid I have not been correctly
reported. I certainly never said that the body found at each bed was
that of the owner of the bed. That they were so I have no doubt: from
every point of view I think that is a reasonable and justifiable
assumption, to use your own phrase. But actual identification was
quite impossible. It is rather an unpleasant subject, but fire,
especially such a furnace as must have raged at Starvel, destroys
practically all physical characteristics.”
“But you were able to tell the sex and age of the victims?”
“The sex and approximate age, yes. Given a skeleton or even certain
bones, that can be stated with certainty. But that is a very different
thing from identification.”
“I thought I was right,” French declared. “I had always heard that was
the result of fire, and therefore was puzzled. Identification of burnt
remains has however been frequently established from rings or jewelry,
has it not?”
“Certainly, though there was nothing of the kind in the instance in
question. Indeed, such identification would have been almost
impossible in any case. In that intense heat gold rings or settings
would have melted and the stones themselves would have dropped out and
would only be found by an extraordinarily lucky chance.”
French rose.
“Quite so. I agree. Well, I’m glad to know I was right. We Yard
Inspectors are always on the look-out for first-hand information.”
So the first of the three lines of inquiry had petered out. The bodies
were unidentifiable, and therefore so far as that was concerned, his
theory might be true or it might not.
As he strolled slowly back to the hotel, French considered his second
clue: the provision by Roper of a body to take the place of his own.
From the first the difficulty of such a feat had impressed French, and
as he now thought of it in detail, this difficulty grew until it
seemed almost insurmountable. Where could bodies be obtained? Only
surely in one of three ways: from a medical institution, from a
cemetery, and by means of murder.
With regard to the first of these three, it was true that bodies were
used for medical purposes, for dissection, for the instruction of
students. But they were not obtainable by outside individuals. French
thought that it would be absolutely impossible for Roper to have
secured what he wanted from such a source. So convinced of this was he
that he felt he might dismiss the idea from his mind.
Could then the remains have been obtained from a cemetery?
Here again the difficulties, though not quite so overwhelming, were
sufficiently great as almost to negative the suggestion. Of one thing
French felt convinced; that neither Roper nor any other man in Roper’s
position could have carried out such an enterprise singlehanded. One
or more confederates would have been absolutely necessary. To mention
a single point only, no one person would have had the physical
strength to perform such a task. No one person, furthermore, could
have taken the requisite precautions against surprise or discovery,
nor could one person have carried out the needful transport
arrangements between the cemetery and Starvel.
The whole subject, as French thought out its details, was
indescribably gruesome and revolting. But so interested was he in its
purely intellectual side—as a problem for which a solution must be
found—that he overlooked the horror of the actual operations. For him
the matter was one of pure reason. He did not consider the human
emotions involved except in so far as these might influence the
conduct of the actors in the terrible drama.
Assuming then that the remains had not been procured from a cemetery,
there remained but one alternative—murder! Some unknown person must
have been inveigled into that sinister house and there done to death,
so as to provide the needful third body! If Roper were guilty of the
Starvel crime as French now understood it, it looked as if he must
have been guilty of a third murder, hitherto unsuspected.
Here was food for thought and opportunity for inquiry. Who had
disappeared about the time of the tragedy? Was any one missing in the
neighbourhood? Had any one let it be known that he was leaving the
district or going abroad about that date? Instead of being at the end
of his researches, French was rather appalled by the magnitude of the
investigation which was opening out in front of him. To obtain the
necessary information might require the prolonged activities of a
large staff.
He was anxious not to give away the lines on which he was working. He
decided therefore not to make his inquiries from Sergeant Kent at the
local station, but to go to Leeds and have an interview with the Chief
Constable.
Accordingly, unconsciously following the example of Oxley and
Tarkington several weeks earlier, he took the 3.30 train that
afternoon and two hours later was seated in Chief Constable
Valentine’s room at police headquarters. The old gentleman received
him very courteously, and for once French met some one who seemed
likely to outdo him in suavity and charm of manner.
“I thought, sir, my case was over when I had cleared up the matter of
the bank notes passed to Messrs. Cook in London,” French declared as
he accepted a cigarette from the other’s case, “but one or two rather
strange points have made me form a tentative theory which seems
sufficiently probable to need going into. In short——” and he explained
with business-like brevity his ideas about Roper with the facts from
which they had sprung.
The Chief Constable was profoundly impressed by the recital, much more
so than French would have believed possible.
“It’s a likely enough theory,” he admitted. “Your arguments seem
unanswerable and I certainly agree that the idea is sufficiently
promising to warrant investigation.”
“I’m glad, sir, that you think so. In my job, as you know, there is
always the danger of being carried away by some theory that appeals
because of its ingenuity, while overlooking some more commonplace
explanation that is much more likely to be true.”
“I know that, and this may of course be an instance. I am glad,
however, that you mentioned your theory to me. It is an idea which
should be kept secret, and I shall set inquiries on foot without
giving away the Starvel connection.”
“Then, sir, you can’t recall any disappearances about the time?”
“I can’t. And I don’t expect we shall find any. Do you?”
“Well, I was in hope that we might.”
Major Valentine shook his head.
“No, Inspector; there I think you’re wrong,” he said with decision.
“If Roper really carried out these crimes, he’s far too clever to
leave an obvious trail of that kind. We may be sure that if he
inveigled some third person to the house and murdered him, a
satisfactory explanation of the victim’s absence was provided. You
suggested it yourself in your statement. The man will ostensibly have
left his surroundings, never to return. If he was a native he will
have gone to America or some other distant place. If he was a visitor
he will have left to return home. Somehow matters will have been
arranged so that he will disappear without raising suspicion. Don’t
you think so?”
“Yes, sir, I certainly do. But it’s going to make it a hard job to
trace him.”
“I know it is. If he lived in a large town it will be so hard that we
probably shan’t succeed, but if he came from the country or a village
the local men should have the information.”
“That is so, sir. Then I may leave the matter in your hands?”
“Yes, I’ll attend to it. By the way, where are you staying?”
French told him, and after some desultory discussion, took his leave
and caught the last train back to Thirsby. He was partly pleased and
partly disappointed by his interview. He had hoped for the
co-operation of the Chief Constable, but Major Valentine had gone much
further than this. He had really taken the immediate further
prosecution of the investigation out of French’s hands. French was
therefore temporarily out of a job. Moreover French had the contempt
of the Londoner and the specialist for those whom he was pleased to
think of as “provincial amateurs.” And yet he could not have acted
otherwise than as he had. The organisation of the police with all its
ramifications was needed for the job, and the Chief Constable
controlled the organisation.
Next morning after he had brought his notes of the case to date,
French left the hotel, and walking in the leisurely, rather aimless
fashion he affected in the little town, approached the church. It had
occurred to him that he would spend his enforced leisure in an
examination of the cemeteries in the immediate district, to see if any
local conditions would favour the operations of a body-snatcher.
Owing to the renovation, the church gate was open and French, passing
through, turned into the graveyard surrounding the picturesque old
building. It also was old—old and completely filled with graves. As
French leisurely strolled round the paths, he could not find a single
vacant lot. Even on the wall of the church itself there were
monuments, one of which bore the date 1573 and none of which were
later than 1800. Though the place was carefully tended there were no
signs of recent interments, and French was not therefore surprised to
learn from one of the workmen that there was a new cemetery at the
opposite end of the town.
He stood looking round, considering the possibilities of grave
robbing. The church was almost in the centre of the town and the
graveyard was surrounded on all sides by houses. In front was the old
High Street, fenced off by a tall iron railing and with a continuous
row of houses and shops opposite. The other three sides were bounded
by a six-foot wall, the two ends abutting on the gables and yards of
the High Street houses, and the back on a narrow street called Church
Lane, again with houses all the way along its opposite side. There
were heavy wrought iron gates leading to both Church Lane and High
Street.
The longer French examined the place, the more certain he became that
the robbery of a grave by less than three or four persons was an
absolute impossibility. However, he saw the sexton and made sure that
both gates were locked on the night in question.
He next paid a similar visit to the new cemetery. Here the
difficulties were not quite so overwhelming as it was farther from the
town and much less overlooked. At the same time even here they were so
great as to make theft practically impossible.
In the afternoon he tramped to the only other cemetery in the
district—that of a village some three miles north-east of Starvel. But
again his investigations met with a negative result and he definitely
put out of his mind the theory that Roper had robbed a grave.
For two days he kicked his heels in Thirsby, hoping against hope that
he would hear something from Major Valentine and wondering whether he
should not go back to London, and then he accidentally learned a fact
which gave him a new idea and started him off on a fresh line of
investigation.
As a forlorn hope it had occurred to him that he would call again on
Ruth Averill to inquire whether she could think of any one who might
have visited Starvel after she left for York. He did not expect an
affirmative reply, but he thought the inquiry would pass the time as
profitably as anything else.
Ruth, however, had known of no one.
“We never had a visitor, Mr. French,” she went on, “rarely or ever.
Except those three or four calls of Mr. Whymper’s of which I told you,
I don’t think a single person had come to the place for a year. Why
should they?”
“It must have been lonely for you,” French said sympathetically.
“It was lonely. I didn’t realise it at the time, except just after
coming back from school, but now that I have plenty of people to speak
to I see how very lonely it was.”
“You didn’t feel able to make confidants of the Ropers? Of course,”
French went on hastily, “I know they were only servants, but still
many servants are worthy of the fullest confidence.”
Ruth shook her head.
“No, I didn’t feel that I could make friends with either. It was not
in the least because they were servants. Some of the cottagers were
even lower socially, and yet they were real friends. But there was
something repellent about the Ropers, or at least I thought so. I was
never happy with either of them. And yet both were kind and attentive
and all that. Of course, there was Mr. Giles. He was always friendly,
and I enjoyed helping him with his insects. But I didn’t really see a
great deal of him.”
French felt sorry for the young girl, as he thought of the unhappy
life she must have led.
“I think I understand how you feel,” he returned gently. “Personality
is a wonderful thing, is it not? It is quite intangible, but one
recognises it and acts on it instinctively. And that Mr. Giles whom
you mentioned. Who is he, if it is not an impertinent question?”
“Oh, he is dead,” Ruth answered sadly and with some surprise in her
tones. “Did you not hear about him? He lived close to Starvel—at
least, about half a mile away—but his cottage was the nearest house.
He was dreadfully delicate and, I am afraid, rather badly off. He was
wounded in the War and was never afterwards able to work. He was
interested in insects and kept bees. He collected butterflies and
beetles and wrote articles about them. Sometimes I used to help him to
pin out his specimens. He taught me a lot about them.”
“And you say he died?”
“Yes, wasn’t it tragic? The poor man died just at the time of the
Starvel affair. It was too terrible. When I came back from York I
found he had gone too.”
French almost leaped off his seat as he heard these words. Was it
possible that in his careless, half-interested inquiries he had
blundered on to the one outstanding fact that he needed? Could it be
that Mr. Giles’ death represented Roper’s search for a body? That he
was his third victim?
Crushing down his eagerness French did his best to simulate a polite
and sympathetic interest.
“How terrible for you, Miss Averill!” he said with as real feeling in
his tones as he could compass. “One shock added to another. Tell me
about it, if it is not too painful a recollection.”
“Oh no, I’ll tell you. He fell ill a few days before I went to
York—influenza, Mrs. Roper thought, but he must have been fairly bad
as he had Dr. Philpot out to see him. Both the Ropers were certainly
very good to him. They went up and nursed him, for the woman who
usually looked after him had not time to stay with him for more than
an hour or so in the day. I went up and sat with him occasionally,
too. On the morning I went to York he seemed much worse. I called on
my way into Thirsby, and he was lying without moving and was terribly
white and feeble looking. His voice also was very faint. He just said
he was comfortable and had everything he wanted. Mrs. Roper said that
if he didn’t soon get better she would send Roper in for Dr. Emerson.
Dr. Philpot, I should explain, had just gone down with influenza.”
“And what was the next thing you heard?”
“Why,” Ruth made a little gesture of horror, “the next thing I knew of
it was that we met the funeral. It was awful. It was the second day
after the fire. I wanted to go out and see Starvel, and Mrs. Oxley
drove me out in their car. When we were coming back, just as we
reached the point where the Starvel road branches off, we saw a
funeral coming in along the main road. It was trotting and we waited
to let it pass on. Mr. Stackpool—that’s the vicar—and Dr. Emerson were
there and they told us whose it was. Of course we joined them. _Poor_
Mr. Giles. I _was_ sorry for him. But nothing could have been done.
Dr. Emerson said he became unconscious the same day that I saw him,
and passed away without suffering. That was something to be thankful
for at least.”
“Indeed, yes,” French agreed with feeling. “I wonder if I haven’t
heard about Mr. Giles. He was a very tall old man, wasn’t he, and
walked with a stoop?”
“Oh no, he wasn’t specially tall or old either. Just medium height and
middle age, I should say. Nor did he walk with a stoop. You must be
thinking of some one else.”
“I suppose I must,” French admitted, and as soon as he reasonably
could he took his leave.
That he now held in his hand the solution of the mystery he no longer
doubted. He would have wagered ten years of his life that this Giles’
remains had been taken from the wreck of Starvel and interred under
the name of John Roper. Such a supposition, moreover, was consistent
with the medical evidence. Dr. Emerson had stated at the inquest that
the third body was that of a man of middle height and middle age.
This, of course, had been taken as applying to Roper, but it might
equally apply to Giles. It was certainly a lucky thing for Roper’s
scheme that a person so suitable for his diabolical purpose should
happen to live so near to the scene of the crime. Or more probably, it
was this very fact that had suggested the idea of the substitution to
Roper.
But if Giles had been murdered, what about Dr. Emerson’s certificate?
In this wretched case the solution of one problem only seemed to lead
to another. French felt that he had still further work before him ere
he could begin the second stage of his case—the search for Roper. Lost
in thought he returned to the Thirsdale Arms for lunch.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A Somewhat Gruesome Chapter
To inquire of a fully fledged and responsible medical man whether he
has or has not given a false death certificate, without at the same
time ruffling his feelings is an undertaking requiring a nice judgment
and not a little tact. As French once again climbed the steps to Dr.
Emerson’s hall door early that same afternoon, he felt that the coming
interview would tax even his powers of suave inquiry. In a way, of
course, it didn’t matter whether the doctor’s feelings were ruffled or
not, but both on general principles and from a desire to prevent his
witness becoming hostile, the detective was anxious to save the
other’s face.
“How are you, doctor? Here I am back to worry you again,” French began
pleasantly as he was shown in to the consulting-room. They chatted for
a few moments and then French went on: “I wanted to ask you in
confidence about an acquaintance of Miss Averill’s, a Mr. Giles who
died recently. You knew him?”
“I attended him. I attended him for some years until Dr. Philpot came,
then he took him over as well as most of my other country patients. I
am not so young as I was and the arrangement suited us both. He died
while Dr. Philpot was ill, and I went out and gave the necessary
certificate.”
“So I gathered, and that’s why I came to you. What a curious
coincidence it was that this man should pass away at the very time of
the fire! That all four of Miss Averill’s closest acquaintances should
die at practically the same time is, you must admit, as strange as it
is tragic.”
Emerson looked at his visitor curiously.
“Strange enough and tragic enough, I admit,” he answered, “but such
coincidences are not infrequent. It is my experience that coincidences
which would be deemed too remarkable for a novel constantly occur in
real life.”
“I quite agree with you. I have often said the same thing. Mr. Giles
was an invalid, was he not?”
“Yes, from what he told me the poor fellow had a rather miserable
life. He was always delicate, and when he volunteered in 1914, he was
rejected because of his heart. As the war dragged on the authorities
became less particular and in 1917 he was re-examined and passed for
foreign service, wrongly, as I think. However, that’s what happened.
He went to France and in less than a month he was in hospital, having
been both gassed and wounded. As a result his heart became more
seriously affected. Even five years ago he was in a state in which
death might have occurred from a sudden shock, and myocarditis is a
complaint which does not improve as the years pass.”
“Then it was myocarditis he died of?”
“Yes. He had an attack of influenza on the previous Thursday. When Dr.
Philpot got laid up and asked me to take his patients over he told me
he had seen Mr. Giles and that he was in a bad way. The influenza made
an extra call on the poor man’s heart which no doubt hastened his end,
but the actual cause of death was myocarditis.”
“Does this disease leave any infallible signs after death? I mean, can
a doctor say definitely from the mere inspection of the remains that
death was due to it and to no other cause? Don’t think me impertinent
in asking. I told you we inspectors were always out after first-hand
information.”
Dr. Emerson raised his eyebrows as if to indicate delicately that the
question was perhaps not in the best taste, but with only the
slightest hint of stiffness he replied:—
“In this case the question does not arise. This man was in a serious
condition of health; his heart might have failed at any moment.
Moreover, he was suffering from influenza, which puts an extra strain
on the heart. Dr. Philpot gave it as his opinion that he would not
recover. When therefore I learned that he had died suddenly I was not
surprised. It was only to be expected. Further, when I examined him he
showed every sign of death from heart failure.”
“But that is just the point, doctor. Excuse my pressing it, but I
really am interested. For my own information I should like to know
whether these signs that you speak of were absolutely peculiar to a
death from heart disease. I understood, please correct me if I am
wrong, but I understood that only an autopsy could really establish
the point beyond question.”
Dr. Emerson hesitated.
“These are very peculiar questions,” he said presently. “I think you
should tell me what is in your mind. It seems to me that I am equally
entitled to ask how the death of Mr. Giles affects the cause of the
Starvel fire?”
French nodded, and drawing forward his chair, spoke more
confidentially.
“You are, doctor. I had not intended to mention my suspicion, but
since you have asked me, I’ll answer your question. I will ask you to
keep what I am about to say very strictly to yourself, and on that
understanding I must tell you that I’m not connected with an insurance
company: I’m an inspector from Scotland Yard. Certain facts which I do
not wish to go into at present have led me to suspect that Mr. Giles
may have been murdered. I want to make sure.”
Dr. Emerson stared as if he couldn’t have believed his ears, and his
jaw dropped.
“God bless my soul!” he cried. “_Murdered?_ Did I hear you say
murdered?”
“Yes,” said French, “but I am not sure about it. It is only a
suspicion.”
“A pretty nasty suspicion for me, after my certificate! But you
couldn’t be right. The very idea is absurd! Who could have murdered
such a harmless man, and badly off at that!”
“Well, I think it might be possible to find a motive. But if you don’t
mind, I’d really rather not discuss what may prove to be a mare’s
nest. However, you see now the object of my questions. I want to know
the possibilities from the medical point of view. Perhaps you will
tell me about that autopsy?”
Dr. Emerson was manifestly disturbed by French’s suggestion. He moved
uneasily in his chair and gave vent to exclamations of scepticism and
concern. “Of course,” he went on, “I’ll tell you everything I can, and
I needn’t say I most sincerely hope your suspicion is unfounded. You
are perfectly correct on the other point. Only an autopsy can
establish beyond question the fact of a death from myocarditis. If I
had had the slightest doubt in Mr. Giles’ case I should have required
one before giving a certificate. But I had no doubt, and with all due
respect to you I have none now.”
“You may be right, doctor. I’ll tell you as soon as I know myself. In
the meantime thank you for your information and not a word to a soul.”
French left the house with a deep satisfaction filling his mind. Dr.
Emerson’s admission was what he had hoped for and it very nearly
banished his last remaining doubt. But he felt that he ought to get
Dr. Philpot’s views also. Philpot had seen the man before death and
his evidence would certainly be required if the matter went further.
Accordingly, he turned in the direction of the younger man’s house,
and a few minutes later was entering a consulting-room for the second
time that day.
“Good-afternoon, doctor,” he said, with his usual cheery smile. “I’ve
come on my old tack of looking for information. But it’s a very simple
matter this time: just one question on quite a different subject.”
Dr. Philpot was looking changed: old and worn and despondent. French
was rather shocked at his appearance. He was sitting forward in his
chair, hunched over the fire, with his head resting in his hands and a
look of brooding misery on his features. He looked like a man upon
whom a long expected blow had at last fallen; a man at the end of his
tether, who does not know which way to turn for relief. And then,
somewhat to French’s surprise, the cause came out.
“Of course, of course,” the other murmured, rousing himself as if from
an evil dream. “If you want to know anything from me ask it now, for
I’m leaving the town almost at once.”
French was genuinely surprised.
“Leaving the town?” he repeated. “You don’t mean——? Do you mean for
good?”
“For good, yes. And I don’t want ever to see the cursed place again.
But it’s my own fault. I may as well tell you, for you’ll hear it soon
enough. I have failed.”
“Financially, you mean?”
Philpot glanced at his visitor with sombre resentment.
“Financially, of course. How else?” he growled. “It was never a land
flowing with milk and honey, this place, but for the last few months
my position has been getting more and more impossible. The only things
I get plenty of are bills—bills everywhere, and no money to meet them.
I’ve struggled and fought to keep my end up, but it has been no good.
When I came, I couldn’t afford to buy a practice, and though I’ve not
done so badly owing to Dr. Emerson’s giving up his more distant
patients, I haven’t built up quickly enough and my little capital
couldn’t stand the strain. Another three or four years and I might
have got my head above water.” He made a gesture of despair. “But
there it is and complaining won’t help it.”
French’s natural reaction was to show sympathy with any one in
trouble, and he could not help feeling sorry for this doctor who had
made a mess of his life and who now, nearing middle age, was going to
have to begin all over again. But when he remembered what the landlord
of the Thirsdale Arms had told him of the man’s gambling proclivities,
his sympathy was somewhat checked. To continue gambling when you know
that your indulgence is going to prevent your paying your just debts
is but a short way removed from theft. Of course, French did not know
how far the landlord’s story was true, so it was with relief that he
reminded himself that he was not Philpot’s judge, and that his
business was simply to get the information he required as easily and
pleasantly as he could.
“I am exceedingly sorry to hear what you say,” he declared gravely,
and he was not altogether a hypocrite in making his manner and tone
express genuine regret. “It is a terrible position for any one to find
himself in and I can well understand how you feel. But, though bad,
you must not consider it hopeless. Many a man has passed through a
similar trouble and has come out on top in the end.”
Philpot smiled faintly.
“I appreciate your kindness,” he answered. “But don’t let us talk
about it. I told you in order to explain my departure and because you
would hear it in any case. But if you don’t mind, I would rather not
speak of it again. You said something about a question, I think?”
“Yes, but first I must ask just this. You say you are leaving here.
Suppose through some unexpected development in this Starvel case you
are wanted to give evidence. Can I find you?”
“Of course. I am going to a friend in Glasgow who says he can find me
a job. I shall be staying with Mrs. MacIntosh, of 47 Kilgore Street,
Dumbarton Road.”
French noted the address.
“Thanks. I do not think I shall want you, but I should be remiss in my
duty if I failed to keep in touch with you. The other question is
about a friend of Miss Averill’s, a man named Giles, who died about
the time of the fire. I wish you would tell me what he died of.”
Dr. Philpot looked at him in surprise. Then something approaching a
twinkle appeared in his eye.
“Hullo! Another—er—unexpected development? Is it indiscreet to
inquire?”
“It is,” French answered, “but I’ll tell you because I really want my
information. It may be a very serious matter, Dr. Philpot, and I am
mentioning it in strict confidence only. I have certain reasons to
suppose that Mr. Giles may have been murdered and I want to get your
views on the possibility.”
Dr. Philpot’s astonishment at the announcement was quite as marked as
that of his _confrère_, but he made less effort to conceal his
scepticism.
“My dear Inspector! You’re surely not serious? Giles? Oh come now, you
don’t expect me to believe that? What possible motive could any one
have for doing such a thing?”
French did not explain the motive. He said he didn’t claim
infallibility and admitted he might be wrong in his theory. He was
simply collecting facts and he wanted any the other could supply.
“Well,” Philpot declared, “these are the facts so far as I know them.”
He crossed over to an index, and rapidly looking through it, withdrew
a card. “This is the man’s record. He was seriously ill to begin with:
he had a heart affection which might have killed him at any moment. I
have attended him for years and his disease was growing worse. His
life in fact was precarious. That is your first fact.
“The second is that during the week before his death he developed
influenza. I went out and saw him on the Thursday. I believed that his
days were numbered and I expected to hear of his death at any time. He
did die, if I remember correctly, on the following Tuesday. I did not
see him then, as I was myself down with ’flu, but Dr. Emerson saw him
and he can tell you if his death was natural. I don’t know, Inspector,
what you are basing your opinion on, but I can say with certainty that
I shall be surprised if you are right.”
“It is your outlook on the matter which most strongly supports my
suspicion,” French rejoined: “yours and Dr. Emerson’s, for I have seen
him and his is the same. He was expecting that Mr. Giles would die
from his disease, consequently when he did die he assumed that the
disease was the cause. Perfectly naturally, mind you: I’m not
criticising him. But my point is that his preconceived idea made him
less critical than he might otherwise have been.”
“Ingenious no doubt, but to me unconvincing. However, it is not my
affair, but yours. Is there any other question that you wish me to
answer?”
French rapidly reflected. He thought that there was nothing more.
Between these two men he had got what he wanted.
“I don’t think there is, doctor,” he returned. “I’m afraid your
information hasn’t helped me on much, but after all it was facts that
I wanted. I’ll not detain you any longer. Allow me just to say that I
hope your present difficulties will be short-lived and that you may
soon settle down satisfactorily again.”
So, as far as the medical testimony was concerned, his theory about
Giles’ murder might well be true. Dr. Emerson had really been very lax
and yet, French imagined, most medical men in similar circumstances
would have acted as he had done. But whether that was so or not,
Emerson had jumped to conclusions and had signed the death certificate
without having really taken any trouble to ascertain the cause of
death. And this, if necessary, he could be made to admit in the
witness box.
French saw that only one thing would settle the matter. Giles’ coffin
must be opened and the contents examined.
To obtain the necessary powers from the Home Office was a simple
matter in London, where the request could be put through direct from
the Yard. But here in Yorkshire it must come from the local
authorities. French decided therefore that his proper course would be
to put the additional facts that he had learned before Major Valentine
and let that officer see to the rest. It was not a matter upon which
he cared to telephone or write, so having made an appointment by wire,
he once again took the afternoon train for Leeds.
“I believe, sir, that I have found where that third body was
obtained,” he began, as he took his seat for the second time in the
Chief Constable’s room. “It is, of course, only theory, indeed, you
might almost say guess-work, but I think it works in. The nearest
inhabitant to Starvel, a man living alone, died on the night before
the fire.” French went on to relate in detail what took place and to
give his views thereon.
The Chief Constable heard him in silence, and then sat for some
moments thinking the matter over.
“I’m afraid I don’t feel so sanguine about it as you seem to,” he said
at last. “At the same time I agree that the matter must be settled by
an examination of the coffin. But I shall be surprised if Giles’ body
is not found within it.”
“It may be, sir, of course,” French admitted. “But I’m glad you agree
that we should make sure. In that case there is no object in delay.
Will you obtain the necessary exhumation order, or is there anything
you wish me to do in the matter?”
“No, I’ll see to it. You may arrange with Kent to get the work done.
Let Kent arrange for a magistrate to be present. A representative will
be required from the Home Office, of course?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Then you may expect the order in a day or two. I shall be very much
interested to hear the result. It will be impossible to keep the
affair quiet?”
“I’m afraid so. There will be too many concerned in it.”
“Quite. Well, you must get up some tale about it. What are you going
to say?”
“I haven’t thought yet, sir. I’ll dish out something when the time
comes.”
When French reached Hellifield on his return journey he found Oxley on
the platform.
“You been travelling also, Inspector?” Oxley greeted him. “I’ve just
been to Penrith for the day. These connections always make me curse.
They’re all arranged to and from Leeds, but people going to or from
the north have to kick their heels here for the best part of an hour
each way.”
“Can’t please everybody, Mr. Oxley,” French remarked tritely.
“You think not?” Oxley smiled. “Well, how’s the case?”
“Nothing doing for the moment. I was in seeing Dr. Philpot this
morning. He seems in a bad way, poor fellow.”
Oxley looked grave.
“It’s a bad case, I fear.” He glanced round and his voice sank. “From
what I’ve heard and by putting two and two together I shouldn’t wonder
if he’ll only pay two or three shillings in the pound. All gone to the
bookies, or nearly all. You know, Inspector, between ourselves, when a
man’s in debt all round, as he is, it’s not just the game to go
putting his last few pounds on horses.”
“It’s a fact, Mr. Oxley. Of course, one must remember that the gambler
plunges in the hope of pulling something off. If he had had some bits
of luck he might have put himself square.”
“That’s true, and you can imagine any one taking the risk. If he wins
his whole trouble is over, while if he loses he is little the worse.
He may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. But you haven’t told
me how the case is getting on.”
It was natural enough that Oxley should be interested in his
investigations, but French thought he pushed his curiosity a little
too far. They met fairly often—sometimes, he thought, not entirely by
accident—and every time Oxley made a dead set at him to learn what he
was doing and if he had reached any conclusions. French did not like
being pumped, and as a result he became closer than ever. On this
occasion it taxed even his skill to put the solicitor off without
unpleasantly plain speaking, but he managed it at last and the talk
drifted into other channels. Oxley was in his usual state of rather
boisterous good humor, and before the train stopped at Thirsby he
regaled French with the gossip of the district and told a number of
the highly flavoured stories in which his soul delighted.
Coincidence ordained that French should meet at the station the one
person whose curiosity as to the progress of the investigation was
even keener than Oxley’s—Tarkington’s clerk, Bloxham. Bloxham never
lost an opportunity of fishing for information, and French had little
doubt that their frequent “unexpected” meetings were carefully
prearranged. On the present occasion the man joined French with a
“Walking to the hotel, Mr. French? I’m just going that way too,” and
immediately began to ask leading questions. But French’s feelings were
still somewhat ruffled from his encounter with Oxley, and for once
Bloxham received as direct and decisive a reply as his heart could
wish.
“Sorry, Mr. French,” he stammered, staring at French in considerable
surprise. “I’m afraid we outsiders must bother you a lot. I was
interested because of the notes, you understand, but of course if the
thing is confidential that’s another matter.”
“That’s all right,” French returned, recovering his temper. “Come and
have a drink.”
Two days later the exhumation order came, and that same night shortly
after twelve o’clock a little party emerged from the local police
station, and separating at the door, set off by various routes in the
direction of the cemetery. Inspector French walked down the High
Street with Dr. Laming, the Home Office representative, Sergeant Kent
with Colonel Followes, the local magistrate from whom French had
obtained the warrant for Whymper’s arrest, went via Cross Lane, while
a sturdy policeman armed with tools disappeared down a parallel
street.
The night was dark and cloudy, with a cold south-westerly wind which
gave promise of early rain. There was a thin crescent moon, though its
light penetrated but slightly through the pall of cloud. The men
shivered and turned up their collars as they faced the raw damp air.
The five met within the gates of the cemetery, which were opened to
them by the caretaker and relocked behind them. Two gravediggers were
in attendance. In the darkness and silence the little company moved
off, and led by the caretaker, crossed the ground towards its
north-easterly corner.
The place was very secluded. It lay on the side of a gently sloping
hill whose curving bulk screened it from the town. It was tastefully
laid out and well kept, but to the little party, with their minds full
of their gruesome mission, it seemed eerie and sinister. The shrubs
and bushes which French had so much admired on his previous visit, now
presented shadowy and menacing forms which moved and changed their
positions as the men passed on. Presently a beam from an acetylene
bicycle lamp flashed out and the caretaker called a halt.
“This is it,” he said in a low voice, pointing to the long narrow
mound of a grave.
Silently the two gravediggers advanced, and stretching a tarpaulin on
the grass alongside the mound, began to remove the sods. Then they
dug, first through dark soil and then through yellow, which they
heaped up in a pyramid on the tarpaulin. They worked steadily, but a
whole hour had passed before with a dull thud a spade struck something
hollow.
“We’re down at last,” the caretaker said, while the diggers redoubled
their efforts.
Gradually the top of the coffin became revealed and the men,
undermining the walls of their excavation, worked the clay out from
round the sides. Presently all was clear.
As the interment had taken place only some two months earlier the
coffin was still perfectly sound. Raising it was therefore an easy
matter. Ropes were lowered and passed through the handles, and with a
steady pull, the sinister casket came away from the clay beneath and
in a few seconds was lying on the grass beside the hole. French,
holding his electric torch to the brass plate, could read the
inscription: “Markham Giles, died 14th September, 1926. Aged 36.”
Meanwhile the sturdy policeman had come forward with a screwdriver and
was beginning to withdraw the screws holding down the lid. Every one
but the case-hardened Home Office official felt a thrill of excitement
pass over him as the fateful moment approached. Only Dr. Laming and
French had before taken part in an exhumation, and the feelings of the
others were stirred by the gruesome nature of the operations and
thoughts of the ghastly sight which they expected would soon meet
their eyes. With French it was different. He was moved because his
reputation was at stake. So much depended for him on what that raised
lid would reveal. If he had put all concerned to the trouble and
expense of an unnecessary exhumation, it would count against him. He
found it hard to stand still and to preserve a suitable attitude of
aloofness while the constable slowly operated the screwdriver.
At last the screws were removed and the lid was carefully raised and
lifted clear. And then the eyes which had been bulging with
anticipated horror, bulged still more with incredulous amazement.
There was no sign of Markham Giles’ body or any other! Instead, the
coffin was half-full of dark, peaty earth; and when this earth was
sifted nothing was found embedded in it.
The sight produced varying emotions in the onlookers. The uninitiated
broke into exclamations of wonder: French felt such a wave of
satisfaction sweep through him that he could have shouted in his
delight: Dr. Laming contented himself with a quick glance and a murmur
of “One for you, French. Congratulations.” All felt that they had
assisted in a unique experiment, the result of which had triumphantly
vindicated the authorities.
This, then, was the end of the mystery. The conclusion which French
had reached by analysis and deduction had been tested and had proved
true, and that proof established at one and the same time the whole of
the steps of his line of reasoning. Roper was guilty of one of the
most diabolical plots ever conceived in the mind of a criminal. He had
allowed nothing to stand in his way. He had sacrificed the lives of no
less than three people in order that he might with the greater
security steal his employer’s money. Every part of his devilish scheme
was made clear, except one—his present whereabouts. French determined
that he would immediately begin to trace him and that nothing would
induce him to stop until he had succeeded.
It was not long before the news of the discovery leaked out. When
French came down to breakfast next morning he found three reporters
waiting for him, and he had hardly begun to speak to them when a
fourth arrived.
“That’s all right, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. “I am from Scotland
Yard after all, and I’ll tell you as much as I can. I only wish I knew
more! As to what may or may not lie behind it I cannot hazard a guess;
we are about to go into that. But the fact is that we received secret
information—I can’t give away the source—you may say an anonymous
letter if you like—but information was forthcoming which led us to
believe that the poor gentleman, Mr. Giles, had become the victim of a
gang of criminals. The story was to the effect that he had been
murdered by chloroform or poison, and that after he had been coffined,
the gang returned and removed the body, disposing of it in some other
way. That was all, but it obviously suggested that the gang in
question was that of the burglars who, as you are aware, have been
active in these parts for many months, and that they had emptied the
coffin in order to find a temporary safe deposit for their booty.
That, at all events, was a possible explanation. On going into the
matter I thought it was worth while testing the story by exhuming the
coffin, and sure enough, the body was gone. But the other suggestion
about the burglars’ swag wasn’t so happy. When we opened the coffin we
found it half-full of earth: about the weight of the deceased.
Needless to say we searched it thoroughly, but there was nothing else
in it. So, whatever the motive of the crime, it was not to find a safe
hiding place for valuables.”
The reporters were voluble in their interest and in the joy they
evidently felt in the scoop vouchsafed them.
“Some story that, Inspector,” they cried. “Tell us more and we’ll give
you a good write up.”
But French smilingly shook his head.
“Sorry it’s all I’m at liberty to give away,” he declared. “Come now,
gentlemen, I haven’t done so badly for you. Plenty of men in my
position wouldn’t have told you anything.”
“But do you not think,” said one, the least vociferous of the four,
“that your theory may have been right after all? Is it not possible
that the stuff was hidden in the coffin as you suggested, but was dug
up and removed by the gang before you made your exhumation?”
“I thought of that,” French declared brazenly, “and you may be right,
though there were no signs of it. However, that is one of the things
to be gone into.”
When French had breakfasted he went to see the undertaker who had
conducted Giles’ funeral, and there he received some information which
still more firmly established the theory he had evolved.
“The whole arrangements,” explained Mr. Simkins, the proprietor, in
the course of the conversation, “were carried out to Mr. Roper’s
orders. Mr. Roper said that Mr. Giles had had an idea he mightn’t get
over the attack, and he had handed him the money for his funeral,
asking him to see to it as he had no relative to do it. There were
twelve pounds over when the ground was bought, and Mr. Roper handed
the money to me and told me to do the best I could with it. He said he
thought the best plan would be to get the body coffined that
afternoon—it was a Wednesday—and have the funeral on the Friday. He
said the doctor thought the coffining should be done as soon as
possible, and while the day of the interment didn’t really matter,
Friday would suit as well as any. That was the reason he gave for the
arrangement, for you know, sir, in inexpensive funerals at such a
distance, we generally do the coffining just before the funeral and so
make the one journey do. But that was the way it was done.”
“I understand,” French continued. “Mr. Giles died on the Tuesday, the
coffining was done on the Wednesday, and the funeral took place on the
Friday. That right?”
“That’s right, sir.”
It seemed to French that the undertaker’s statement demonstrated the
sole remaining steps of Roper’s plan so completely that every detail
of that hideous night now stood revealed in all its ghastliness. He
had not only murdered Markham Giles, but he had arranged that the body
should lie coffined in the lonely house on the night of the major
tragedy. On that night he and probably Mrs. Roper must have opened the
coffin, taken out the remains, replaced them with the proper weight of
earth, and once more screwed down the lid. A small handcart such as
French had noticed in the unburnt outhouse at Starvel would serve to
convey the remains to the Hollow, where they were to be used in such a
terrible way to bolster up the deception.
Truly, it was a well-thought-out scheme! And how nearly had it
succeeded! But its success would be short-lived. With set teeth and
frowning brow French vowed to himself that he would not rest until he
had the monster who had done this deed safely under lock and key.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Piece of Yellow Clay
All that day Inspector French’s thoughts kept reverting to that tense
moment in the cemetery when the lid of the coffin had been raised and
his theory had been so dramatically established. The memory filled his
mind with a deep satisfaction. He felt that he had achieved nothing
less than a veritable triumph. Other cases he had handled well, indeed
he thought he might say brilliantly. But in no previous case had he
solved his problem by such a creative effort of the imagination. He
had imagined what might have happened, he had tested his theory, and
he had found it had happened. The highest kind of work, this! His
superiors could not fail to be impressed.
But there was more than that in it. Seldom had he known of a case
which contained such arresting and dramatic features. When the facts
became known they would make something more than a nine days’ wonder.
The old miser, living meanly in his decaying house at the bottom of
that sinister hollow on the lonely moor; the hoarded thousands in his
safe; the terrible conflagration which wiped out in a night the whole
building and everything it contained; the discovery that the tragedy
was no accident, but that murder lurked behind it; the other murder,
when Markham Giles was done to death for a purpose too dreadful and
gruesome to contemplate without a thrill of horror; these things would
make the Starvel Hollow crime re-echo round the world. It would be the
crime of the century. No one could fail to be moved by it.
And all would react to his, French’s advantage. For a moment he
allowed himself to dream. Chief Inspector Armstrong was getting old.
He must soon retire . . . French ran over in his mind his possible
successors. Yes, it was conceivable . . . With this brilliant case to
his credit it was almost likely . . . A ravishing prospect!
But French was at heart too sound a man to waste time in day-dreaming
while there was work to be done. He had pulled off a _coup_ and had
every reason to be pleased with himself, but he had not completed his
case. He had solved his problem, but he had not found his criminal.
Until Roper was under lock and key he could not relax his efforts or
look for his reward.
As he went over, point by point, all that he knew of the missing man,
he saw that there were two matters upon which he should obtain further
information before starting his search. Roper’s statement to the
undertaker was capable of verification. Had Dr. Emerson stated that
Giles’ body required to be coffined without delay? If Roper had lied
on this point, it would still further confirm the case against him.
The second matter was a search of Giles’ cottage. It was not a hopeful
line of inquiry certainly, but it could not be neglected. Some clue to
the tragedy might be forthcoming.
First, then, it was necessary to see Dr. Emerson, and a few minutes
later French was seated once again in his consulting-room. The doctor
greeted him anxiously.
“I’m glad you called, Inspector,” he exclaimed. “I was going up to the
hotel to look for you. This is a terrible development.”
“You’ve heard then, Dr. Emerson?”
“Just this moment. I met Kent and he told me. It is an amazing affair,
almost incredible. What does it all mean, Mr. French? Can you
understand it?”
“I am afraid, sir, it means what I said on my last call; that Mr.
Giles was murdered.”
Dr. Emerson made an impatient gesture.
“But good gracious, man, that doesn’t explain it! Suppose he was
murdered: where is his body? Have you a theory?”
French hesitated. He felt tempted to disclose his suspicions to this
old man, whose interest and good faith were so self-evident. But his
habit of caution was too strong.
“I have a theory, Dr. Emerson,” he answered, “but so far it is only a
theory and I don’t like to discuss it until I am reasonably sure it is
true. I shall know in a short time and then I will tell you. In the
meantime perhaps you will excuse me. But I want to ask you one more
question. Roper saw you about the funeral arrangements?”
“Yes. He said that Giles had given him some money for the purpose and
that he would see that the best use was made of it.”
“You thought it necessary, I understand, to have the coffining done
without delay?”
Dr. Emerson looked up sharply.
“I thought it necessary? Certainly not. You’re mistaken there.”
“Is that so?” French returned. “I thought you had told Roper that it
must be hurried on. You didn’t?”
“Never. I never even discussed the matter with him. I never thought of
it. As a matter of fact there was no need to depart in any way from
the usual procedure.”
“That’s all right, doctor. Now there is one other point. Let us assume
that murder was committed. I want you to tell me from the appearance
of the body how that murder might have been done. If you are able to
do so it might lead me to a clue.”
Emerson sprang to his feet and began pacing the room.
“Merciful powers! That’s a nice question to ask me, after my giving a
certificate of death from myocarditis!” he exclaimed.
“I know, doctor.” French spoke soothingly. “But none of us are
infallible, and if you made a mistake it’s only what every one does at
one time or another. Your reasons for giving the certificate were very
convincing, and if they were not sound in this case it is only because
this case is one in a million. Don’t worry about the certificate.
Instead, just sit down and recall the appearance of the body and see
if you can think of another cause of death. If you’re not able to give
a definite opinion we can still get something by elimination. I take
it, for example, the man’s skull was not battered in nor his throat
cut? That limits the affair. You see what I mean?”
“Oh, I see right enough, and naturally I’ll give you all the help I
can. But tell me first, have you found the body?”
“No, nor have I the faintest idea where to look. That will be my next
job, I suppose. I don’t even say it’s murder. But it may be, and if
you can answer my question it might be a considerable help.”
Dr. Emerson thought for some moments.
“Well,” he said at last, “I must admit that murder is _possible_,
though I don’t for a moment believe death occurred otherwise than as I
said. As to possible methods, there were no obvious wounds on the body
and violence in the literal sense is therefore unlikely. A sharp blow
over the heart or on the stomach might have caused heart failure
without leaving physical marks, but in such a case the features would
have looked distressed. For the same reason death from the shock of a
sudden fright or start may be ruled out. It is of course true that
certain kinds of poison might have been administered. A whiff of
hydrocyanic acid gas would cause almost instantaneous death and
produce the same appearance as death from natural causes. An injection
of cocaine would do the same where there was heart disease, and there
are other similar agents. But in these cases the difficulty of the
average man in obtaining the substances in question and also in
knowing how to use them if obtained, is so great that I think they
might all be ruled out. No, Inspector, amazing as your discovery
seems, I cannot think you are right in assuming murder.”
“But,” thought French, though he did not put his thought into words,
“if the man you suspect spent the best years of his life as male nurse
in a medical institution, these difficulties pretty well vanish.” But
he concealed his satisfaction, and, instead, simulated disappointment.
“That seems very reasonable, doctor, I must admit. At the same time I
shall have to put inquiries in hand as to whether any one recently
tried to obtain cocaine or those other things you have mentioned. Of
course, I don’t say that necessarily I am right in my ideas.”
“I don’t think you are right, though I confess I’m absolutely lost in
amazement about that coffin. Come now, Inspector, you must know more
than you pretend. Are your ideas hopelessly confidential?”
French shook his head, then said, “I can tell you, doctor, that I know
nothing more than I have already mentioned. I may have a surmise, but
you will agree that I could not repeat mere surmises which might also
be slanders against perfectly innocent persons. If I find that my
theories seem to have a basis on fact I may ask for your further help,
but at present I see no signs of that. You’ll agree that I’m right?”
Emerson admitted it, and after some further conversation French took
his leave. So far everything was going satisfactorily. Each new fact
which he learned tended to strengthen his theory. And incidentally and
unexpectedly he had come on another piece of evidence, circumstantial
of course, but none the less strong. According to Dr. Emerson, the
murder was most likely to have been committed by methods which Roper
alone, of all the people that French could think of, had the knowledge
and the ability to employ. French’s satisfaction was intense as he
noted the cumulative effect of his discoveries. By this method of
cumulative circumstantial evidence was he accustomed to find suspicion
grow to certainty and certainty to proof.
So much for the first of the two inquiries French had set himself to
make. There remained the investigation of the late Markham Giles’
cottage, and after a snack of early lunch at the hotel, he started out
along the Starvel road.
It was dull and rather cold, but a pleasant day for walking. French
tramped along, enjoying the motion and the extended view offered by
the wide, open spaces of the moor. Though, owing to the atmosphere,
the colouring was neither so warm nor so rich as it had previously
appeared, there was a fascination in the scenery which strongly
appealed to him. He had found a similar though keener charm in
Dartmoor, which he had once explored on the occasion of a visit to a
cracksman doing time in the great prison at Princetown. Indeed
Dartmoor and Exmoor both figured on his list of places to be visited
when time and money should permit.
Diverging from the Starvel road at the point where Ruth Averill and
Mrs. Oxley had joined the deceased man’s funeral, French skirted the
edge of the Hollow and in a few minutes reached the cottage. It was a
tiny box of a place, but strongly built, with stone walls and slated
roof. Its architecture was of the most rudimentary kind, a door and
two windows in front and at the back being the only relieving features
in the design. The house stood a short distance back from the road in
the middle of a patch of cultivated ground. Behind was a row of wooden
beehives.
French looked round him. As far as he could see he was the only living
thing in all that stretch of country. The town, nestling in the valley
up which he had come, was hidden from sight below the edge of the
moor. The three or four houses standing at wide intervals apart seemed
deserted. No one appeared on the road or on the moor.
He walked up the little path to the door and busied himself with the
lock. It was too large for his skeleton keys, but a few moments’ work
with a bit of bent wire did the trick, and presently he was inside
with the door closed behind him.
The house consisted of three rooms only, a sitting-room, a bedroom,
and a kitchen. A narrow passage separated the last two of these, the
front portion of which formed a porch and the back a pantry. The
atmosphere was heavy and nauseating, and this was soon explained by
the fact that everything seemed to have been left just where it was
when Giles died. The clothes were still on the bed and there was
mouldy and decaying food in the pantry. Dust was thick over
everything; indeed it was a marvel to French where so much dust should
have come from in the heart of the country.
He opened the doors to let the atmosphere clear and then began one of
his meticulous examinations. He did not expect to find anything of
interest, yet he searched as if the key to the whole mystery lay
waiting to be discovered. But after an hour he had to admit failure.
There was nothing in the place from which he could get the slightest
help.
Reluctantly he locked the doors and started back to Thirsby. He walked
slowly, scarcely conscious of his surroundings as he racked his brains
in the hope of seeing some other clue which might bring him more
result. At first he could think of nothing, then another line of
investigation occurred to him which, though it seemed hopelessly
unpromising, he thought he might pursue.
He had been thinking that if his main theory were correct Giles’ body
must have been conveyed from his cottage to Starvel, probably during
the darkness of that tragic Wednesday night. How had this been done?
He had noticed in the single outhouse of Starvel which remained
unburnt a light handcart, and it had before occurred to him that this
cart might have been used. He now thought he would go down to Starvel
and have another look at the outhouse and this handcart. A miracle
might have happened and some helpful clue been left.
He turned aside from the road, and crossing the lip of the Hollow,
went down to the ruins in the centre. The outhouse was a small stone
shed built up against the yard wall. Through the broken and
cobweb-covered window he could see that it contained the handcart, a
few gardening tools and some old broken crates and other rubbish. The
door was secured with a rusty chain and padlock of which the key had
disappeared.
A few seconds’ work with his bent wire unfastened the lock and he
pushed open the door and entered. The place was unspeakably dirty and
he moved gingerly about as he began to look over its contents. But he
was just as meticulous and thorough in his examination as if it were
the throne room of a palace.
He had completed his work and was about to retire disappointed when
the presence of a small scrap of yellow clay which he had observed on
entering, but to which he had given no attention, suddenly struck him
as being slightly puzzling. It was shaped like a half-moon, the inner
edge showing a definite curve. Evidently it had caked round a man’s
heel and had dropped off, possibly as the heel had become drier in the
shed. French looked round and presently he saw two more pieces. One
was stuck to the rim of the left wheel of the handcart as if the wheel
had rolled over a clod and picked it up, the other was on the left leg
as if the leg had been put down on a similar clod which had stuck in
the same way.
It was, of course, evident that the handcart had been not only wheeled
over a place where there was yellow clay, but had been set down there.
At first French saw nothing remarkable in this, but now it occurred to
him that he had not noticed any clay of the colour in the
neighbourhood. Where then had the pieces been picked up?
He had seen similar clay on the previous night, but not close by. The
heap of stuff removed in opening the grave down in Thirsby was just
that kind of material. He had noticed it particularly in the light of
the acetylene lamp. It was of a characteristic light yellow and very
stiff and compact like puddle. But he had seen nothing like it up on
the moor. The soil all about was dark coloured, almost peaty.
He cast his thoughts back to that scene in the graveyard and then he
recalled another point. He had looked down into the grave when the
coffin was being raised, and he now remembered that the sides of the
opening had shown black soil over the clay. A layer of some three feet
six or four feet of dark, peaty soil had covered the yellow. French
whistled softly as the possible inference struck him.
A worn but still serviceable looking spade stood in the corner of the
shed. French picked it up, and going a few yards out on to the moor,
began to dig. He was not particularly expert, and before he had worked
for many minutes he was in bath of perspiration. But he persevered and
the hole grew until at a depth of nearly three feet he found what he
wanted. The spade brought up a piece of hard, compact clay of a light
yellow colour.
French had grown keenly interested as he filled in the hole and
removed the traces of his work. With a feeling of suppressed
excitement he returned to the shed and carefully packed the half-moon
shaped cake of clay in a matchbox. Then locking the door, he went out
again on the moor and stood looking round him as he pondered the facts
he had just learned.
The handcart had been recently set down in and wheeled across a patch
of yellow clay. This almost certainly had been done on the last
occasion it had been used, otherwise the clay would have been knocked
off on subsequent journeys. For the same reason the place must have
been close to Starvel. There was no exposed clay near Starvel, but it
was to be found at a depth of some three feet below ground level.
From this it surely followed that some one had dug a hole near Starvel
and wheeled the handcart to the edge before it was filled in.
French went a step farther. If he was correct that the body of Markham
Giles had been brought to Starvel on that tragic night it was almost
certain that the handcart had been used, as there was no other way, so
far as he could see, in which the terrible burden could have been
carried. But so long a journey would have knocked the clay off the
wheel; therefore the journey to the hole had been made _after_ that
with the body. Further, the handcart could scarcely have been used
since the fire: the tragedy was then over and the surviving actor had
left the district.
Did these considerations not suggest that Roper, having brought
the man’s body to Starvel, had loaded up his booty on the
handcart—possibly there were old silver or valuable ornaments as
well as the bank notes—wheeled it out on the moor and buried it
so as to hide it safely until he could come back and remove it?
French recalled his reasons for thinking that the booty might have
been so hidden. All those notes—assuming there was nothing else—would
have had a certain bulk. Probably a suitcase would have been necessary
to carry them. A man with a suitcase is a more noticeable figure than
one without. Would it not have been wise for a criminal fleeing from
justice to hide the stuff, provided he could find a safe place in
which to do so? Moreover—and this was the strongest point—had Roper
been arrested without the notes nothing could have been proved against
him. He could say he had escaped from the fire by the merest piece of
good fortune or he could simulate loss of memory from the shock. Or
again he could explain that he had feared to come forward lest he
should be suspected. No matter what might have been thought, he was
safe. But let him be found with the notes in his possession and he was
as good as hanged.
French, looking round him there in the centre of the great Hollow,
felt his spirits rising as he wondered if he were about to make the
greatest _coup_ of the whole case.
His question now was: Where would Roper make his cache? Not near the
road where the disturbed earth would be visible to a chance passerby.
Not near the house in case some of the crowds attracted by the fire
should make an unexpected find. But not too far away from either lest
he himself might have difficulty in locating the place.
French began to walk round the house in circles of ever increasing
radius, scrutinising the ground for traces of yellow clay. And so he
searched until the evening began to draw in and dusk approached.
And then, as he was coming to the conclusion that it was getting too
dark to carry on, he found what he wanted. Out on the open moor at the
back of the house and at the bottom of a tiny hollow were unmistakable
traces of recent digging. The ground over a few square feet was marked
with scraps of disintegrating yellow clay and the sods with which the
hole was covered still showed cut edges.
French was overwhelmed with delight. That he had found something of
value, most probably a cache containing the stolen money, he had no
doubt. Scarcely could he restrain his desire to open the hole again
then and there. But it was getting dark and he had no lamp. He thought
two witnesses would be desirable, so he curbed his impatience, noted
carefully the position of the marks, and regretting the necessity for
leaving it unguarded, set off on his return journey.
He called to see Sergeant Kent and arranged that he and a constable
should meet him at the outhouse at eight o’clock on the following
morning. At the hotel he dined, and saying that he had to take the
night train to Carlisle, asked for a packet of sandwiches. Then he
left the town and walked out once more to Starvel.
His mind was not at rest until he had again visited the site of the
hole and made sure it remained undisturbed. Then, determined to take
no chances, he re-entered the outhouse, and seating himself at a
window from which he could see the hollow in the light of the moon,
lit his pipe and composed himself to watch.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Secret of the Moor
That night in the lonely shed beside the gaunt, blackened walls of the
old house, proved one of the longest French had ever spent. But there
was no escape from the vigil. If Averill’s hoard lay beneath the sods
a few yards away, the place must be watched. Roper might come for the
swag at any time and French could not run the risk of its being
snatched at the last moment from his own eager clutches.
He pulled a couple of old boxes to the window, and sitting down, made
himself as comfortable as he could. But time dragged leadenly. He
watched while the moon crept slowly across the sky, he speculated over
the tragic business on which he was engaged and indulged in waking
dreams of the time when he should be Chief Inspector French of the
C.I.D., but nothing that he could do seemed to shorten the endless
hours. He was cold, too, in spite of his heavy coat. He longed to go
out and warm himself by a brisk walk, but he dared not risk betraying
his presence. In the small hours he ate his sandwiches, and then he
had to fight an overwhelming desire for sleep, intensified by the fact
that he had been up a good part of the previous night. But his
vigilance was unrewarded. There was no sign of a marauder, and as the
first faint glow of dawn began to show in the east, he saw that he had
had all his trouble for nothing. Altogether he was not sorry when just
before eight o’clock Sergeant Kent and the constable put in an
appearance, and as he stepped out to meet them he heaved a sigh of
heartfelt relief.
“You’re here before us,” Kent greeted him in surprise.
“That’s right, but I was too early. Now, sergeant, I asked you to come
out here for rather an unusual purpose: in fact, so that we might dig
a hole. Here is a spade and we’ll go and begin at once.”
The sergeant looked as if he wondered whether French hadn’t gone off
his head, but he controlled his feelings and with his satellite
followed the other’s lead.
“I want you,” went on French when they had reached the site of his
discovery, “to see just why I wish to dig this hole at this place,”
and he showed him the traces of the yellow clay and the cut sods. “You
see, some one has buried something here, and I want to find out what
it is.”
Kent in a non-committal silence seized the spade and began digging.
The constable then tried his hand, and when he had had enough, French
relieved him. So they took it in turns while the hole deepened and the
heap of soil beside it grew.
Suddenly the spade encountered something soft and yielding which yet
resisted its pressure. Kent, who was using it, stopped digging and
began to clear away the surrounding soil, while the others watched,
French breathlessly, the constable with the bovine impassiveness which
he had exhibited throughout.
“It’s a blanket, this is,” the sergeant announced presently.
“Something rolled up in a blanket.”
“Go on,” said French. “Open it up.”
Kent resumed his digging. For some minutes he worked, and then he
straightened himself and looked at French wonderingly.
“Lord save us!” he exclaimed in awed tones. “It’s uncommon like a
human corpse.”
“Nonsense!” French answered sharply. “It couldn’t be anything of the
kind. Get on and open it and then you’ll know.”
The sergeant hesitated, then climbed heavily out of the hole.
“Well, look yourself, sir,” he invited.
French jumped down, and as he gazed on the outline of the blanket
covered object, his eyes grew round and something like consternation
filled his mind. The sergeant was right! There was no mistaking that
shape! This was a grave that they were opening and the blanket was a
shroud.
French swore, then controlled himself and turned to the sergeant.
“You’re right, Kent. It’s a body sure enough. Clear away the soil
round it while the constable and I get that shed door off its hinges.”
The task of raising the uncoffined and decaying remains on to the
improvised stretcher was one which French could never afterwards think
of without a qualm of sick loathing, but eventually it was done and
the men slowly carried the shrouded horror to the shed. There the door
was placed upon a couple of boxes and French, clenching his teeth,
turned back the blanket from the face.
In spite of the terrible ravages of time both Kent and the constable
immediately recognised the distorted features. The body was that of
Markham Giles!
The discovery left French almost speechless. If Markham Giles’ body
was here, _whose was the third body at Starvel?_ Was the whole of his
case tumbling about his ears? Once again he swore bitterly and once
again pulled himself together to deal with the next step.
“This means an inquest,” he said to Kent. “You and I had better get
back to Thirsby and notify the coroner and so forth, and this man of
yours can stay here and keep watch.”
They walked down to the little town almost in silence, French too full
of his new problem to indulge in conversation, and the sergeant not
liking to break in upon his companion’s thoughts. On arrival Kent got
in touch with the coroner while French rang up Major Valentine.
“No, sir, I don’t know what to make of it,” he admitted in answer to
the major’s sharp question. “It certainly does look as if the man I
suspected was dead after all. But I would rather not discuss it over
the ’phone. Could I see you, sir, if I went down to Leeds?”
“No, I’ll go to Thirsby. I’d like to look into the matter on the spot.
There will be an inquest, of course?”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Kent is arranging it with the coroner. We shall
want an autopsy also. One of the things I wanted to know is who you
think I should have to make it. But you can tell me that when you
come.”
Major Valentine replied that he would drive over in his car and would
pick up French at the police station at two p.m. on his way out to
Starvel.
It was now getting on towards midday, but French decided that he would
have time to make an inquiry and get lunch before the Chief
Constable’s arrival. He therefore turned into High Street and walked
to Pullar’s, the largest shoe shop of the town.
“Mr. Pullar in?” he asked pleasantly. He had met the man in the bar of
the Thirsdale Arms and there was a nodding acquaintance between the
two.
“I suppose you haven’t heard of our discovery, Mr. Pullar?” French
began when he was seated in the proprietor’s office. The whole
business was bound to come out at the inquest, so he might as well
enlist the other’s goodwill by telling him confidentially something
about it.
Mr. Pullar cautiously admitted he hadn’t heard anything unusual.
“This is unusual enough for any one,” French assured him, and he told
of the finding of the grave on the moor, though making no mention of
his doubts and fears about Roper.
Mr. Pullar was duly impressed and repeatedly begged that his soul
might be blessed. When he had absorbed the news French turned to the
real object of his call.
“I thought that maybe you could give me a bit of help, Mr. Pullar.
You’d perhaps be interested to know how I got on to the thing. Well,
it was in this way.” He took from the matchbox the piece of clay he
had found on the floor of the shed.
“I picked this up in the shed, and as that sort of clay is covered
everywhere here with three feet of dark soil, it followed that some
one had dug a hole more than three feet deep.”
Mr. Pullar expressed his admiration of the other’s perspicacity with
the same pious wish as before.
“Now you see,” French continued, “this clay was sticking to a shoe. It
probably got a bit dry in the shed and dropped or got knocked off.
Now, Mr. Pullar, can you tell me what kind of a shoe it was?”
Mr. Pullar shook his head. With every wish to assist, he was doubtful
if he could answer the question. He picked up the piece of clay and
turned it over gingerly in his fingers.
“Well,” he said presently, pointing to the hollow curve, “that’s been
sticking round the outside of a heel, that has. If it had been a toe
it would have been squeezed flatter. But that’s the square-edged mark
of a heel.” He looked interrogatively at French, who hastened to
interject: “Just what I thought, Mr. Pullar. A man’s heel.”
“Yes, a man’s heel I would think: though, mind you, it’s not easy to
tell the difference between a man’s and some of these flat heeled
shoes women wear now.”
“I thought it was a man’s from the size.”
“No: it might be either a big woman or a small man. Sevens, I should
say.” He got up and put his head through the office door. “Here, John!
Bring me three pairs of gents’ black Fitwells: a six and a half, a
seven and an eight: medium weight.”
When the shoes came Mr. Pullar attempted to fit the circle of clay to
the curve of each heel. French was delighted with the thorough and
systematic way he set about it. He tried with all three sizes, then
roared out for a pair of sixes and a pair of nines.
“It’s no good, Mr. French,” he said when he had tested these also.
“Look for yourself. It’s smaller than a nine, but you can’t tell any
more than that. It might be a six or a seven or an eight. It isn’t
sharp enough to say.”
French looked for himself, but he had to admit the other’s conclusion
was correct. The prints presumably had been made by a man with rather
small feet, and that was all that could be said.
French was disappointed. He had hoped for something more definite.
Roper admittedly had rather small feet, but the same was true of
numbers of other men.
He bade Mr. Pullar good day and returned to the hotel for lunch. But
he soon learned that the worthy shoe merchant had made the most of his
opportunities. Scarcely had he sat down when the reporter of the local
paper hurried into the coffee room and excitedly demanded details of
the great find. And behind him appeared the hotel proprietor and a
number of clients who had been supporting British industries in the
bar.
French saw there was nothing for it but capitulation. Good-humouredly
he told his story, merely stipulating that after his statement to the
reporter he should not be troubled further until he had finished his
lunch. This was agreed to, but it is sad to relate that French did not
entirely play the game. His repast ended, he slipped out through the
yard, and by devious ways reached the police station unnoticed. Major
Valentine drove up as he arrived and in a few seconds the two men were
whirling out along the Starvel road, while French told his story in
detail.
“It’s really an extraordinary development,” the Chief Constable
commented. “You assumed that Giles had been murdered in order to
obtain his body for the Starvel fraud. If you were correct it followed
that his coffin would be empty. You opened his coffin and it was
empty. A more complete vindication of your line of reasoning it would
be hard to imagine. And now it turns out that the body was not used
for the Starvel fraud; therefore the whole of your reasoning falls to
the ground. If you had not made a mistake and acted on false premises
you would not have discovered the truth. Peculiar, isn’t it?”
“Peculiar enough, sir. But I wish I could agree with you that I had
discovered the truth. It seems to me I am further away from it than
ever.”
“No; the correction of an error is always progress. But I’m not
denying,” Major Valentine went on with a whimsical smile, “that there
is still something left to be cleared up.”
French laughed unhappily.
“I don’t like to think of it,” he said. “But the post-mortem may tell
us something. According to my previous theory this man was murdered.
Now this discovery raises a certain doubt, though personally I have
very little. But in any case we have no proof. Therefore I thought we
should want a post-mortem.”
“Undoubtedly. We’ll get Dr. Lingard of Hellifield. This the shed?”
“Yes, sir. The body’s inside.”
A few minutes sufficed to put the chief constable in possession of all
the available information and the two men returned to the car.
“You know,” the major declared as he restarted his engine, “if this
man was murdered it doesn’t say a great deal for that Dr. Emerson. He
gave a certificate of death from natural causes, didn’t he?”
“If you ask my opinion,” French answered gloomily, “he didn’t examine
the body at all. I saw him about it. It seems the man had been
suffering from heart disease for years. He also had a touch of
influenza some days before his death which might have caused heart
failure. Dr. Emerson practically admitted he had assumed this had
happened. He also admitted that anyhow only a post-mortem could have
made sure.”
“Careless and reprehensible, no doubt. But, French, I wonder whether
we shouldn’t all have done the same in his circumstances. The idea of
foul play in such a case would never enter any one’s head.”
“That’s what he said, sir. Until I told him about the empty coffin he
scouted the suggestion. When I mentioned that he didn’t know what to
say.”
“He’ll be required at the inquest?”
“Of course, sir. And the other doctor, Philpot. He attended the man
during his illness.”
They ran rapidly into the town and pulled up at the police station.
Kent, recognising his visitor, hurried obsequiously to meet them.
“Good-evening, Kent,” the major greeted him. “Inspector French has
just been telling me of this affair. Have you heard from the coroner?”
“Yes, sir, I saw him about it. To-morrow at eleven he’s fixed for the
inquest.”
“Where?”
“At the courthouse. He asked that the remains might be brought in
before that.”
“It’s not allowing much time for the post-mortem. Better see the
coroner again, Kent, and get him to take evidence of identification
and adjourn for a week. I’ll arrange with Dr. Lingard about the
post-mortem at once, and will you, French, get in touch with the local
doctors. Meanwhile as we’re here let us settle about the evidence.”
Kent led the way to his room and there a discussion took place on the
procedure to be adopted at the inquest. A list of the witnesses was
drawn up with a note of the testimony which was to be expected from
each. Certain facts, it was considered, should be kept in the
background, and Kent was instructed to see the coroner and ask him to
arrange this also. When the business was complete the major rose.
“Then I shall see you at the adjourned inquest, Kent. French, if
you’ll come along I’ll give you a lift as far as your hotel. As a
matter of fact I’d like to have a chat with you,” he went on when they
had left the police station. “This new development is certainly very
puzzling and I’d like to discuss it in detail. Have you a private
sitting room?”
“Not all the time. I’ve had one once or twice for an evening when I
had work to do, but ordinary times I don’t have it. We can get it all
right now though.”
“Well, you arrange it while I see to the car. And order some tea.
You’ll join me in a cup, won’t you?”
“Thank you, I should like to.”
In a few minutes a fire of logs was crackling in the rather dismal
private sitting room of the Thirsdale Arms. Until tea was over the
major chatted of men and things apart from the case, but when the
waiter had disappeared with the tray and the two men had settled
themselves with cigars before the fire he came to business.
“I admit, French, that I am not only tremendously interested in this
case, but also extremely puzzled. From what you say, that’s your
position also. Now just to run over two or three points. I take it
there is no doubt as to motive?”
“No, sir, we may take it as gospel that Mr. Averill’s thirty thousand
pounds were stolen and that that’s the key of the whole affair.”
“You suspected Whymper at first?”
“Yes, at first sight things looked bad for him. I needn’t go over the
details: he had some of the stolen money in his possession and had
been to the house on the night of the tragedy and so on. But I went
into the thing thoroughly and I was satisfied that Roper had made him
his dupe. Whymper’s all right, sir. We shall get nothing there.”
“I hear he and Miss Averill are to be married.”
“So I heard, in fact he told me himself. He wanted to propose and then
this affair made him hold back. But as soon as I told him I was not
going to arrest him he went straight to the lady and told her the
circumstances and asked her to marry him. She accepted him and the
wedding is to take place soon.”
“I know his father in Leeds and I’m glad to hear that he’s definitely
out of trouble. Then you suspected Philpot?”
“I suspected Philpot because of his connection with Roper, though
there was nothing directly connecting him with the Starvel crime. But
I soon saw that I was on the wrong track there too. He accounted for
everything that seemed suspicious, and what was more, any points of
his statement which in the nature of the case could be corroborated,
were corroborated by other witnesses. Besides, he was ill at the time:
there was the evidence of his housekeeper and others as well as Dr.
Emerson’s testimony that he was unable to leave his bed. And there was
his failure. If he had just obtained £30,000 he wouldn’t have allowed
the bailiff in.”
“Might not that have been a trick to put people off the scent?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. If he had been guilty he wouldn’t have
shown sudden evidence of wealth, but he wouldn’t have gone bankrupt
either—just for fear it might be taken as a trick. Of course, sir, I’m
aware that none of this is absolutely conclusive. There was absence of
evidence of guilt, but not proof of innocence, and, of course, illness
can be faked and so on. But the thing that really cleared Philpot in
my mind was the conduct of Roper. It’s impossible to consider this
case without considering Roper’s conduct.”
“I know, and I really agree with you. Still let us exhaust the
possibilities. You thought of other people, I suppose?”
“I thought of every one else in the place almost. Oxley, Tarkington,
Emerson and several others; even Kent I considered. But there wasn’t a
shred of evidence against any of them. The only other real alternative
to Roper is the burglars—the gang who have been operating for some
months past. But here again Roper’s conduct comes in. If Roper wasn’t
guilty he wouldn’t have acted as he did.”
The chief constable smoked in silence for some moments.
“I think all you say is very sound. Now just run over the case against
Roper and I shall try to pick holes.”
“First, sir, there was the man’s character; vindictive, unscrupulous,
a blackmailer, and as well as that a skilful forger. Admittedly this
description came from Philpot, but all that could be known to
outsiders was confirmed by the sergeant and many others at Kintilloch.
Roper was the only person we know of, other than the burglar gang, who
had the character and the ability to commit the crime.”
“Not convincing, but go on.”
“Not convincing alone, no doubt; but it does not stand alone.
Secondly, there was the getting of Miss Averill out of the way;
thirdly, there was the Whymper episode and fourthly, the matter of
Giles’s funeral.”
“That’s all right except that when we find Giles’s body was not burned
the whole case falls to the ground.”
French threw the stub of his cigar into the fire.
“Don’t you believe it, sir. None of what I have been saying falls to
the ground. Though I admit the motive of this Giles business is not
clear, the facts remain and their significance remains. I don’t now
follow all Roper’s scheme, but I still believe he is our man.”
Major Valentine nodded decisively.
“So do I, French, and we shall get him all right. Then you’ve no
theory of where the third body came from?”
“I believe Roper enticed some other poor devil to the house and
murdered him also. I think, sir, we’ll have to try again to find out
if any one disappeared about that time.”
“I’ll see to it, but I’m not hopeful of doing better than before.”
Major Valentine showed signs of breaking up the conference, but French
raised his hand.
“A moment, sir, if you please. I was thinking that this inquest gives
us a chance that perhaps we should take advantage of. No more of those
notes have come through. What, sir, would you say was the reason for
that?”
“Well, if we’re right about Roper being alive, I suppose because he’s
afraid.”
“That’s what I think. And this business will make him still more
afraid. Now I wonder if we couldn’t set his mind at ease for him.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“Why, this way. Suppose that I was very frank in my evidence—very
frank and open and comprehensive. Suppose that I should tell about the
notes; about their numbers having been taken, and about the one
turning up in London, and robbery being thereby suspected and my being
sent down to investigate. Suppose I explained that I had succeeded in
tracing that note and had found that it had been given by Mr. Averill
himself to a friend, and that the whole transaction was perfectly in
order. But suppose I conveyed that only the numbers of the last batch
of notes—say, twenty twenties—were known. Wouldn’t that do the trick?”
“You mean that if the numbers of only twenty notes were known, Roper
would feel safe in changing the others?”
“Quite so. Furthermore, if nothing was said about the ashes being
newspaper he would think that the suspicion of robbery had been
dispelled by the discovery that the note passed in London was all
right.”
“It’s worth trying. If he rises to it you’ll get him.”
“Right, sir. Then I’ll advise the coroner beforehand. Or perhaps you
would do so?”
“I’ll do it. Well, I must be getting home. I’m glad to have had this
talk and I hope your scheme will meet with success.”
Next morning the inquest opened and formal evidence of identification
of the remains of the late Markham Giles was taken. The proceedings
were then adjourned for seven days to enable the police to prosecute
inquiries.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
French Baits His Trap
That day week was a red letter day in the history of Thirsby. The
story of French’s discoveries, by this time common property, had
created an absolute furore in the little town. Never had such a series
of tragedies and thrills disturbed its placid existence. Never had
interest risen to such fever heat. It was therefore not surprising
that every available seat in the courthouse was occupied long before
the hour of the adjourned inquest, and that a queue of eager, pushing
people, unable to gain admittance, stretched away in a long column
from its door. But the police had seen to it that all who were
particularly interested in the tragedy had obtained places. In the row
usually reserved for barristers sat Oxley with Ruth Averill, who had
been summoned to attend as a witness, and Mrs. Oxley, who looked on
the girl as her charge and insisted on accompanying her. Whymper, now
an accepted lover, sat next Ruth, and behind were Tarkington, Bloxham,
Emerson, Philpot and the police doctor, Lingard. Major Valentine and
French were together in the seat usually occupied by the clerk of the
Crown, while Kent, looking harassed and anxious, was standing in the
body of the court, fumbling with a sheaf of papers and whispering to
his subordinates.
The coroner was that same Dr. Lonsdale who had acted in a similar
capacity some nine weeks earlier when the inquiry into the death of
the three victims of the Starvel fire had taken place. He also seemed
worried, as if he feared the elucidation of these mysterious
happenings might try his powers beyond their capacity.
The preliminaries having been gone through already, the coroner began
to take evidence immediately, and Dr. Emerson was called.
“You attended the late Mr. Markham Giles?” the coroner asked when he
had obtained the other’s name and qualifications.
“I attended him up to five years ago, when Dr. Philpot took the case
over. Owing to Dr. Philpot’s being ill at the time of his death I was
again called in.”
“For what complaint did you formerly attend the deceased?”
“Myocarditis. It was a disease of some years’ standing.”
“Myocarditis is heart disease, isn’t it? Was the deceased badly
affected?”
“Five years ago, fairly badly. I have no doubt that at the time of his
death he was much worse, as the disease is incurable and progressive.”
“We can no doubt get that from Dr. Philpot. When did you hear of Mr.
Giles’s death, Dr. Emerson?”
“On Wednesday morning, 15th September.”
“Who told you of it?”
“John Roper, the Starvel man-servant.”
“Did you go out to Starvel and examine the body?”
“Yes, I did, after first consulting Dr. Philpot on the case.”
“Oh, you saw Dr. Philpot. And what was the result of your
consultation?”
“Dr. Philpot told me that Mr. Giles had developed influenza, and that
he had seen him on Thursday. He was very weak and Dr. Philpot did not
expect him to get over it.”
“Then you examined the body?”
“Yes, I went out to Starvel immediately.”
“And what opinion did you then form as to the cause of death?”
“I believed it to be myocarditis.”
“And you gave a certificate to that effect?”
“I did.”
“Did you make any specific examination of the remains on which you
based your opinion?”
“Yes, so far as it was possible without a post-mortem.”
“And you were quite satisfied that you had made no mistake?”
“I was quite satisfied.”
“That will do in the meantime. Please do not go away, Dr. Emerson, as
I may have some further questions to put to you later.”
Dr. Philpot was then called. He corroborated the evidence of the last
witness in so far as it concerned himself. He had attended Mr. Giles
during the past five years. Deceased was suffering from myocarditis,
which had become worse and of which he might have died at any moment.
On the Thursday prior to his death witness had been informed by Roper,
Mr. Averill’s man-servant, that deceased seemed rather seriously ill,
and he went out to see him. Deceased was feeble and witness believed
that he was very near his end. Witness did not think he could live
more than three or four days. When he heard of his death it was only
what he had expected.
Ruth Averill was the next witness. She was nervous, but the sergeant
was deferential to her and the coroner fatherly and kind. Her evidence
was soon over. In answer to a number of questions she deposed that she
had known Mr. Giles fairly well and had been to sit with him on
different occasions during his illness. On the Tuesday of that tragic
week she had left Starvel to pay a short visit to York, and on her way
into Thirsby she had called to see him. He had seemed very weak and
frail. He could scarcely speak. Ruth had spent about ten minutes with
him and had then driven on to Thirsby. She had never seen him again.
A number of persons were then called relative to the funeral. The
clerk from the Town Hall who dealt with interments, the caretaker of
the new cemetery, the undertaker and such of his men as had assisted,
gave evidence in turn. The coroner was extremely detailed in his
questions, and when he had finished the whole history of the sad
affair stood revealed, with the exception of one point.
This was Roper’s false statement to the undertaker that the body
required to be coffined without delay. It had been decided that
nothing must leak out connecting the death of Giles with Starvel, and
it spoke volumes for the coroner’s skill that he was able to obtain
the other details of the interment while keeping Roper’s duplicity
secret.
From the united testimony given it seemed that Markham Giles had died
at some time during the Tuesday night. Roper had stated to more than
one witness that Mrs. Roper had gone out to see him about eight
o’clock on that evening, when she found him weak, but fairly easy and
showing no sign of any early collapse. About nine the next morning,
Wednesday, she went over again to find that the man had been dead for
some hours. Mr. Giles was lying in the same position as he had
occupied on the previous evening, and from the peaceful expression on
his face it looked as if he had passed away painlessly. Mrs. Roper had
gone back for her husband, who had returned with her to the cottage.
There they had done what they could, and Roper had then gone into
Thirsby and made arrangements for the funeral. First he had reported
the death to Dr. Emerson. Then he had called at the Town Hall and
purchased a grave, going on to the new cemetery to see the site.
Lastly, he had visited the undertaker, arranging the details of the
funeral.
The undertaker had known Mr. Giles, and later, on that day, the
Wednesday, he had sent out two men with a coffin which he believed
would be of the right size. His estimate had proved correct and the
men had placed the remains in the coffin, screwing down the lid and
leaving all ready for the funeral.
On the second day, the Friday, the interment took place. The same men
who had coffined the remains lifted the coffin into the hearse, and
they declared that they saw no signs of the screws having been
tampered with or of the presence of any person in the house during
their absence. The funeral was conducted in the customary manner, and
when the grave had been filled none of those who had been present
imagined that anything out of the common had taken place. Roper had
paid all the bills in advance, saying that the deceased had had a
premonition of his death and had handed him the sum of fifteen pounds
to meet the expenses.
French was the next witness. The coroner had been carefully primed as
to his evidence also, and asked only general questions.
“Now, Mr. French, you made some unexpected discoveries about this
matter?”
“I did, sir.”
“Will you please tell the jury in your own words the nature of these
discoveries and how you came to make them.”
This was French’s opportunity. Speaking respectfully and with an air
of the utmost candour, he told very nearly the truth. Deliberately he
slightly coloured the facts, coloured them with the object and in the
hope that somewhere Roper would read what he had said—and be deceived
into coming into the open.
“I was sent here,” he explained, “on a matter arising out of the fire
at Starvel. I made certain inquiries and received certain information.
As to the truth of the information I cannot of course bear testimony,
but I cannot explain the steps I took unless I mention it. With the
object of accounting for my actions, sir, is it your wish that I do
so?”
“If you please, Mr. French. We quite understand that your actual
evidence is confined to matters which came under your own observation.
That does not prevent you introducing explanatory matter as to how you
got your results.”
“Very good, sir. According to my information the following was the
state of affairs which had obtained prior to my being sent down here.
The late Mr. Averill had a sum of money amounting to several thousand
pounds stored in a safe in his bedroom. This was given in evidence at
the inquest on the victims of the Starvel tragedy. It was not then
mentioned, but it was the fact—always according to my information—that
that money had consisted largely of twenty-pound notes. Mr. Averill
was in the habit of sending to the bank the various cheques, dividends
and so forth by which he received his income. By his instructions
these were cashed and the money was returned to Starvel in the form of
twenty-pound notes, which the old gentleman placed with the others in
his safe. All these notes were believed to have been destroyed in the
fire. But it so happened that the numbers of the last consignment—ten
notes, for £200—were taken by the bank teller before the notes were
sent out to Starvel, and these notes were reported to the bank’s
headquarters as being destroyed. When, therefore, some three weeks
after the tragedy one of them turned up in London, questions were
asked. Reasons were given for believing that this particular note had
been in Mr. Averill’s safe at Starvel on the night of the fire, so the
suggestion at once arose that the fire was not an accident, but a
deliberate attempt to hide a crime of murder and burglary. I was sent
down to investigate the affair, and I may say that I found out who had
passed the note and satisfied myself beyond question that he had
received it in a legitimate manner, and that all his actions were
perfectly correct and in order. It followed, therefore, that the
finding of the note did not in reality support any theory of crime
such as had been put forward.”
While French was speaking the proverbial pin could have been heard,
had any one tried the experiment of dropping it in the courthouse. He
had, to put it mildly, the ear of his audience. Every one listened,
literally, with bated breath. Though it was vaguely known that he was
a detective working on the Starvel case, the story that he himself had
circulated had been generally accepted; that he was employed on behalf
of certain insurance companies to ascertain the cause of the outbreak.
To find that the pleasant-spoken, easygoing stranger whom the
townspeople had almost begun to accept as one of themselves, was none
other than a full-fledged inspector from Scotland Yard, investigating
what had been at first suspected to be a triple murder of an unusually
terrible and sinister kind, was a discovery so thrilling as completely
to absorb the attention of all.
“While engaged in clearing up the Starvel affair,” French went on, “a
hint was conveyed to me that I was working on the wrong case: that if
I wanted a real mystery I should drop what I was at and turn my
attention to the death and burial, particularly the burial, of Mr.
Giles. With your permission, sir, I do not feel at liberty to mention
the source from which this hint came. It was very vague, but we men
from the Yard are taught to pick up vague hints. I thought over the
matter for some days before I guessed what might be meant. Could Mr.
Giles’s coffin have been used as a hiding place for stolen goods? I
knew, of course, of the many burglaries which had taken place in the
surrounding country during the last six months. I knew also that if
burglars wished to hide their swag, no better place could be devised
than a coffin. There it would be safe until the hue and cry had died
down and from there it could be recovered when desired. If this theory
were true, the gang of burglars would either have heard of Mr. Giles’s
death and used the circumstances to their advantage, or they would
have arranged the circumstance by murdering him. In either case they
would have taken the remains from the coffin, buried them somewhere
close by, and replaced them with the stolen articles.”
French paused and a wave of movement swept over the crowded assembly
as its members changed their cramped positions. Seldom had the public
had such a treat and they were not going to miss any of it. There was
an instantaneous stiffening to concentrated attention as French
resumed:—
“After careful consideration I thought the matter serious enough to
warrant action. I therefore obtained an order to open the grave, and
there I found that my suspicions were well founded. There was no body
in the coffin, but on the other hand there was no swag. The coffin was
half-full of earth. But this did not of course invalidate the theory I
have outlined. It only meant that if that theory were true we were
late; that at some time within the past nine weeks the burglars had
visited the churchyard and removed the stuff. This might or might not
have happened.”
Again French paused and this time the coroner remarked quietly:—
“And then, Mr. French?”
“Then, sir, I returned to the gentleman’s cottage and made a further
investigation. Eventually I found traces of yellow clay lying about.
All the soil in the district is dark, but at the grave I had noticed
that a layer of dark soil covered a bed of similar yellow clay. So I
dug a hole and found, as I expected, that this bed of clay extended
under the moor also. It therefore seemed certain that some one had dug
a hole in the vicinity, and on searching the moor I found the place. I
took Sergeant Kent and a constable out, and the three of us re-opened
the hole and found the body just as these gentlemen”—indicating the
jury with a gesture—“have seen it.”
The police made no attempt to subdue the buzz of repressed though
excited conversation which arose as French ceased speaking. The
coroner was still laboriously writing down French’s statement, but he
soon laid his pen down and spoke.
“You have made such a complete statement, Mr. French, that I have but
little to ask you. There are just one or two small points upon which I
should like further information,” and he went on to put his questions.
The coroner was a clever man and he played up well to the request of
the police. To the public he continued to give the impression of a
careful, painstaking official, laboriously trying to obtain all the
facts in a difficult and complicated matter; in reality his questions
were futile in every respect except that they directed attention away
from the features of the case which the authorities wished kept
secret. The result was that when he had finished and asked if any one
else desired to put a question, all were convinced that there was no
more to be learnt and embarrassing topics were avoided.
“Dr. Reginald Lingard!”
The tall, thin, ascetic looking man seated beside Philpot rose and
went into the box. He deposed that he practised at Hellifield and was
the police surgeon for the district.
“Now, Dr. Lingard,” began the coroner, “at the request of the
authorities did you make a post-mortem examination of the remains of
the late Mr. Markham Giles, upon which this inquest is being held?”
“That is so.”
“And did you ascertain the cause of death?”
“I did.”
“Will you tell the jury what that was.”
“The man died from shock following a large injection of cocaine.”
“But an injection of cocaine is surely not fatal?”
“Not under ordinary circumstances. But to a person suffering from
myocarditis a large injection is inevitably so.”
Though the evidence of French ought to have prepared every one for
such a _dénouement_, there was a gasp of surprise at this cold,
precise statement. It was only a few minutes since Dr. Emerson had
been heard to testify that he had given a certificate of death from
heart disease without mention of cocaine, and that he had no doubt as
to the correctness of his diagnosis. What, every one wondered, would
Emerson say to this?
“I suppose, doctor, you have no doubt as to your conclusion?”
“None whatever.”
“Could this cocaine have been self administered?”
“Undoubtedly it could.”
“With what object?”
Dr. Lingard gave a slight shrug.
“It is universal knowledge that many persons are addicted to the drug.
They take it because of its enjoyable temporary effects. It might have
been taken with that motive in this instance, or it might have been
taken with the knowledge that it would cause death.”
“You mean that Mr. Giles might have committed suicide?”
“From the medical point of view, yes.”
“Might it also have been administered by some other person?”
“Unquestionably.”
“With what object, Dr. Lingard?”
“It is not easy to say. Possibly in ignorance or through error or with
a mistaken desire to give the patient ease, or possibly with the
object of causing his death.”
“You mean that the action might have been wilful murder?”
“Yes, that is what I mean.”
Again a movement ran through the tense audience. The coroner frowned
and paused for a moment, then resumed:—
“Do you know of any legitimate object—any legitimate object
whatever—for which the cocaine might have been administered? Could it,
for example, have been intended as a medicine or restorative?”
“I do not think so. In my opinion the drug could only have been
administered in error, or with intent to kill.”
“Do you consider that the deadly nature of cocaine is known to the
public? I mean, is that knowledge not confined to those with some
medical training?”
“I think the danger to a weak or diseased heart is pretty generally
known. Most people are aware that deaths have occurred by its use, for
example, by dentists, and that for this reason it is now seldom
employed as an anesthetic.”
The coroner slowly blotted his manuscript.
“Now, Dr. Lingard, injections are administered with a hypodermic
syringe, are they not?”
“That is so.”
“Is there any other way in which they can be given?”
“No.”
“Was such a syringe found in the present instance?”
Dr. Lingard did not know. He had examined the body only, not the house
in which the death had occurred. The coroner turned to another point.
“Did the body show any sign of the injection having been forcibly
administered?”
“No, but force sufficient to leave traces would not have been
necessary.”
“Would death from this cause leave traces other than those
ascertainable from a post-mortem?”
Dr. Lingard hesitated very slightly.
“I do not think so,” he answered. “If it did they would be very faint
and it would be easy to overlook them.”
“Was Dr. Emerson at the post-mortem?”
“He was.”
“Have you anything else to tell us, anything which you think might
throw further light on this extraordinary affair?”
No, Dr. Lingard had nothing, and Dr. Emerson was recalled. He declared
emphatically that he had never had any suspicion that the deceased
might have been addicted to the cocaine habit.
“You have heard the evidence the previous witness gave as to the cause
of the deceased’s death. Do you from your present knowledge agree with
his conclusions?”
“Completely,” Dr. Emerson answered. The man looked harassed and
careworn, but his bearing remained dignified.
“Then how do you account for your certificate that death occurred from
natural causes?”
Dr. Emerson made a gesture of helplessness.
“How can I account for it except in the one way?” he replied. “I was
misled by the facts. I admit being in error, but I do not think that
under the circumstances any doctor in the world would have acted
otherwise than as I did.”
“Now, Dr. Emerson,” the coroner leaned forward and looked keenly at
his witness, “tell me this. Did you really examine the body at all
after death?”
“I certainly examined it. And I examined it with reasonable care, and
neither then nor at any time since until I heard of this extraordinary
development had I the slightest doubt that my certificate was
incorrect.” He paused, then, as the coroner did not speak, went on
again. “You will admit that under the circumstances the idea of murder
was the last that would occur to any one. Five days earlier Dr.
Philpot had seen the man: he was then at the point of death. He told
me he expected to hear of his death at any moment. When I heard of it
I went out and examined the body. It had all the appearance of death
from myocarditis. Only a post-mortem could have told the difference:
only a post-mortem did tell the difference. As you know a post-mortem
is seldom held unless there is suspicion of foul play. In this case
there was none. I deeply regret that I was misled, but I believe in
all honesty that there is no one who would not have acted as I did
under similar circumstances.”
The coroner bowed and turned to the jury.
“As Dr. Emerson has spoken so fully and frankly on this matter, I do
not think that I am called upon to refer to it further. He no doubt
realises how regrettable it was, for if suspicion had been aroused at
the time instead of nine weeks later it might have made all the
difference in capturing the criminal. In saying this I am not
suggesting that blame attaches to him. Would any one like to ask Dr.
Emerson any further question before he stands down?”
No one responded to the invitation, and Dr. Philpot was recalled. He
deposed that he had never seen any indications of the cocaine habit
about deceased, and he did not believe that considering the state of
his heart he could have used it.
Sergeant Kent was then sworn. He said that on learning the result of
the post-mortem he had proceeded to the deceased’s cottage and had
there made a detailed search for cocaine or a hypodermic syringe, but
without finding traces of either. The undertaker’s men, recalled, also
declared that they had seen nothing of the kind while attending to the
body.
There being no further witnesses the coroner made a short businesslike
statement summing up the evidence. As to the cause of death, he said,
there could be no doubt. The medical evidence was complete and
undisputed. Deceased had died as the result of an injection of
cocaine, which his diseased heart was unable to stand. That injection
might or might not have been self-administered. The evidence of both
doctors was that in their opinion the deceased was not a victim of the
cocaine habit, and it was for the jury to consider the probability of
his having used it in this instance. He would direct their attention
to another point. Had the fatal dose been self-administered, the
syringe must have remained on or beside the bed. It had not been
found. Who then had removed it and why? On the other hand if the jury
considered the dose had been given by some other person or persons,
they must consider with what motive this had been done. If they
believed a genuine error had been made they would return a verdict of
death from misadventure, but if upon weighing all the circumstances
they rejected the possibility of error they would return a verdict of
wilful murder.
For nearly an hour the jury deliberated, and then they brought in the
expected verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons
unknown.
“You did that quite well,” Major Valentine assured French as the two
men walked to the former’s car after the inquiry. “If Roper is alive
and reads your evidence—and he is certain to do that if he is in the
country—he will think he is safe and may start changing the notes. By
the way, are you sure that Tarkington and that clerk of his won’t give
you away about the numbers of the notes? Your evidence must have
sounded peculiar to them.”
“I thought of that,” French answered, “and I saw them both and warned
them. They’ll hold their tongues.”
“I suppose no one has been trying to get just that information out of
them?”
“No, sir. I asked them that first thing, but no one had.”
Before Major Valentine left he discussed with French the steps that he
would take to try to find out whether any one had disappeared at the
time of the fire. The inquiry had already been made, but this time it
was to be pressed much more energetically. At the same time the watch
for the stolen notes was to be redoubled, and French undertook to
arrange that a general memorandum on the subject would be sent to all
the banks in the country.
A third line of research was suggested by the medical evidence, and
this French and the major agreed to work jointly. The most searching
inquiries were to be made for any one who had obtained or tried to
obtain cocaine or a hypodermic syringe during a period of several
weeks prior to the tragedy.
In addition to these three there was, of course, the most important
and hopeful line of all, a direct search for Roper. French undertook
to organise this with as little delay as possible.
After discussing the situation for nearly two hours the two men
parted, hopeful that their several efforts would before long place the
key of the mystery in their hands.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Double Recall
When French settled down to consider how the search for Roper could
best be carried out he saw that he was up against a very much steeper
proposition than had appeared at first sight.
There were two ways in which he could attack the problem. He could
attempt to trace the man’s movements from the night of the fire and go
on step by step until he found him, or he could try to discover his
present whereabouts, irrespective of how he had arrived there.
The first method was not very hopeful. Not only was there little to go
on, but such trail as the man must have left was cold. It was now over
two months since the tragedy, and while the passage of a wanted man
during the week previous to an inquiry might be remembered by porters,
taxi-men or others who come in contact with the public, few would
recall having seen a stranger two months earlier.
Direct search, French thought, was much more promising. For this he
had behind him the whole of the amazingly complete and far-reaching
organisation of the police. If Roper had not left the country he would
find it hard to evade recognition by some one of the thousands of
constables and detectives who would be looking out for him.
French remembered that the Kintilloch sergeant had mentioned that
Roper had applied for a passport to Brazil, and he began operations by
writing to the Yard to send a man to the Passport Office to obtain a
copy of the photograph lodged. Then he set to work to compile a
description of Roper. He saw Oxley, Whymper, Ruth and one or two
others and got down from them details of the man’s appearance. From
these he synthesised the following:—
“Wanted for murder. John Roper. Age 34; height about 5 ft. 9 inches;
slight build; thick, dark hair; dark eyes with a decided squint; heavy
dark eyebrows; clean shaven; sallow complexion; small nose and mouth;
pointed chin; small hands and feet; walks with a slight stoop and a
quick step; speaks in a rather high-pitched voice with a slight
Lowland Scotch accent.”
On the whole French was pleased with the description. It was more
complete than was usually obtainable from unofficial sources. It had
not, of course, been volunteered by any of his informants, but had
been gradually reached by persistent questions on each feature in
turn. He sent it to the Yard, asking that it be published in the next
issue of the Police Gazette along with a copy of the photograph
obtained from the Passport Office. This meant that within three or
four days every police officer in the land would be applying it to
newcomers of less than ten weeks’ standing. If Roper had not escaped
abroad or was not lying hidden in the most populous district of some
great town there was a very good chance that he might be found.
In his letter to the Yard French had also asked that systematic
inquiries should be made at the various seaports and from steamship
lines to try to find out if the man had left the country. He suggested
concentrating on lines running to Brazil or calling at places from
which other lines ran to Brazil. Air lines to the Continent he
included as well as the ordinary cross-channel services, though from
these he scarcely expected a result.
Next he determined to make, so far as he could, lists of the
attendant’s friends, places where he had spent his holidays, and any
other details of his life that could be ascertained. Frequently he had
found that such vague inquiries produced valuable results. It was a
speculative move, of course, but he thought it would be worth a couple
of days’ work.
As Kintilloch was the most likely place to pick up such information,
he travelled for the second time to the little Fifeshire town. There
he interviewed every one who, he thought, might help him, but entirely
without result. Even when he visited the home of the late Flora Roper
and discussed the affair with the unfortunate woman’s mother he
learned nothing valuable.
As he was leaving Kintilloch it occurred to him as a last forlorn hope
that possibly Dr. Philpot might be able to assist. The address the
doctor had given him was in Glasgow, and to return via Glasgow was but
little out of his way. He decided he would pay the call on chance.
About five o’clock that afternoon, therefore, he turned from Dumbarton
Road into Kilgore Street and looked up No. 47. It was a rather decayed
looking apartment house of a shabby-genteel type, and the landlady who
answered his ring gave him the same impression of having fallen on
evil days. Rather a comedown, French thought, for a man who had
occupied a comfortable villa standing in its own grounds, to be
reduced to this semi-slum lodging house. With a momentary feeling of
pity he inquired if Dr. Philpot was at home.
“There’s no Dr. Philpot lives here,” the woman answered in complaining
tones. “There’s a _Mr._ Philpot, if that’s who you mean.”
“He may not be a doctor; I’m not sure,” French returned. “The man I
mean is fair-haired with a thin face, and could only have come to you
within the last week.”
“Yes, that’s him all right. But he isn’t in.”
“When do you expect him?”
“He generally comes in about six or half-past.”
“Then I’ll call back.”
French strolled about the parks around Kelvinside until his watch
warned him to return to Kilgore Street. Philpot had just arrived. He
seemed glad to see French and told of his new life with an eagerness
that the latter thought rather pathetic.
“I hated that place, Inspector,” he went on. “I didn’t realise it
while I was there, but now that I have left I am surprised how much I
hated it. But I believe I’m going to like my new work. I’ve got a job,
you know.”
“Glad to hear it,” French returned cheerily. “I hope it’s a good one.”
“It’s too soon to say that. I’m now a commission agent. It is by the
kindness of an old friend. He has let me have one of his side lines to
see how I get on. It doesn’t sound a promising proposition, but I
confess I’ve been surprised at its possibilities since I started. It
concerns the marketing of inventions. My friend keeps in touch with
the patent agents and approaches all the smaller patentees, then if
the thing looks good I try to find a manufacturer or a market. I am to
pay him a percentage of all my takings and already I’ve been in touch
with five inventions, all of which are doing very well. If my luck
holds I hope some day to be able to square all those people I now owe
money to in Thirsby. Then my idea is to get across to the States and
start afresh.”
French offered his congratulations and as soon as he reasonably could
switched the conversation over to Roper. Philpot seemed considerably
surprised, but he willingly discussed the attendant and obviously did
his best to satisfy his visitor. He gave a good deal of information,
but only one piece seemed to French at all useful.
Roper had occasionally visited Peebles. What he had gone for Philpot
did not know, but he believed his family lived there. Roper had once
referred to his widowed mother and had spoken of going to Peebles to
see her.
“I’m sorry not to be able to give you more help,” Philpot apologised
when French at last showed signs of coming to an end. “I suppose it
would be indiscreet to inquire what you’re after?”
French hesitated. He had avoided mentioning his theory to any one
except Chief Inspector Mitchell and Major Valentine, and his working
principle in such cases was reticence. For a moment he was tempted to
confide in Philpot, then habit triumphed and he prevaricated.
“My dossier of the case is not complete without all the information I
can put into it. It is academic, of course, but I like to do things
thoroughly. Gets you a reputation for efficiency, you know. One can’t
afford to sneeze at it. Well, doctor, I’m glad to have seen you and I
hope your good luck will continue.”
It was evident that Philpot realised that he had been put off, but he
made no further reference to the subject, and his good-bye was cordial
enough. French in his kindly way was pleased to see that the man had a
chance of making good, and his congratulations and good wishes were
really sincere.
After some thought he determined to follow up the doctor’s clue and
next morning he went to Peebles. There he had little difficulty in
finding Roper’s mother. She kept a huckster’s shop in the poorer part
of the town, but it was evident that she was getting too old for the
work, and that business was not flourishing. She was suspicious at
first, but under the genial influence of French’s manner she thawed
and presently became garrulous. French was soon satisfied that she had
no idea that her son might be alive. He pumped her with his usual
skill, pretending he was a former acquaintance of Roper’s, but in the
end also he was unable to learn anything helpful.
He returned to Thirsby and began a series of inquiries at the nearby
railway stations, posting establishments, inns and villages, in the
hope of coming on some trace of the quarry. But the trail was too old.
For three days he worked early and late, but nowhere did he learn of
any mysterious stranger who might prove to be the missing man. He was
indeed about to give up in despair, when his labours were brought to
an unexpected conclusion. Chief Inspector Mitchell wired an urgent
recall to the Yard.
It was by no means the first of such recalls that French had received,
though it was not usual to interrupt an officer who was actually
engaged in investigating a case. The incident always bred a slight
uneasiness. The possibility of having made some serious blunder was
ever present. And French was aware that his most unhappy experiences
had almost invariably followed periods of exaltation and
self-satisfaction. Chief Inspector Mitchell was an exceedingly shrewd
man and he had a perfectly uncanny way of delving to the bottom of
problems and of seeing clues that other people missed. French
earnestly hoped that it was not so in the present instance.
He travelled up by the night train and early next morning reported at
the Yard. There he found his fears were groundless. The Chief
Inspector, so far from grumbling, was in a very good mood and almost
complimented him on what he had done.
“Well, French, you’re up against it again, are you? What were you busy
at when you got my wire?”
French explained.
“You can do something better. Read that.”
It was the typewritten note of a telephone conversation. It appeared
that at four o’clock on the previous evening the manager of the
Northern Shires Bank in Throgmorton Avenue had rung up to say that two
twenty-pound notes bearing numbers on the list supplied in connection
with the Starvel Hollow crime had been passed into the bank that
afternoon. The cashier had just at that moment made the discovery, but
unfortunately he was unable to remember from whom he had received
them.
“By Jove, sir!” French exclaimed. “Then Roper is in town!”
“It looks like it if your theory is right,” the Chief Inspector
admitted. “I sent Willis across at once and he saw the cashier. But
the man couldn’t say where the notes had come from. Willis got him to
prepare a list of all the lodgments he had received that day,
intending, if you didn’t turn up, to go round the people to-day with
Roper’s description. You had better see him and find out what he has
done. I want you to take over from him at once as he is really on that
Colchester burglary.”
“Very good, sir. Do you know if the notes were together: if they
seemed to have come in from the same party?”
“Willis asked that. They were not near each other in the pile. Of
course, the argument is not conclusive, but the suggestion is that
they came in separately.”
“If that is so it looks as if Roper was changing them systematically.”
“Possibly. In that case we may expect more notes to come in. That’ll
do, French. Go and see Willis and start right in.”
Inspector Willis was seated at the desk in his room, apparently trying
to reduce to some sort of order the chaotic heap of papers which
covered it.
“Hullo, French! Come in and take a pew,” he greeted his visitor. “I
don’t know any one I’d be better pleased to see. If you hadn’t turned
up within another ten minutes I was going out about those blessed
notes, but now I shall be able to get down to Colchester on the next
train. I’m on that burglary at Brodrick’s, the jewellers. You heard
about it?”
“The Chief mentioned it, but I have heard no details. Interesting
case?”
“Nothing out of the way. The place was broken into from a lane at the
back and the safe cut with a oxyacetylene jet. They got about six
thousand pounds’ worth. It happened that Brodrick had just sent a lot
of stuff to town, else they’d have cleared twice that.”
“Any line on the men?”
“It was Hot Alf and the Mummer, I believe. It was their style, and Alf
was seen in the town two days before. But I’ve not got anything
definite yet. There’s a fearful muck of stuff about it: look at all
this.” He indicated the litter on the table.
“No fingerprints?”
“Nope. But I’ll get them through the fences. I’ve only to sit tight
and they’ll give themselves away. But what about your do? I’ve got it
finished, thank the Lord! There it is.” He pointed to a little heap of
papers apart from the others. “There’s more in it, the Chief hinted,
than stolen notes, but he didn’t say what it was.”
“There’s pretty well everything in it so far as I can see,” French
rejoined. “Murder—quadruple murder—theft, arson and body-snatching.”
Willis whistled.
“Body-snatching? Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “You don’t often hear of
that nowadays.”
“You don’t,” French admitted, “but this was not ordinary
body-snatching. You remember the case: a fire at Starvel in which the
three occupants of the house were supposed to be burned? Well, one
wasn’t. He burgled the place and escaped with the swag: those notes
that you were on to to-day. But he had to have a body to represent
himself, so he murdered a neighbour and burned his in the house.”
“Lord, French! That’s quite a tale. It would make a novel, that would.
How did you get on to it?”
French gave a somewhat sketchy résumé of his activities and so led the
conversation back to the notes. “The Chief said you would give me the
details so that I could get ahead with it to-day.”
“Right-o. The Chief called me in about four yesterday afternoon and
said he’d just had a ’phone from the Northern Shires Bank that two of
the Starvel notes had been paid in, and as you weren’t there, I’d
better take over. So I went and saw the teller. He couldn’t say who
had given him the notes, as it was only when he was balancing his cash
after the bank closed that he recognised the numbers. I got him to
make me a list of the lodgments during the day. That took a bit of
time, but he had it at last. Then I went through it with him and we
eliminated all the entries at which he was sure that no twenty-pound
note was handled. That left just under two hundred possibles. Then I
brought the list home and went over it again, ticking off people or
firms who do not usually take in cash from the public, like
shipowners, manufacturers and wholesale dealers. Of course, these are
possibles, but not so likely as the others. It was rough and ready,
but I wanted to tackle the most probable first. You follow me?”
“Of course. I should have done the same.”
“I waited up until I had put the probables in location order, and here
is the list ready for you.”
“Jolly good, Willis. I’m sorry you had so much trouble. I’ll carry on
and hope for the best.”
“You’ll get it all right,” Willis opined as he settled down again to
his work.
All that day and the next French, armed with the list and with Roper’s
photograph and description, went from place to place interviewing
managers and assistants in shops and business firms. But all to no
purpose. Nowhere could he obtain any trace of the elusive twenty-pound
notes, nor had any man answering to the description been seen. And
then to his amazement he was taken off the inquiry.
Like other officers of the C.I.D., it was his habit to keep in as
close touch with headquarters as possible while pursuing his
investigations. At intervals therefore during these two days he called
up the Yard and reported his whereabouts. It was during one of these
communications that for the second time in two days he received an
urgent recall.
In this case it was a summons which he could obey promptly, and twenty
minutes after receiving the message he was knocking at the door of
Chief Inspector Mitchell’s room.
One glance at the Chief’s face showed him that at least there was no
trouble brewing, Mitchell greeting him with a half smile.
“Sit down, French,” he said, “and listen to me. I want to tell you a
story.”
After glancing at a few papers which he took from a drawer, he began
to speak.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Concerning Wedding Rings
“This morning about 10.30,” said the Chief Inspector, “we had a ’phone
from Inspector Marshall of the Whitechapel District. He wanted to know
whether we had had any recent reports of thefts of small jewellery, as
he had come across some in connection with a scrap between two
lightermen. It seems that about ten o’clock last night a constable on
patrol heard cries coming from an entry off Cable Street, as if some
one was being murdered. He ran down and found a man on the ground with
another belabouring him furiously with his fists. The constable pulled
the victor off, to find his opponent was little the worse. The fellow
was really more frightened than hurt. The constable would have
dismissed the affair with a good-humoured caution to both, had it not
been that in the heat of the explanations the cause of the quarrel
came out. The men had obtained some jewellery, which both claimed, and
when the constable saw the stuff he didn’t wait for further
discussion, but marched them both off to Divisional Headquarters.
Marshall questioned them and reported their statements with his
inquiry.
“The whole thing so far was purely commonplace, and if the jewellery
had consisted of ordinary trinkets I should have thought no more about
it. But the nature of the stuff tickled my fancy and I grew
interested. You would hardly guess what they had. Wedding rings!”
“I certainly shouldn’t have guessed that, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you would. Well, that’s what they had. Thirty-nine
wedding rings on a cord. They were all much of the same size and
value. And there was not another ring. They were searched, but nothing
else was found on them.
“Marshall, of course, asked them where they got them, and their answer
was more interesting still. It appeared that the victor, James Gray,
was the skipper of a Thames lighter and the vanquished, William
Fuller, was his ‘crew.’ A third man was on board who looked after the
engine, but he didn’t come into the affair. Gray stated that about
8.30 that same evening they were working empty down the river. They
had left a cargo of Belgian coal at an up-river works and were running
down to their moorings for the night. They usually stopped about six,
but trouble with their engine had delayed them on this occasion. It
was rather a dirty night, raining and very dark and blowing a little.
Gray, the skipper, was at the helm and Fuller was forward acting as
look-out. The third man was below at the engines. Just as they began
to emerge from beneath the Tower Bridge Fuller heard a smack on the
deck beside him. He looked down and in the light of some of the shore
lamps saw some bright objects rolling about on the planks. On picking
one up he was astonished to find it was a wedding ring. He began to
search and found several others, but the skipper swore at him for not
minding his job, and he had to let the remainder lie. When they
reached their moorings he tried again, but Gray was curious and came
forward and found a ring himself. Then they had a proper look with
lanterns and recovered the thirty-nine. Immediately, as might be
expected, a row broke out. Both men wanted the rings. Fuller said they
had fallen beside him and he had found all but one or two, but Gray
held that he was skipper and that anything that came on the ship was
his. They had to bury the hatchet temporarily so as not to give away
the secret to their engineer, but the quarrel broke out again ashore,
Fuller’s cries attracting our man. What do you think of that, French?
A good story, isn’t it?”
“Like a book, sir. Just a bit humorous too, if you don’t mind my
saying so.”
There was a twinkle in Chief Inspector Mitchell’s eye as he
continued:—
“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, anyhow, as I say, I was interested.
The men’s mentality I found quite intriguing. I wondered how much
imagination they had between them. Marshall described them as slow,
unintelligent, bovine fellows. Now, such men could never have invented
a tale like that. If they had been making it up they would have said
they found a bag of rings in the street. The idea of wedding rings
having been thrown over the parapet of the Tower Bridge just as they
were passing beneath would only occur to men of imagination, and to
have got all the details right would have involved a very considerable
gift of invention as well. Do you see what I’m getting at, French?
Their story shows too much imagination for their intelligences as
described by Marshall, and therefore I am disposed to accept it.”
Chief Inspector Mitchell paused and looked at French as if expecting a
comment.
“I follow you all right, sir, and what you say sounds reasonable to
me. And yet it’s not very likely that any one would throw thirty-nine
wedding rings into the Thames off the Tower Bridge, for I take it it
was into the river and not on to the boat they were intended to go.”
“I should say undoubtedly.” Mitchell sat for a moment drumming with
his fingers on his desk and looking thoughtfully out of the window.
“You think the whole thing’s unlikely, do you? Perhaps you are right.
And yet I don’t know. I think I can imagine circumstances in which a
man might be very anxious to get rid of thirty-nine wedding rings. And
what’s more, to throw them over the parapet of the Tower Bridge at
8.30 in the evening seems to me a jolly good way of getting rid of
them. How would you have done it, French?”
French glanced at his superior in some surprise. He could not
understand the other’s interest in this commonplace story of stolen
rings. Still less could he understand why he had been interrupted in
his useful and important work to come and listen to it. However, he
realised that it would be tactless to say so.
“I don’t know, sir,” he answered slowly. “I suppose to throw ’em in
the river would be the best way. But he should have seen there was
nothing passing underneath.”
“Ah, now that is an interesting point also. But first, does anything
else strike you?”
French looked wary.
“Just in what way, sir?”
“This. Suppose you want to throw a package into the river and you want
to do it absolutely unobserved. Where will you do it?”
“I see what you mean, sir. That bridge at that time of night is about
as deserted as any of the London bridges.”
“Exactly, that’s what I mean. There is evidence there of selection
which would never strike a man like these bargees. But you say he
ought to have seen the boat. Why should our unknown not have looked
out for passing boats? I’ll tell you, I think. Though the bridge is
_comparatively_ deserted, it is _not_ deserted. To look over the
parapet far enough to see the water below would have attracted
attention. A suicide might have been feared. Some officious person
might have come forward. No, the unknown would simply chuck his parcel
over without even turning his head, secure in the belief that even if
by some miracle it was found, the contents would never be traced to
him. Do you agree?”
“Seems quite sound, sir.”
“It may be sound or it may not,” Mitchell returned. “All that I have
been saying to you may be the merest nonsense. But it shows, I think,
that the story these men told may be true. The chances of its being
true are sufficiently great to warrant investigation before they are
charged with theft. You agree with that?”
This time French felt no doubt.
“Oh, yes, sir, I agree with that certainly. The men could not be
convicted without going into their story.”
The Chief Inspector nodded as if he had at last reached the goal for
which he had so long been aiming.
“That’s it, French. Now will you start in and do it?”
French stared.
“Me, sir?” he exclaimed as if unable to believe his ears. “Do you wish
me to take it up?”
The other smiled satirically.
“I don’t know any one who could do it better.”
“And drop my present case?”
“Only temporarily,” the Chief assured him. “A day or so will make
little difference to your own affair, and I have no one else to send
on this one. Look into it and try and find out if any one dropped
those rings off the bridge, and if so, who he was and why he did it.
When you have done that you can go ahead with the Starvel affair.”
French was completely puzzled. This was very unlike the line the Chief
usually took.
“Of course, sir, it’s what you say; but do you not think it is very
urgent that this bank-note business be followed up while the trail is
warm? Every day that passes will make it more difficult to get the
truth.”
“That applies even more strongly to this other affair. But it has the
advantage of probably being a shorter inquiry. With luck you can
finish it off to-morrow, and if so, that will delay the larger case
only very slightly.”
French saw that whatever might be the Chief’s motive, he had made up
his mind.
“Very good, sir,” he returned. “I’ll go down to Whitechapel at once
and get started.”
“Right, I wish you would.”
French was conscious of not a little exasperation as he walked to
Charing Cross and there took an eastward bound train. A few hours
might make all the difference between success and failure in the
Starvel case, and here he was turned on to this other business during
the very period when it was most important he should be on his own
job. He could not understand what was at the back of the Chief
Inspector’s mind. Apparently he suspected a crime, though what crime
he had in view French could not imagine. Marshall could have dealt
with ordinary petty theft. But if Mr. Mitchell suspected a serious
crime and if, as he said, no other officer was available to
investigate the affair, his attitude would be explained.
But whether it were explained or not orders were orders, and French
with an effort switched his mind off John Roper and on to lightermen
and wedding rings. On arrival at Divisional Headquarters he saw
Inspector Marshall and heard his account of the affair, which was
almost word for word that of the Chief Inspector’s.
“I don’t know what the Chief’s got in his mind,” French grumbled.
“Here was I on that Starvel case and on a hot scent too, and why he
should switch me off on to this affair I can’t see. He’s got some bee
in his bonnet about it. He believes these fellows’ yarn and he wants
me to find the man who threw the rings over.”
Marshall made noises indicative of surprise and sympathy. “I shouldn’t
have thought the Chief Inspector would have stood for that dope,” he
remarked. “What are you going to do about it?”
French didn’t exactly know. He supposed he had better hear the men’s
story for himself, though, of course, after his colleague had examined
them his doing so would be only a matter of form to satisfy the Chief.
Then he would think over the affair and try to plan his next move.
But rather to his own surprise, French found himself considerably
impressed by the two men’s personalities and the way they told their
story. Both were heavy and slow-witted and, French judged, without any
imagination at all, and both seemed reasonably honest. After he had
questioned them he felt very much inclined to accept his Chief’s view
and to believe the tale.
“You say you found the rings by the light of a hand lamp,” he went on
presently. “Very good. Come along down with me to this boat of yours
and we’ll have another look by daylight. Perhaps you missed a few.”
The men didn’t think so, but they were very willing to do anything
which got them out of the police station. They led the two inspectors
to the dirtiest wharf that French had ever seen, and there hailing a
man in a wherry, the four were put aboard the Thames lighter _Fickle
Jane_.
She was a long low craft more like a canal boat than a lighter.
Nine-tenths of her was hold, but at one end there was a tiny fo’csle
and at the other an equally diminutive engine-room. She was steered by
a small wheel aft.
“Now,” French said to the “crew,” “go and stand just where you were
when the rings came down.”
Fuller moved to the fo’csle and took up a position on the port side of
the companion.
“And where did the rings strike?”
“Couldn’t just say to a foot, guv’nor,” the man answered, “but abaht
that there bolt ’ead or maybe a bit forra’d.”
The point he indicated was starboard of the companion and mid-way
between it and the side of the boat. French saw that objects falling
at that point might scatter in any direction, and he began a careful
search for further rings.
In less than a minute he found one. It had rolled down along the strip
of deck at the side of the hold and jammed itself in a crack of the
coaming timbers.
This discovery seemed to French to prove the men’s story completely.
He took their addresses and told them they were free and that if the
owner of the rings could not be found they would be returned to them.
He wanted them, however, to come up with him to the Tower Bridge and
show him the exact point at which the incident had occurred, but for
this they would be paid.
He was frankly puzzled as he stood looking over the parapet of the
bridge after Gray and Fuller had gone. As far as he could see there
was absolutely nothing in the nature of a clue to the person he
sought. The rings were probably stolen, but not, he imagined, from a
jeweller. Rather, he pictured some street row in which a hawker had
been relieved of his stock-in-trade. Though, if this had been done, he
could not imagine why the stock should have been thrown away.
There were, of course, some obvious steps to be taken, but French
hesitated over them because he did not think any of them could bring
in useful information. However, he couldn’t stand there all day, and
he might as well get on with all the lines of inquiry that suggested
themselves.
First, he called at the Yard and arranged that any constables who had
been on patrol duty on or near the Tower Bridge at 8.30 the previous
evening should be found and sent to him for interrogation. Then with
the rings in his pocket he went to a small jeweller’s shop in the
Strand, of which he knew the proprietor.
“I want your help, Mr. Alderdice,” he said as they shook hands in the
little private room at the back of the shop. “I’m trying to find some
one who amuses himself by throwing wedding rings into the Thames,” and
he told his story, concluding: “Now I wondered if you could tell me
anything about these rings which would help me. Have you heard of any
thefts of rings? Is there any way of identifying or tracing these?
Might they be sold by a hawker, or would they be more probably from a
jeweller’s shop? Any information that you could give me would be most
gratefully received.”
Mr. Alderdice, a precise, dried-up little man, rubbed his chin
thoughtfully.
“Well, you know, Mr. French,” he said, “I don’t believe that I can
think of anything in my trade about which I could give you less help.
There are, as you know, millions of wedding rings in this city alone,
and they are all more or less alike. In fact, sir, you might as well
try to identify a given nail in an ironmonger’s bin. I don’t think
it’s possible. Needless to say though, I’ll do what I can. Let me see
the rings.”
He took the bunch, nattily untied the knot on the cord which held
them, and taking the rings one by one, examined each carefully.
“They are all of eighteen carat gold,” he said in the manner of an
expert pronouncing a deliberate judgment. “They are fairly well the
same size and thickness and would sell from thirty to thirty-five
shillings each, according to weight. I do not know much about the
hawkers you refer to, but I should imagine that they would content
themselves with a rather inferior article, and that these rings were
sold by reputable jewellers. I have not heard of any cases of robbery
of such rings. I do not see how you or any one else could trace their
sales, but of course that is speaking from my point of view: you
gentlemen from the Yard have a wonderful way of finding out things.”
French made a grimace. “I’m afraid my job’s not very hopeful,” he
bewailed as he thanked his friend and took his leave.
He walked slowly back to the Yard, thinking intently. This was one of
those hateful jobs in which you had to work from the general; to deal
with the whole of the possible sources of information concerned. He
would now have to apply to all the jewellers’ shops in London—a
tremendous job. How much he preferred working from the particular! In
that case, to complete the parallel, he would get a clue which would
lead to the one shop or group of shops he required. But here the
situation was reversed. He would have to deal with all jewellers, and
he did not know exactly what he was to ask them.
He made several drafts and at last produced a circular which he
considered satisfactory. In it he said that the Yard desired to trace
a person who had got rid of forty wedding rings on the night of
Monday, 6th December, of which the particulars were as followed, and
that he would be obliged for any information which might help. In
particular he wished to know whether any wedding rings had disappeared
or been stolen recently. Failing that he would be grateful for the
description as far as it could be ascertained, of all persons who had
bought wedding rings within the previous four days, with the date and
approximate hour of the purchase. Replies, which would be treated as
entirely confidential, were to be sent to Inspector French at New
Scotland Yard.
He set some men to work with directories to find out the addresses of
jewellers in London and made arrangements to have the necessary copies
of his circular prepared and delivered. Then he organised a staff to
deal with the replies when they came in. Finally, having cleared his
conscience with regard to the rings episode, he returned to his work
on the bank-note case, picking up the thread at the point at which he
had left off.
By next morning several hundred answers to his circular had been
received and others were arriving continuously. Reluctantly he gave up
the bank-note question and went to his office to have a look over
them.
In accordance with his instructions, his staff had prepared a
statement to which they added the information given in each reply. One
column they had headed “Robberies and Disappearance of rings,” and a
glance down this showed French that none such had occurred. In a
number of other columns they had put information about purchasers.
These columns were headed with certain details of appearance, such as
estimated age—over or under thirty, forty-five and sixty; tall, medium
and short, dark and fair, with and without glasses, and so on. By this
means it became possible to determine whether the same person might
have dealt in more than one shop.
There were a great many columns and comparatively few entries in each,
and of those in the same column nearly all were distinguished by
differences in other columns. Of course the vast number of the
descriptions were vague and incomplete and most of the shops recorded
purchases in connection with which the assistants could recall nothing
of the purchaser. But this was only to be expected, and French worked
with such results as he could get.
Of the 631 replies entered up, French gradually eliminated 625. The
remaining six he examined more carefully, whistling gently as he did
so. They were all under the general divisions, “Homburg hat,” “fawn
coat,” “dark,” “with moustache,” and “with glasses.” But this in
itself conveyed little. It merely indicated a possibility. But when he
found that four of the six shops were in the same street and that the
purchases in all four had been made on the same day and at almost the
same hour, his interest suddenly quickened. French considered that the
matter was worth a personal call, and leaving the Yard, he drove to
the first of the six and asked to see the manager.
“We’re very sorry to have given you all this trouble,” he began as he
produced the reply they had sent in, “but the matter is really
important. This may be possibly the man we want. Could I see the
assistant who attended to him?”
In a few seconds a Mr. Stanley was produced and French asked him to
repeat his description of his customer.
“I remember the man quite clearly, sir,” Stanley answered. “He had
very dark hair and a thick, dark moustache and dark glasses. He wore a
soft, gray Homburg hat and a fawn-coloured coat.”
“It is a pleasure to deal with you, Mr. Stanley,” French smiled. “You
are certainly very observant. Now tell me, how do you come to remember
the man so clearly?”
“I don’t think there was any special reason, sir. Unless it was that I
happened to look out of the window and saw him get out of a taxi, and
that sort of fixed my attention on him. The taxi waited while he was
in the shop and he got into it again and drove off when he had bought
the ring.”
This was very satisfactory. If the customer was really the man French
wanted, here was a clue and a valuable one. To find the taxi which had
stopped at the shop at a given time on the previous day should not be
difficult. He continued his questions.
“At what hour was that?”
“About half-past eleven,” the salesman said after some thought. “I
couldn’t say for sure, but it was about an hour before I went for
dinner and that was at half-past twelve.”
“He didn’t seem at all agitated, I suppose?”
“No, sir. Not more than most of them.” Stanley smiled knowingly, and
French felt that only for the sobering presence of the manager a wink
would have conveyed the man’s thought. “Most of them are a bit, shall
we say, nervous. But this man was just the same as the rest. He gave a
size and said he wanted a medium weight, and that was all that
passed.”
French nodded, and reverting to the description, tried for some
further details with which to augment it. Though he had complimented
Stanley on it, he realised that as it stood it was of little use. But
the young man was unable to improve on his former effort and French
was about to thank the two men and leave the shop when Stanley chanced
to drop a phrase which sent the detective into a white heat of
excitement and made him marvel at Chief Inspector Mitchell’s
perspicacity and his own obtuseness.
“And there was nothing in the slightest degree out of the ordinary in
the whole transaction, no matter how trivial?” he had asked as a sort
of general finale to his catechism, more as a matter of form than
because he hoped to gain any information, and it was in reply that the
assistant, after saying: “No, sir, I don’t think so,” had pronounced
the priceless words: “Unless you would call changing a large note out
of the ordinary. The man hadn’t enough loose change to make up the
thirty-five shillings and he asked me to change a twenty-pound note.”
“What!” roared French with a delighted oath, springing to his feet in
his excitement. So that was it! He saw it all now! Like a flash this
whole mysterious business of the wedding rings became clear as day.
And the Chief had guessed! Moreover the Chief had given him a broad
hint and he, like the _ass_ that he was, had missed its meaning! He
sat down and wiped his forehead.
Who was this mysterious individual, this dark-haired man with
moustache and glasses, but Roper! Roper it was who had been going
about buying wedding rings, and Roper it was who naturally found that
he must get rid of such incriminating purchases at the earliest
possible moment. The whole thing was clear! For every ring a £20 note,
a tainted £20 note, a £20 note from Mr. Averill’s wrecked safe up at
Starvel. And for every £20 note got rid of over £18 of good, clean,
untraceable money brought in. It was a scheme, a great scheme, worthy
of the man who had devised the crime as a whole.
As these thoughts passed through his mind French saw that the fact
that the elusive purchaser had a moustache and glasses while Roper
wore neither by no means invalidated his conclusion, but rather
strengthened it. To a person of Roper’s mental calibre a moustache
would appear one of the best of disguises, while a man with a squint
had practically no option but to wear tinted glasses if he wished to
preserve his incognito. From disgust at his job French had suddenly
swung round to enthusiasm. He had not now the faintest doubt that some
forty-eight hours earlier, Roper, alive and in the flesh, had been in
that very shop, having dealings with the salesman, Stanley. And then
came the delightful thought that with so fresh a trail and with such a
multiplicity of clues, the man’s capture was a question of a very
short time only. The steps to be taken were obvious, and the first was
to find the taxi-man who had driven him round. This must be put in
hand without delay.
He crushed down his impatience and turned once more to his companions,
who had been regarding him with not a little surprise.
“That is important information you have just given me, Mr. Stanley,”
he declared. “Now can you tell me if this is the man?” He handed over
one of Roper’s photographs.
And then his enthusiasm received a check. The salesman looked
doubtfully at the card and shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I couldn’t just be sure. It’s like
him and it’s not like him, if you understand what I mean. The man who
came here had a moustache.”
“A false one,” French suggested.
The other brightened up.
“My word, but it might have been,” he exclaimed. “I noticed it looked
queer, now I come to think of it. It was very thick and long; thicker
and longer than you generally see. And what you might call fuzzy round
the top. Not like a real moustache. Yes, sir, I believe you’re right.
It looked just like a wad of hair set on.”
French laid a scrap of paper over the mouth.
“Now look “again.”
Once more Stanley shook his head.
“No, sir, it’s no good. I couldn’t say for sure. You see that
photograph shows his hair and his forehead and his eyes. Well, I
didn’t see any of those. He had tinted glasses and he wore his hat low
down near his eyebrows. I couldn’t tell. It might have been him and it
might not.”
“Well, if you can’t you can’t, and that’s all there is to it. Now
another point. Have you the twenty-pound note?”
The manager disappeared, returning in a moment with a handful of
money.
“Here are seven twenty-pound notes: all of that value we hold,” he
explained. “I cannot tell you certainly whether that paid in by your
friend is among them; but it probably is, as the cashier thinks she
did not give such a note in change and no lodgment was made at the
bank since the sale.”
Eagerly French compared the numbers of the seven with those on his
list, but this time he had no luck. If one of these had come from
Starvel it was one of which Tarkington had not retained the number.
In spite of this French was certain that he had discovered the truth.
But he felt that before acting on his theory he must put it to the
proof. Fortunately there was a very obvious way of doing so. If he
traced another sale and found that another £20 note had been tendered,
no further doubt could possibly remain.
Pausing only to ascertain from the salesman that his customer had
spoken with a Scotch accent, French hurried down the street to the
next address on his list. There he had a somewhat different question
to put to the manager. He was looking for a man who had within the
last three or four days bought a wedding ring and who had paid for it
with a £20 note. No, the manager need not be apprehensive. The note
was good and the whole business in order: it was simply a question of
tracing the man.
Inquiries speedily produced the desired information. A Mr. Russell was
sent for who had sold the ring in question. He remembered the
purchaser, a slightish man of medium height with a heavy black
moustache, a sallow complexion and tinted glasses. Owing to the latter
he had not noted the colour of the man’s eyes, but he had observed
that his hair was long and very dark and that his hands were small. He
thought the man might be the original of the photograph, but he could
not be sure. When the bill had been made out the man had searched his
pockets and had been unable to produce sufficient change. He had said:
“I’m afraid I’m short: I thought I had another ten-shilling note. Can
you change twenty pounds?” The salesman had replied, “Certainly, sir,”
and the man had handed over a £20 note. Both the salesman and the
cashier had examined it carefully and both were satisfied it was
genuine. Unfortunately it had since been paid away and they could not
therefore produce it.
This information resolved French’s last doubt and he hailed a taxi and
ordered the man to hurry to the Yard. He was more than delighted with
his day. At long last he was on a hot trail. With the vast resources
of the C.I.D. at his disposal it could not now be long before he had
his hands on the criminal of Starvel and had accomplished that triumph
which was to be another milestone on the road which led to promotion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cumulative Evidence
Inspector French’s satisfaction in this new development was but
slightly marred by his knowledge that a certain amount of the credit
for it must be allotted to his Chief. Mr. Mitchell had certainly
spotted the true significance of the discarding of the wedding rings,
but French now saw that this was a comparatively unimportant
achievement. In the first place it was not due to superior ability,
but to the lucky accident that the rings had fallen on the lighter
instead of going overboard. In the second—and this French thought
fundamental—the episode at the best had only hastened matters. If he
had been left alone he would certainly have traced one of the notes.
Perhaps indeed this would have proved quicker in the end.
But what, French asked himself, had led to the whole dénouement? Was
it not his, French’s, foresight and ingenuity at the inquest? He had
devised and skilfully baited a trap for his victim, and lo! the victim
had walked into it with the most commendable promptness. He had fallen
for the dope, as French’s former acquaintance, Mrs. Chauncey S. Root
of Pittsburgh, would have put it. And now a little energetic action
and the man would pay the price of his folly.
For some time after reaching his room French busied himself in putting
in motion against the ingenious purchaser of rings the great machine
of which he was a part. A telephone warning was sent to all stations
that the man whose description had already been circulated in
connection with the Starvel murders had disguised himself with a
moustache and tinted glasses and had recently been in London occupied
in certain business involving taxis and wedding rings. A number of men
were put on to trace the taxi or taxis employed, others to try to
obtain further information at the jewellers’, while still others were
sent round the hotels in the hope of picking up a scent. It was not
indeed until the late afternoon that French had time to settle down
really to consider where he now stood.
In the first place it was clear not only that Roper had remained in
the country, but that he had kept himself in touch with events in
Thirsby. Of course this latter did not mean much, for the
circumstances of the Starvel case had created widespread interest and
the details which came out at the inquest were fully reported in the
papers. But Roper had evidently been uncertain as to how much the
police knew, and French’s evidence had had the desired reassuring
effect.
It might, of course, have happened that Roper’s hand had been forced.
He might have run out of cash to live on or he might have required a
lump sum, say, to leave the country. But whatever the reason, he had
determined on a coup. And very cleverly he had arranged it. He must
have made over £18 a purchase, and if he bought forty rings in a day
his profits would amount to over £700. £700 a day was not bad.
The following day was Sunday, but by Monday evening reports had begun
to come in from French’s little army of workers. Sixteen more shops
had been found at which Roper had bought rings and changed £20 notes,
and one of these notes bore a Starvel number. Moreover it had been
established that his activities had extended over at least three days.
Inquiries at the fashionable restaurants had revealed the fact that on
the Tuesday a man answering Roper’s description had paid for his lunch
at the Carlton with a similar note. French received these items
thankfully, and having made a skeleton time-table of the three days in
question, fitted each item into its appropriate place.
But none of those who had come in contact with Roper had been able to
add to his knowledge of the man or to give a clue to his present
whereabouts. It was not indeed until the middle of the following
forenoon that information came in which promised more satisfactory
results.
Within ten minutes of each other two telephone messages were received
stating that taximen who drove Roper had been found. These men on
discovery had been ordered to report themselves at the Yard, and they
arrived almost simultaneously. French had them up to his room in turn.
The first driver said he had been hailed by a man of the description
in question about 10.0 a.m. on Tuesday of last week. The fare had
explained that he wished to engage his vehicle up till one o’clock. He
was a traveller in precious stones and he wished to be taken to
certain jewellers of which he had a list. The taximan had done as he
was asked. Starting near the Marble Arch, he had visited one jeweller
after another during the whole morning. Shortly after one the fare had
instructed him to drive to Marylebone Station, which was then close
by. There the taxi had been paid off, the fare disappearing into the
station.
Asked if he could remember all the shops he called at, the man said he
thought he could, and French at once despatched Sergeant Carter with
him to drive over the same ground and make inquiries _en route_.
The second taximan had a very similar story to tell. About three
o’clock on the Thursday afternoon he was driving slowly down Aldwych,
when he was hailed by a man of the description the sergeant had given
him. The man had engaged him by the hour and had told him of his
business in precious stones and they had driven to a number of
jewellers, ending up about five-thirty at Malseed’s, in the Strand.
There the man had paid him off and he had seen him entering the shop
as he drove away.
This driver also said he could remember the places at which he had
called, and French sent another of his satellites round with him to
amass information.
As far as it went, this was satisfactory enough. If the other taximen
could be found, every minute of Roper’s three days would soon be
accounted for. And it would be a strange thing if amongst all those
with whom he had come in contact, some one person had not learnt or
noticed anything which would help to find him. French could recall
many instances where a chance recollection of some physical
peculiarity, of some word or phrase uttered, of some paper or small
article dropped, had led to the identification of a criminal and he
thought the chances of similar good fortune in the present instance
were not too remote.
All through the afternoon information continued to come in, and when
he had added the items to his skeleton time-table he found that he had
learnt where thirty-one rings had been bought and where Roper had
lunched on each of the three days in question. Of course, this
information did not directly help with his present problem, but there
were two other items of news which seemed more promising.
The first was that seven of the thirty-one shop assistants who had
been interviewed had noticed a fresh cut on Roper’s thumb, small, but
peculiarly shaped. This was an additional identification which might
be useful in dealing with waiters, dining-car attendants, hotel
porters and others who would be likely to observe a customer’s hand.
The second item French received with deep satisfaction. Roper had
spent the Tuesday night at the Strand Palace Hotel. This seemed to
negative the suggestion that the man was living in London, and French
therefore became much more hopeful of the prospects of finding his
whereabouts on the Thursday night, the point at which he must start if
he was to succeed in tracing him.
But it was not until the next afternoon that his hopes were fulfilled.
When he reached the Yard after lunch he found that a telephone message
had just been received from Sergeant Elliott, who was working the
hotels in the Bloomsbury area. Roper, the man reported, had spent the
Thursday night at the Peveril Hotel in Russell Square.
Within twenty minutes French had reached the building. Sergeant
Elliott was waiting for him in the lounge.
“How did you get on to him?” French asked, after they had greeted each
other heartily and withdrawn into a quiet corner.
“Just pegging away, sir; no special clue. This is the sixteenth hotel
I’ve been to. But I think there’s no doubt it’s him. He turned up here
about 7.15 on Thursday evening and asked for a room. On the plea of
having a chill he had a fire in his room and dined there. Next morning
he paid his bill to the waiter and left about 9.45.”
“Did he take a taxi?”
“Not from the hotel, sir. He just walked out, carrying a small
suitcase in his hand.”
“Wasn’t taking any risks. Confound him for giving us all this trouble.
See Elliott, you look round and get hold of the men who were on point
duty hereabouts on Friday morning. Some of them may have noticed him.
Then go round to the nearby Tube Stations. I’ll go back to the Yard
and get the taxis and the terminal stations worked. You follow me?”
“Right, sir. I’ll go now.”
French turned to the manager’s office to check his subordinate’s
information. There his inquiries speedily convinced him that Roper had
indeed stayed in the hotel. It was true that he had registered under
the name “Jas. Fulton, Manchester,” but the handwriting set the matter
at rest. That it was Roper’s, French had no doubt whatever.
Except that one of the waiters had noticed the cut on the man’s right
thumb, this unfortunately was the only result of his inquiries. Though
he was as thorough and painstaking as ever, he could find no clue to
the man’s present whereabouts.
Returning to the Yard, he recalled the men who were engaged on the
hotels and jewellers’ shops and set them new tasks. Some of them were
to look for a taximan who had taken up a fare of the suspect’s
description in the neighbourhood of Russell Square about 9.45 on the
morning of the previous Friday, the remainder were to visit the great
stations in the hope of learning that the same man had left by train.
French was accustomed to prompt and efficient service, but when within
an hour the wanted taximan had been found, he could not but admit
pleasurable surprise. He therefore paid a somewhat unusual compliment
to his subordinate on his prowess, and told him to fetch the man
along.
The driver proved to be a big brawny Irishman. He stated he had picked
up a fare like the man described at the Russell Square end of
Southampton Row about the hour named. The man had carried a small
suitcase and had been walking away from the Square. The driver had not
seen his face clearly, as he had his collar turned up and his hat
pulled low, but when French heard that he spoke with a Scotch accent,
he felt that things were going as they should. It was therefore with
keen interest that he waited for a reply to the question, where had he
driven him?
“To Gracechurch Street, sorr,” the man answered, “to a block o’
buildings half-way down the street on the left-hand side.”
“Could you find it again?”
“I could, sorr, surely.”
“Then drive there.”
An inspection of the plates at each side of the entrance door showed
that the “block o’ buildings” contained eleven suites of offices.
French stood contemplating the names and wondering in which of the
firms Roper had been interested.
None of them seemed very promising at first sight. There were two coal
merchants, a chemical analyst, a stockbroker, an engineer and
architect, three shipping firms and three commission agents. Of these
the shipping firms seemed the most hopeful and French decided to start
with them.
Obtaining no information at the shipping offices, he went on to the
remaining firms, and at the seventh he struck oil. The office boy at
Messrs. Dashwood and Munce’s stockbrokers, remembered such a man
calling at the hour in question. He had, he believed, seen Mr.
Dashwood, and it was not long before French was seated in the senior
partner’s room.
Mr. Dashwood, a tall, thin man with a shrewd expression and keen eyes,
listened attentively while French stated his business.
“I admit,” he said, “that the description you give resembles that of
our client. But you must be aware, Inspector, that a client’s dealings
are confidential, and unless you can prove to me that this is really
the man you want and that it is my duty to discuss his business I do
not think I feel called on to say any more.”
“I thoroughly appreciate your position,” French returned suavely, “and
under ordinary circumstances agree that you would be absolutely right.
But these circumstances are not ordinary. Firstly, here are my
credentials, so that you will see that I really am an officer of
Scotland Yard. Secondly, I must take you into my confidence to the
extent of telling you that the man is wanted for a very serious crime
indeed—a triple murder, in fact. You will see, therefore, that you
cannot keep back any information about him which you may possess.”
Mr. Dashwood shrugged.
“What you say alters the matter. Tell me what you wish to know.”
“First, your client’s name and address.”
Mr. Dashwood consulted a small ledger.
“Mr. Arthur Lisle Whitman, c/o Mr. Andrew Macdonald, 18 Moray Street,
Pentland Avenue, Edinburgh.”
“Was he an old client?”
“No, I had never seen him before.”
“And what was his business?”
“He wished us to purchase some stock for him.”
“Oh,” said French. “Did he pay for it?”
“Yes, he paid in advance.”
“In notes of £10 and less in value, I suppose?”
Mr. Dashwood shot a keen glance at the other.
“That’s right,” he admitted. “It seemed a peculiar way of doing
things, but he explained that he was a bookmaker and had been doing
some big business lately.”
“What was the amount?”
“Roughly two thousand pounds.”
“No twenty-pound notes, I suppose?”
“None. He counted it out here, and ten was the highest value.”
French was delighted. There was no doubt he was on the right track.
Further, three days at £700 just made the required sum.
“In what stock were you to invest?”
“Brazilian. A thousand in Government five per cents, and the rest in
rails.”
This was satisfactory too. French remembered Roper’s Brazilian
passport. At the same time he was slightly puzzled. Surely the man was
not mad enough to imagine he could get out of the country? Still, if
he thought he was not suspected he might try to do so.
“Where was the interest to be paid? Did he say he was going out?”
“Yes. He said he was sailing in a few weeks and that he already had an
account in the Beira Bank at Rio, to which the dividends were to be
paid.”
French laid his photograph and description on the other’s desk.
“That the man?”
Mr. Dashwood examined the photograph and slowly read and re-read the
description.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “At first glance I should say not,
but on consideration I’m not so sure. If it was he, he was disguised.”
“I have reason to believe he was disguised.”
“Then probably it was he. The features which he couldn’t alter, such
as his height and build, correspond all right.”
“Have you got a specimen of his handwriting?”
Yes, Mr. Dashwood had his signature to certain forms. French gazed at
the four specimens of “Arthur Lisle Whitman” which were produced. And
then he felt himself up against the same difficulty which had
confronted Mr. Dashwood. At first sight the signatures were not so
obviously Roper’s as those in the Peveril register, but as French
examined them he felt more and more satisfied that the man had indeed
written them, though he had obviously made some attempt at disguise.
French was more than pleased with his interview when, after warning
Mr. Dashwood to keep the affair secret, he took his departure. In the
first place the whole of Roper’s scheme of escape was at last
revealed. The man had evidently set himself two problems, first, to
change his possibly incriminating twenty-pound notes in such a way
that any which might afterwards be identified should not be traceable
to him, and secondly, to get this money into Brazilian securities,
payable in Brazil, with a similar immunity from risk. And very
cleverly he had solved both these problems.
But he had made an error, and French smiled grimly as he thought of
it. He had given an address to Dashwood and Munce. A bad, a fatal
error! A trip to Edinburgh for French, and Master John Roper’s career
would meet with a sudden check. And with that the Starvel Hollow crime
would be avenged and French—he hoped against hope—would come in for
his reward.
Could he not, French wondered, find out something about that address
without leaving London? He turned into a telegraph office and sent a
wire to the Edinburgh police. Early next morning there was a reply.
It seemed that Mr. Andrews Macdonald of 18 Moray Street, Pentland
Avenue, through whom “Mr. Arthur Lisle Whitman” was to be approached,
was a small tobacconist with a rather shady reputation. It was evident
therefore that Roper had adopted a time-honoured expedient to obtain
his correspondence secretly. Letters could be addressed to Macdonald
and for a consideration they would either be re-addressed to Roper or
be kept till called for. In either case Macdonald would not know who
his client really was or where he was to be found, in the event of
questions from inquisitive seekers.
French saw that Macdonald, at least if he was a man of strong
character, could give a lot of trouble. He would admit that he kept
letters for Whitman, but would state that Whitman always called for
these and that he did not know where his client was to be found. And
the closest watch kept by the police might be quite unavailing. French
remembered a case in point in the East End. Here a small newsagent had
been chosen as the intermediary, and though the place was kept under
observation for several weeks, the criminal was never seen. It was
only when he was captured through an entirely different line of
research that the reason came out. The newsagent had guessed his
establishment was being shadowed and he had exhibited a prearranged
sign. He had placed a certain article in a certain place in his
window. The criminal, riding past in a bus, had seen the danger signal
and had kept away.
In the present instance French wished if possible to avoid the chance
of a similar expensive and irritating delay. If he could devise some
other method of attack, this clue of the tobacconist could be kept as
a last resource.
He took his problem home with him that night, and after he had dined
he drew an arm-chair up to the fire and settled down comfortably with
his pipe to think the thing out. For a considerable time he pondered,
then at last he thought he saw his way. He worked at the details of
his plan until he was satisfied with them, then with a smile of
triumph on his lips and deep satisfaction in his heart he knocked the
ashes out of his pipe, switched off the lights and went up to bed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Last Lap
Next morning Inspector French was early occupied in making the
necessary preparations for his great _coup_. The first of these
involved a visit to Messrs. Dashwood and Munce, and the business day
had scarcely begun when he presented himself once more at their
office.
“I am sorry, Mr. Dashwood, for troubling you so soon again,” he
apologised, “but I want to ask you one other question. Can you tell me
whether Mr. Whitman saw your partner during his call? In other words,
if Mr. Whitman were to meet Mr. Munce, would he recognise him?”
Mr. Dashwood raised his eyebrows, but he answered without hesitation.
“Mr. Whitman was shown in to me, and so far as I know, he did not meet
my partner. But Mr. Munce is in his room. We can ask him.”
The junior partner was a more good-natured looking man than Mr.
Dashwood, and French was sorry he had not had to deal with him
throughout.
“No, I didn’t see him,” he said with a pleasant smile. “As a matter of
fact I was out at the time you mention. I went over——” he looked at
Dashwood—“to see Troughton about eleven and I did not get back till
after lunch.”
French nodded.
“Now, gentlemen,” he went on, “I am obliged for what you have told me
and I am going to ask for your further help in this matter. What I
want is very simple. If any letter or wire or telephone call comes to
you from Whitman will you please advise me before replying? That is
all.” He repeated to Mr. Munce what he had already told Mr. Dashwood
as to his suspicion of Whitman’s criminality, stating that under the
circumstances he felt sure he could count on the assistance of both
gentlemen.
Mr. Dashwood hemmed and hawed and was inclined to demur. He was, he
pointed out, a stockbroker, not a detective, and he didn’t see why he
should be involved in Inspector French’s machinations. If the
Inspector wished to make an arrest it was up to him to do it himself.
But fortunately for French, Mr. Munce took the opposite view.
“Oh, come now, Dashwood, hang it all,” he protested, “we’ll have to do
what the Inspector wants. If this Whitman is a murderer we’re pretty
well bound to. Besides, Mr. French doesn’t want us to make any move,
only to sit tight and not spoil his plans. What do you say, now?”
Mr. Dashwood made a gesture as if washing his hands of the whole
affair, and announced stiffly that if his partner considered such
action in accordance with the traditional relations between
stockbroker and client he would not press his own views. Mr. Munce
thereupon smiled genially at French and assured him that he could
count on his wishes being carried out.
This was all right so far as it went, and it paved the way for
French’s next proceeding. Going to the nearest telegraph office, he
saw the postmaster, showed him his credentials, and explained that he
wished to send a reply prepaid telegram, the answer to which was not
to be delivered at its address, but was to be sent to him at Scotland
Yard. Then drawing a form towards him he wrote:—
“To Whitman, care of Macdonald, 18 Moray Street, Pentland Avenue,
Edinburgh.
“Serious fall in Brazilian stocks impending. Advise modification of
plans. Would like an interview. Munce travels to Aberdeen by 10.0
a.m. from King’s Cross, Tuesday. Could you see him at Waverley where
train waits from 6.15 to 6.33?
“Dashwood & Munce.”
This, French thought, should draw Roper. Unless the man was
extraordinarily well up in Brazilian politics, of which the chances
were negligible, he would suspect nothing amiss. And if he did not
suspect a trap he would almost certainly turn up. Not only would he
really be anxious about his money, but he would see that it would be
suspicious not to show such anxiety.
All the same French believed that the telegram should be confirmed by
a letter. In the ordinary course of business such a letter would
necessarily follow, and Roper might notice the omission.
To ascertain the form of Messrs. Dashwood and Munce’s correspondence
French adopted a simple expedient. He wrote confidentially to the firm
saying he had just learnt that the man in whom he was interested had
particularly small ears, and asking whether Mr. Dashwood had noticed
Whitman’s. This letter he sent by hand and in an hour back came an
answer. It took a comparatively short time to print a similar letter
form, and on this French typed the following with the same coloured
ribbon and spacing:—
“Dear Sir,—Confirming wire sent you to-day. We beg to state that we
have just had confidential advices from our agents in Brazil,
warning us that unsettled conditions are imminent which are likely
to depress Government securities considerably. Under these
circumstances we feel that we would like to discuss the question of
your investments, as we think you would be wiser to modify your
original proposals. In such matters a personal interview is more
satisfactory than correspondence, and as Mr. Munce happens to be
passing through Edinburgh next Tuesday, we thought perhaps it might
be convenient to you to see him at the station. The train waits long
enough to enable him to explain the situation fully.
Yours faithfully,”
French copied the “Dashwood and Munce” signature and despatched the
letter by the evening mail. He was in hopes that it would allay any
suspicion the telegram might have raised in Roper’s mind, while at the
same time involving no reply to the stockbrokers other than that of
the prepaid wire which would be delivered at the Yard.
The next point to be considered was the matter of Roper’s
identification. French did not believe he could manage this himself.
He had never seen the man. He had, of course, a copy of the photograph
on the passport, but he did not consider this sufficient. In a matter
of such importance he dared not leave a loop-hole for mistake. He felt
he must have some one who knew Roper there to assist him.
He thought at once of Ruth Averill. Of all the persons he had come
across she probably knew Roper’s appearance best. But he felt the job
was not one for a young girl and he cast round for some one else.
No one at Thirsby seemed suitable. Several people there had been
acquainted with Roper, but he did not think any had known him
sufficiently intimately to penetrate a disguise, should the man still
be wearing one. Nor did he believe any one at Kintilloch would be much
better, though for a while he considered getting Sergeant McGregor.
Finally, he decided that he would ask Philpot. Philpot had known Roper
intimately at the Ransome and had seen him at intervals up till the
tragedy. He was now in Glasgow: nearer than any one else that French
could get. Moreover, Philpot hated Roper and would no doubt be glad to
put the final spoke in his wheel. French was sure he would come for
the asking.
Accordingly he drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote:—
“_Strictly private and confidential,_
“New Scotland Yard.
“Dear Dr. Philpot,—You will be surprised to hear from me, and
particularly to learn that I believe I have got my hands on the man
wanted for the affair I have been working on. I do not wish to give
details in a letter, but it is a man whom you know well and whom we
all thought to be dead. You can probably guess from this.
“We have found that under an alias he has been transferring his money
abroad, and in the name of the stockbrokers concerned I have asked
him to meet their junior partner at Waverley Station, Edinburgh, on
Tuesday next at 6.15 p.m. on the arrival of the 10.0 a.m. from
King’s Cross. The junior partner will not be there, but I shall, and
I hope to make the arrest.
“My difficulty is that I cannot myself identify the wanted man. In
this I want your kind help. Will you please meet me under Scott’s
Monument at 5.0 p.m.? I shall then ask you to accompany me to the
station and from some inconspicuous place keep a look-out for him.
When you see him you will tell me and I shall do the rest.
“I ask you to assist me in this, and feel sure that when you
consider all the circumstances of the case you will agree to do so.
“Will you please wire your decision on receipt of this letter.
“Yours faithfully,
“Joseph French.”
For the next few hours French was like the proverbial hen on the hot
griddle. Every time his telephone bell rang he snatched up the
receiver hoping that the caller was the post office from which he had
sent his message. Every time the door opened he looked up eagerly to
see if it was not an orange coloured telegraph message that was being
brought in. He found it hard to settle to work, so much depended on
his plans succeeding.
When, therefore, about four in the afternoon a wire was brought to
him, he had to exercise real self-control not to snatch the paper from
the messenger. And then he could have laughed with delight. The
message had been handed in at the General Post Office in Edinburgh,
and read:—
“To Dashwood and Munce,
“Dover House,
“Gracechurch Street,
“Your wire. Will meet Munce as suggested.
“Whitman.”
So far, so very excellent! Here was the major difficulty overcome! On
Tuesday evening the public career of John Roper would come to a sudden
stop. The end of the case was at last in sight.
Early the next morning a second telegram was handed to French, which
gave him almost equally great satisfaction. It was from Philpot and
read:—
“Will meet you place and time stated.”
There was now just one other point to be settled. Roper was coming to
the station to meet Munce. But Munce was not going to Edinburgh. Some
one must therefore take his place.
It would be better to have some one as like Munce in appearance as
possible. In spite of the statement of the partners, Roper might have
got a glimpse of Munce or at least have had his description. In view
of this very summons he might make it his business to learn what the
man was like. French considered his brother officers and he soon saw
that Inspector Tanner, with a slight make-up, could present himself as
a very passable imitation of the junior partner. The men were about
the same build and colouring, and an alteration in the cut of Tanner’s
hair, a pair of spectacles, different clothes and a change of manner
would do all that was necessary.
French went to Tanner’s room and arranged the matter. Tanner was to
call and see Munce on some matter of a prospective investment which
would afterwards fall through, and while there observe his model. He
would then make himself up and travel to Edinburgh by the 10.0 a.m.
from King’s Cross. On reaching Waverley he would co-operate with
French as circumstances demanded.
To enable him to keep his appointment with Philpot, French found he
must leave London on the Monday night. He therefore took the 11.35
p.m. from Euston, and about eight o’clock the next morning reached
Princess Street Station. He had not been to Edinburgh for years, and
emerging from the station, he was struck afresh with the beauty of the
gardens and the splendour of the Castle Rock. But Princess Street
itself, which he had once thought so magnificent, seemed to have
shrunk, and its buildings to have grown smaller and plainer. “Too much
foreign travel,” he thought, vaguely regretful of his change of
outlook; “the towns abroad certainly spoil one for ours.”
He spent most of the day in exploring the historic buildings of the
old town, then as five o’clock approached he entered the Princess
Street Gardens, and strolling towards Scott’s Monument, took his stand
in an inconspicuous place and looked around him.
Almost immediately he saw Philpot. The doctor was muffled in a heavy
coat, a thick scarf high about his ears, and fur-lined gloves—a
get-up, French shrewdly suspected, intended more as a disguise from
Roper than a protection from the cold. He was approaching from the
Waverley Station direction, walking slowly, as if conscious that he
was early. French moved to meet him.
“Well, doctor, this is very good of you. A surprising development,
isn’t it?”
Philpot shook hands, and glancing round, said eagerly:
“Look here, I want to understand about it. I was quite thrilled by
your letter. You tell me you know the Starvel murderer, and you seem
to hint that it is Roper—at least, I don’t know whom else you can
refer to. But surely, Inspector, you couldn’t mean that?”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Why, because— I don’t know, but the idea seems absolutely
absurd. Roper’s dead. If he is not dead, whose was the third body
found? Are you really serious?”
“Yes,” French said in a low tone. “I am quite satisfied that Roper
escaped from that house and that some poor devil was murdered and
buried in his place. And what’s more, I’ll have him in an hour’s time.
Come. Let us walk to the station and take up a position before he
arrives.”
They moved off, while Philpot clamoured for further details. French,
true to his traditions of caution, was not overcommunicative, but he
explained some of the reasons which had led him to believe in Roper’s
guilt, and told of the purchases of rings which the man had made to
get rid of his tainted money. Philpot evinced the keenest interest and
plied the other with questions.
French told him as much as his training would allow, which was as
little as he conveniently could, and then he switched the conversation
on to the coming scene. Did Philpot know the station? If so, where had
they best hide so as to see the train arrive while remaining
themselves unobserved?
On reaching the platform French introduced himself to the
station-master and explained his business. He had arranged for Tanner
to travel in the last first-class compartment in the train, and he now
found out from the station-master where this coach would stop.
Opposite was the window of one of the offices, and on French asking
whether they might use it for reconnoitring purposes, the
station-master at once gave them the unrestricted use of the room.
There, hidden from view by a screen, the two men took up their
positions and began to scrutinise those who were assembling on the
platform to meet the train.
Philpot was fidgety and nervous, and from one or two remarks that he
made, French saw the direction in which his thoughts were running.
Evidently he was afraid that if he assisted in Roper’s capture, the
man would round on him and try to make trouble for him about Mrs.
Philpot’s death. In vain French attempted to reassure him. He was
clearly uneasy in his mind, but presently he seemed to master his
fears and concentrated his attention on the platform outside.
Time passed slowly until the train was almost due. A large number of
persons had collected and were strolling slowly up and down or
standing talking in little groups. French and his companion watched
the moving throng from behind their screen, but no one resembling
Roper put in an appearance. This, however, was not disconcerting. It
was not unlikely that the man had also taken cover and was waiting
until he saw some one who might be Munce before coming out into the
open.
French, as the time dragged slowly away, was conscious of the thrill
of the hunter who waits before a clump of jungle for a hidden
man-eater. The crisis that was approaching was almost as important to
him as the tiger’s exit to the sportsman. This was the last lap of his
case, the climax of the work of many weeks. If he carried off his
_coup_ all would be well; it would bring the affair to a triumphant
conclusion, and to himself possibly the reward he coveted. But if any
slip took place it would be a bad look-out for him. There was his and
Tanner’s time besides the expense of these journeys to Scotland, not
to speak of his own loss of prestige. No, French felt he could not
afford to miss this chance, and insensibly his brows contracted and
his lips tightened as he stood waiting for what was coming.
Presently a movement amongst the passengers on the platform and a
heavy rumble announced the advent of the express. The huge engine with
its high-pitched boiler and stumpy funnel rolled slowly past, followed
by coach after coach, brightly lighted, luxurious, gliding smoothly
by. A first-class coach stopped opposite the window and French, gazing
eagerly out, presently saw Tanner descend and glance up and down the
platform.
Now was the moment! Roper could not be far away.
But Tanner continued to look searchingly about him. The additional
bustle of the arrival waxed and waned and the platform began to clear,
people drifting away towards the exit or clustering round carriage
doors close to the train. And still no sign of Roper.
The express was timed to wait for eighteen minutes, and of these at
least fifteen had slipped away. Porters were already slamming doors,
and the guard was coming forward, lamp in hand, ready to give the
right away signal. Tanner stepped forward clear of the train and once
again gazed up and down the platform, then as the hands of the clock
reached the starting time he turned back and retrieved his suitcase
from the compartment. The guard whistled and waved his green lamp, the
coaches began to glide slowly away, the dull rumble swelled up and
died away, and in a second or two some rapidly dwindling red lights
were all that were left of the train.
French was almost speechless from chagrin. Had his plan failed? Was it
possible that Roper had been one too many for him? Had the man
suspected a plant and kept away from the station? Or was he even now
in some hidden nook on the platform doubtful of Tanner’s identity and
waiting to see what would materialise?
As the minutes slipped away French, unspeakably disappointed, found
himself forced to the conclusion that the affair had miscarried. Roper
must have become alive to his danger. Perhaps he had suspected
French’s wire and had replied as he did merely in order to gain time
to disappear. Perhaps by this time the clue of the tobacconist’s shop
itself was a washout. French swore bitterly.
But they could not remain in the office for ever, nor could Tanner be
left to pace the platform indefinitely. With a word of explanation to
Philpot, French passed out, and the two men strolled in the direction
of Tanner. French greeted him quietly and introduced Philpot, and the
three stood talking.
“Washout?” Tanner said laconically, glancing at his colleague.
“Looks like it,” French admitted, and turning to Philpot, began to
apologise for having brought him from Glasgow on a wild goose chase.
“I’m sorry that I can’t stay and offer you hospitality either,” he
went on. “I must get round to police headquarters and start some
further inquiries. But let us go and have a parting drink to our
mutual good luck in the future.”
They passed into the refreshment room, French pre-occupied and, for
him, somewhat brusque, Tanner frankly bored, and Philpot showing
evidences of mixed feelings of disappointment and relief.
“I wish you people weren’t so infernally close about your business,”
the doctor complained as they stood at the bar waiting for the three
small Scotches and sodas French had ordered. “Here am I, vastly
interested in the affair and anxious to know what your further chances
are, and you’re as close as a pair of limpets. Surely I know so much
that a little more won’t hurt. Do you think you’ll get him soon?”
French laughed disagreeably.
“I don’t say exactly how soon,” he answered grimly, “but you may take
it from me that we’ll get him all right. We have a hot scent. We’ll
have the man before any of us are much older. Well, doctor, here’s
yours.”
He tossed off his whisky, while Philpot, picking up his glass,
murmured his toast. And then suddenly French stiffened and stood
motionless, staring at the other’s hand. There in the flesh at the
right hand side of his right thumb and projecting slightly on to the
nail was an almost healed cut of a peculiar shape: a shape which
French had had described and sketched for him by seven of the men who
had sold rings to the changer of twenty-pound notes in London!
French’s brain whirled. Surely, surely, it couldn’t be!
Philpot noted the other’s change of expression and followed the
direction of his gaze. Then with a sudden gesture of rage and despair
he dropped his glass, and his left hand flashed to the side pocket of
his coat. French had noticed that this pocket bulged as if it
contained some round object of fair size such as an apple or an
orange. Philpot drew out a dark-coloured ball of some kind and began
desperately fumbling at it with his right hand. And then French saw
what the man was doing. The object was a Mills’ bomb and he was
pulling out the pin!
With a yell to Tanner for help, French flung himself on the doctor,
and clutching his left hand, squeezed it desperately over the bomb.
The pin was out, but the man’s hand prevented the lever from moving.
If his grasp were relaxed for even an instant nothing could save all
three from being blown to atoms!
Philpot’s mild and gentle face was convulsed with fury. His lips
receded from his teeth and he snarled like a wild beast as he
struggled wildly to release his grip. His right fist smashed furiously
into French’s face and he twisted like an eel in the other’s grasp.
Then Tanner also seized him and the three men went swinging and
rolling and staggering about the room, knocking over tables and chairs
and sweeping a row of glasses from the bar. Philpot fought with the
fury of desperation. To the others it seemed incredible that so slight
a man could show such strength. He strove desperately to free his left
hand from French’s clasp, while French with both hands tried for
nothing but to keep it tightly closed on the bomb.
But the struggle was uneven and only one end was possible. Gradually
Tanner improved his grip until at last he was able to use a kind of
jiu-jitsu lock which held the other steady at the risk of a broken
right arm. This lock he was able to maintain with his left hand, while
with the other he took the pin of the bomb from the now nerveless
fingers and with infinite care, French shifting his hands to allow of
it, slipped the pin back into place. A moment later the bomb lay
safely on the counter, while its owner sat faint and exhausted and
securely handcuffed.
By the good offices of the barmaid French was able to wash the blood
from his face, and a few minutes later a taxi was procured, and almost
before the excited throng on the platform had learnt what was amiss,
the three actors in the little drama had vanished from their ken.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Conclusion
The identity of the criminal known, it took Inspector French but a
short time to compile a complete and detailed account of that terrible
series of crimes which comprised what had become known as the Starvel
Hollow Tragedy. Herbert Philpot, once he understood that the evidence
against him was overwhelming and that nothing could save him from the
scaffold, broke down completely and made a confession which cleared up
the few points which from their nature it was impossible that French
could have learnt otherwise.
The first act of the Inspector, on lodging his prisoner in jail, was
to visit his rooms in Glasgow. There in a battered leather portmanteau
he discovered a large cashbox of hardened steel which when broken open
was found to contain the balance of Mr. Averill’s money. With the
£2000 which had been paid to Messrs. Dashwood and Munce, no less a sum
than £36,562 was recovered, no doubt all the old miser had possessed.
Ruth Averill therefore received her fortune intact, and between the
consequent easing of her circumstances and her engagement to Pierce
Whymper, she found the happiness which had been denied her during her
early years.
The history of the crime, as French at last presented it, made very
terrible reading. Like most accounts of human weakness and guilt, it
arose from small beginnings and increased stage by stage, until at
last almost inevitably it reached its frightful consummation.
The trouble first arose in that house near the Ransome Institute in
Kintilloch, when Dr. Philpot discovered that he and his wife had
nothing in common and that their marriage had been a fatal blunder.
There is no need to recount the steps by which they drifted apart: it
is enough to say that within two years of the wedding their hatred was
mutual and bitter. Then Philpot became intimate with the nurse whom
Roper afterwards found him embracing in the Institute shrubbery, and
from that time the idea of getting rid of his wife by murder was never
far from the doctor’s mind. At first he did not see how this could be
done, but as he brooded over the problem a method presented itself,
and coldly and deliberately he made his preparations.
First, he selected a time when his wife should be alone with him in
the house. Taking advantage of Flora’s absence one afternoon, he made
a pretext to get Mrs. Philpot up to the bedroom landing. Silently he
slipped upstairs after her and across the top of the lower flight he
tied a dark-brown silk cord. Then, returning to the study, he called
to her for Heaven’s sake to come quickly for the house was on fire.
She rushed down, caught her foot in the cord, and fell headlong to the
hall below. She was stunned though not killed, but Philpot was
prepared for this eventuality. Seizing the only implement he could
find, a cricket bat, he struck her savagely on the temple, killing her
instantaneously. As he expected, the blow made a bruise such as she
might have received from the fall, and no suspicion was aroused by it.
But an unexpected contingency had given Philpot away. He had supposed
that the servant, Flora, had really gone to visit her sick mother. But
in this he was mistaken. It was to see, not her mother but her lover,
Roper, that the girl had left the house, and this afternoon, like many
another before it, she met him in a near-by copse. There, just after
they had greeted each other, a heavy shower came on, and Flora had
proposed an adjournment to the kitchen for shelter. To this Roper had
agreed, and they had just settled down therein for their fifteen
minutes’ chat when they heard Philpot’s shout to his wife, followed in
a moment by Mrs. Philpot’s scream of terror and the crash of her fall.
Flora involuntarily sprang to her feet and ran up the stairs from the
basement to the hall. But she was transfixed by the sight which met
her eyes and she stood rigid, gazing at Philpot. Roper had by this
time crept up the stairs behind her, and both actually saw the doctor
commit the murder. Flora was about to reveal herself, but Roper’s grip
tightened upon her wrist and held her motionless. Watching thus, they
saw Philpot rapidly examine the body, and apparently satisfied that
life was extinct, wipe the cricket bat and replace it in the stand.
Then he ran upstairs and removed the silk cord, afterwards stooping
over the floor on the half-way landing. They could not see what he was
doing, but the evidence given later as to the hole in the carpet made
his action clear.
Then followed a dramatic moment. When Philpot came downstairs he found
Roper and Flora standing in the hall, and they soon let him know that
they had witnessed the whole of his terrible proceedings. Philpot
attempted to bluster, but he was quite unable to carry it off, and at
last he asked Roper what he proposed to do.
Roper, in his way quite as unscrupulous as the doctor, had instantly
thought how he might turn the affair to his own advantage, and he
quickly stated his terms. If Philpot would increase his ten shillings
a week to forty, thus enabling Roper and Flora to marry in comfort,
the evidence against him would be withheld. Philpot protested, but
Roper was adamant and the doctor had to give way. Had that been all
that Roper required, the matter would have been settled in five
minutes. But the attendant pointed out that unless he had some
material proof of the crime, his hold over Philpot would be gone by
the evening: if he did not give his testimony at once he would have to
explain later why he had withheld it. He would therefore follow the
precedent he had set in the case of the nurse, and would require from
Philpot a signed confession of the murder. He swore solemnly to keep
this secret as long as the money was paid, but with equal solemnity
swore to send it anonymously to the police the first time the two
pounds failed to materialise. Again Philpot blustered, but again he
had to give way. But he pointed out that a confession would take some
time to prepare, and that if he wrote it then and there the body would
be cold before the police and another doctor were called in, which
would give the whole affair away. Roper admitted this difficulty and
proposed the following solution. He would give Philpot until nine
o’clock that night to write it. If it was not forthcoming Flora and he
would visit the police station with the yarn that Flora alone had seen
what had taken place—but without revealing herself to Philpot; that
she had been so frightened she did not know what to do; that she had
consulted him, Roper, and that he had told her she must immediately
reveal what she knew.
Philpot had perforce to agree to this, and by nine o’clock the
confession was ready. But Philpot with perverse ingenuity found a way
of tricking his adversary and rendering it useless. He was an
extraordinarily clever draughtsman and had frequently amused himself
by forging the handwriting of others. Now he forged his own. He wrote
the confession out, and then copied it, letter by letter, _upside
down_. The result was a passable imitation of his own handwriting, but
one which any expert would recognise as a forgery. If the document
were produced his denial of its authorship would be accepted without
question.
But Philpot did not wish the document to be produced. It was too
horribly credible, and inquiries by the police might easily lead to
some discovery which would convict him. With all the appearance of
reluctant good faith he therefore handed over the document and
promised to pay the two pounds a week with the utmost regularity.
Roper, believing in the value of his instrument and fearing Philpot
might make an effort to regain it, rented a box in a safe deposit and
stored it there.
Some four months later Philpot, as already stated, left the Ransome
Institute and put up his plate at Thirsby. There he speedily made the
acquaintance of Mr. Averill. The old man indeed called him in,
thinking that the fees of a newcomer who had to make his way would be
less than those of a well-established practitioner.
When Roper was dismissed from the Institute he wrote to Philpot asking
if he could help him towards getting another job, and it was while
thinking over this request that the first idea of the crime entered
the doctor’s mind. His plan was if possible to get Averill to dismiss
his servants and to employ the Ropers in their places. Then he
intended to get the couple to join with him in the murder of Averill
and the theft of his money.
At first Philpot’s only idea was to obtain as firm a hold over the
Ropers as they had over him, so as to free himself not only from the
serious financial drain of their blackmail, but also from the terrible
haunting fear that sooner or later they would betray him. But further
consideration showed him a way by which he could get enormously more
than this. By it not only would he achieve absolute safety in
connection with his wife’s death, but the whole of Averill’s wealth
might be his. It was no doubt a very terrible plan, for it involved
committing two other murders, but fear and greed had by this time
rendered Philpot almost inhuman and he cared for nothing but his own
welfare. By this plan both the Ropers were to be done to death in such
a way that suspicion could not possibly fall on himself. Even
suspicion that a crime had been committed at all was unlikely, but if
this by some unforeseen circumstance were aroused, it would certainly
be believed that Roper had not died, but had committed the crime
himself. After careful thought Philpot decided to put his plan into
operation.
First, he sent Roper a note to meet him at a secluded point on
Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh, and there he put up his proposal. Roper
listened eagerly and accepted with alacrity. But in the course of
conversation he made an admission and suggested a modification which
amazed the doctor, but which, as it fell in with the latter’s secret
plan, he agreed to after some show of objection. Roper, it appeared,
had also made a mistake in his marriage. He had also grown to hate his
wife and would go to any lengths to regain his freedom. In the light
of the doctor’s proposal he saw his chance. Old Averill was to be
murdered and to cover up the crime an accident was to be staged. Very
well: Mrs. Roper could be got rid of at the same time. The same
accident would account for both deaths. The two men discussed the
ghastly details, and by the time they parted the whole hideous affair
was cut and dry. Briefly, the plan was as follows:—
Roper should first arrange his getaway, and while still living at
Kintilloch should apply for a passport for Brazil. Inquiries about him
would come to the local police, who would certify that he was the
original of the photograph enclosed and that the matter was in order.
Roper would drop a hint that he had a brother in Santos whom he had
often thought of joining, a course which he proposed to follow now
that he had left the Ransome. On receipt of the passport he would
obtain the necessary visa.
Philpot in the meantime was to see Averill and try to get him to
dismiss his servants and install Roper and his wife in their places.
As a matter of fact he found this an easy task. Working on the old
man’s weakness, Philpot explained that having left the Ransome under a
cloud, Roper would be thankful to take a job at a greatly reduced
salary. This was enough for Averill, and he at once gave his people
notice and offered their positions to the Ropers.
The couple thereupon settled down at Starvel, and by living exemplary
lives sought to establish a reputation for integrity which would tend
to support the accident theory to be put forward later. Philpot
insisted that for at least a year they were to carry out their duties
quietly, so that no one would think the “accident” came suspiciously
soon after their advent. “We are going to make all the money we want
for the rest of our lives,” he would say to Roper. “No precaution is
too great to be observed.”
Philpot told Roper quite openly that he wished to use the crime to
free himself from the other’s blackmail. Roper on his part accepted
the position, as he considered the money would be worth it, and also
as he believed that his hold over Philpot would remain strong enough
to protect him completely. The two scoundrels therefore concluded
their evil compact, deciding to act jointly in all respects and so to
bear equal responsibility. After the crime Roper was to emigrate to
Brazil, the idea that he had lost his life being suggested by the
dreadful expedient of leaving a third body in the house, which, it was
hoped, would be taken for his.
The procuring of this third body was not the least of their
difficulties. Markham Giles was to be the victim; in fact it was
Giles’ existence which had suggested the plan to Philpot. The man was
known to be in poor health, and a few doses of a mild poison would
make it poorer still. The result was that his death at the critical
time excited no comment.
Philpot was to assist in the murders, and partly as a safeguard
against night callers, and partly to establish an alibi, he determined
to fake illness. He therefore took to his bed on Thursday evening,
telling his housekeeper he had influenza. The symptoms were easy to
simulate and a doctor knows ways of raising the temperature. His
housekeeper and the aged Dr. Emerson were easily deceived, and on the
two dreadful nights of crime he was able to leave his house unheard
and unsuspected.
For the safe working of the scheme it was necessary that Ruth Averill
should be got rid of. We have seen how this was done, but it
unexpectedly involved drugging her uncle to prevent the fraud from
becoming known. The plan was, of course, Philpot’s. He supplied all
the necessary forged letters and the ten pounds, but Roper carried out
the actual details. Ruth left for York on the Tuesday, and that
evening after dusk had fallen Roper and Philpot met secretly at
Markham Giles’ cottage, and there in cold blood the two miscreants
murdered the unfortunate man by a forcible injection of cocaine. They
left him in bed, Roper undertaking to “discover” his death next
morning. On that fatal Wednesday morning he arranged the funeral in
such wise that the body would be coffined and left in the house that
night.
The Whymper episode had been thought out to learn whether or not the
numbers of Averill’s notes were known. Roper would not murder the old
man without Philpot’s actual assistance, lest the doctor might evade
his share of responsibility, so he kept him drugged to enable the £500
to be obtained. Whymper on that Wednesday evening was brought out to
Starvel and made the accomplices’ dupe.
On that same fateful evening Roper laid the foundation of the accident
theory by simulating drunkenness in Thirsby. Of course it was a lucky
chance for him that George Mellowes should overtake him on the way
home, but even without this he believed he had arranged sufficient
evidence of his condition.
Then came the hideous deeds of that tragic night. Under cover of
darkness Philpot went out to Starvel and there with almost incredible
callousness and deliberation first Mrs. Roper and then Averill were
done to death by throttling, their bodies being laid on their
respective beds. Next the safe was robbed and the contents packed in
two despatch cases, half for Philpot and half for Roper. The
newspapers were burned in the safe, the latter locked, and the key
replaced under Averill’s pillow. Finally, petrol was poured over the
house, ready to be set alight at the proper moment.
The next step was to bring over the body of Markham Giles. Philpot and
Roper took the handcart from the outhouse and went across the moor to
the unfortunate man’s cottage. There they opened the coffin, with
diabolical coolness took out the remains, laid them on the handcart,
placed a suitable weight of earth in the coffin and screwed down the
lid. They wheeled the body to Starvel, and carrying it upstairs, left
it on Roper’s bed.
All this time Philpot had carried out his part of the affair so
wholeheartedly that any suspicion that might have lurked in Roper’s
mind as to his companion’s good faith had been completely dispelled.
But Philpot had been only biding his time until his dupe had given him
all the assistance that he required with his own even more hideous
plan.
As they turned to set fire to the house Philpot moved rapidly behind
his victim and suddenly with all his strength struck him in the back
with a large knife which he had secreted in his pocket. Roper, stabbed
to the heart, fell and died in a few seconds.
There were now in that sinister house the bodies of no less than four
murdered persons—Giles, Averill and the two Ropers. But of these only
three must be found. Philpot had foreseen the difficulty and quickly
and methodically he proceeded to meet it. One of the four bodies must
be buried, so that no suspicion of untoward or unusual events might
afterwards be aroused, and no investigation as to the identity of the
fourth victim might lead to the truth. He chose that of Giles for two
reasons. First, it was the lightest, and second, if identification of
any of them should prove possible, it would obviously be safer to have
those of Averill and the Ropers found. The interment accomplished, he
transferred Roper’s portion of the money to his own despatch case, set
the house on fire and returned unseen to Thirsby.
Philpot was pretty certain that no suspicion would fall on him, but to
safeguard himself still further he adopted yet another subterfuge.
Some months before the crime he began deliberately to lose money by
betting. When the crime was committed he was known to be in low water,
and he was careful afterwards to continue gambling, even to the extent
of ruining his ostensible career and going through the bankruptcy
courts. In this way he hoped to dispel any suggestion that he had
recently come into money, and give a reasonable excuse for quitting
Thirsby.
From what French had told him, Philpot realised that the numbers of
some of the stolen notes were known, and French’s announcement at the
inquest he did not fully believe, fearing a trap. His ready money was,
however, by this time exhausted, and he set to work to devise means
not only to obtain more, but also to transfer a nest-egg to Brazil, to
which country it had all along been his intention to emigrate.
The arrangements for this journey he had carried out with the same
careful regard to detail which had characterised his other actions.
Hidden in the cashbox with Averill’s money French found a passport
made out for Brazil in the name of Arthur Lisle Whitman, with a
photograph of Philpot, viséed and complete and—a forgery. The way in
which this had been done showed the man’s extraordinary ingenuity once
again. He had obtained in the ordinary way a passport for himself for
holidaying in France. Roper’s passport with its Brazilian _visé_ he
had searched for and stolen before setting fire to the house. Of these
two he had built up a new one, using certain pages from each. From his
own book he took the description of himself, his stamped photograph
and the vacant pages at the back. On certain blank pages from Roper’s
he forged both the printing and writing where he could not suitably
alter his own, as well as obtaining a model of the Brazilian _visé_,
which he also forged.
The wretched criminal’s last move, the meeting with French at
Waverley, was on his part a throw of the dice. On receipt of the wire
to Whitman through the Edinburgh tobacconist he half-suspected a trap,
and of course the plan became apparent when French’s letter to himself
arrived. He saw, however, that he was either quite safe or
irretrievably lost. If French had no inkling of the truth it was
evident that he must keep the appointment and continue to play his
game. On the other hand, if French knew, nothing could save him, and
he would make an end of things for all concerned with his Mills’ bomb.
To bring this tale of the Starvel Hollow Tragedy to a close it remains
only to be said that after a dramatic trial Herbert Philpot paid for
his crimes with his life, while to turn to a happier side of the
picture, Pierce Whymper and Ruth Averill were united in the bonds of
holy matrimony where both found the happiness which at one time had
seemed likely to be denied them.
Transcriber’s Notes
This transcription follows the text of the edition published by
Grosset & Dunlap in 1927 (by arrangement with Harper & Brothers).
However, the following alterations have been made to correct what are
believed to be unambiguous errors in the text:
* “be would consult” to “he would consult” (Ch. VI);
* “the man” to “The man” (Ch. IX);
* “arroused” to “aroused” (Ch. X);
* “oxyacetlene” to “oxyacetylene” (Ch. XVI).
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STARVEL HOLLOW
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