“Do you know Mrs. Halfleet?” I asked my own housekeeper when I again reached home.
“Oh, yes, quite well,” she replied. “I have known her for years. A little stand-offish in her manner, but quite pleasant face to face.”
“About how old would she be?” I queried.
“Oh, well, let me see. I am—yes, she must be quite sixty, perhaps a year or two older.”
“Not a young woman, anyway.”
“Oh, dear no, not a young woman. She is the widow of a minister, a Methodist, I think, who was at a church in Midlington when he died. That must be a good sixteen years ago. Lady Clevedon, who was living at White Towers then, her husband being alive, brought her in as housekeeper, and the present—I mean the late—Sir Philip kept her on. She is sister to Mrs. Lepley, but far more of a lady—”
I switched the conversation on to other lines, leaving Mrs. Halfleet for later investigation.
The case, you will note, has advanced another stage. The weapon has been identified. The queer hatpin, with the three-cornered blade and the silver knob, was the property of Lady Clevedon, who lived at Hapforth House. Miss Kitty Clevedon borrowed it and so conveyed it to White Towers where, apparently, she left it. That was all very interesting and quite simple, but probably irrelevant. The question was not who had owned the hatpin or who had worn it, but who had used it.
The question of time becomes interesting here. Tulmin, the valet, had seen his master alive at 11.30, and the girl had visited me at 11.53. She certainly had committed no murder at White Towers in that interval. It was a physical impossibility. I had carefully assured myself regarding that. It would have required at the very minimum another fifteen or twenty minutes. But I had lost her in the darkness somewhere before 2 a.m. As I have already said, it was seven minutes past two when I reached Stone Hollow again on that night (or rather early morning), and allowing for the time I stood after she had evaded me, and for the walk homewards, I judged that it would be about 1.15 when she disappeared into the darkness. What had her movements been after that?
It must not be supposed that I suspected the girl of having had any hand in the tragedy, though I by no means ruled her out. Her beauty and youth did not weigh with me at all. I had found both in even greater measure in proven criminals. Besides which, a murder is not invariably a crime.
But I had two ascertained facts—that Kitty Clevedon had worn the hatpin to White Towers, and that she had been abroad in the Dale during the early hours of that tragic morning.
CHAPTER V
KITTY CLEVEDON AND RONALD THOYNE
I met Sergeant Gamley, the officer who had called on me in company with Detective Pepster, and I asked him whether the public would be admitted freely to the inquest.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose they have the right, but the accommodation is very limited, very. When the witnesses and the lawyers and the family and the police and the reporters and people who must be there are squeezed in there’ll not be a lot of room for outsiders. Did you want—ah, now, I am looking for another juryman. Stokkins has fallen ill. How would you like—?”
“Excellent!” I interrupted. “As long as you don’t make me foreman it will suit me very well. I should like to hear the story in full—being a neighbour, you know.”
I did not add that it would also afford me an opportunity of seeing the body without making any obvious attempt in that connection.
It was an ordinary country jury, consisting mostly of farmers, with a small shopkeeper or two, and Tim Dallott, landlord of the “Waggon and Horses,” as foreman. We visited the chamber where the body lay, but it did not add anything to my knowledge except that I was able to form some idea what the man had looked like in life, which did at least add to the interest of the mystery.
An inquest is a singularly useless form of inquiry at its best. It is doubly and trebly so when the police use it, as frequently they do, for purposes of their own, to conceal the truth rather than reveal it. The real duty of the jury is to determine the cause of death, for, though it may declare that So-and-so was a murderer, the actual demands of the law are satisfied if the jury simply decides that a murder has been committed. A coroner who knows his business does not travel far outside the brief allotted him by the police, and generally manages—though not invariably—to keep his jury within the limits assigned himself.
I have had a long and very varied experience of inquests and was not, therefore, surprised that the inquiry regarding Sir Philip Clevedon’s death should be merely formally opened and then immediately adjourned, for the purpose, it was stated, of a post-mortem examination. I regarded that as a mere subterfuge—in which, as it happened, I was wrong—and easily realised that the police did not want as yet to tell all they knew, which in its turn suggested that they had some sort of a line on the murderer and did not desire to give him (or her) any information.
Meanwhile I busied myself making some very careful inquiries regarding Miss Kitty Clevedon. Through her midnight visit to me, I was in possession of some information so far not within the knowledge of the police, unless, indeed, she had herself told them, which I doubted; and I intended, for a bit at all events, to keep it to myself. Exactly what connection she had with the tragedy I could not say, but I meant that she should tell me—in which determination I reckoned without Kitty Clevedon. I met her as she was walking from Cartordale to Hapforth House. She was warmly clad in furs and, a little flushed by the wind that was blowing smartly across the moors, was looking very pretty and attractive. She saw me approaching her and, curiously enough, made no attempt to avoid me. In point of fact, I expected a direct “cut,” but she stopped as I drew near and even held out her hand.
“Fancy meeting you, Mr. Holt!” she cried.
“I have just been to Hapforth House,” I replied, wondering what might be the explanation of her unexpected cordiality, though I fancy that what she really had in mind was to show that at least she did not fear me. “I—well, in fact,” I went on, “I wanted a word or two with you.”
“With me!”
“May I turn and walk back part of the way with you?” I asked.
“Why, of course,” she replied. “I always prefer company if I can get it, and it’s none too plentiful here. I am used to lonely walks, though one can have too many of them. A woman likes to talk, you know, but one cannot converse with stone walls.”
She rattled on, rather intent apparently on doing most of the talking, as if she did not wish to give me an opportunity. But I merely bided my time, knowing the chance would come; and presently she seemed to realise that, because she interrupted her flow of chatter and turned as if waiting for me to speak.
“You wanted—was it about something particular?” she asked.
The words were all right, but the mocking smile in her eyes, and the set of her pretty lips, rather belied them. She was preparing to meet her adversary with a woman’s weapons.
“It is about the night of the—of the murder,” I began slowly.
“Yes?” she said.
“And of your visit to my house.”
She put up her hand and with a pretty gesture pushed back an unruly curl, meeting my gaze firmly and frankly and without any sign of disquiet.
“But—my visit to your house, Mr. Holt. I do not quite understand. Am I supposed to have visited your house on the night of the—?”
“You intend to deny it?” I asked. “Well, if you consider that worth while I suppose I could not prove it. After all, it would be merely my word against yours. But isn’t such a subterfuge between us two just a little—shall I say—grotesque?”
“Suppose you tell me all about it,” she said quite tranquilly. “Perhaps I have lost my memory. Such things do happen, don’t they? But then there is generally a railway accident, isn’t there, or a motor smash. And I haven’t even knocked my head. Do tell me all about it, Mr. Holt.”
I could not help admiring the skill with which she kept me at arm’s-length. It was grotesque, of course, as I had said, but it was wonderfully clever. Whatever her object, she certainly lacked none of the gifts and qualities of an accomplished actress.
“Doesn’t your attitude suggest,” I said, “that you have—er—something to conceal?”
“Does it?” she asked, opening her eyes wide. “I wonder what it can be? Oh, yes, the night of the—the tragedy. Are you suggesting by any chance that I murdered Sir Philip—is that what you mean, Mr. Holt? Speak out if it is—please do not hesitate.”
“I did not say that.”
“But then what have I to do with it all?” she demanded, stamping her foot as if she were really angry. “You must tell me what you mean, Mr. Holt. You have said too much not to say more. What is it you suspect? You hint at this and hint at that, but say nothing straight out. It is a cowardly way to attack a woman.”
Her voice broke artistically, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. It was all very cleverly done, and I confess I admired her, though that did not turn me from my purpose. I have had to deal with women in all sorts of moods and every possible disguise, though Kitty Clevedon at that moment was less a woman than a clue in skirts and furs.
“The matter is quite simple,” I said, deliberately brutal, in the hope of startling her out of her calm. “I was only wondering what view the police, for example, would take of your midnight adventure.”
“You had better go and tell them,” she flamed out. “They might believe you, you know.”
“You were in my house on that night,” I said, and waited to see if she would deny the visit even to me.
“So you said before,” she retorted.
“Do you, then, wish to deny that you were in my house on that night?”
“Would you believe me if I did deny it?”
“Of course not—how could I?”
“Then why should I trouble to deny it? You ask me a question and answer it for me, and tell me you will not believe me unless I adopt your answer. That is a convenient method of cross-examining—put the question and invent the answer.”
“And yet you will not deny it—why not deny it and have done with it?”
“Mr. Holt,” she said slowly, “I do not know what you mean.”
That was definite enough, and we walked along for some minutes in silence, the while I considered whether I should press her further just then or carry my inquiries in another direction. I was, however, relieved of the responsibility of immediate decision, for at that moment a man turned the bend of the road and, seeing us there, came towards us and greeted Kitty with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. She on her part welcomed him joyfully, though whether that was from pleasure at seeing him or because he provided a way of escape from further questioning, I did not attempt to decide.
The new-comer was tall and rather heavily built and gave an impression of immense physical strength. His manner was bluff and frank and his eyes kindly and intelligent, but the lines of his mouth were hard, as of a man who had had to fight his way and would be little likely to give quarter to an opponent. He looked like one who wanted much anything he did want, and would leave nothing undone that might secure it. “Honest in a way, but a tough customer,” was my own private summary, and I wondered who the man was.
“I was just going to Hapforth House,” he said, smiling, as he addressed Kitty Clevedon, though the stare he bestowed on me was none too friendly.
I noticed that Kitty made no move to introduce us.
“Oh, yes, Auntie told me she was expecting you—some business matter, isn’t it?” she said. “I warn you there may be a warm half-hour before you. Good-bye, Mr. Holt. It was very kind of you to come this far with me. Mr. Thoyne is going my way.”
I accepted my dismissal smilingly and made a careful note in my mind of the man’s name. Anyone with whom Miss Kitty Clevedon was acquainted became a person of interest worth knowing. On my way to Stone Hollow I met Dr. Crawford, a Scot, rough of tongue and occasionally almost brutal in manner; but he was implicitly trusted by the Dale folk, who regarded suavity and gentleness with suspicion, and politeness as a form of hypocrisy. He had come to them from a country even wilder and sterner than their own, and was thus able to fit in with their moods and to understand their temperament, which, to strangers, seemed to be compounded of a mixture of sullenness and stupidity. He was one of the very few people in the Dale with whom I had struck up any sort of intimacy, possibly because he had been my late aunt’s medical attendant and a witness to the will that had given me Stone Hollow.
“Do you happen to know a man named Thoyne?” I asked after a few preliminary remarks.
“Yes; don’t you know him?”
“Am I supposed to? Is he one of those persons whom not to know is proof of one’s own insignificance?”
“Oh, I would not say that, though it is a little curious that you should have been some weeks in Cartordale without hearing about Ronald Thoyne.”
“Well, apparently I have heard about him,” I replied, “or I shouldn’t be asking you questions regarding him.”
“I am not exactly one of his intimates,” Dr. Crawford said. “He is an American who fought in the war with the French Army before the Yanks came in. He was wounded or gassed, or possibly it was shell-shock. At all events he came to England and was for some time in hospital, but he seems perfectly fit again now. He settled here at Lennsdale, which stands away up there on the hill-side. You can just see the house through that opening. He is certainly wealthy and gives generously, which is perhaps one reason why he is popular round here. He is bluff and hearty, but rather too ready with his fists to fit our modern notions of law and order. A good man to avoid a quarrel with, I should imagine. He is very strong on the war and indignant with his own country for holding off as long as she did. That is about as near a character-sketch as I can give you.”
“Good. I must make his acquaintance. Is he very friendly with Miss Kitty Clevedon?”
“Well, there have been rumours—matrimonial—but nothing definite. If they are formally engaged I haven’t heard of it.”
The doctor turned into a small cottage standing by the roadway, and I walked on alone to Stone Hollow.
CHAPTER VI
A NEW SENSATION
It was in Dr. Crawford’s surgery the day before the resumed inquest that I met Lady Clevedon again. A little to my surprise she recognised me, though, as far as I knew, she had only seen me in the dark, and greeted me by name.
“I wanted to know you, Mr. Holt,” the old lady said. “You were a popular theme of conversation when your aunt’s will became known, and everybody wondered what this London nephew might be like.”
“May I suppose that he, even though distantly, approaches expectation?” I said.
“Oh, I don’t know that we really harboured expectations,” Lady Clevedon retorted bluntly. “I had seen your photograph, so that your features do not come upon me with any overwhelming sense of novelty. Mrs. Mackaluce showed me the portrait.”
“Yes, I know she had one,” I said. “I found it in the house. But I don’t know how she got it.”
“I think she said her lawyer procured it for her. ‘I quarrelled with his father and mother,’ she told me, ‘and I’m not going to make it up with him. But he is the only relative I have in the world, and he has only me, and I shall make him my heir.’ Are you really as lonely as all that, Mr. Holt?”
“Lonely?” I echoed, perhaps a little vaguely. “Oh, you mean the only relative—no, it’s not quite so blank as that. True, my relatives do not worry me much, but there are some about somewhere.”
“Are you going to settle in Cartordale?” she demanded. “It’s slow enough as a rule, though there is excitement just now, more than enough. Sir Philip Clevedon stabbed and with my hatpin—it was my hatpin, you know—”
She closed her lips together with what was almost a snap, as if she feared to say too much. But she was not constructed for long silences.
“That man Peppermint, Peppercorn—”
“Pepster,” Dr. Crawford murmured.
“Ah, yes, Pepster—thinks I did the murder. Where did I last see my hatpin? Did I leave it at White Towers? ‘My good man,’ I said, ‘I haven’t been in White Towers for three years.’ Wasn’t I friendly with Sir Philip? Had I quarrelled with him? when did I last see him? Of course I had quarrelled with him. Philip Clevedon was always quarrelling with somebody. He was—but there, he’s dead now.”
She paused again and began to draw on her glove.
“The late baronet wasn’t exactly popular—?” I began.
“Popular!” the old lady cried explosively. “Popular!”
She left it there and, indeed, she had no need to go into further detail. Her inflection on the word was sufficient.
“But, anyway, I didn’t kill him,” she went on. “There is a lot of difference between a desire to box a man’s ears and stabbing him with a hatpin. If I stabbed everybody I quarrelled with I should have some busy days.”
“It was your hatpin,” I murmured, possibly in the hope that I might irritate her into talking, a plan which, if indeed I had really formed it, Dr. Crawford frustrated.
“Well, anyway, you did not kill Sir Philip Clevedon,” he said roughly.
“You are a true friend,” the old lady cried, with grim and satirical humour. “Thank God! somebody believes me innocent. If I come to the gallows—”
“I know you did not kill him,” the doctor repeated half sullenly, but with so much emphasis that I could not help wondering what was behind it.
“How can you know?” Lady Clevedon cried. “Perhaps I did. I have felt like it many a time, anyway. And it was my hatpin—as Mr. Holt reminded me. Pepperpot suspects me at all events. But here comes Kitty.”
The old lady drew Dr. Crawford aside and began to discuss with him some matters connected, I fancy, with village doings. Kitty Clevedon and I were left by ourselves in the huge bay window that looked out over the rough, uncultivated garden. The girl made no effort to avoid my company but greeted me with a cool tranquillity that was, however, of that careful variety which suggested some anxiety to show that she was not afraid of me. For my part I merely returned a conventional reply and stood looking out into the garden, leaving it to her to open a conversation or not just as she thought proper. I took it that, being a woman, she would, and I was not far out.
“Your gaze on that garden seems very intent, Mr. Holt,” she said, with a bewildering smile. “Are you looking for something?”
“Well, perhaps,” I responded, with a smile. “You see, I am always on the look-out—for your double.”
“My double! Have I a double? How delightful!” she cried.
“Yes,” I said gravely, turning once more to the garden; “a double—someone so exactly like you that it is very difficult to distinguish you. I should like to find her—that other one. But I have had no luck, none at all.”
“Are you so very anxious to find her?” Kitty asked, bringing that smile once more to bear as she saw that my eyes were turned again in her direction.
“At this moment, none at all,” I responded lightly. “I find my present company fully adequate.”
“Is it that I make an efficient substitute? How very sweet of you to say so,” Kitty murmured, with a quick glance downward as if at the slender toe of an exceptionally pretty shoe.
“No, I do not remember saying that,” I replied. “You see, you are you and she is she—”
“‘And never the twain shall meet’—isn’t that Kipling?” Kitty demanded.
“I think it may be quite safely asserted,” I said, with grim meaning, “that you will never meet your double.”
She flushed a little at the thrust but maintained otherwise her smiling calm.
“But when did you meet her, Mr. Holt—did you ever tell me?” she asked, with a delightful assumption of candour and innocence.
There was never a cleverer actress on or off the stage than Kitty Clevedon.
“Oh, she flitted into my life through my study window—and then flitted out again—into the darkness—”
“Leaving you desolate—how very unkind of her!”
She broke off with a quick trill of pretty laughter that was not at all affected and in which I joined her.
“It sounded a trifle sentimental, didn’t it?” I said, and then added with tranquil insolence, looking her this time full in the face, “but isn’t there a proverb about better to have seen and lost than never to have—oh, and that reminds me. I asked Dr. Crawford where I should find another young lady like Miss Clevedon and he replied, ‘Impossible—there isn’t one. God broke the mould when He made her.’ But there is another one, I know, because I have seen her, and—”
“I should want a very solemn affidavit indeed to make me believe that Dr. Crawford ever said anything so pretty as that,” she interrupted.
I had expected to make her angry but she seemed only amused.
“Oh, you don’t know the doctor,” I said airily. “He is capable of much. But he was wrong in this case—the double exists.”
“I shall ask him if he said it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Oh, well, you know, he might ask some awkward questions in his turn. You see, I have never told anyone yet about your—double. I don’t think I should care to entrust him with the secret.”
“But why let it trouble you, Mr. Holt—why not forget it—and her?”
“Oh, I am not allowing it to trouble me.”
“You seem to be always talking about it.”
“I have never mentioned it to a soul except yourself.”
“I should think—” Kitty began, then turned away to meet Lady Clevedon, whose conference with Dr. Crawford had just terminated.
The old lady stood glaring at me for a moment or two.
“I dare say you think that we—Kitty and I—take this—this tragedy very calmly, Mr. Holt,” she said.
“I don’t know that I thought about it at all,” I responded.
“Women sometimes wear a mask, Mr. Holt.”
“Yes?”
“It may be for a purpose or it may be by habit.”
“Yes.”
I glanced quickly at Kitty and found her surveying the old lady with sombre eyes from which all the laughter had fled. She at all events had been wearing a mask.
When the two ladies had gone Dr. Crawford and I sat down to a whisky and soda apiece and a cigar. He seemed ill at ease, restless and rather unhappy until I casually reintroduced the subject of the Clevedon mystery, then he seemed in some curious way to brighten up.
“Aye, murder cases,” he said reflectively. “A murder case can be very interesting, you know—morbid but fascinating.”
I agreed without at all grasping his meaning.
“You are a student of criminology and you have written books on the subject,” Crawford went on. “Did you ever run up against a case of poisoning with prussic acid?”
“Several times,” I replied. “It is a frequent and formidable poison because it is so swift and unerring in its effect. The victim is dead before help can possibly reach him.”
“That is true,” Crawford agreed. “Death may be a matter of seconds, of minutes at most. But, now, tell me, have you met cases in which a man, having taken a dose of prussic acid, lies calmly down and is found as tranquil and orderly in posture as if he had died in his sleep?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Indeed, I should say the majority of cases were like that. Prussic acid is said to produce convulsion, frothing at the mouth, and so forth. Those do take place, and may in every instance, though there are cases in which no evidence of them remains.”
“Just so,” Crawford agreed, nodding his head. “But, now suppose it were a case of suicide by prussic acid, would you expect to find the bottle near at hand?”
“In nine cases out of ten—yes,” I responded.
“And in the tenth?” he asked eagerly.
“There might have been some other way of administering the poison—wasn’t there a case of prussic acid in chocolates—?”
“Would it be possible for a man who had taken prussic acid to conceal the bottle?”
“Possible, yes, but—”
“And if no bottle were found you would regard it as a case of murder?”
“If the murderer had any sense he would leave the bottle near at hand to give the appearance of suicide.”
“But murderers—sometimes forget—these little—”
“They do, fortunately for the law. Nine murderers out of ten are hanged by their own mistakes. But what is your sudden interest in poison cases? Have you one in—?”
“I have—Sir Philip Clevedon—”
“Sir Philip Clevedon!” I echoed, for once surprised into showing my astonishment.
“Aye,” Dr. Crawford said slowly. “He died from prussic acid poisoning and the hatpin was thrust through his heart—after he was dead.”
CHAPTER VII
EVIDENCE AT THE INQUEST
I took my place at the jury table for the resumed inquest with considerably quickened anticipations. Dr. Crawford’s story had introduced new factors into the case which promised added interest and a still more involved mystery, though with a possibility of suicide and, it might be, a vivid and fascinating life story. Not that I indulged in any speculations. I wanted only facts and those I expected the inquest to afford. I was not disappointed. Of course, the doctor’s evidence startled everybody.
“And what was the cause of death?” the coroner asked, when Dr. Crawford had concluded his preliminary evidence.
“The deceased died from poisoning by hydrocyanic acid,” was the reply.
This was news to most of those present, including the reporters, who began to write feverishly, those representing the evening papers, anyway. Here was a new fact, one even they, so far, had not been allowed to know.
“That is what is known as prussic acid, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“The hatpin you have already described to us was not the cause of death?”
“The deceased was dead when it was inserted.”
“Would it have caused death had there been no poison?”
“Possibly, but not certainly. Death at all events would hardly have been so rapid. With that wound the deceased might have lingered for some time, for days even.”
“He might eventually have recovered?”
“Yes.”
The coroner paused for a moment or two, then glanced at Pepster, who shook his head slightly. For some reason or other the police were not eager to pursue that particular line of questioning.
Dr. Crawford’s further evidence and that of the police surgeon from Peakborough, who followed him, was largely devoted to what one might describe as the technique of prussic acid poisoning, unnecessary to detail here. There was, however, one little fragment of evidence worth repeating.
“On a small table by the side of the couch on which the deceased was lying was a bottle half full of whisky, a siphon of soda-water and a glass. I took charge of them and later Dr. Crimley and myself analysed the contents.”
“With what results?”
“None.”
“You found no trace of prussic acid?”
“None.”
“Was there any liquid in the glass?”
“Yes, about half an inch.”
“What was it?”
“Water.”
“No whisky?”
“No”
“And no prussic acid?”
“Not a trace.”
I glanced at the reporters again and saw that they were writing their hardest. The trained newspaper man is never at fault when it comes to selecting evidence. He seems to know by instinct what is crucial. The longest report of any case does not represent more than a twentieth part of the evidence actually given, but the points are all there always. And the reporters knew quite well that the absence of poison from the bottle and siphon might make all the difference between suicide and murder. Had the whisky been poisoned Sir Philip Clevedon might have put it there himself. There was, of course, the fact that the apparent absence of any medium through which the poison could have been administered added to the puzzle, and the press dearly loves a mystery—at least its readers do, and newspapers that live by their readers wisely enough live for them also.
The next witness was John Tulmin, a little, thin man, not more than about five feet three in height and correspondingly meagre in build, who had been the late baronet’s personal servant, possessed, apparently, of sufficient education occasionally to do secretarial work for him. At all events he opened Sir Philip’s letters and typed the replies dictated by his employer. But he also acted as valet and was apparently as clever with clothes brush and razor as he was with the typewriter. He gave his evidence clearly and without hesitation, and seemed quite unaware of any reason why he should be an object of considerable interest to Police, Press and Public.
“At what time did you last see Sir Philip Clevedon alive?” the coroner asked him.
“At thirty-three minutes past eleven.”
“You are very precise.”
“I am precise because I am stating the fact.”
“What enables you to fix the time?”
“As I was leaving the room Sir Philip asked me for the time and set his watch.”
“Was that usual with him?”
“Oh, no, but he had complained during the day that his watch seemed to be losing.”
“Good! He asked you the time and you told him—”?
“Eleven thirty-three.”
“Was that from your own watch?”
“Yes”
“And your watch was right?”
“Yes.”
“You are quite sure of that?”
“Absolutely.”
“And what happened then?”
“He said, ‘That will be all, Tulmin, good night.’ I replied, ‘Good night, Sir Philip,’ and had reached the door when he called me back. ‘And, by the way, Tulmin,’ he said, ‘waken me at eight o’clock. I want to catch the 10.15 to London. Order me the car at 9.30 will you.’ I said, ‘Very good, Sir Philip,’ and then I left the room, closing the door behind me.”
“He told you to call him at eight o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“And to have the car round at 9.30?”
“Yes”
“Because he was catching the 10.15 to London?”
“Yes”
“That is a very important matter, gentlemen,” the coroner said, turning to the jury. “It has some bearing on the possibility of suicide.”
I glanced at Pepster, whose face was wrinkled in a quiet grin. Really, such orders had no bearing at all on the question of suicide—they were just such as a man might give who had determined to take his own life but desired to conceal the truth. A person bent on suicide—though “temporary insanity” is usually the verdict of kindly juries—can manifest very considerable skill, and frequently does, in covering up the real mode of his exit from this life. Scores of cases of “accident”—according to the verdict—in my experience have been suicide disguised. Men and women who have been killed on the railway, or run over by motor-cars, or drowned while bathing, or shot while cleaning a gun, or swallowed poison from bottles labelled something else, have carefully arranged those happenings, chiefly for the benefit of insurance companies. Suicide is much more frequent than is generally supposed, and it is far more often the result of careful calculation and arrangement than of insanity, temporary or otherwise.
“Did Sir Philip give you any order when he rang for you?” the coroner went on, continuing his examination of Tulmin.
“Yes, he told me to bring him a whisky and soda.”
“You did that?”
“I brought him a bottle of whisky, a siphon of soda-water and a glass, and I placed them on a small table which I drew up to the side of the couch on which Sir Philip was reclining.”
“How much whisky was there in the bottle?”
“It was about half full.”
“Where was this bottle kept?”
“It was on the sideboard in the dining-room. Sir Philip always had whisky and soda for dinner.”
“Was the bottle you took him at night the same bottle out of which Sir Philip had had whisky at dinner?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Yes—quite. I poured it out myself at dinner.”
“You see the point of my question?”
“I am not sure—”
“No; but we will return to that later. As far as you know, the bottle you took Sir Philip was the one from which you had given him whisky at dinner?”
“I am quite sure it was the same.”
I confess I did not quite see the bearing of that question, but I gathered from Pepster’s attitude that he, at all events, attached some importance to it, and I was content to wait.
“Did Sir Philip drink only one brand of whisky?”
“Yes, sir, always the same; Lambert’s Blue Label.”
“How many bottles have you of that?”
“I am not quite certain, but about eight dozen, I think.”
“Now let us come to the following morning. How did you hear of the—the tragedy?”
“Miss Lepley awakened me, and I went straight to the study.”
“You saw the small table by the side of the couch?”
“Yes.”
“Was the whisky bottle there?”
“Yes.”
“And the siphon and the glass?”
“Yes.”
“Just as you had put them the night before?”
“Yes.”
“Now here is the bottle of whisky that was found on the table by Sir Philip’s side”—Pepster produced it from a bag he had been hitherto carefully guarding—“is that the bottle from which you gave your employer a drink at dinner and which you left with him at night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you identify it?”
“It’s Lambert’s Blue Label, sir.”
“But that is a popular brand, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, I believe it is, sir.”
“You could buy a bottle in Midlington, for example?”
“Yes, sir, at several places.”
“Are there any special marks on this particular bottle?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so.”
“Then how do you identify it?”
“It is Lambert’s Blue Label, and—”
“Just so, and we may leave it there. As far as you know, that bottle is the one from which you gave Sir Philip his drink at dinner, and which you took him at night, but there are no marks on it which enable you to identify it positively.”
“Well, of course, one bottle of Lambert’s Blue Label is very like another.”
“Precisely. Did you notice the glass?”
“Not particularly.”
“Could you say whether it was the glass you took Sir Philip?”
“It was the same sort of glass.”
“Quite an ordinary glass?”
“Oh, yes.”
“There are many glasses of that type in the house?”
“Yes, sir, several dozen, I should think. The housekeeper or the butler would know.”
“Just so. There was nothing special about the glass, any more than about the bottle?”
“Nothing, sir.”
That was the end of this very curious cross-examination, the exact bearing of which did not occur to me immediately.
The next witness was Miss Nora Lepley, niece to Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper. The name seemed familiar to me, and for a moment or two I puzzled over it. But when I saw the girl, I remembered. Indeed, she was not of the type that is easily forgotten. It was the girl of the farm-house at which we had called in search of Lady Clevedon’s missing chauffeur. It seemed that she was staying with her aunt, Mrs. Halfleet, for a few days, and she it was that made the first discovery of the tragedy.
“It was you who found Sir Philip’s—er—who first saw—?”
“Yes, sir, I found Sir Philip lying dead on his couch in the study.”
“At what time would that be?”
“About seven o’clock.”
“And how came you to be the first to enter the study?”
“Nobody was allowed to tidy Sir Philip’s study except my aunt, and she had to be there when the maids were cleaning. But when I was staying with her at White Towers, I sometimes looked after it for her. Sir Philip knew, and didn’t object.”
“Were you friendly with Sir Philip?”
“Oh, no, not particularly. I seldom saw him, and when I did he generally didn’t speak to me. He wasn’t very—very—”
“Is genial the word?”
“Yes, that would fit.”
The girl smiled, but quickly composed her features again.
“Now let us come to this particular morning. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“My aunt wakened me and said would I straighten Sir Philip’s study for her, as he would be down early. I think she said he was going to London.”
“What time would it be when she wakened you?”
“I should think about a quarter to seven. I can’t say to the minute, because I did not look at my watch.”
“And what happened then?”
“I dressed, and went downstairs to the study. As I opened the door I saw that the light was still burning, and that Sir Philip was lying on the couch. I thought he had fallen asleep there overnight. I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder, intending to waken him, and then I saw—”
She paused there, and her face whitened a little at the recollection.
“You saw that he was dead?”
“Yes.”
“Had you tried to awaken him?”
“Yes, I had shaken his arm.”
“And then?”
“I ran out of the room and fetched my aunt who sent me for Mr. Chinley—”
“That is the butler?”
“Yes, and then I went for Mr. Tulmin.”
“Was he awake?”
“Oh, yes. Indeed, he was half dressed.”
“Did he open the door directly you knocked?”
“Yes, I—I think so.”
“But you would not be sure of that?”
“No, I may have knocked twice.”
“Did Tulmin go with you immediately to the study?”
“Yes, and then he ran off for the doctor.”
“And what did you do?”
“I remained with my aunt and Mr. Chinley in the study until the doctor came.”
“And now I want you to consider very carefully this next question; when you saw that Sir Philip was dead, did you examine him at all?”
“No, I did not wait for that. I ran straight out to bring help.”
“Did you notice the hatpin?”
“No, I saw nothing of it.”
“Does that mean that it wasn’t there, or that you did not notice it?”
“It may have been there. Indeed, I suppose it must have been, but I did not see it.”
“You formed no idea as to how he had died?”
“I formed no ideas of any sort. I think I was too frightened and upset.”
“Thank you, Miss Lepley,” the coroner said. “You have given your evidence very clearly.”
“I am sorry I could not remember about the hatpin,” she replied.
“Oh, well, I have no doubt we shall trace it in time. And now we will have Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper.”
CHAPTER VIII
THE STORY OF A QUARREL
The inquest, as far as it had gone, afforded no leading at all. We had not even learned how the poison had been administered, for though there had been some suggestion of possible juggling with the whisky bottle and glass, there had been nothing definite. But it was the hatpin that puzzled me most. One might regard it as certain, at all events, that Sir Philip Clevedon, even if he had voluntarily taken the poison, had not thereafter stabbed himself. One could only suppose that it was the murderer’s effort to make absolutely sure that his work was complete. Without the hatpin it might have been odds in favour of suicide.
Mrs. Halfleet, the housekeeper, was a tall woman, something past middle-age, with black hair lightly streaked with grey, and dark eyes of a peculiarly penetrating quality. I wondered for a moment if or where I had seen her before, and then I realised that it was her likeness to her niece that had impressed me. She was very alert, both mentally and physically, answered the questions in full and without hesitation, and yet with a curious air of detachment as if, after all, it were no particular business of hers. She described events already dealt with here, and generally corroborated the evidence that had gone before.
“I want to ask you now about this hatpin,” the coroner said, picking up the pretty but sinister little weapon. “You were the first to discover the—the use to which it had been put.”
“Yes, I saw it and called Mr. Chinley’s attention to it.”
“Had you seen it before?”
“Not that I can recollect.”
“You had a visitor during the evening?”
“Yes, Miss Clevedon.”
“Did she remove her hat?”
“Yes, she had been caught in the rain, and her hat was very wet. I advised her to take it off and dry it before my fire.”
“Did she do that?”
“Yes.”
“When Miss Clevedon took off her hat, did you see her remove the pin?”
“I cannot remember.”
“Did you see where she put it down?”
“No.”
“You did not see her put it on the table, for instance, or the mantelpiece?”
“No.”
“You did not notice it lying about after she had gone?”
“No.”
“Did Miss Clevedon see Sir Philip?”
“She went to his study.”
“Do you know whether she saw him?”
“No, she went straight out after that, and did not return to my room.”
“Did Miss Clevedon resume her hat before she went to the study?”
“No, she was carrying it in her hand.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Yes, I remember her remarking that it was still damp, and that she would put it on when she got outside.”
“You do not recollect whether she had the hatpin in her hand?”
“No, I do not remember that.”
“Did Sir Philip Clevedon have any other visitors?”
“One, earlier in the evening.”
“Before or after dinner?”
“Before dinner—about six o’clock.”
“Were you present at their interview?”
“No, I was in the little room that leads off the study.”
“What is that room used for?”
“Only to store books. It is completely lined with shelves that are full of books. I was engaged dusting them.”
“You heard someone enter the study?”
“Yes”
“Could you overhear the conversation?”
“Not while they spoke in ordinary tones; only when they raised their voices.”
“Did you recognise the visitor?”
“Yes, it was Mr. Thoyne.”
I glanced at Thoyne, who had started from his seat as if with intention to intervene, then resumed it again as one who had thought better of it.
“Were they—was it a friendly interview?”
“Well—they disagreed—”
“I protest, Mr. Coroner,” Thoyne cried explosively, rising to his feet.
“If you desire to give evidence later—” the coroner began suavely.
“I have no desire to give evidence—I have none to give,” Thoyne cried. “This interview which was purely private, took place hours before the—the tragedy, and had nothing to do with it.”
“Please be silent, Mr. Thoyne,” the coroner said a little sharply, “and allow me to conduct the inquiry in my own way. You shall, if you desire, have an opportunity later.”
He turned again to Mrs. Halfleet.
“You said that Sir Philip and Mr. Thoyne disagreed—did you learn the cause of the—?”
This brought Thoyne once again to his feet and I did not wonder at it. The coroner had evidently his own particular method of conducting an inquiry.
“Once again I protest, Mr. Coroner,” he said, his face flushed darkly with anger. “This was a purely private conversation and had nothing to do with—”
The coroner took absolutely no notice of him this time but simply repeated his question to Mrs. Halfleet though in a slightly different form.
“Did you gather over what it was that Mr. Thoyne and Sir Philip Clevedon—quarrelled?”
“There was no quarrel,” Thoyne interjected.
“It was over—a lady,” Mrs. Halfleet responded slowly.
I began now to see something of the drift of this apparently irregular questioning. There was more behind it all than appeared to the casual observer. I glanced almost furtively at Miss Kitty Clevedon but found her perfectly calm and tranquil though her face was dead white.
“Was the lady’s name mentioned?”
“No.”
Curiously enough, the coroner did not appear to be disappointed by that reply and it also had the effect of quietening Ronald Thoyne. His lips moved in a quick smile and he settled himself back in his chair with an air of obvious satisfaction. What they might say about himself apparently did not worry him.
“Could you hear what they said when they raised their voices?”
“I heard Sir Philip say, ‘You are talking nonsense. I cannot compel her to marry me against her will. The decision rests with her.’ He was not exactly shouting but was speaking a little more loudly than usual. Mr. Thoyne seemed angry. ‘You must release her from her promise,’ he said. His voice was hoarse and he struck the table with his stick as he spoke. I think Sir Philip stood up from his seat then. I did not see him, of course, but I seemed to hear him walking up and down. And he spoke sharply, almost angrily. The words appeared to come with a sort of snap. ‘I have nothing to say in this matter,’ Sir Philip declared. ‘I neither hold her to her promise nor release her from it. The decision rests solely with her. If she notifies me that she cannot marry me I have no power to compel her. But I am not prepared to take your word for it. The decision must come from herself.’ Mr. Thoyne said ‘That is your last word, is it?’ to which Sir Philip replied, ‘My first word and my last. As far as I am concerned I am engaged and remain engaged until the young lady herself notifies me that the engagement is at an end.’ Then Mr. Thoyne said, ‘If you don’t release her I shall find a way of making you—I shall find a way.’”
“Upon which,” Thoyne rapped out sarcastically, “I poisoned him with prussic acid. It certainly was an effective form of compulsion.”
“Silence!” cried a police officer.
“Silence!” Thoyne echoed irascibly. “It is a time for silence, isn’t it, when I am virtually accused of murdering Sir Philip Clevedon? This lady has a marvellous memory, hasn’t she?”
“You will have an opportunity of giving evidence and of denying—” the coroner began.
“I am denying nothing,” Thoyne interrupted half sullenly. “The story is all right as far as it goes. Sir Philip Clevedon probably stood nearer a thrashing than ever in his life before. But I didn’t poison him nor did I stab him with a hatpin.”
I happened just then to glance casually at Pepster, who was seated a little behind the coroner and who was watching Thoyne with a keen, intent gaze as if anxious not to miss the smallest trifle of word or gesture. I began to read some method into this curiously unconventional inquest episode.
“And what happened then?” the coroner asked, turning to Mrs. Halfleet.
“Mr. Thoyne went out of the room banging the door behind him.”
“Quite true, Mr. Coroner,” Thoyne cried. “I went home—to get the prussic acid. I had forgotten to take it with me.”
The coroner took no notice but turned to Mrs. Halfleet.
“Had you heard anything previously of Sir Philip’s engagement?”
“No.”
“Had not heard his name coupled with that of any lady?”
“Never a whisper.”
Mrs. Halfleet was asked a number of further questions, chiefly regarding household arrangements and with special regard to glasses and bottles. But she added nothing to the information already set forth. And it all appeared very tame after the Thoyne sensation. As she left the witness’s chair, Ronald Thoyne sprang to his feet.
“Do you intend to call me, Mr. Coroner?” he demanded.
“No,” replied the coroner, “I have nothing to ask you. Do you desire to tender any evidence?”
“No, I know nothing about it.”
“Then,” said the coroner suavely, “we’ll have Lady Clevedon.”
The old lady took her seat in the chair and sat bending a little forward, her hands on her knees.
“Is this your hatpin, Lady Clevedon?”
“Yes.”
“Do you identify it as your property?”
“I have already told you it is mine.”
“Do you know how it got to White Towers?”
“If you mean did I go and stab—?”
“I did not mean that, Lady Clevedon. I asked you a very simple question. Do you know how that hatpin got to White Towers?”
“I do not.”
“Did you lend it to anyone?”
“No.”
“But you are sure it is your property?”
“Is there any special mark on it?”
“I do not know of any.”
“There might be other pins like it?”
“There isn’t another like it in the world.”
“You knew the late Sir Philip Clevedon well?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And you were good friends with him?”
“Nobody was good friends for long with Philip Clevedon. He was—”
She pulled herself up, pursing her lips.
“You were going to say?”
“Something one ought not to say of a man who is dead.”
“Had he any enemies?”
“Plenty, but not of the murdering sort.”
“Had you heard of his engagement?”
“He did not confide in me!”
“You had not heard of it?”
“I had not.”
Again I happened to glance at Pepster and saw him gazing as intently at Lady Clevedon as he had done at Thoyne. For the most part he had sat listening to the evidence with partly closed eyes, as if it were very little concern of his. Only with Ronald Thoyne and now with Lady Clevedon had he seemed at all keenly interested. Evidently there was more in Sir Philip’s mysterious engagement—known apparently to Thoyne, but not to Sir Philip’s own relatives—than had appeared. The coroner glanced sideways at Pepster, who nodded his head slightly as if answering an unspoken question in the affirmative, upon which the coroner thanked Lady Clevedon for her evidence and dismissed her.