The 12.30 from Croydon (23 page)

‘Yes, I was on a cruise in the Mediterranean.’

‘I envy you that, sir. I’ve never been beyond San Remo. Some day I hope to get down as far as Rome.’ He got up.

‘Well,’ said Charles, getting up also, ‘I’d advise you to go either earlier or later than I did. It was too hot.’

‘I’m afraid,’ French returned, ‘I needn’t worry about that. Well, sir, I’m much obliged to you. Some other question may occur to me later, but that’s all I want at present.’

Charles was doubtful as to whether he should offer the men drinks. Then he thought not. They were not village constables. Then it was too late. With a respectful ‘Good evening, sir,’ they had withdrawn.

Charles, while terribly worried that the main question should have been reopened, was at least thankful as to the result of the interview. These police officers were all the same, at all events they asked the same questions. This interrogation had been practically identical with Appleby’s. And the best of it was he had told neither of them anything. French in particular he had told absolutely nothing: nothing that he couldn’t have found out for himself and nothing that there was any reason he shouldn’t know. His questioning had been indeed amazingly perfunctory; indeed it might be called actually inept. Why, Charles himself could have done better! And the man seemed absolutely satisfied with Charles’s replies. Obviously so far he suspected nothing, and equally obviously there was no reason why he should. It was a false alarm. Charles was safe!

There’s an old saying in use in certain parts of the country: ‘It never rains but it pours.’ It is the crystallized thought of the ages on the question of how misfortunes come. Before he was much older Charles was to experience the truth of the adage.

In spite of the way in which his interview with French had passed off, Charles had had a severe shock from Peter’s disclosure. He was just rallying from it when he received a second of an even more alarming character.

It occurred about three weeks later, when Charles fulfilled his engagement to dine at The Moat. All that day he had been restless and miserable, with a premonition of evil weighing heavily on his mind. But he could not tell what he feared. Sometimes it was that suspicion of himself would be aroused, sometimes that Peter would be arrested. This latter possibility absolutely staggered him. How in his perfect scheme he had come to overlook anything so vital as that suspicion might fall on someone else, he didn’t know.

The long hours at the office dragged through at last, and Charles went home to change. He felt he wanted exercise, and as there was a nearly full moon, he decided not to take his car, but to walk the mile or more to The Moat. His way led him through the trees to the west of his house and out on to a narrow lane running up towards the moor. From this lane a footpath diverged westward towards a hamlet a mile or so away. The path skirted The Moat grounds not far from the lake, and a branch path led through the woods to the shrubbery surrounding the house. It was an impossible route in wet weather, but to-night the ground was hard and dry.

As far as was possible with the shadow resting upon himself and Peter, Charles enjoyed his evening. Peter, though apt to be gloomy and depressed, was at heart a good fellow, and his wife, Elsie, Charles had always liked. She was short and stout and a great talker, and one of the kindliest and best-natured people in the world. Peter had evidently not confided his fears to her, and she rattled on cheerfully about nothing in particular, apparently oblivious of the men’s preoccupation: an alleviation for which Charles was profoundly thankful.

About eleven Charles thought he had had enough of it, and a few minutes later he left the house and started off on his homeward walk. The sky had clouded over, but the moon was still shining, and he had no difficulty in finding his way. It was very calm and very silent as he passed into the shrubbery, and there was a cold bite in the air that suggested frost before morning.

He had not gone more than a few score yards when he heard a sound behind him. Swinging round, he saw a man approaching. He stopped and a voice came softly. He recognized Weatherup’s melancholy accents.

‘Excuse me, Mr Charles,’ the voice said, ‘but if you’re not in a hurry could I have a word with you?’

‘Weatherup, is it?’ Charles answered. ‘Of course. What’s the trouble?’

‘Perhaps, sir, I might walk along with you for a few yards. It would save your time.’

‘I’m afraid my time’s not so valuable as all that. However, by all means come along.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ They fell into step, walking slowly beneath the trees. ‘It was a matter that I thought you ought to know of, in case you didn’t.’

Charles waited for more, but Weatherup seemed unable to proceed.

‘I can’t say whether I know about it unless you tell me what it is, you know,’ Charles said at last.

‘No, sir, I’ll tell you. It’s about the master; the late master, I mean, Mr Andrew.’

Charles instantly grew wary. ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘what about him?’

‘I suppose you know, sir, that the inquiry has been reopened?’

‘Yes, of course I do. What then?’

Weatherup hesitated. ‘A Scotland Yard man has been making inquiries,’ he went on presently.

‘Inspector French? Yes, I know. Again, what then?’

Weatherup shifted his ground. ‘That inquest, sir. I should like to ask you a question about it.’

‘What about it? Get on, man. What’s worrying you?’

Weatherup still seemed to find a difficulty in proceeding. ‘Were you satisfied with it, sir, might I ask?’

‘Satisfied with what?’ Charles sounded a little testy. ‘Do you mean with the way it was carried on, or with the verdict, or what?’

‘Both, sir; but principally the verdict.’

Charles was very wide awake now. He didn’t like this beginning. A sense of impending danger took possession of him. He steeled himself to reply without faltering.

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ he declared. ‘If you mean, did I think the verdict was the right verdict, I did. What about it?’

Again Weatherup hesitated.

‘I rather fancied, sir, that the police didn’t.’

‘It looks like it now. But they didn’t say so at the time.’

‘They couldn’t get proof.’

Charles’s nerves were wearing thin. ‘Well, once again, what about it?’ he said irritably. ‘I wish you’d come to the point, Weatherup, whatever it is.’

‘It has occurred to me since then that I possibly could give them the proof they wanted.’

‘You could?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then why don’t you?’

Weatherup seemed taken aback. Presently, however, he went on: ‘It might prove inconvenient in other ways. Perhaps, sir, I’d better tell you what they thought.’

‘That’s what I’ve been waiting for.’

‘They thought, sir, that one of the master’s pills had been poisoned.’

In spite of Charles’s iron control he shrank back as if he had been struck. He felt he was giving himself away, but he could not help it. Then with a sudden instinct of self-defence he got himself in hand once more.

‘And you think you can give proof of that?’ he asked quietly.

‘I think so, sir.’

‘How?’

‘It was one evening several weeks ago now,’ Weatherup said slowly. ‘We had a caller to dinner, a gentleman. After dinner the ladies withdrew, and he and Mr Andrew were left alone in the dining-room. As usually happens, sir.’

‘Well?’

Charles grew angry. Here was this business coming out of Peter’s handling the bottle. But why should Weatherup tell him? Was he going to attempt blackmail? If so, Charles told himself, the man had come to the wrong shop.

‘Well, sir, I don’t know if you are aware that in the wall of the dining-room opposite the fireplace there’s a serving-hatch. It leads through from the pantry. That evening after dinner I happened to enter the pantry. The hatch was almost but not entirely closed. I glanced up and couldn’t help seeing through it into the dining-room.’

‘You were spying, you mean?’

‘Oh, no, sir, not at all. It was purely accidental. When I saw it was open I put out my hand to close it. I would have closed it then and there if it had not been for what I saw. I admit I was interested. I did close it immediately afterwards.’

Suddenly a dreadful misgiving shot into Charles’s mind. ‘And what did you see?’ he asked, and in spite of himself his voice sounded hoarse.

‘I saw the visitor, sir, suddenly knock over Mr Andrew’s wine.’

For a moment there was a tense silence. ‘Well?’ Charles asked again in that curiously hoarse voice. For the life of him he couldn’t speak in any other.

‘I was naturally surprised and remained motionless, watching. Then I saw him do a strange thing. He put his other hand, his right hand, on the table, picked up Mr Andrew’s bottle of pills and set down another in its place. Mr Andrew didn’t notice.’

Now that Charles was really up against a danger that he could see, his nervousness dropped away and his courage rose to meet it.

‘You saw all that, Weatherup, and you didn’t report it to the police? Don’t you know that you’re now guilty as an accessory after the fact?’

‘No, sir. I couldn’t imagine what it was done for.’

‘I said
after
the fact. When the old gentleman died of poison you knew what had been done.’

‘I might have guessed it. I didn’t know.’

Charles laughed harshly. ‘If you imagine any jury would take that view you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.’

‘No, sir.’ Weatherup spoke with assurance. ‘I would get off. I would go to Inspector Appleby and say that I have been most dreadfully unhappy; that I had seen this and that I’d been trying to argue to myself that there was no real connexion; that I felt I could not do so any longer, and that there was the information. I would say that I admitted being weak for not going before, but I hoped the affair would come out through some other agency. I might get at most a few months. On the other hand, sir, the visitor would be hanged.’

‘Well,’ said Charles, ‘I’ll tell you what to do, if you want my advice; and I suppose you do or you wouldn’t have spoken to me about the matter. Go with your story in the morning to the police, or to-night if you like that better. See if they take your view or mine about your action.’

‘I agree, sir, that I would run a trifling risk of getting a month or two. On the other hand, if I once made a report my mind would be easy for the future.’

‘Then why not ease your mind? Why consult me about it?’

‘I’ll tell you, sir. I’m hard up for money. For money I would take the risk of keeping that evidence back.’

‘Oh, I see. Blackmail?’

‘If you like, sir. I’m not particular about names. I call it a matter of business and values. I’d like to explain my position. I’ve got a sister married in the States. Her husband’s a farmer in Missouri and he’s just about ruined. If he could get some money to tide him over the present trouble he would do well: he has the best of rich land and all that: I needn’t go into details. The point is that if I had some money to put up he’d take me into partnership. It would give me a better start and save my sister and her husband. That’s what I want the money for, and the question at issue now is simply this: is it worth money to the visitor to have the evidence kept back? It either is or it isn’t, and it seems to me that’s an end of it.’

‘The visitor would have no guarantee that you would do your part.’

‘No, sir. He would have to take my word for it. He would have the hold that I had received money, if he could prove it. But, of course, it would be one of my conditions that I should receive the money in a way that couldn’t be traced. And, of course, the fact that I hadn’t reported the matter at the time would make it less easy for me to do so later: for reasons which we’ve just discussed. Besides, I would go to the States: I’d never be heard of here again.’

‘And what sum would you ask for this accommodation?’

‘Sixteen per cent of monies that the visitor has recently obtained. Ten thousand pounds, sir.’

Charles laughed harshly. ‘Why not say a hundred when you’re at it?’

‘Because, sir, he couldn’t pay a hundred. He could pay ten, I don’t say without feeling it, but practically without feeling it. He got an inheritance of sixty thousand pounds. My proposition means that he would have got one of fifty instead. And fifty thousand pounds is a comfortable sum.’

‘Why,’ said Charles in a very cold, hard voice, ‘should not this visitor do you in, same as you imagine he did Mr Andrew in?’

‘I’ll tell you, sir.’ For some reason which Charles could not fathom, Weatherup persistently retained his butler’s tone and attitude of respect. ‘I foresaw that some such reception might be awarded my proposal and therefore guarded against it. I’ll tell you how.’

Charles was putting a bold face on it, but slowly his courage was dying. Weatherup was evidently very sure of himself. The fact that he spoke so moderately showed his strength. He did not need to bluster. Once again Charles saw panic approaching and once again he fought it back.

Weatherup paused for a moment, but Charles not replying, he went on: ‘I’ve written out a detailed account of what I saw, giving dates and times and names. I’ve sealed the account in an envelope and handed it to Mr Peter. I’ve told him that it refers to a family matter; that it contains valuable certificates which in the event of my death should go to my son and daughter. I may say, incidentally, that I’ve got neither, but Mr Peter doesn’t know that. I’ve asked him to keep the envelope safely for me, but if anything should ever happen to me to open and deal with the contents. I think that, sir, should do the trick, as besides the death of Mr Andrew, it would give the motive for doing me in.’

Charles wondered was this truth or bluff. He determined to find out if he could.

‘Oh, don’t be an ass, man,’ he exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean to tell me Mr Peter would stand for anything melodramatic like that?’

‘He stood for it all right, sir.’

‘I bet he’s lost the blessed thing by now,’ Charles sneered.

‘No, sir, you’re wrong. He has it all right. I watched him lock it away.’