Crime at Tattenham Corner (6 page)

“Which of you is in charge of the case?” she inquired abruptly. “The case of my father's murder I mean?”

“I am,” Stoddart answered. “And Mr. Harbord,” with a wave of his hand at the young man, “is my very capable and tried assistant.”

“Oh!”

Miss Burslem took the chair nearest her. “Have you found out who is guilty?” she demanded unceremoniously.

“Not yet,” the inspector said. “I understood that you were in Italy, otherwise –”

“So I was in Italy,” Miss Burslem said abruptly. “You didn't expect me to stay there quietly when my father was murdered, I suppose?”

“No, but I was afraid that you might not have got home in time –”

“We are not living in the days of stage-coaches and sailing boats,” the girl said scornfully. “I flew, of course. Reached Croydon this morning and motored straight on.”

It was evident to the inspector at a glance that the girl was tired and overwrought. Unlike her stepmother, she did not look as if she had been crying. Instead, her grey eyes were bright, hard and tearless.

“But I will not rest until my father's murderer is punished,” she cried impatiently, “and I can tell you who he is – Sir Charles Stanyard, and if my stepmother would speak the truth –”

“Hush! Hush! my dear young lady,” the inspector said in real alarm. “Do you know that you might bring grave trouble upon yourself by making such a statement?”

“You mean that Stanyard might bring a libel against me?” Miss Burslem said more quietly. “Now, I am not going to turn hysterical on your hands. Don't be afraid. But” – she pressed her lips together and looked at him squarely in the face before she continued – “I mean my father's murderer to be found and brought to justice if I spend every penny I possess. That is why I came to you at once, as soon as I arrived. Don't think of expense; I am going to offer a reward – oh, a very big reward – the biggest perhaps that has ever been offered, to bring the guilt home –”

The inspector held up his hand. “Miss Burslem, everything will be done that can be done. As for money” – he shrugged his shoulders – “that will make no difference. Common justice for the rich as well as for the poor demands that Sir John's murderer should be found and punished. With regard to offering a reward, it may be useful. But I must tell you that no member of the police force is allowed to take it.”

“Well, if you stand for British justice –” retorted Miss Burslem more equably. “Can't you see the whole thing? Lady Burslem was engaged to Sir Charles Stanyard when they never thought he would come in to the title and the estates. Then she met my father, who fell foolishly, madly in love with her. She threw over Captain Stanyard and married my father. Do you know that she was twenty-one and he was forty-two when she married him? Is it likely that she would care for him?” with the fine scorn of youth for middle age. “And my father's death meant heaps of money for Sir Charles Stanyard. It meant that Perlyon won the Derby instead of Peep o' Day, and they say he was on his colt to any amount. Oh, he knew Peep o' Day wouldn't run!”

“My dear young lady, do you think a man in Sir Charles Stanyard's position would willingly put his neck in a noose for the sake of a few thousand pounds?” Stoddart questioned impressively. “And there is another question: What would your father have said if he heard you bring such a charge?”

“I don't know!”

For one moment Pamela's composure threatened to give way. They could see her throat twitching painfully.

“I haven't seen so much of my father lately,” she confessed. “Before his second marriage I was always with him. But since” – forlornly – “I don't think he has wanted me – much.” She got up. “Well, that is all. I want to put you on the right track, to tell you to offer the biggest reward that has ever been offered for the discovery of the murderer.”

After a moment's hesitation, she held out her hand to the inspector.

He took it in his for a moment.

“We will let you know when it is desirable to offer a reward, Miss Burslem. And in the meantime let me advise you to put all these lamentable ideas out of your head. Believe me, things will not turn out as you expect.”

He opened the door and escorted her out of the building.

When he came back he looked at Harbord.

“Nice sort of young person, eh?”

Harbord waited a minute.

“Well, poor girl!” he said at last, “she is evidently overwrought and overstrained, but she has managed to pitch on the obvious clue, hasn't she?”

“She has, but to my mind the obvious clue is generally the wrong one,” the inspector observed sententiously.

Meanwhile Pamela had dismissed her car; she felt that she must be alone to think – to try to realize this awful thing that had befallen her. She went to the Embankment and for a while stood watching the sluggish moving waters of the Thames, then almost without knowing what she was doing she turned to the right and in a few minutes found herself in St. James's Park. She was buried deep in thought when, just as she was about to cross one of the bridges, she suddenly collided with a young man coming along quickly from the opposite direction.

He raised his hat with a murmured apology; then stopped short with a sharp exclamation:

“You!”

Pamela stared at him.

“You!” she exclaimed blankly. “What are you doing here?”

The man laughed. He was a tall, fair young man, immaculately garbed and groomed.

“I live near here, don't you know, in Aldwyn Mansions. I am on my way home now. I have just come back from Epsom – looked out for you there, hoped I might see you – and now I meet you on my own doorstep as it were. I should like you to have seen the Derby this year.”

“The Derby – don't talk of it!” Pamela's eyes filled with tears. “And Perlyon, I hate Perlyon; I would have done anything – anything to stop him winning.”

“You would have liked to have stopped Perlyon winning? Why?”

Pamela did not beat about the bush. “Because Perlyon belongs to the man I dislike most on earth – Charles Stanyard.”

The man laughed, his eyes dwelling on the fair, girlish face that had haunted his dreams for the past month.

“Why do you dislike Stanyard, poor beggar?”

“He is not a poor beggar at all,” Pamela said decidedly. “He is a terrible man. He has taken care he is not poor. He has destroyed people's lives and happiness to make himself rich –” Her voice broke.

“What?” The man started violently. “Charles Stanyard has – You are getting at me. Do you know him?”

“No, and I don't mean to,” Pamela returned uncompromisingly. “Do you?”

“Yes, I know him rather well,” the man said after a moment's pause. “He is not up to much, I admit, but I don't see why you should hate him. I should have said he was a harmless sort of chap.”

“Perhaps you would not say he was a harmless sort of chap if he had murdered your father!” Pamela retorted.

“Good Lord! murdered your father!” the man ejaculated. “What sort of a story have you got hold of? I know Charles Stanyard pretty well all through, and, whatever his sins may be, I can assure you he is no murderer.”

“Well, I think he is, you see,” Pamela returned icily. “Perhaps if it were your father he had killed it would make a difference?”

“But why on earth should Charles Stanyard kill your father?”

“Well, some people would tell you because Peep o' Day –”

“What! You don't mean that you are Sir John Burslem's daughter?”

“I am Pamela Burslem,” returned the girl with a little air of dignity. “Ah, now you see why I say Sir Charles Stanyard killed my father!”

“On the contrary,” the man said with a certain conviction in his tone, “I am quite positive that he did not!”

“Well, you can stick to your opinions and I can stick to mine!” Pamela finished. “Good-bye. I must go home, only” – with a quiver of her lower lip – “it is not home any longer.” She turned away for a moment.

In a couple of strides the man had caught her up. “I cannot let you go like this. You don't know how I have thought of you – longed to meet you again ever since that night I danced with you. May I write to you?”

Just the faintest suspicion of one of Pamela's old dimples peeped out. “You forget that I don't know your name. I should not know who the letter came from.”

“You don't know my name?” the man repeated in a dazed tone. “No, I was forgetting. My name is Richard Leyton – Dick my friends call me.”

“It is a wicked will; an infamous will!” Old General Percival was the speaker. “I cannot understand my friend, John Burslem, making such a will.”

Sir John Burslem's funeral had taken place that morning. By his own wish he had been buried by the side of his first wife in the great cemetery in North London. Neither his second wife nor his daughter had been present and there had been no flowers, by request.

There had been no communication from his brother, the explorer, and it was doubtful whether the telegram had reached him. Lord Carlford and his son, Alan, had been the chief mourners; there had been a great following of friends and acquaintances, of those who had been connected with the dead man, either in the financial or in the racing world. Crowds, full of morbid curiosity, had lined the roads and had filled the cemetery.

There had been no formal reading of the will, but a few of Sir John's oldest friends had returned with Lord Carlford; and then Mr. Weldon had disclosed the disposal of his property, made by Sir John on the night of his death.

General Percival had been the first to break the silence that followed, and as he finished a low murmur of assent ran round the room.

At the same moment Lady Burslem and her stepdaughter, with Lady Carlford and Mrs. Dolphin, entered the room. They seated themselves at the top of the long library table.

General Percival was not to be daunted. When the little confusion caused by the entrance of the new arrivals had subsided, he began again:

“It is an infamous will! You were good enough to tell me that I was one of the executors, Mr. Weldon – I shall refuse to act! If Miss Burslem takes my advice she will contest the will.”

“I beg your pardon, general,” Mr. Weldon interrupted; “I said that you were one of the executors of the will made by Sir John Burslem directly after his second marriage. This one, drawn up by Sir John himself on the last day of his life, leaves everything to Lady Burslem, and appoints her sole executrix and residuary legatee.”

“Disgraceful!” frowned the general. “I wonder you were not ashamed to make such a will, Mr. Weldon, or to produce it now.”

“I had nothing to do with the making of it,” Mr. Weldon exclaimed. “I thought I had made it plain, general, that the whole of this will is in Sir John's own writing. Whatever our opinion of it may be, it appears to me there is no possible ground for contesting.”

“I do not want to contest it,” Pamela said, her cheeks and her eyes flashing. “Daddy was quite right to leave his money as he liked. I do not want it; I have plenty of my own.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Weldon fidgeted with his papers and coughed.

Pamela glanced at him. “Haven't I?” she questioned.

Mr. Weldon looked unhappy.

“Well, my dear Miss Burslem, under your mother's settlement – you must remember that Sir John was a comparatively poor man in those days – you come into a sum of three thousand pounds when you are twenty-one. Until then you will have an allowance of course, but –”

Pamela turned from white to red, back again to white.

“You do not mean that I have no money of my own that I can use now? But I want a lot at once; I want to engage a smart detective to find out –”

Her voice broke in a strangled sob.

Lady Burslem leaned forward and touched her arm.

“It shall make no difference, Pam, not a bit of difference, dear –”

With a gesture of loathing Pamela shook off the caressing hand and turned away. Then like a small torrent of grief she rushed out of the room.

Lord Carlford, a gentleman of the old school, rose and took his daughter's hand. 

“Come, my dear, you have heard all that is necessary,” with a glance at his wife and elder daughter.

When they had gone Mr. Weldon looked round. “There is no more to be said, gentlemen; this is a very sad affair. Nothing can be gained by discussing it. I am sure all our sympathy goes out to Lady Burslem and her stepdaughter in their tragic bereavement.”

General Percival sniffed audibly. “I am extremely sorry for Miss Burslem,” he said pointedly; “this will is a crying scandal. When this Lady Burslem marries again – as of course she will – Burslem's fortune will be spent on her second husband, and Burslem's girl, who used to be the apple of his eye, will not get a penny.”

“It is scarcely decent to talk of Lady Burslem's second husband when her first is only this day buried,” Mr. Weldon said expressively.

“Decent! I dare say it is not!” the general growled. “Precious few natural things are! But it is what the widows mostly think of, let me tell you that. Not the one they put underground, but the one they hope to find on top.”

Meanwhile the widowed Lady Burslem had walked past the drawing-room, resisting her father's gesture towards them.

“No, you all go in there and have tea and things; I am going back to my room. I must be alone to think.”

“Well, I shall see you in, anyhow,” Mrs. Dolphin said restlessly, linking her arm in her sister's. “Don't be an ass, Sophie; of course I am coming in to make you comfortable. I'm not too fond of that maid of yours: she seems to me to be always watching you.”

“I don't care much about her, either,” said Sophie listlessly. “I don't think I shall keep her. I think I shall go abroad in a week or two, and I should prefer some one who speaks Italian.”