Crow's Inn Tragedy (7 page)

“Did you notice where she went?”

“No, I couldn't. It was just where the stairs turn that I stood aside to let her pass, and you can't see much from there. But I thought I heard—”

“Well?”

“I did think at the time that I heard her stop on our landing and go along the passage—”

“To Mr. Bechcombe's room?” said the inspector quickly.

“Well, it would be to his room, of course,” Spencer said, his face paling again. “But I dare say I was wrong about her going down the passage. I didn't listen particularly.”

“Do you know that I found this glove beside Mr. Bechcombe's writing-table when I went into the room?” questioned the inspector.

Spencer shivered.

“No. I didn't see it.”

“Nevertheless it was there,” said the inspector. “Mr. Spencer, I think you will have to try to remember why that lady's face was familiar to you. Had you ever seen her here before?”

“No, I don't think so. I seem to—” Spencer was beginning when there was an interruption, a loud knock at the door. Spencer turned to it eagerly. “Mr. Thompson has come back, I expect.”

The inspector was before him, but it was not Amos Thompson who stood outside, or any messenger; it was a tall, thin clergyman with a white, shocked face—the rector of Wexbridge to wit. He stepped aside.

“I must apologize for interrupting you, Mr. Inspector. But I represent my sister-in-law, Mrs. Luke Bechcombe. I had just called and was present when the sad news was broken to her. I came here to make inquiries and also to arrange for the removal of the body. And here I was met by these terrible tidings. Is it—can it be really true that my unfortunate brother-in-law has been murdered?”

“Quite true,” the inspector confirmed in a matter-of-fact fashion in contrast with the clergyman's agitated tone.

“But how and by whom?” Mr. Collyer demanded.

“Mr. Bechcombe appears to have been attacked, possibly chloroformed, deliberately, and strangled. His body was found in his private office.”

The rector subsided into the nearest chair.

“I cannot believe it. Poor Luke had not an enemy in the world. What could have been the motive for so horrible a crime?”

“That I am endeavouring to find out,” the inspector said quietly.

“I can't understand it,” the clergyman said, raising his hand to his head. “Nobody would wilfully have hurt poor Luke, I am sure.”

“It is tolerably evident that somebody did,” the inspector commented dryly.

Mr. Collyer was silent for a minute; putting his elbow on the table, he rested his aching head upon his hand.

“But who could have done it?” he questioned brokenly at last.

The inspector coughed.

“That also I am trying to discover, sir. When did you see Mr. Bechcombe last, Mr. Collyer?”

“Last night. I dined with him at his house in Carlsford Square. Just a few hours ago, and poor Luke seemed so well and happy with us all, making jokes. And now—I can't believe it.”

He blew his nose vigorously.

“Was your son one of the dinner party?” the inspector questioned.

Mr. Collyer looked surprised.

“Oh, er—yes, of course Tony was there. He is a favourite with his uncle and aunt.”

“Did you know that he was here this morning?”

Mr. Collyer's astonishment appeared to increase.

“Certainly I did not. I do not think he has been. I fancy you are making a mistake.”

“I think not,” the inspector said firmly. “Your son was here this morning just before twelve o'clock. He appears to have caused quite a commotion, demanding to see his uncle and announcing his intention of going to the private door and knocking at it himself.”

Mr. Collyer dropped his arm upon the table.

“But—Good—good heavens! Did he go?”

“He did. He also saw his uncle,” said the inspector. “And now I am rather anxious to hear your son's account of that interview, Mr. Collyer.”

“It is the aftermath of the War,” said Aubrey Todmarsh, shaking his head. “You take a man away from his usual occupation and for four years you let him do nothing but kill other men and try to kill other men, and then you are surprised when he comes home and still goes on killing.”

“Don't you think, Aubrey, that you had better say straight out that you believe I killed Uncle Luke?” Tony Collyer inquired very quietly, yet with a look in his eyes that his men had known well in the Great War, and had labelled dangerous.

Instinctively Aubrey drew back. “My dear Tony,” he said, with what was meant to be an indulgent smile and only succeeded in looking distinctly scared, “why will you turn everything into personalities? I was speaking generally.”

“Well, as I happen to be the only man who went to the War and who profits by my uncle's will, and who was at the office the day he was murdered, I will thank you not to speak generally in that fashion,” retorted Anthony.

His father lifted up his hand.

“Boys, boys! This terrible crime is no time for unseemly bickering,” he said, in much the same tone as he would have used to them twenty years ago at Wexbridge Rectory.

The three were in the dining-room of Mr. Bechcombe's house in Carlsford Square. They had been brought there by an urgent summons from the widow of the dead man. Mrs. Bechcombe, prostrated at first by the news of her husband's death, had been roused by learning how that death had been brought about, and, in her determination that it should be immediately avenged, she had insisted on her husband's brother-in-law and his two nephews coming together to consult with her as to the best steps to be taken to discover the assassin.

In appearance the last twenty-four hours had aged the rector by as many years. His shoulders were bent as he leaned forward in his chair—the very chair in which Luke Bechcombe had sat at the bottom of his table only the night before last. There were new lines that sorrow and horror had scored upon James Collyer's face, even his hair looked whiter. Glancing round the familiar room it seemed to him impossible that he could never see again the brother-in-law upon whose advice he had unconsciously leaned all his married life. He was just about to speak when the door opened and Mrs. Bechcombe entered. She was a tall, almost a regal-looking woman, with flashing dark eyes and regular, aquiline features. To-day her beautifully formed lips were closely compressed and there was a very sombre light in her dark eyes, and there were great blue marks under them.

Mr. Collyer got up, raising himself slowly. “My dear Madeleine, I wish I could help you,” he said, taking her hands in his, “but only Our Heavenly Father can do that, and since it is His Will—”

“It was not His Will!” Mrs. Bechcombe contradicted passionately. She tore her hands from his. “My husband was murdered. He did not die by the Will of God, but by the wickedness of man.”

“My dear aunt, nothing happens but by the Will of God—” Aubrey Todmarsh was beginning, when the door opened to admit a spare, short, altogether undistinguished-looking man of middle age.

Mrs. Bechcombe turned to him eagerly.

“This is my cousin, John Steadman. You have heard me speak of him, I know, James. He is a barrister, and, though he does not practise now, he is a great criminologist. And I know if anyone can help us it will be he.”

“I hope so, I am sure,” Mr. Steadman said as he shook hands. “This is a most terrible and mysterious crime, but there are several valuable clues. I do not think it should remain undiscovered long.”

“I hope not!” the rector sighed. “And yet we cannot bring poor Luke back, we can only punish his murderer.”

“And that I mean to do!” Mrs. Bechcombe said passionately. “I have sworn to devote every penny of my money and every moment of my life to avenging my husband.”

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” murmured Aubrey Todmarsh.

“Yes, I never professed to be of your way of thinking,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned with unveiled contempt. “I prefer to undertake the vengeance myself, thank you.”

Mr. Steadman looked at Anthony. “I understand that you called at the office yesterday morning.”

“Yes, I did,” returned Anthony defiantly. “And, when old Thompson told me I couldn't see Mr. Bechcombe, I was fool enough to say I would go round to the private door and get in to him that way.”

“And did you?” questioned Mr. Steadman quietly.

“Yes, I did, but I did not go in and murder my uncle,” returned Anthony in the same loud, passionate tone.

“Did you see him?” Mr. Steadman inquired.

“Yes. He came to the door and told me to go away. He was expecting an important client.”

“Tony, you did not ask him for money?” his father said piteously.

Anthony's face softened as he looked at him. “I was going to, but I didn't get the chance. He wouldn't listen to me. I went on to ask a friend of mine in the next room to come out to lunch with me. As we were passing my uncle's room he came to the door. ‘I want you, Tony,' he said sharply. My friend went on, telling me to follow to the Field of Rest. Uncle Luke kept me a few minutes talking. He told me that if I had a really good opening he would go into it, if it were really promising the lack of money should not stand in the way. He said I was to come and see him that night and talk things over. I meant to go, of course. But then I heard this—” and Anthony gulped down something in his throat.

“Did you keep your friend waiting?” inquired Mr. Steadman.

“Yes, I did!” Tony answered, staring at him. “Uncle Luke kept me a minute or two. But then I missed my way to the Field of Rest, and was wandering about the best part of half an hour. I suppose you don't call that a very satisfactory alibi,” he added truculently.

“Oh, don't be silly, Tony!” Mrs. Bechcombe interposed fretfully. “Of course we are all sure that you would not have hurt your uncle. We want to know if you saw anyone—if you met this wicked woman.”

“What wicked woman? What do you mean, Aunt Madeleine?”

“The woman who left her glove in his room, the woman who killed my husband,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned, her breath coming quickly and nervously, her hands clenching and unclenching themselves.

“My dear Madeleine,” Mr. Steadman interrupted her, “I do not think it possible that the crime could have been committed by a woman.”

“And I am sure that it was,” she contradicted stormily. “Women are as powerful as men nowadays and Luke was not strong. He had a weak heart.” And with the last words she burst into a very tempest of tears.

Her cousin looked at her pityingly.

“Well, well, my dear girl! At any rate the police are searching everywhere for this woman. The finding her can only be a matter of a few days now. I am going to send your maid to you.” He signed to the other men and they followed him out of the room. “Do her all the good in the world to cry it out,” he remarked confidentially when he had closed the door. “I haven't seen her shed a tear yet. Now I am going to see Inspector Furnival before the inquest opens. That, of course, will be absolutely formal, at first. Can I give any of you a lift?”

“I think not, thank you,” Mr. Collyer responded. “There must be some—er—arrangements to be made here and it's quite possible we may be of some real service.”

Both young men looked inclined to dissent, but the barrister proffered no further invitation and a minute or two later they saw him drive off.

He was shown in at once to Inspector Furnival, who was writing at his office table, briskly making notes in a large parchment bound book. He got up as the door opened.

Mr. Steadman shook hands. “You haven't forgotten me, I hope, inspector?”

The inspector permitted himself a slight smile. “I haven't forgotten how you helped me to catch John Basil.”

“Um! Well, my cousin—Mrs. Bechcombe is my cousin, you know—has insisted on my coming to you this morning,” Mr. Steadman went on, taking the chair the inspector placed by the table. “This is a terrible business, inspector. It looks fairly plain sailing at first sight, but I don't know.”

The inspector glanced at him. “You think it looks like plain sailing, sir? Well, it may be, but I confess I don't see it quite in that way myself.”

Mr. Steadman met the detective's eyes with a curious look in his own. “What of Thompson's disappearance?”

The inspector blotted the page in his ledger at which he had been writing and left the blotting-paper on.

“Ay, as usual you have put your finger on the spot, Mr. Steadman. What has become of Thompson? He walked out of the office and apparently disappeared into space. For from that moment we have not been able to find anyone who has seen him.”

“The inference being—?” Mr. Steadman raised his eyebrows.

The inspector laid his hand on a parcel of papers lying on the table at his elbow.

“There wasn't much about the case in the papers this morning,” he said, replying indirectly to the barrister's question, “but the one that comes out at ten o'clock—Racing Special they call it: selections on the back page, don't you know—in almost every case gives a large space on its front page to ‘The Murder of a Solicitor in his Office,' and every one of them mentions the disappearance of his managing clerk. The inference, though the paragraphs are naturally guarded in the extreme, is unmistakable.”

Mr. Steadman reached over for one of the papers.

“Don't take any notice of these things myself; they have to write up the sensation. Um! Yes! No doubt what they're hinting at, but they're generally wrong. What should Thompson want to kill his employer for, unless—”

“Ay, exactly; unless—” the inspector said dryly. “That was one of my first thoughts, sir. John Walls is going through the books with an auditor this morning. And Mr. Turner, who was in the firm until last year, is going over the contents of the safe. When we get their reports we shall know more.”