Puzzle of the Silver Persian (21 page)

“Here we are,” said Leslie. Candida looked out of the car window and saw a row of stone cottages and what seemed countless thousands of drying nets.

“Like the place?”

“I adore it,” she said slowly. She was looking toward the village. “But I don’t see—”

“You won’t, unless you look around,” Leslie told her. She turned, and saw that something less than a quarter of a mile out from shore a rocky island rose like a mailed fist from the water. It was topped by grayed and weatherbeaten ramparts.

“Simple little place,” the Honorable Emily said. “But it’s home.”

At the foot of the pier four stalwart men in faded livery waited at the oars of a skiff. Breathless with astonishment, Candida suffered herself to be led into the boat and saw the baggage stowed away.

“There’s a causeway and motor road,” she was told. “But it’s only uncovered at very low tide, and usually we signal or telephone for the skiff.”

They skimmed over the surface of the bay, and the rocky mountain peak drew closer. Candida saw a tiny pier at the base of the hill. High above, the castle stood out grimly against the sky.

“It must be terribly old,” Candida said.

The Honorable Emily nodded. “An ancestor of mine is supposed to have built Dinsul Castle. Man by the name of Uther Pendragon. He got to be a local king by selling tin to the Phoenicians and built himself a castle out of the profits. But he had no idea of bathrooms.”

“What? Why—that’s the father of King Arthur you’re talking about!” gasped Candida. The Honorable Emily beamed and nodded.

They landed at a little stone pier, and the rowers began to wrestle with the baggage. Then the party began a climb up the longest flight of stone steps that Candida had ever seen.

“This,” she said, “ought to be one place in the world where we’ll be safe from—from the things that happened in London.”

Leslie Reverson told her sadly that nothing had happened here in the last thousand years. “Until you came,” he said.

They approached a magnificent stone doorway, above which hung a row of great spikes of ancient rusted iron, pointing downward like bared fangs.

Candida stopped and stared. “Whatever in the world—”

“When Dinsul was built,” explained Leslie, “they sometimes needed something heavier than oak to bar the doors. You are gazing, my dear, upon the only working portcullis in southern England.”

“Except,” her hostess added, “that we don’t show it off any more. It drops like a shot when you pull the big chain in the hall, but it takes four strong men a good while to get it up again. And heaven knows,” she added, “it costs dear enough to pay the boatmen for our ferry service, without having them in to work the windlass, as we used to do when the tourists were allowed to pull the chain.” She saw disappointment in Candida’s face. “Well, my dear, perhaps once while you’re here we’ll show it off for you…”

The great doors swung inward, and the Honorable Emily handed Tobermory’s case to a smiling butler. She took the big cat out in her arms.

“Home again, Toby,” she said. “And aren’t we glad!”

Leslie moved to take Candida’s coat, and from a pocket of his own topcoat something slipped to the floor.

He stared down, went white as chalk, and put his foot over it neatly. He smiled at Candida. “You’ll want a wash before dinner—Treves will show you to your room…”

Candida was hardly breathing. “What—”

But Leslie Reverson shook his head, with a quick glance at his aunt, who was graciously inquiring into the health of Treves and his family. He leaned down quickly and picked up the thing which had dropped from his coat. He slipped it into his pocket.

But Candida saw that it was a white envelope bearing a black-inked border. Outside the castle a herring gull, buffeted by the wind, gave a despairing cry like the wail of a soul lost in hell.

C
HIEF INSPECTOR CANNON OF
Scotland Yard took seven steps across his office to the glowing coal grate, and then seven back to the window with its excellent view of the river and the county buildings opposite.

Then he stopped suddenly and faced his subordinate. “All right, all right. I grant you that Rosemary Fraser wasn’t killed by a jerk on the scarf as I suggested. It was merely a hyph—hypo—”

“Hypothesis,” contributed Sergeant John Secker.

“Yes, that’s it. Supposing she was killed in some other way—I still maintain that for her to go into the water without making a splash that anybody could hear, she must have been lowered there. At the end of her scarf or failing that, a rope.”

“Wait a moment,” said the sergeant. “Suppose she didn’t go into the water?”

Cannon frowned. “She disappeared, didn’t she? How else can you account for it? She didn’t fly away in the air. She couldn’t escape observation on that boat for two days, not with everybody looking for her. There’s only one place where the Fraser girl could have gone, and that’s Davy Jones’ locker.”

“Fair enough,” said the sergeant. “But
when?
”

“Don’t be a cryptic ass,” said Cannon.

“Sorry, sir. What I meant to say was—supposing she was killed, and her body hidden somewhere for a few hours, and dropped overboard when the splash wouldn’t be noticed? Or supposing she hid herself for some reason, and was killed at a later hour?”

“Supposing the moon was made of green cheese,” Cannon remarked unkindly. “It’s clear enough. Here’s the Fraser girl, at the rail of the ship, near a pair of lifeboats swung on davits, or whatever you call ’em. There’s the deck house at her back, with a door leading into the radio operator’s cabin, and two doors leading into cabins for the mates and captain respectively. Latter both locked. Forward of the ship is a ladder to the bridge, and one down to the promenade deck. Aft we have the old maid school mistress in a deck chair that blocks most of the passageway. Forward ladder blocked by the Noring girl, who is searching for her room mate. How could any of the business you suggest have happened?”

“Supposing,” suggested the sergeant, “that there was a man concealed behind those lifeboats? Supposing he killed the Fraser girl, and hid her underneath the canvas cover of one of them, and then stole away after the two women were starting the search?” He paused. “Or supposing that she crawled in a lifeboat to meet this man and was killed there by him?”

Cannon pouted. “Won’t wash, I’m afraid. When the girl was suspected to be missing, they of course searched the lifeboats.”

“They did.” The sergeant smiled. “But it was not until the next forenoon. You see, they were so sure she had gone overboard.”

“What I don’t see is—” began Cannon. A sharp knock had come at the door, and the doddering constable who guarded the main entrance looked in.

“Lady to see you, sir,” he told the chief. “She was here before. Name’s Withers.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Cannon. “The Yankee sleuthess. I suppose I’d better see her; sometimes she has an idea. You stay, Secker.”

The sergeant had no intention of leaving unless he was thrown out. A moment later Miss Hildegarde Withers achieved her lifelong ambition and entered an office of the C.I.D. at Scotland Yard.

Cannon rose and politely offered her a chair. “I’m very busy,” he said unpromisingly. “That’s why I had you come here instead of to the reception room. Well?”

“First,” began Miss Withers, “I wanted to ask how you are progressing with the Fraser-Noel-Todd-etc. murder case? If it isn’t entirely a dead issue I’d like to offer a suggestion.”

“The case is still open,” said Chief Inspector Cannon coldly. “But I might call your attention to the fact that in the year 1932 we had just one unsolved murder in England and Wales.”

“Looks as if you’ll have two or three this year, doesn’t it?” Miss Withers said sweetly. “Or maybe half a dozen. Dr. Waite had a lot of cyanide stolen.”

The chief took out his notebook. “If you have any additions to your statement, I shall be glad to take them down.”

“I just want to ask a question,” Miss Withers told him. “I have no facilities for finding out, but I’d like to know. Can you wire the Buffalo police back in the States and discover whether or not Rosemary Fraser was unusually good at water sports—swimming and diving and so on?”

The inspector laughed. “Swimming, eh? You think that she was good enough a swimmer to fight the waves six hundred miles or so to shore?”

“There are fishing boats which go out into the Gulf Stream beyond the Scilly Isles,” suggested the sergeant. “Supposing—”

“We sighted no boats until off Land’s End,” Miss Withers told him. “No, I didn’t mean that Rosemary might have swum to shore. Although, if she had been in London this past week or more, it would simplify this case tremendously.”

“Here at the Yard we don’t believe in ghosts,” said Cannon heavily. “I don’t mind answering your question. We got a full report on Rosemary Fraser, description, tastes, and past history. She was not an athletic type, according to the report.”

“But she spent every summer of her life at Bar Harbor, Maine,” put in the sergeant. “Isn’t that one of your Yankee watering places? She’d pick up a good bit of swimming there.”

Miss Withers thanked him. “I’ll leave you to your labors, gentlemen. If I get any more ideas, or notice any more murders—”

“The cycle ought to be complete,” said Cannon. He was friendlier than at the beginning. “The people concerned in the case seem to have scattered to the four winds. Of course, we’re keeping an eye on their whereabouts…”

“I have an idea that we’re not anywhere near the end of the cycle, as you call it,” Miss Withers told him. “And furthermore, how do you know just who among the many passengers and members of the crew of that ship are mixed up in this affair?”

Cannon smiled. “Easy, my dear lady. If you knew anything about criminology you’d know that in any case of anonymous letters—poison-pen letters as your yellow press calls them—the writer always sends one to himself or herself, figuring that that gives him a certain protection from suspicion. Therefore, the sender of those black-bordered notes has received one—and made a great to-do about it, most likely.”

Miss Withers knew that as well as he, but she nodded. “I don’t suppose you have looked into the affairs of the Hammond family, have you? They received a joint letter edged in black, you know.”

Cannon looked at some papers in his desk. “The child was dispatched to a school in Cornwall. Mrs. Hammond is out of our jurisdiction, in Paris. And out of reach of the murderer, too.”

“But Tom Hammond is right here in London,” Miss Withers pointed out. “And from information received, as you people say, I understand that he is trying to drink himself to death. He’d be easy prey for somebody, in that dulled condition. Remember, Andy Todd was dead drunk when he fell to his death through an elevator—I mean lift-shaft—door that was too narrow to let his hand through to the catch.”

“Well?” Cannon was growing weary of this.

“I think Hammond ought to be warned to follow the example of the others and get out of London,” Miss Withers announced. “For his own good. Or at least told to take care of himself and be on his guard.”

The chief inspector rose to his feet. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I will consider the suggestions that you have made.”

He was a human wall too thick and high for Miss Withers. “I know what you intend to do about this murder case,” she remarked acidly. “You’re going to wait until every person in the group has been killed but one, and then arrest that one, figuring that you can’t make a mistake.”

She swept from the room, and the sergeant looked at his superior. “At that, it wouldn’t be a bad idea,” said Secker.

“I detest amateur sleuths,” Cannon complained. “If people want to be detectives, let ’em start at the bottom as P.C’s.”

Sergeant Secker smiled at the thought of a helmet atop the long and somewhat horselike visage of Hildegarde Withers. “I didn’t mean her idea about waiting to arrest the last surviving member of the group,” he continued. “I mean—she gave me an idea. Hammond has been marked down by this murderer—at least, he received a black-bordered letter. If he’s seen about town drunk, that puts him in a dangerous position right now…”

“We can’t give him police protection unless he asks for it,” cut in Cannon.

“I didn’t mean that. Don’t warn him. Let him go on as he is. And don’t frighten off the murderer. But set a trap!”

“Eh?”

“A trap—with Hammond as the bait.” The sergeant enlarged upon his plan, and Chief Inspector Cannon, a just man, considered it and found that it was good.

Miss Hildegarde Withers was writing a letter, back in her room at the Alexandria. She puzzled for a while over the proper manner in which to address the envelope. One couldn’t begin “Dear the Honorable Emily.” She finally sent down for a copy of DeBrett’s, and discovered that her friend’s name was not Reverson but Pendavid: “The Honorable Emily Pendavid, only surviving daughter and heir of the late Earl of Trevanna, title now extinct.”

“Dear Miss Pendavid
[she began],
I have been doing a good deal of thinking about the events of the past week and more, and I am more and more convinced that we have not reached an end to the tragedies. Scotland Yard seems at a complete loss. I feel it my duty to warn you to take the utmost precautions for your own safety. Remember that you and your nephew, besides myself, are the only members of the party at the doctor’s table on board ship who have not yet been threatened. Place your servants on their guard, and see to your doors and windows at night. Be overly suspicious of everybody and everything, particularly of anything sent to you in the mail. And write to me, besides notifying the Yard, if you receive one of those horrible letters.”

She signed “Hildegarde Martha Withers” in a large round script, and placed the message in a square gray envelope. “To the Honorable Emily Pendavid, Dinsul Castle, Cornwall,” she wrote.

The letter mailed, she turned her attention to the chase. For two days she divided her time between the newspaper files, the reading room at the British Museum, and a search for the mysterious Mrs. Charles—discovering no more about the latter than had the police. The mysterious young woman—if she was a woman—had taken cheap lodgings in several hotels in the neighborhood of Charing Cross, not far from the Alexandria. She had worn a squirrel coat, collar turned high. That was the sum total of her findings—except that one chambermaid, well tipped, admitted that “Mrs. Charles” had been seen smoking a cigar in her room. Moreover, she had been a person of strange nocturnal habits, staying out most of the night and returning in the broad light of day.