The Catherine Wheel (15 page)

On Monday morning Jeremy drove Jane up to town. At half past nine she was going in at the side door of Clarissa Harlowe’s dress shop. Jeremy was about to drive off again, when he noticed that his off-side front tyre was flatter than it ought to be. He discovered that he had picked up a nail, and set to work to change the wheel.

He had just about finished, when Clarissa Harlowe’s side door opened again and Jane came out. She had a bright colour and she was walking fast. She got into the car, sat down, and said crisply,

“I’ve got the sack.”

Jeremy whistled and said, “Why?”

Jane looked at him angrily.

“Murder is quite the wrong sort of publicity,” she said.

He whistled again.

“Why did you tell her?”

“There’s going to be an inquest, isn’t there, and I’ve got to go down for it—and there are newspapers and reporters and things. Of course I had to tell her. And for goodness’ sake let’s get away! I never want to see the place again!”

Jeremy got in, banged the door, and said cheerfully,

“Let’s go round to the flat and get something to eat. You’ll feel a lot better after a cup of something hot.”

This, though infuriating, was true. At the time it merely brightened Jane’s eyes and made her colour rise alarmingly, but after her second cup of coffee she relaxed sufficiently to discuss the future.

“I’ll take the week off and get through with this blasted inquest, and then I’ll hunt another job. I did hold my tongue, so she may give me a reference.”

“She’s bound to, isn’t she?”

Jane looked coldly at him.

“There are references and references. How many jobs do you suppose I should get if she were to say, ‘Jane Heron? Oh, no, I’ve nothing against her. It’s just rather a pity she got mixed up in that murder case’?”

“She wouldn’t play a dirty trick like that.”

Jane laughed without amusement.

“Let’s say, ‘I hope she won’t.’ That’s about as far as it will stretch.”

There was a pause. Then he said,

“I want to go back to the Catherine-Wheel.”

Her answer was unexpected.

“So do I.”

“All right then—we’ll go.”

“There’s the inquest, and Eily, and—well, it’s horrid, but it’s interesting.”

Jeremy laughed.

“You needn’t give your reasons. I’m not giving mine.”

“Have you got any?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What are they?”

“I’m not giving them.”

Down at the Catherine-Wheel Inspector Crisp was acquainting Miss Silver with the police surgeon’s report.

“You see he says that the man had taken a considerable quantity of alcohol. Now you had the opportunity of observing Luke White—he was in the lounge, wasn’t he, most of the time that you were?”

They were in the office. A nice snug fire was burning, Frank Abbott, who had a way with fires, having coaxed it from a reluctant smoulder to its present cheerful state. That he had done so without in any way impairing his customary air of having just emerged from a glass case had an irritating effect upon Inspector Crisp. It sharpened his voice a little as he enquired,

“You were in the lounge with him for about an hour and a half. Did he appear to have been drinking then?”

Miss Silver gazed thoughtfully down at the wide blue flounce to which little Josephine’s woolly dress had now been advanced. Another two inches, and she would be able to make the sharp decrease which would impart a gathered effect to the skirt before beginning upon the tight plain bodice. She might have been considering how many more rows it would take to finish the skirt, or she might not. She kept Inspector Crisp waiting long enough to start him tapping on the table with his pencil. Then she raised her eyes to his face and gave him a quiet,

“No.”

Crisp tapped. She could speak plenty when she liked. Now, when he could have done with a few more words, she seemed to have run out of them.

“He let you in, didn’t he? Did he smell of drink then?”

Miss Silver repeated the irritating monosyllable.

“No.”

“When did you see him last?”

She seemed to consider this too.

“It would be just before half past ten, when I went up to my room.”

“He didn’t seem to have been drinking then?”

Miss Silver produced another “No.”

Crisp tapped.

“Well, some time between then and the time he was killed he must have put away quite a lot. Castell ought to know something about that. We’ll have him in.”

He went out through the door on the kitchen side.

Frank Abbott, who had been standing in a lounging attitude beside the fire looking down into it as if admiring his own handiwork, now shifted his cool gaze to Miss Silver and said,

“What are you up to?”

“My dear Frank!”

“Yes, I know, I know, but you can’t put it across with me.”

Without attempting any further reproof she said very composedly,

“There are some interesting points about this case.”

“As what?”

“The attempt to implicate John Higgins.”

“Attempt?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Do you believe that he returned nearly two hours after he had said good-night to Eily, and that having drawn attention to himself by whistling his customary tune under Miss Heron’s window, he induced Eily to let him in, that he then deliberately selected a knife from the trophy in the dining-room and killed Luke White in the most public place in the house?”

Frank’s fair eyebrows rose.

“Is that how it strikes you?”

“Undoubtedly.”

He said, “Well, well—” And then, “You said, ‘under Miss Heron’s window.’ Did you mean anything by that?”

Her needles clicked.

“Oh, yes. The person who whistled under Miss Heron’s window knew that Eily was there.”

“If you say that to Crisp, it will go down to John Higgins’ account. He’s pretty sure he did it, you know.”

“My dear Frank!”

“You’re quite sure he didn’t?”

She smiled.

“He was telling the truth.”

“Then—”

“Someone in the house must have known that Eily had left her own room and gone to Miss Heron’s. If we can find that person we shall, I think, have found the murderer—or, at the very least, someone deeply implicated in the murder.”

“And who, do you suppose, could have known that Eily was in Jane Heron’s room?”

She said thoughtfully,

“Almost anyone. Her room, as you know, looks out at the back, and is on the opposite side of the house from Miss Heron’s. It is, in fact, the corner room at the end of the opposite corridor. There is only one other bedroom opening on to the back from that corridor. It is next to the landing, and is occupied by Mr. Jacob Taverner, the intervening space being taken up by the back stairs, linen-room, and lavatory. On the same corridor, looking to the front, are the rooms occupied by the Castells and Mr. Geoffrey Taverner. There is also a bathroom, and a large housemaid’s cupboard. Mr. Taverner might possibly have overheard Eily’s conversation with John Higgins if he had opened his window and leaned right out, but I do not regard this as at all likely. The linen-room window is not conveniently accessible, nor is that which lights the back stairs, but the lavatory window, which is next to Eily’s room, would be very convenient indeed. Castell says in his statement that he did in fact hear someone come along the road and go round to the back, and that he went across to the lavatory and looked out of the window. He says he heard someone come along whistling Greenland’s Icy Mountains, and that he then went back to bed because he knew it was only John Higgins come to have a few words with Eily. Castell was, I think, a little too anxious to inform the police that John Higgins had been out to the Catherine-Wheel that night. We have only his own word for it that he went back to bed without listening to the conversation between him and Eily. He could very easily have done so. On the other hand, Mr. Jacob Taverner or Mr. Geoffrey Taverner might also have done so.”

Frank made a slight grimace.

“Not so very likely.”

“Perhaps not. But we really do not know enough to say what is likely or unlikely at present. On the other side of the landing, in my own corridor, either Lady Marian and her husband, or Mrs. Duke, Miss Taverner, and myself could have heard Eily go into Miss Heron’s room, though we could not, of course, have heard the conversation which induced her to do so.”

Frank Abbott gave her a quizzical look.

“Are you by any chance the villain of the piece? Did you hear anything?”

“No, Frank.” After a pause she continued, “If John Higgins did not return at one o’clock, then someone was being at pains to manufacture evidence against him by whistling that tune under Miss Heron’s window. It would have to be someone who knew that Eily was there. So far as we know, the most likely person to have that knowledge was Castell.”

Frank gave a slight sarcastic laugh.

“And, as Crisp put it, I’m here to get something on Castell! ‘The Innkeeper Framed’! You know, it’s almost too much to hope that it is Castell. He’s so beautifully obvious, isn’t he?”

If Miss Silver was going to reply, the sound of approaching voices stopped her. The door by which Crisp had gone out was flung back, and there came in Castell in full spate, with the Inspector only occasionally managing to stem the flood.

“If I can be of any assistance—any assistance whatever! All murders are atrocious—that goes without saying! The sight of blood makes me incapable of digesting my food! All are, I say, atrocious, but this one is an outrage! In the middle of a festivity—in the middle of a family reunion! Depriving me of a friend as well as of a servant most valued! Leaving me short-handed with the house full!” He threw up his hands in a gesture of horror. “And the consequences! You will pardon me, but—the police in the house! Mr. Jacob Taverner, my patron, is indisposed! I myself—I will not trouble you with how I suffer! My wife Annie whose cooking is unsurpassed—last night her hand fails her! I do not say that the pastry is heavy—it is impossible for Annie Castell to make heavy pastry—if I say that it is made by an ordinary chef, it is enough! Can you then doubt how eagerly I would help to unmask the assassin?”

Inspector Crisp used the most repressive tone at his command.

“Sit down, Mr. Castell, and stop talking! I want to ask you some questions.”

Fogarty Castell spread out his hands in an expansive gesture.

“Anything—anything!”

“It’s about this man Luke White. The police surgeon says he’d had a lot of drink. When did he get it, and how?”

Fogarty brushed away a tear.

“My poor Luke! Yes, I will tell you. There was some champagne left, and I said to him, ‘Come, my friend, we will finish it.’ That was after everyone had gone up to bed, you understand. For me, I take one glass—two—I am the most abstemious of men— and my poor Luke, he finishes the rest.”

“How much?”

Castell hesitated. Then he said,

“There was a half bottle—”

“You’re not going to tell me you had a couple of glasses or so, and Luke White got drunk on what was left!”

There was that gesture with the hands again.

“No, no, no—I will tell you! He had a weakness that poor Luke. In his working-time he takes nothing, but—how shall I say—when he is off duty he takes what he can get.”

“Are you telling me he was a heavy drinker, Mr. Castell?”

Fogarty’s dark face glistened with feeling.

“Only when he is off duty. And for champagne he has a passion. He finishes the bottle, and then he says, ‘Come on, boss—the old boy won’t miss it!’ and he opens another. There— I have told you! Do not repeat it, I beg of you. I would not, of course, have put it on the bill.”

Frank’s eye rested upon him with cool enjoyment. Crisp said sharply,

“That’s nothing to do with us. You’re telling me White was a heavy drinker?”

“Only when he was off duty,” said Fogarty Castell.

Well,” said Crisp when the door had closed behind him, “there you have it. The man was drunk when he was killed, and the way he got drunk was drinking Mr. Jacob Taverner’s champagne along with his manager after everyone else had gone upstairs to bed. Nice work, I must say! Not put it on the bill, indeed!” He made a sound that was more like a snort than a laugh.

Miss Silver said mildly,

“What is your theory, Inspector, as to how Luke White came to be lying in the position in which he was found? There was not more than eighteen inches between his feet and the bottom step. To fall in such a position he must have been standing either on the step itself or just below it with his back to the stairs, and the murderer must have been on the step behind him.”

Crisp stared.

“You mean they were both coming down the stairs?”

Miss Silver knitted two, slipped one, and knitted two together. Little Josephine’s skirt was being gathered in to the waist.

“Can you think of any other explanation?” She paused, decreased again, and added, “If he was really killed where he was found.”

Crisp said impatiently,

“There isn’t the slightest reason to suppose he wasn’t. Coming downstairs—I wonder. Let’s see—Eily lets John Higgins in, and they go upstairs together. Luke White hears something—comes after them. Higgins has the knife. He turns round with it. Luke sees it, takes fright, and makes off. Higgins catches him up on the bottom step and stabs him in the back.”

Miss Silver shook her head, but she did not speak. It was Frank Abbott who said,

“You say John Higgins has the knife. Why?”

Crisp shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s jealous—he’s angry over the girl—he’s where he’s got no business to be, and he knows Luke White is an awkward customer—so awkward that it’s not many hours since he had threatened to cut the heart out of any man that the girl took instead of him. Plenty of reasons for picking a knife off the dining-room wall before he went upstairs with her.”

Miss Silver shook her head again. Her lips were primmed together. She knitted in silence.

Frank Abbott said seriously,

“I don’t think it happened like that. The girl isn’t that sort of girl, and the man isn’t that sort of man.”

Crisp stared angrily.

“Then how did it happen?”

Getting no answer but that conveyed by a lifted eyebrow, he produced a counter-attack.

“It’s got to be Castell to satisfy you, hasn’t it—or one of the Taverners? Well, there’s not a shred of evidence to connect them with the crime, or a shred of a motive. Mr. Jacob Taverner says he was in bed before eleven and slept until he was roused by the commotion in the house. Mr. Geoffrey Taverner says he read till after twelve. He heard no unusual sounds, he went to sleep as soon as he put his light out, and was waked by the noise downstairs. Castell’s statement amounts to very much the same thing. After hearing John Higgins come along whistling round about eleven he lay awake for a bit, and then dropped off, waking up like everyone else when the noise began. Mrs. Castell corroborates as far as to say that Castell was in bed when the house was roused. She is a heavy sleeper and can’t say anything about the earlier part of the night. Well, you can’t expect alibis when people are in bed and asleep. There’s nothing to say that all those statements aren’t correct. Same with the people on the other side of the house, the Thorpe-Enningtons, Miss Taverner, Miss Heron— and yourself, Miss Silver. There is nothing to connect any of them with Luke White, or to suggest that they had the slightest motive for murdering him.”

Miss Silver coughed in an exceedingly pointed manner, and Frank Abbott said,

“What about Mrs. Duke? You’ve rather left her out, haven’t you? She was very much on the spot at the time of the murder— victim’s blood on her hands, and a pretty thin story to account for it.”

Miss Silver said in a meditative tone,

“True stories often appear to be regrettably thin. Fabrications are so much more carefully composed. We do not know of any motive in the case of Mrs. Duke.”

As the words left her lips, the door through which Castell had made his exit was opened in a tentative manner. Castell looked through the opening with what was obviously intended for an ingratiating smile.

“If I intrude, it is, if I may say, my eagerness to assist in the discovery of the assassin.”

Crisp said shortly, “Come in, Mr. Castell!”

He came in sideways like a thick-bodied crab, rubbing his hands together and turning his eyes this way and that.

“You will pardon if I interrupt—”

“Sit down if you’ve got anything to say!”

Fogarty balanced himself on the edge of the chair which he had occupied before.

“It is not I—it is my wife. You are married, Inspector? Yes?… No?… Ah, but what a pity! There is no fortune in the world like a good wife. So when I find my wife in tears just now when I go out of this room—when I find her in such a great distress that she cannot give her mind to the art in which she excels—I take her hand, I speak to her tenderly, I say, ‘What is it?’ And she says, ‘Is it true that the police are suspecting John Higgins? Is it true that they think he killed Luke White?’ And I say, ’How do I know? I am not in their confidence. It looks that way.’ Then she says, ‘It will break Eily’s heart. John is a good man. He is my own nephew. He did not do it.’ And I say, ‘He was jealous about Eily, and Luke had threatened him. If it was not John Higgins, who was it? No one else had any reason.’ Then she cries and says, ‘That is not true. There is someone who might have a reason.’ ”

Miss Silver’s eyes were on his face. Frank Abbott put up a hand and smoothed back his hair.

Inspector Crisp said, “What!” in a voice like a barking terrier.

Fogarty looked from one to the other. His expression seemed to say, “See how clever I am—how acute—how discerning! You are a lot of clever people in the police, but it is Castell who puts the clue into your hands!” He gestured complacently.

“That is what I say too. ‘What!’ I say. ‘Annie!’ I say. ‘Tell me at once what you are talking about!’ But she does not. She puts her head down on the kitchen table and cries. We have been married fifteen years, and I have never seen her cry like that. She says, ‘What shall I do, what shall I do?’ And I say, ‘I am your husband—you will tell me.’ ” He looked round again, as if for approbation. “So in the end she tells me.”

Crisp tapped impatiently.

“Well—well—what did she tell you?”

Castell’s eyes gleamed. It was quite obvious that he was enjoying himself.

“She does not want to tell me, you understand. She cries and says she has always kept it to herself. And I say, ‘What has always been must at some time come to an end, and when there is a murder and the police in the house, that is the time for it to come to an end.’ And at the last she tells me.”

Crisp fairly banged on the table.

“Mr. Castell, will you come to the point and tell us what your wife said!”

Castell spread out his hands.

“And with what reluctance she says it! That is part of the evidence, her reluctance, is it not? She does not wish to suggest a motive, to accuse, to say anything at all. I say to her, ‘It is your duty,’ and she shakes her head. I say, ‘I am your husband and I command you!’ She weeps. I say, ‘Have you no heart for John Higgins who is your nephew, and for Eily who looks already like an apparition from the tomb?’ Then she tells me.”

Frank Abbott said in his languid voice,

“All right, Castell, we’ve got the mise en scène. Just tell us what she said.”

If Chief Inspector Lamb had been present he would at this point have had something to say. It was his considered opinion that the English language contained all the words required by any police officer who hadn’t got wind in the head. French words in particular had a highly inflammatory effect on his temper and his complexion. In his absence Frank could indulge himself with impunity.

Castell became very animated indeed. He turned from one to the other, he waved his hands.

“My wife Annie Castell, she says a name.”

Crisp said sharply, “What name?”

“I will not disguise it from you, Inspector—it is the name of Mrs. Duke.”

“What does she say about Mrs. Duke?”

“She weeps as she says it. If you could have seen her!”

“Never mind about that! What did she say?”

Castell spread out those fat hands.

“She weeps, and she tells me. It is before we are married, you will understand, and my wife she is chef at the White Lion at Lenton. Never has the hotel done so much business. From all over the county they come—to lunch, to dine, to give supper parties, because of her cooking. And my poor Luke, he is the barman. She has known him a little all her life, you understand, because he is some sort of a cousin—on the wrong side of the blanket, as you say. One day he says to her, ‘I am going to get married, Cousin Annie.’ He calls her that because it vexes her, and he can be malicious that poor Luke. So then she says who is it he is marrying, and he says, ‘You would be surprised.’ And when he tells her it is her own cousin Florence Duke—”

This time both Inspectors said, “What!” together.

Castell smiled and nodded.

“When he tells her that—well, she is surprised like you have been.”

Frank Abbott said, “Florence Duke was married to Luke White?”

“My wife says so. Florence, she was behind the bar at the George, which is the other hotel at Lenton. Annie knew she was there, and they had spoken once or twice, but they did not know each other well, as cousins should, because of the quarrel in the family. She was also young and gay. My wife Annie, you will understand, is very particular, very respectable.”

Frank Abbott said, “Are you sure there was a marriage?”

Castell nodded.

“My wife Annie says so. She says it would be in ’31 or ’32— in July—at the register office in Lenton. And after that they went away, the two of them, to take a job together, and she did not see Luke again”—he shrugged and gestured—“not for many years. When he comes here she asks him, ‘What about your wife Florence?’ and he laughs and says, ‘It didn’t last long, and she has gone back to calling herself Florence Duke again.’ ”

Crisp said, “Is that all?”

Castell leaned forward, dropping his voice confidentially.

“Shall I tell you what I think? I think that when Florence comes here she does not know at all that Luke is here. I think it gives her a great shock. She looks very bad after she has seen him. I think she comes down in the night to have a meeting with him. She says she was in the kitchen. Pfft! His room is opposite—I think she was there. I think they quarrel. He is very inconstant with women that poor Luke. He fascinates them, and goes away and forgets. What is it in the proverb—‘Hell hasn’t got anything so furious like a woman who is scorned’? It is not my business to say anything, but we all saw the blood on her hands.” He pushed back his chair. “That is all! I go to console my wife!”

When they could no longer hear his footsteps going down the passage Crisp growled,

“What do you make of that?”

Frank cocked an eyebrow.

“I think Annie Castell wouldn’t stand for putting it on John Higgins.”