The Catherine Wheel (18 page)

She shook her head.

“Oh, no—not if the women didn’t want him to. Ann and the midwife, they could have managed if they’d wanted to. I wonder if they did.”

“I don’t know. My grandfather didn’t say. You’ve got to remember that Ann was very old when she told him—it was in her last illness. What she was out to impress on him was that Geoffrey Challoner and Mary Layburn were legally married, and that he was their legitimate son.”

“Why didn’t they say so at the time? I mean, the baby was Sir Humphrey Challoner’s heir—why didn’t they hand it over to him?”

“Because it would have got them into a peck of trouble. Geoffrey was wanted for the coastguard’s death. Though everybody in the neighbourhood must have known that Jeremiah Taverner was up to the neck in the smuggling trade, having it all come out at a coroner’s court would have been quite another pair of shoes. Anyhow, whatever Jeremiah knew or didn’t know about the baby, he wasn’t for having an inquest on two sudden deaths on his licensed premises.”

“What did he do?”

“Well, I gather he was all for throwing the bodies into the sea, but Ann wouldn’t have it. I don’t know that she’d have got her way if it hadn’t been for her final argument. ‘Two people dead like that and done out of her rights—the sea wouldn’t keep them,’ she said. That’s what she told my grandfather, and it brought Jeremiah up with a round turn. It wouldn’t have suited him at all to have those bodies come ashore.”

“What did they do with them?”

“Bricked them up in the secret passage together with the marriage certificate which Mary had brought along and a statement signed by Ann and the midwife. Ann put all the papers together and sealed them with Geoffrey’s signet-ring. She kept that, and she gave it to my grandfather. I’ve got it now.”

“But, Jeremy, there wasn’t any brickwork in that passage we went down—not any at all.”

Jeremy said in rather an odd voice,

“No, there wasn’t, was there?” Then he put his hands on her shoulders and said,

“Never mind about that just now. I’m not your cousin—I’m not the farthest, most distant relation. We are in fact complete strangers. Are you going to marry me?”

Jane caught her breath and said,

“I suppose I am.”

The inquest was to be next day. It was understood that the police would offer merely formal evidence and ask for an adjournment. Inspector Crisp reported to his Chief Constable that he thought a good enough case could be made out against Florence Duke. On the face of it, Randal March was inclined to agree, but recommended caution and some further enquiries.

“Abbott, now,” said Inspector Crisp—“he’s come down to work up a case against Castell. I’m not saying anything behind his back that I haven’t said to his face, and that’s about the size of it.”

March said with a kind of pleasant firmness,

“I know Abbott rather well. He wouldn’t pull a case.”

Crisp looked injured.

“I’m not saying he would. He’s down here on this dope-smuggling business, and it’s likely enough Castell’s up to his neck in it. But we’ve looked for evidence against him ourselves, and if we haven’t found any, I don’t see it’s likely someone down from the Yard will have any better luck. Stands to reason the locals have the better chance, if there are chances going, which it doesn’t look as if there were. What I mean to say, Abbott’s got Castell in his mind and he can’t see past him. But as far as he is concerned, the murder isn’t his pigeon—it’s only, as you might put it, incidental. It’s natural he should see it linked up with the job he came down about, but they mightn’t have anything to do with each other.”

“Or they might,” said Randal March.

“Not if it’s Mrs. Duke, sir.”

“No, not if it’s Mrs. Duke.”

“Or John Higgins. There’s a strong jealousy motive there, and it’s suspicious that girl Eily being downstairs in her dressing-gown. In the lounge too, with the window unlatched. I must say before all this Duke business came out it looked very much to me as if Eily Fogarty had let Higgins in, and was letting him out again after Luke White was stabbed. She admits having gone into the lounge, and there was a window there unlatched.”

The Chief Constable glanced down at the pile of papers in front of him.

“So I see.”

Crisp continued a thought morosely.

“Then there’s this Miss Silver.”

March raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not telling me she’s a suspect?”

A good many years ago a delicate and insubordinate little boy of eight had shared his sisters’ schoolroom, a schoolroom presided over by Miss Maud Silver. The respect she then inspired had never left him. It had been cemented by a very real affection. He had certainly on one occasion owed his life to her professional acumen. The case of the poisoned caterpillars was an old story now, but he never forgot it. Subsequent encounters of a professional nature had only served to increase his admiration for her powers of observation and deduction. There was, in fact, no one whose opinion he more valued, or to whom he would more willingly defer. Aware that she was unofficially concerned in this case, he had been wondering what Crisp’s reactions would be. Inquiring whether Miss Silver was a suspect, he was, in fact, both indulging his humour and fishing to see what he would get.

Crisp sat up a little stiffly.

“I wish she was anything you could lay hold on. The Yard can do as they like, but I must say it all seems a bit irregular to me. I don’t say anything about her being down there to get the gossip of the place—that’s what she’s supposed to have come down for, isn’t it? But when it comes to Abbott treating her the way he does—well, she might be his superior. And mine.”

March leaned back in his chair. Crisp was ruffled, and Crisp must be soothed. He smiled slightly and said,

“I know. He’s worked with her a good many times before. I’ve heard him say that when she comes in on a case the police come out of it in a blaze of glory. And you know, actually it’s true. She’s a remarkable person. Do you happen to know what she thinks about this case so far as it’s gone?”

Crisp made an exasperated sound. But for the restraining influence of a superior officer it would undoubtedly have been more emphatic.

“I don’t know what she thinks. I can tell you what she does. Sits there and knits, and keeps on asking ever so often what about Al Miller.”

March shook his head.

“Albert—surely Albert—”

Crisp stared.

“Well, that’s his name, I suppose. Everyone calls him Al.”

“I should be surprised if Miss Silver did. So she asks about the missing Albert, does she? Well, what about him?”

Crisp frowned.

“I made sure we’d have picked him up by now. Nobody seems to have seen him since he walked out of Ledlington station and said he wasn’t coming back. That would be about seven-thirty Sunday morning. Of course there wouldn’t be a lot about— people lie in Sundays. What I can’t make out is why she thinks it matters. He couldn’t have been mixed up in the murder, and that’s flat.”

“Ask her.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Ask her why she thinks it matters. If she keeps wanting to know about him she’ll have a reason, and it will be a good one. On the whole, I think we’d better find him.”

If it had been anyone but the Chief Constable, Crisp would have let fly. He restrained himself with an effort which brought the dark blood to his face and said with some emphasis,

“Look here, sir, he couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He was out of the Catherine-Wheel by half past ten. We don’t have to rely on Castell for that, because Captain Taverner watched him go. He was drunk, walking unsteadily, and singing bits of a song he’d been trying to sing earlier on in the lounge. Irish, I believe it is. Something about a girl called Eileen. It’s in the statements.”

“Eileen alannah—yes.”

“That was just before half past ten. The Wiltons, where he lodged, say he was in before half past eleven. He made a shocking noise, singing this same song and stumbling on the stair. Mr. Wilton was fed up and told him he could clear out in the morning, and he went down and locked the door and took away the key so as Miller couldn’t get away without paying his bill. There’s St. James’ church at the bottom of the street, and the chimes went for half past eleven as he was locking the door. Luke White was found dead a little before one. We had the telephone message at one a.m. The blood was still wet when we got there. The medical evidence is that he must certainly have been alive at half past ten. Dr. Crewe saw him at a quarter to two, and said he’d been dead something under an hour. Well, Al Miller couldn’t have done it. Now could he?”

“Unless he got out of a window and went back to the Catherine-Wheel. I suppose he could have done that.”

“I put it to the Wiltons was there any way he could have got out of the house and back again, and they said they could swear to it he didn’t. Seems his room was right over theirs, and he kept them awake the best part of the night—in and out of bed, to and fro in the room, groaning and carrying on. Now they’re very respectable people, and they were properly worked up about it. Mrs. Wilton says she heard twelve o’clock strike, and one, and two, before she could get any sleep. They’re properly worked up about Al Miller, and no reason to clear him, but as she says, right’s right, and she’s ready to swear he didn’t leave the house all night. As you know, he was there all right in the morning. Paid his bill at the bedroom door and got the key to let himself out. It’s my idea Miller walked out in a huff. He’d been on the edge of it for weeks. Well, he’s gone, and he won’t turn up again until he wants to. If he’s heard about the murder, that would be another reason for keeping out of the way. People disappear without half his reasons. He can’t have had anything to do with murdering Luke White. And what Miss Silver wants, going on about it like she does, is more than I can say. Just waste of time, sir, if you ask me.”

Randal March hadn’t asked him. He said in his pleasant voice, “All the same, you know, Crisp, I think we’d better find him.”

Miss Silver sat in a corner of the lounge, to all appearance quite taken up with her knitting. Not very far away from her Marian Thorpe-Ennington engaged in conversation with Mildred Taverner. Occasional words and phrases were sufficiently audible to make it clear that she was imparting another instalment of that fascinating serial, her life story. Such phrases as, “The very first time he saw me… swore, actually swore, that he would jump out of the aeroplane,” and, most surprising of all, “blood on the diamond wreath, and blood on the floor.”

Mildred Taverner was undoubtedly fascinated. Her Venetian beads clashed against her gold chain as she shuddered, her pale eyes remained fixed upon Lady Marian’s beautiful face, her pale lips parted upon a hardly intermittent “Oh!”

Miss Silver continued to knit in a very thoughtful manner. When the door was presently opened and Frank Abbott looked in she rose, picked up her knitting-bag, and advanced towards him.

“If you can spare the time, I should be glad of a few moments, Inspector.”

He held open the door into Castell’s office.

“I shall be delighted.”

When he had shut it behind them she went across to the window and stood there looking at the room. There did not appear to be very much to look at, and with what there was she must by this time have surely been familiar, yet she continued to gaze in a rather abstracted manner until Frank Abbott said,

“I ought to know by now when you’ve got something up your sleeve. What is it?”

“My dear Frank!”

He returned her reproving glance with a smile.

“Come—out with it!”

She shook her head very slightly, came over to the low chair which she had occupied before, turned it round to the fire, and having seated herself, took up her knitting, observing,

“There is really a good deal that I would like to say, and if you can spare the time I should like to say it now.”

He pulled up another chair and stretched out his feet to the comfortable blaze.

“ ‘Time spared is time saved,’ as the proverb says—and as you know, I am very much at your service.”

Miss Silver’s eyes dwelt upon him indulgently, her voice only mildly critical as she said,

“I do not recall any such proverb.”

“Perhaps not. It’s an impromptu contribution of my own. After all, they have to be started by someone. I dedicate it—without permission—to you.”

“My dear Frank, when will you learn not to talk so much nonsense?”

His hands were deep in his pockets. He looked at her lazily through his fair lashes.

“I don’t know. But I’m finished for now. What did you want to talk to me about?”

Her needles clicked briskly.

“Our own particular connection with this case, and to what extent it is linked with the murder of Luke White.”

“Interesting thesis. Go on.”

She gave a slight cough.

“We came down here to investigate certain vague rumours with regard to the Catherine-Wheel. These involved the possibility that it was being used as a place of call by smugglers, by persons engaged in the illicit drug trade, or by jewel thieves. Chief Inspector Lamb pointed out that this family reunion organized by Mr. Jacob Taverner might be intended to cover some special activity connected with one of these illegal pursuits. As you know, a murder took place during the night following our arrival. It is of course possible, in theory, that the murder has no connection with these illegal practices—in fact they have not yet been proved to exist. The whole matter has advanced very little from its original realm of suspicion and conjecture. In spite of which I must tell you that I am quite unable to dissociate the murder of Luke White from what I may perhaps term our case.”

Frank nodded.

“That means that you reject the case against John Higgins. His motive would be a strictly private one—jealousy over Eily Fogarty.”

She inclined her head.

“It was not John Higgins who murdered Luke White.”

The light eyebrows were raised.

“Sure as all that? All right, exit John. What about Florence Duke? Her motive would be a private one too—unless Crisp digs up evidence to connect her with the dope trade or any of these jewel thefts, in which case she might have fallen out with Luke over a division of the swag.”

Miss Silver gave a hortatory cough.

“My dear Frank, pray recall the undisputed evidence of the position of the body and the position of the wound. If Luke White was killed where he was found, the murderer was immediately behind him on the bottom step. No one has yet supplied any theory which makes this intelligible if Florence Duke is supposed to have committed the murder. On the other hand, if he was not killed where he was found, what possible motive could she have for dragging him there? It could not have been done by one person without making enough noise to run the risk of bringing someone down to investigate. We have been over all this before, and I do not see my way to supporting a case against Florence Duke.”

“Well, what do you support?”

Her needles clicked.

“I have come to certain conclusions. They are these. The murder greatly deepens the suspicions attaching to the inn. Mr. Jacob Taverner’s party, and the circumstances leading up to it also deepen those suspicions. We will come back to this later. I believe that those suspicions are justified, and that the death of Luke White is linked with the circumstances which gave rise to them. It is my opinion that at least two people were engaged in the murder, and that it certainly did not take place in the hall.”

He looked at her keenly.

“Two people?”

“It would have required two people to carry the body to the place where it was found, if this was to be accomplished without risk.”

Frank was regarding her with a slightly quizzical air.

“Is that all?”

“I have reached no definite conclusions beyond these. But I have some observations to offer on the subject of Mr. Jacob Taverner and his party.”

“What are they?”

“These, Frank. I have had opportunities of conversing with several of the Taverner cousins. All of them have been extremely communicative. They are, Captain Jeremy Taverner and Miss Jane Heron—friendly likeable young people—Lady Marian Thorpe-Ennington, and Miss Mildred Taverner. Lady Marian has the habit of talking about herself and can easily be induced to do so. Miss Taverner is nervously apprehensive. She has led a very narrow life, and the murder has alarmed her very much. Her brother represses her. She is frightened of being alone, and has been glad of my company. From these four people I have learned that Mr. Jacob Taverner has made a point of pressing each of them as to what they may have heard about the Catherine-Wheel from their grandparents, with whom there was in each case a rather particularly close association. Looked at in the light of what has since happened, those questions would seem to refer to the existence of some concealed passage from the house to the shore. Miss Taverner gave me the best information on this point. Jane Heron really knew nothing. Captain Taverner said his grandfather had mentioned such a passage, but he had no idea where it was, and so he had told Mr. Jacob. Lady Marian talked a great deal, but I really did not discover that she knew anything. Florence Duke denied any knowledge, but admitted to having been questioned by Mr. Jacob Taverner. She has not been inclined for conversation, but when I put the question to her directly she answered me. I am, however, very strongly of the opinion that she was holding something back. I did not question Mr. Geoffrey Taverner. His manner to me has been discourteous, and I did not think I should gain anything by doing so.”

Frank Abbott drew up his legs, leaned forward, and put a log upon the fire. He knew his Miss Silver tolerably well, and it wasn’t like her to flog a dead horse. He said,

“But Jacob Taverner knew all about the passage to the shore. He took the whole party through it on the Saturday night as soon as they had finished dinner. He showed it to us without any hesitation, and we’ve been through it with the proverbial toothcomb. No contraband, no corpses. Not the least, farthest smell of a clue.”

The fire blazed up. Miss Silver’s needles caught the glow and flashed it back. She said very composedly,

“I refer, of course, to the other passage.”

There was a brief electric silence. Frank Abbott got to his feet gracefully and without hurry. Standing against the mantelpiece and looking down at her, he said with some accentuation of his usual manner,

“Would you mind saying that again?”

“My dear Frank, you heard me perfectly.”

“It was the mind that boggled, not the ear.”

“Pray bring your mind to bear upon the evidence. Since Jacob Taverner was already aware of the passage leading from the cellars to the shore, his questions cannot be taken as referring to it. But he did, either directly or by implication, question four or five of the Taverner cousins as to their knowledge of a secret passage. I believe he questioned them all, but there is no evidence in the cases of Mr. Geoffrey Taverner, John Higgins, or Albert Miller. These questions cannot be taken to apply to the passage leading out of the cellars.”

“He might have wanted to find out if they knew about it.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I believe not. The impression left upon my mind after hearing what these people have to say, and especially after listening to Miss Mildred Taverner, is that the entrance to this second passage is somewhere upstairs. Miss Taverner’s grandfather—he was Matthew, the second son of old Jeremiah Taverner—told her that when he was a very little boy he woke up frightened because he heard a noise. He went to see what it was, and he saw a light coming out of a hole in the wall. He was dreadfully frightened, and he ran away back to his bed and pulled the blankets over his head.”

“Is that all?”

“That is all she could tell me.”

“He may have dreamed the whole thing.”

“It is, of course, possible, but I do not think so. It is the kind of thing that a child would remember.”

Frank looked down meditatively into the fire.

“Interesting theory,” he said. “Not of any immediate practical value perhaps.” He bent down and carefully added another log. Then, as he straightened up again, “And what, after all this, are your views on Jacob Taverner?”

She stopped knitting for a moment and looked at him very seriously indeed.

“I am unable to make up my mind. There are, of course, two possibilities. His father was old Jeremiah Taverner’s eldest son, a second Jeremiah. After his father’s death he came in for the whole of the family property, but he is said almost immediately to have severed his connection with the Catherine-Wheel. I gather there was an impression that a sale had taken place. But this was not the case. The inn was leased.”

“Yes—March handed that on. There were two generations of Smiths, father and son, and when the last one died the place reverted to Jacob Taverner. Castell was already manager and he kept him on. The question of course is, had the Taverner connection with the Catherine-Wheel ever really ceased—did the smuggling trade still go on, with part of the profits going to Jeremiah the second, and afterwards to his son Jacob—have they continued during the last five years—and is Jacob an active partner? That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

Miss Silver was knitting again. She said,

“Precisely.”

“Well, that brings us back to what do you think of Jacob Taverner?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“I have seen very little of him. Yesterday, as you know, he kept to his room. Today he came down to lunch. He complains of the cold, and is said to be suffering from a chill. He appears to me to have had a shock, but so have we all. He may be implicated in the smuggling, but not in the murder.”

“You think that?”

“No. I have not enough information to draw any conclusions. It is merely a hypothesis which would account for the known facts. If he were implicated in the smuggling, it would explain his desire to find out whether his Taverner cousins were in a position to give away any secrets. If there were two passages, one of which was very much more important than the other, he might consider it well worth while to sacrifice one of them by making it public property, and thus protect the secrecy of the other. He would hope that any stories or rumours, whether current locally or preserved by the family, would thus be laid to rest. This would account for his getting the family together and making a feature of displaying the passage from the cellars and the shore. It will, of course, occur to you that Luke White may have been murdered in order to preserve the secret of the other passage. If he knew of it, and was using his knowledge to blackmail his associates, there would be no need to look any farther for a motive. I may say that I consider this far more likely than the motive of jealousy insisted on by Inspector Crisp.”

“It might be.”

“It is not possible at present to say whether Mr. Jacob Taverner is implicated or not. He may be merely what he appears to be, an elderly man with a great deal of money, no ties, and the desire to promote a family reunion, perhaps with the intention of deciding upon the terms of his will. He might have a financial interest in the Catherine-Wheel, without any knowledge of its smuggling activities, if indeed these exist. There is, of course, no proof that they do, only a good deal of suspicion, and the suggestion that where there is smoke one would expect to discover a fire.”

Frank stood up straight.

“In fact Jacob may be innocent, and so may the Catherine-Wheel. We’ve got nasty suspicious minds, and we are apt to see what we are looking for—as per my esteemed colleague Crisp. Well, we shall see.”

Miss Silver was folding up her knitting and putting it away. She now rose to her feet.

“Just one moment, Frank. I would like you to have this carpet washed.”

“My dear Miss Silver!”

“Very carefully, of course. I should not, perhaps, have said washed. I should like it to be examined very carefully, with a view to ascertaining whether there are any bloodstains.”

“Bloodstains?”

“Recent ones, of course. The colour of the carpet and its dirty condition would conceal them.”