The Darke Chronicles (2 page)

Thornton nodded. ‘Do you mind if I walk about while I talk? It will help me recall the details more clearly.’

‘The house is yours.’

‘This room will do.’

‘That’s one of the things I like about you, Edward. You are so literal. Pray begin.’

‘The murder occurred three nights ago at the Curzon Street mansion of Laurence Wilberforce. There was a small dinner party with six guests, business associates of Wilberforce, some of whom brought their wives.’

‘Armstrong’s wife was there?’

‘He’s a widower.’

‘Ah. Another avenue closed. Resume.’

‘There
were Lord and Lady Clarendon; Mr Clive Brownlow, the Member of Parliament for Slough and his wife, Sarah; Jack Stavely, a junior partner in one of Wilberforce’s concerns and apparently very much a blue-eyed boy. And Armstrong.’

‘And Armstrong.’

‘Richard Armstrong who until recently worked for Wilberforce as a designer but left twelve months ago to set up his own business, helped by a generous loan from his old boss. But part of the arrangement was that he had to pay the money back within the year.’

‘How much?’

‘£5,000.’

Darke pursed his lips. ‘A considerable sum.’

‘One which he could not repay.’

‘You know this for certain?’

‘Indeed. He freely admits it. His business is in great financial difficulties. Only the previous week he had written to Wilberforce asking for more time to settle the debt.’

‘And the old boy refused?’

Thornton nodded. ‘Apparently Wilberforce was a harsh, unsentimental man in business.’

‘And that is seen as a motive for murder.’

Thornton nodded.

‘Very well. So what happened?’

‘All the guests had arrived, but Wilberforce had not shown his face. Mrs Wilberforce, Beatrice, was somewhat annoyed at his non-appearance. Apparently, he had retired upstairs to his dressing room over an hour before and had not been seen since. She sent up their butler, a fellow called Boldwood, to inform him that the guests had arrived. The butler returned some minutes later to say that Wilberforce was not in his dressing room, but that the door to his study, a chamber that adjoined the dressing room, was locked and a light could been seen at the bottom of the door. Somewhat concerned, Mrs Wilberforce asked Jack Stavely to go upstairs with her to investigate. It was as the butler had said. The study door was not
only locked, but it was bolted – and bolted from the inside, thus clearly indicating that there was someone within. After knocking on the door for some moments to no avail, it was felt that perhaps Wilberforce had fallen ill and was in no fit state to withdraw the bolt. With Mrs Wilberforce’s permission, Jack Stavely broke the door down. And what a tragic sight met their eyes.’

‘Describe this tragic sight.’

‘Lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood was the master of the house. Near to his body was a long-bladed knife. The man was dead.’

Darke rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Fascinating. One assumes he died as a result of being stabbed.’

‘There was just one knife wound to the stomach.’

‘A pretty puzzle, Edward. How could the murderer leave the room if it was bolted on the inside?’

‘Precisely.’

‘There is no suggestion that this was an elaborate suicide?’

The policeman shook his head. ‘Practically it is possible, I suppose, but it would take tremendous courage to stab oneself in the stomach in such a way. However, I am certain that it was not suicide. There was no reason for him to take his life. Life was very good for Laurence Wilberforce. I’ve checked both his medical records and his financial situation. He was very healthy in both departments. And besides, suicide was just not Wilberforce’s way.’

‘Well, let’s hear the end of this captivating tale.’

‘The Yard was summoned and I was assigned to the case. Before I arrived, Jack Stavely discovered one of the visitors’ coats smeared with fresh blood. It was still damp. It turned out that the coat belonged to Richard Armstrong. Stavely immediately accused Armstrong of the murder. Sergeant Grey had to restrain him from attacking Armstrong. Mrs Wilberforce then showed us a letter her husband had received from Armstrong, in which veiled threats were made to Wilberforce. He said he needed more time to pay his debts, adding something like … ‘if you are intent on breaking
me on the wheel in this matter, the consequences will be far the worse for you.’

‘Nicely phrased. So on these two pieces of evidence – a smear of blood and an angry letter – you arrested Armstrong for the murder of Laurence Wilberforce.’

‘I had no alternative. Sometimes one has to do things one doesn’t believe in, especially as a public servant. But the more I’ve considered the matter, the less convinced I am that Armstrong is the guilty party. But I don’t know why. I think the key to the whole problem is how the murder was committed.’

‘Indeed. My very thought, too. Let us go back to this study for a moment. Describe it to me.’

‘It is a small room, some ten feet square. There was a fireplace, with a fire burning in the grate. The chimney aperture was too narrow to allow access.’

‘Even for a child?’

Thornton gaped. He hadn’t thought of that. ‘Even a child,’ he said at length.

‘Window?’

‘There was no window and no ceiling trap. We’ve had the carpet up and moved the desk and bookcase, which were the only pieces of furniture placed against a wall.’

‘So in essence what we have is a sealed box with a door.’

‘Yes. And that was bolted from the inside.’

‘A very pretty puzzle indeed, Inspector Thornton. I thank you for bringing it to my notice.’

‘But can you solve it?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Darke gave his companion a lazy grin. ‘All one needs to do is to view the problem from a different angle.’ With great care he lifted the sleeping cat from his lap and placed it down on the rug before the fire. It stirred fitfully in its slumbers and then, shifting its position slightly, returned to its feline dreams. ‘Sorry, Persephone, my friend,’ he murmured gently, ‘but I have to leave you now.’ Swilling the remainder of his whisky down, he turned to
his visitor with enthusiasm. ‘What say you, Edward? I think it best if we visit the scene of crime together; then we can really get to grips with this mystery.’

The two men decided to walk from Darke’s town house in Manchester Square to Curzon Street. ‘The sharp autumnal air will revitalise the brain cells,’ Darke observed as George, his manservant, helped him on with his overcoat.

Although it was only just after noon, the November day was already darkening, and the fog that earlier had begun to disperse was now thickening and closing in once more, cloaking the city in a bleary haze. Their fellow pedestrians loomed as dark silhouetted phantoms before them. It was the sort of weather that Darke liked, and he felt at home in its sooty embrace.

‘Tell me about Wilberforce’s wife, Beatrice,’ he said, as Thornton fell into step with him. ‘Was she very upset when she found her husband?’

‘Naturally, she was distressed.’

‘But this distress quickly turned to anger.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, when the blood was discovered on Armstrong’s coat, you said she very promptly produced the letter with the well-phrased threat, determined to prove that he was the culprit. Her husband’s murderer.’

‘Yes.’

‘So the lady was able to repress her grief sufficiently to retrieve this missive, one which strengthens the guilt of Armstrong. All which suggests that anger, rather than grief, was governing her actions. What do you know of their marriage?’

‘There was very little gossip about it. They have been married for twenty-two years and have no children. It was rumoured that in the early days Laurence Wilberforce was something of a ladies’ man, but…’

‘Age
cools the ardour, eh? I met the man once. A cold fish, as I recall. There was no humour or
joie de vivre
in his demeanour.’

‘A business man.’

Darke laughed heartily. ‘Precisely – you put your finger on it, Edward. The concerns of profit and loss place a handcuff on your soul.’

‘Do you suspect Mrs Wilberforce of the murder?’

‘No more than Armstrong, I suppose,’ said Darke. ‘In one sense she is the natural beneficiary: she loses a humourless husband and inherits his wealth. Motives enough, you will agree.’

Edward Thornton fell silent. An image of Beatrice Wilberforce flashed into his mind. A small, slender woman in her late forties, with her blonde hair turning grey. Her pale, rather pinched face had once been girlishly pretty but now it was set ready, eager almost, for old age. Did she have the determination and malevolence to carry out the cold-blooded murder of her husband and then implicate Armstrong? Well, even if she did, how did she do it? That problem remained.

Thornton’s reverie was broken by Darke’s announcement: ‘Well, my boy, it seems that we have arrived at our destination.’

Sure enough, the two men stood before the Wilberforce mansion in Curzon Street. The lights from the windows shimmered through the moist net of the fog.

‘Lay on, Macduff,’ cried Darke, pushing the inspector towards the door.

The butler, Boldwood, received the visitors and invited them to wait in the hall while he informed his mistress of their presence. He was a tall, dignified man, prematurely bald, with a naturally reserved and melancholic manner. As he walked away in a stiff, erect fashion, Darke nudged his companion. ‘By the look of his gait, our friend Boldwood was recruited from the ranks – an ex-soldier, sergeant probably – and that scar on his neck suggests that he has seen some action.’

‘Is
that relevant to the case?’

Darke grinned and shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant fashion.

Within minutes, Boldwood returned. ‘Mrs Wilberforce will see you in the drawing room, but I beg you gentlemen to keep your visit as short as possible. My mistress has not yet recovered her strength after her terrible loss.’ Although couched in formal terms, the statement was more of an order than a request.

‘We shall be a brief as possible,’ said Thornton.

‘Served in India, did we, Boldwood?’ asked Luther Darke.

The butler eyed his interrogator with suspicion. ‘I did, sir. 101st Bengal Fusiliers.’

‘Good man. The rank of sergeant, I should guess.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Boldwood paused for a moment, staring intently into Darke’s face with some puzzlement, and then neatly turning on his heel, he led them to the drawing room. As he held the door open, Darke leaned over and addressed him again. ‘I think it would be propitious if you join us, Boldwood, old boy. You can help fill in certain pieces of the puzzle.’

Reluctantly the tall manservant entered the room and positioned himself by the door.

Beatrice Wilberforce rose from the chaise longue on which she had been reclining to greet her visitors. Her face was gaunt and dark circles ringed her pale blue eyes. She seemed not to notice Boldwood’s presence. She looked with some disdain at her two visitors.

‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ Her voice was weary and distant.

Before Thornton could respond to this request, Darke moved forward and gave a low theatrical bow. ‘I am the one you can assist, dear lady. Luther Darke, a seeker of truth.’

The woman seemed somewhat taken aback by this effusive stranger in her drawing room and involuntarily she sat down on the chaise longue as if she needed it for support.

‘Mr Darke is assisting me in my enquiries,’ ventured Thornton for clarification.

Mrs
Wilberforce’s sour expression remained intact.

Darke moved closer to her and addressed her in the softest of tones. ‘I wonder if I can prevail upon you to recount the events on the evening of your husband’s passing,’ he said.

Beatrice Wilberforce glanced over at Thornton. ‘But I have already told the inspector everything I know several times.’

‘But you have not told me.’

A flicker of irritation passed across her brow, but it was gone in an instant. ‘If … if you think it will help.’

‘It may save a man’s life.’

Mrs Wilberforce seemed puzzled, but she made no comment on Darke’s enigmatic claim. In a firm, clear voice, she began to recount the events of the evening when her husband had died. ‘We were having a little dinner party – for no special reason. It was just a social occasion.’