The Ivory Dagger (14 page)

Adrian said quickly,

‘He was quite ruthless about it. He would rather have seen anything he wanted smashed than let it go to somebody else.’

Miss Silver’s needles clicked.

‘You did not find it altogether easy to work with him?’

‘Not altogether. But as far as Vineyards was concerned it wasn’t too bad—I didn’t see so much of him. He came and went of course, generally at the week-end, but for the most part I was here on my own.’

Miss Silver put down her knitting for a moment and looked at him across the pale pink wool.

‘I am going to ask you a very frank question. You may not care to answer it, but I hope that you will do so. Did you like Sir Herbert Whitall?’

He showed no hesitation in answering.

‘I don’t think he wanted to be liked.’

‘Had you any feeling of affection or friendship for him?’

He shook his head.

‘That’s the wrong way to put it. He didn’t want those things —he had no use for them.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Beautiful things that would belong to him—things other people wanted and couldn’t get. He valued a thing much more if other people wanted it. And he liked power. His money gave him a lot of that, but it wasn’t enough. He liked to have people on a string, so that they couldn’t get away if they wanted to. He liked to know something about them which wasn’t usually known—something they wouldn’t like anyone to know. He mightn’t ever use that knowledge, but he liked to feel that he had got it there to use.’

Miss Silver had been listening with an air of absorbed attention. She said,

‘Such a person as you describe would be liable to arouse feelings of acute resentment and even hatred. Quite a number of people might have been tempted to wish for his death.’

The hazel eyes looked straight into her own. Adrian Grey said,

‘Oh, yes, quite a number.’

At ten o’clock next morning Miss Silver was informed by Frederick that Inspector Abbott was in the study and would like to see her there. Not being as yet quite perfect in his part although a willing learner, this was Frederick’s version of a much more politely phrased request. Miss Silver, however, took no exception to it. She had been about to embark upon a truly thankless task. Her niece Gladys Robinson a selfish and flighty young woman, so different, so very different from her sister dear Ethel Burkett, had written to ask for a loan and to pour out a string of complaints about her husband, a most worthy man though perhaps a little dull and a good deal older than Gladys. He had been considerably better off at the time of their marriage, but he had been just as many years older, just as dull, and just as worthy. Miss Silver had long ago decided with regret that Gladys had married him for his income and not for his moral worth. She wrote with increasing fretfulness of having to do her own housework. She complained that Andrew was mean. She so far forgot herself as to say, in terms whose vulgarity shocked Miss Silver profoundly, that there were other and far better fish in the sea. On the last page of this latest letter she had actually mentioned the word divorce.

In her reply Miss Silver had got no farther than, My dear Gladys, I really cannot say how much your letter shocks me—when, interrupted by Frederick with his version of Inspector Abbott’s message, she laid down her pen with a sigh of relief, closed the blotter, and proceeded at once to the study.

Frank Abbott was alone. Coming forward to meet her, he inquired immediately,

‘Where is the magnifying-glass? I suppose you have it?’

Her glance reproved him. Her sedate ‘Good-morning, Frank’ was a reminder that the formalities had not been observed.

When he had responded and replied to a solicitous hope that he had slept well, she answered his question by diving into her knitting-bag and handing him the magnifying-glass.

‘I thought it best to take charge of it. In the circumstances it seemed inadvisable to leave it lying about.’

‘Oh, quite.’

He took it to the window, turning it this way and that until the initials came into view. Then he came back and set it down upon the writing-table.

‘Z.R. it is. And scratched on by his own amateur hand, I should say. Throws a sinister light upon Collectors’ morality. You wouldn’t think this sort of thing would be in any danger of being pinched, would you? But the Professor thinks it’s safer to put his initials on it. By the way, I was right about the minor prophets—Zephaniah, Haggai, Zechariah. Malachi. Professor Richardson is Zechariah. And so what?’

She seated herself and took out her knitting. Little Josephine’s second vest was well on its way. It was in a very thoughtful manner that she said,

‘It would be easy to attribute too much importance to the fact that the Professor’s magnifying-glass has been found in this room. I think you said that it had rolled under the table. I suppose you mean the writing-table?’

‘Yes.’

‘It may have been mislaid on some occasion previous to the murder.’

He shook his head.

‘I’m afraid not. The room was thoroughly turned out the day before Whitall and his party came down here. And Richardson wasn’t any where near the place until he came to dinner on the night of the murder.’

‘Did he not come into the study before dinner?’

‘I don’t know—it hasn’t been mentioned. But we can easily find out.’ He went over to the bell and pressed it. ‘There are one or two other points I’d like to take up with the butler.’

It was Marsham’s habit to answer the study bell. He answered it now.

‘Come in and shut the door. There are just one or two points where I think you can help me. The dinner-party on the night of Sir Herbert’s death—can you tell me in what order the guests arrived?’

‘Certainly, sir. Mr. Haile came early, just before half past seven. He had an appointment with Sir Herbert and he was shown in here. Mr. and Mrs. Considine came next, and then Professor Richardson. They were all asked for a quarter to eight.’

‘And did the Professor come out here?’

‘Oh, no sir. Sir Herbert and Mr. Haile were having their talk. The Professor went into the drawing-room.’

‘Then Sir Herbert was not in the drawing-room when his guests arrived?’

‘No, sir—he was in the study. It was gone eight o’clock before Sir Herbert and Mr. Haile came through.’

‘I see. And when the guests were going away, Mr. and Mrs. Considine went first, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, sir—at half past ten. They gave Miss Whitaker a lift as far as the bus.’

‘Ah, yes—Miss Whitaker. That was arranged beforehand?’

‘No, sir. Miss Whitaker came up to Sir Herbert in the hall. She said she had had a message to say her sister was ill, and she asked Mrs. Considine if she would give her a lift to catch the bus.’

Abbott’s eyebrows rose.

‘You mean that was the first Sir Herbert heard about it?’

‘It would seem so. He didn’t seem very pleased about it. He said suppose he was to say no, and Miss Whitaker said that she would go all the same.’

Inspector Abbott made a mental note to the effect that Miss Whitaker did not appear to be popular with the staff. He said,

‘Oh, he said that. Just how did he say it—angrily?’

Marsham hesitated.

‘It is not very easy to say. Sir Herbert wasn’t one to get heated, sir.’

‘And Miss Whitaker, when she said she would go all the same—how did she sound? Was it said lightly?’

‘Oh, no, sir.’

‘She was angry?’

‘I certainly thought so.’

‘There was no more said?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And she went with Mr. and Mrs. Considine?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Was Professor Richardson in the hall all this time?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He didn’t go into the study—you’re sure about that?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘How long afterwards did he leave?’

‘As soon as Mr. and Mrs. Considine had driven off.’

‘Then you are quite sure that he wasn’t out here in this room at any time during the evening?’

Question and answer had followed one another rapidly. Marsham had hesitated only once and then very briefly. Now there was a pause. He did not hesitate. He remained silent. Miss Silver’s steady attention became a little more marked. Her fingers were busy, her eyes on Marsham’s face. It remained expressionless.

Frank said sharply.

‘That is what you said, you know.’

‘I beg pardon, sir—you asked whether Professor Richardson came out here before dinner or when the party was breaking up, and I said that he did not. Now you ask whether he was out here at any time during the evening.’

‘Well—was he?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘And just what do you mean by that?’

‘It’s not very easy to say, sir—not in just a few words.’

Frank Abbott, sitting sideways to the writing-table in a negligent attitude, allowed his cool blue eyes to scan the impassive face.

‘Take as many words as you like,’ he said.

Marsham took them.

‘You’ll be aware, sir, that I made a statement to Inspector Newbury. I was asked a good many of the questions that you have asked me, and I answered them to the best of my ability. I was asked when I last saw Sir Herbert alive. I replied that it was just after Lady Dryden, Miss Lila, and Mr. Grey had gone upstairs.’

Abbott nodded.

‘I have the statement here.’

He picked up a paper from the table, turned a page, and read:

‘Sir Herbert came out of the drawing-room and went towards the study. I set the drawing-room to rights and went out to my pantry. At eleven o’clock I made the round of the downstairs rooms to make sure that all the fastenings were secure. When I came to the study I did not go in, because I heard voices. It was Sir Herbert’s habit to sit up late. I thought Mr. Haile might be with him—’

‘Why did you think it might be Mr. Haile?’

‘He was spending the night. I had seen Mr. Grey go upstairs, but not Mr. Haile. I thought he might be continuing his talk with Sir Herbert.’

‘You did not identify his voice?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You know that Mr. Haile says he did go to the study for a drink, but that he only stayed a few minutes and was up in his room before eleven o’clock?’

‘No, sir, I didn’t know that.’

‘It is in Mr. Haile’s statement, and it is corroborated by Mr. Grey, who says he saw Mr. Haile in his room with the door half open as he came back from having a bath, Mr. Haile was in his pyjamas, and it was then eleven o’clock. So it would not have been Mr. Haile whom you heard talking to Sir Herbert in the study after you had locked up.’

‘It would seem not, sir.’

‘In your statement you go on to say that having heard the voices and decided not to go in, you finished your round and went up to bed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then where does Professor Richardson come in?’

‘Sir?’

‘Look here, Marsham, you may be getting yourself into an awkward position. You have made a statement—you have answered questions put to you by the police. You could have refused to do so until subpoena’d by the Coroner’s court. What you cannot do and get away with it is to make a false statement.’

‘Sir!’

‘There is such a thing as a lie by implication. I daresay your statement is true as far as it goes. I daresay you passed the door of this room, heard voices, and thought that Mr. Haile was with your master. That is as far as the statement goes. And I’m telling you it doesn’t go far enough, or why didn’t you answer me when I asked you whether you were sure that Professor Richardson had not been out to this room at any time during the evening of the murder? There must have been something that made you hesitate. I am now going to ask you point-blank whether, after standing outside the study door and thinking it was Mr. Haile with Sir Herbert, you heard something that made you change your mind.’

Marsham’s face showed nothing. He said without any noticeable pause,

‘It wasn’t anything I could swear to.’

‘Well, I think you’d better tell me what it was.’

‘I had gone just past the door—’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, sir, I think I should tell you that I did hear something.’

‘What did you hear?’

Marsham said slowly,

‘It wasn’t words, sir. It was—well it was a sound. And it wasn’t the kind of sound I would have expected Mr. Haile to make.’

‘I think you’ll have to tell me what kind of a sound it was.’

Without any change in his expression Marsham blew out his large pale cheeks and emitted a sound that might have been ‘Pah!’ or’Pooh!’

The effect was laughable in the extreme, yet neither of the two who were observing him felt any inclination to laugh. The absurd imitation might very well bring its subject to his death by hanging. Miss Silver had no means of identifying this subject. Frank Abbott had. He had, in fact, not so many hours before been an entertained spectator whilst two ruddy cheeks were distended like balloons in order to expel that contemptuous ‘Pooh!’ or ‘Pah!’ He said quickly,

‘You recognized the sound?’

The contours of Marsham’s face was restored to their usual heavy dignity.

‘I wouldn’t take it on me to swear to it.’

‘I’m not asking you to swear to it. I’m asking you what you thought at the time.’

After a pause he said,

‘I thought it was the Professor.’

Frank gave a brief nod.

‘You stopped for another moment or so by the door?’

‘For no more than a moment, sir.’

‘Hear anything else?’

‘I heard Sir Herbert say something. I don’t know what it was.’

‘Did he sound angry?’

‘I couldn’t say, sir. Sir Herbert had a kind of cold way with him when he was angry. He wouldn’t raise his voice—not to notice.’

‘And that was all you heard?’

‘Yes, sir. I went along the passage, and when I had finished I went up to my room.’

The door closed upon Marsham. Frank Abbott let a full minute go by. Then rising from his chair, he strolled across and opened it again. The long passage was empty. He returned to the fire, noted that it required attention, and made an expert disposition of two small logs and a large one. When he had finished and was dusting his hands with a beautiful handkerchief in harmony with his tie and socks, he observed in a casual tone,

‘Just as well to be sure that he doesn’t make a habit of leaning against doors.’

Miss Silver looked at him across her pink knitting.

‘You think he heard more than he is willing to admit?’

‘Could be. No one ever tells everything they know—not in a murder case. I learnt that from you when I was in rompers. I thought he was holding something back. Didn’t you?’

‘I do not know. I think he recognized Professor Richardson’s voice a good deal more definitely than he admits.’

‘Oh, yes-—quite definitely. Likes the old boy, I wouldn’t wonder. Was not, shall we say, extravagantly attached to the late Whitall. None of the old retainer touch about our Marsham.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘I have yet to encounter a single person who can be said to have entertained the slightest affection for Sir Herbert Whitall.’

Frank’s fair eyebrows rose.

‘What an epitaph! “Here lies the man whom no one liked.” What would you think about adding, “and a good many people hated?” ’

‘I think it may prove to be in accordance with the facts.’

‘Nobody liked him—a good few hated him. That’s the verdict, is it? Into which of those two classes would you put Miss Whitaker?’

‘I would not care to say. There has been some strong feeling. She is undoubtedly suffering severely from shock.’

‘Well, she has been with him ten years. She may have been his mistress. I don’t suppose she murdered him. Newbury looked into her alibi, and it seems all right. She left at half past ten with the Considines, caught the Emsworth bus, and got off at the station at eleven o’clock. The sister is a Mrs. West living at 32 Station Road. She says Miss Whitaker got there just after eleven and went straight to bed—they both did. She said she had had a bad turn, and her little boy hadn’t been well. She rang her sister up because she was going to be alone in the house with him, and she wasn’t any too sure of herself.’

‘She is on the telephone?’

‘Yes, I asked about that. She has a masseuse boarding with her. She has the telephone, and allows Mrs. West to use it.’

‘And where was this masseuse?’

‘Away for the week-end. The story hangs together all right. Miss Whitaker took the ten o’clock bus back in the morning.’

Miss Silver went on knitting. From her expression Frank deduced that she still had something to say. He waited for it, leaning against the mantelshelf, the picture of an idle, elegant young man, fair hair mirror-smooth, beautifully cut dark suit. It was not very long before she coughed and said in a tentative manner,

‘For how long has Mrs. West resided in Emsworth?’

He looked a little surprised. Whatever he was expecting, it was not this.

‘Mrs. West? I don’t know. Wait a bit, I believe Newbury did mention it. There was something about her being new to the place. It came up in connection with her being alone in the house with the child. He said she probably wouldn’t know anyone she could ask to come in.’

Miss Silver pulled on a pale pink ball.

‘That is what I imagined. I think it probable that Mrs. West’s move to Emsworth followed upon Sir Herbert’s purchase of Vineyards.’

‘And the meaning of that is?’

‘I am wondering whether Miss Whitaker’s concern was so much for her sister as for a child who might have suffered if deprived of proper attention. May I ask whether Inspector Newbury mentioned the child’s age?’

‘Yes, I think he did—a little boy of eight. You mean?’

Her needles clicked. She said,

‘It is possible. It would, I think, explain some things, and suggest some others.’

As she spoke the last word, the door was opened. Frederick appeared, towering over the Professor. His ‘Professor Richardson—’ was a superfluity, since that gentleman immediately bounded into the room, his bald crown gleaming, the ruff of red hair standing up about it like a hedge. His deep voice boomed.

‘Well, Inspector, here I am! And what do you want with me? Newbury asked me all the questions in the world yesterday morning. You asked them all over again in the evening, and here we are again. I suppose you sit up all night thinking up new ones. It beats me how you do it.’

As soon as he drew breath he was introduced to Miss Silver.

‘Friend of Lady Dryden’s? Much upset, I suppose. Can’t imagine her upset, but suppose she is. I said so to Mrs. Considine—met her on my way here. And do you know what she said? She was at school with Lady Dryden, you know. Said she’d never seen her upset in her life. Didn’t allow things to upset her—that’s the way she put it. Said if there was a row or anything, Sybil always came out of it with everything going her way. I’ve known people like that myself. It’s quite a gift. But they’re not much liked—I’ve noticed that.’

He had come up to the fire, and stood there, leaning over it and rubbing his hands. He turned about now and addressed himself to Miss Silver.

‘The fact is, people who don’t have any misfortunes are very irritating to their neighbours. No opportunities for popping in with condolences and new-laid eggs. No visits to the afflicted. No opportunities for the milk of human kindness to flow. Naturally it doesn’t.’

He was so ruddy, so glowing, so pleased with himself, that it became every moment more difficult to picture him in the rôle of first murderer. And the motive—a dispute over the authenticity of an antique dagger? Memory stirred and provided Frank Abbott with a vista of belligerent letters to The Times—about this, about that, about anything. Disputes—the man’s past has been fairly littered with them. But no corpses. Then why now? The whole thing appeared in a ridiculous light. Yet the fact remained that the Professor had certainly been in this room on the night of the murder, and that fact he would have to explain.

As the booming voice stopped, Frank said in his quiet drawl,

‘Do you mind telling me which way you came in the other night?’

The Professor turned a pair of gleaming spectacles upon him.

‘What do you mean, the other night?’

‘The night Sir Herbert was murdered.’

‘Then how do you mean, which way did I come in? Which way does one usually come in? I came here to dine. I rang the bell, and I was let in by that six and a half foot of tallow candle, young Frederick What’s-his-name. He’ll tell you so if you ask him.’

Frank Abbott nodded.

‘Naturally. But that wasn’t the time I was talking about. You dined here, and you went away at half past ten, just after Mr. and Mrs. Considine. What I want to know is, when did you come back, and why?’

‘When did I come back? What do you mean, sir?’

‘Just what I say. You came back—probably to this door on to the terrace. You attracted Sir Herbert’s attention, and he let you in.’

The Professor blew out his cheeks, and said, ‘Pah!’

Frank, listening to the sound, reflected that it really was more like ‘Pah!’ than ‘Pooh!’ It was followed immediately by the word ‘Nonsense!’ delivered upon a growling note.

He continued equably.

‘I don’t think so. I think you did come to that door.’

Professor Richardson glared.

‘What you think isn’t evidence, young man. What my housekeeper can swear to is. She will tell you I was in by a quarter to eleven, and that is that!’

‘You were riding an autocycle?’

‘I always do. It is not a criminal offence, I believe.’

‘It might be a convenient accessory. If you were back in your house in the village in a little over ten minutes you could have made the return journey in the same time. You had had some dispute with Sir Herbert earlier in the evening. He put forward a story which connected this ivory dagger with Marco Polo.’

‘Fantastic? Completely and ridiculously fantastic! And so I told him! The earliest authentic record goes back no farther than the eighteenth century!’

‘At which point Mrs. Considine intervened and asked to hear some of her favourite records. Well, you wanted to have the thing out. You went home, stewed over it a bit, thought of a lot more things to say, put your magnifying-glass in your pocket and came along back. You knew Sir Herbert was given to sitting up late—you knew that he would be in this room. You came round on to the terrace, he let you in, went and fetched the dagger, and you took up the argument where Mrs. Considine had interrupted it. By the way, here is your magnifying-glass.’ His hand went into a pocket and came out again. He held it out with the glass upon its palm.

The Professor had a rash of blood to the head, to the face— one would almost have said to the hair. Sweat broke out upon him. He might have just emerged from a cauldron of boiling water. He said with a growl in his throat,

‘What’s that?’

Your magnifying-glass.’

‘Who says it’s mine?’

‘It has your initials on it.’

The red heat the man was in, his glaring eyes, the ferocity of the growling voice, threw back to the savage and the animal.

Miss Silver, continuing to occupy herself with little Josephine’ vest, regarded the scene with intelligent interest. Anger was both a disfiguring and revealing passion. The old proverb ran, In vino veritas, but it was not the drunken man alone who spoke the truth. Anger could be as sovereign to loosen the tongue as wine. The Professor’s tongue was loosened. He blew out his cheeks to their fullest extent. He made strange guttural noises. A cataract of words emerged.

‘My initials are on a magnifying-glass—and the magnifying-glass turns up in this room! So very convenient! How do these things happen? Perhaps the experts from Scotland Yard can inform us! And because my magnifying-glass is here I have murdered Herbert Whitall! That is the next thing you will say, I suppose! Continue! Say it!’

Frank’s manner became even cooler.

‘Before either of us say anything more I had better caution you that anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’

The Professor broke into what was certainly laughter, though it had a very belligerent sound.

‘All right—you have cautioned me. I needn’t make a statement at all. I can consult my solicitor and all the rest of it. Bosh! I shall make any statement I like, and I don’t require a solicitor to instruct me how to tell the truth! So I killed Herbert Whitall, did I? Perhaps you’ll tell me why! Anyone except a homicidal maniac has got to have a motive. Where’s mine? Tell me that, Mr. Clever from Scotland Yard!’

Frank went over to the writing-table and sat down at it. Drawing a writing-pad towards him and picking up one of Sir Herbert’s beautifully sharpened pencils, he observed,

‘Well, you did have quite a heated dispute with him.’

The Professor ran his hands through his frill of red hair and hooted.

‘Dispute! You call that a dispute! My good young man, my career has been punctuated with disputes! I didn’t like Herbert Whitall—never met anyone who did. Entirely without veracity, human feeling, or scientific integrity—pah! But I never got as far as wanting to kill him. Why should I? If I didn’t kill Tortinelli when he called me a liar on a public platform—if I didn’t murder Mrs. Hodgkins-Blenkinsop when I had to listen to her talking pestiferous twaddle for two hours at a conversazione— why should I assassinate Herbert Whitall? I tell you anyone who could endure that woman for two hours is a master of self-control! I tell you I wasn’t even rude to her. My hostess implored me, and I restrained the impulse. I merely approached her and said, “Madam, the statements which you have put forward as fact are inaccurate, your method in presenting them is dishonest, and I would recommend you to leave history alone and turn your attention to fiction. Good evening!” ’ He broke into ordinary human laughter. ‘You should have seen her face! She weighs fifteen stone, and she gaped like a fish. For the first time in her life she couldn’t think of anything to say. I left before she came round. Well now, you see I am a person of restraint and self-control. I preserve the scientific outlook—I am calm, I am detached. Why should I murder Herbert Whitall?’

The paper in front of Inspector Abbott remained blank. He said negligently,

‘I didn’t ask you whether you killed Whitall. I asked you whether you came back here on the night that somebody did kill him.’

The Professor had approached the table. He now threw himself into a convenient chair, thumped the stuffed arm, and said,

‘Oh, no, you didn’t, young man—you didn’t ask me anything at all. You told me I came back, which is a very different matter.’

‘Well, you did come back—didn’t you?’

The Professor thumped again.

‘Of course I came back! Why shouldn’t I! Is there any law against it?’

‘Would you care to tell me what happened?’

The Professor caught up the last word and hurled it back.

‘Happened? Nothing happened! Except that I was able to give him a good setting-down about his ridiculous ivory dagger. Marco Polo indeed! Late seventeenth or early eighteenth century work, so I told him!’

‘But I believe you bid for it.’

The Professor waved that away.

‘Not for myself. Can’t afford expensive fakes. A friend of mine, Rufus T. Ellinger, the beef king, cabled me to get someone to bid for it. Didn’t go myself—didn’t want to be associated with the thing. Ellinger had heard fancy accounts. He’s a good judge of beef but not of ivories. I told him it was pretty work but the story was all moonshine. I told him the sum he could go to. Whitall outbid him, and that was that. Paid a pretty penny for it—much more than it was worth. Naturally, he didn’t like it when I told him he’d been had for a mug. Wouldn’t admit it. Pah!’

‘And you came back to have it out. Why did you go home? Why not just stay on after the Considines had left?’

The Professor now appeared to be perfectly amiable. His colour had relapsed into its normal redness. The crown of his head was no longer suffused. His voice had ceased to boom. He said,