The Misadventure of Shelrock Holmes (45 page)

"No doubt." The sergeant nodded. "Any of you recognize the fellow?" he went on, addressing the little group. "Suppose you step down and look. Bring the rest of them over, Harris. If possible we must get the body identified."

But although the score or more of visitors trooped dutifully down to where the dead man lay not one of them, so they declared, was able to throw any light upon his identity.

"Very well!" The sergeant snapped a rubber band about his notebook, placed it in his pocket. "That's all. You'll be wanted, at the inquest most likely, young ladies," he went on to Shirley and me. "If we need any of the rest of you people, you'll be notified." With a nod he dismissed the little group.

Shirley stood watching them and I felt sure, from my knowledge of her, that the features, the general appearance, of each one was

being recorded by her acute and sensitive brain. When they had drifted off to continue their sightseeing in care of the verger, she took me by the arm.

"What about tea?" she said.

But as soon as we had passed the doors of the Cathedral I realized that her mind was set on other things than tea. Watching carefully for a moment to make sure that no one had followed us from the building she drew me toward her car.

"Hurry, darling," she whispered. "We have work to do!"

I stared at her, astonished.

"Apparently you still think it wasn't a case of suicide?" I remarked,

as we got in.

"Suicide my grandmother!" snapped Shirley, glancing through the rear window of the car. "One of the most daring murders I've ever come across!"

"I don't see why you think so," I objected.

"It's simple enough! The dead man was left-handed! And left-handed people don't stab themselves with their right hands!"

"How do you know he was left-handed?"

"Because the fingernails of his left hand were much more worn and broken than those of his right! Because between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand was a dark smudge, made by the silver pencil when he wrote with it! Because he carried his money in his left-hand trousers' pocket! And because that woman I asked to walk down the steps ... the one who trod on his notebook . . . passed to the right side of him!"

"But ... I don't see what that shows."

"You would, if you thought a moment. A left-handed man would hold a notebook in his right hand, wouldn't he? And if he laid it down on the steps beside him it would be at his right side . . . just where that woman stepped on it!"

"But he had it in his left hand when we found him!"

"Which clearly proves that the murderer, when he put it there,

either forgot, or didn't know, that the young fellow was left-handed!"

"Shirley! You're . . . wonderful!" I gasped.

"The killer came up behind him, no doubt," Shirley went on, "as

he was sitting on the steps with his head in his hands. Throttled him

to silence with one arm about his neck . . . snatched up the pencil

with the other and stabbed him to the heart! Then lowered him on the slab, thrust the handle of the pencil into his right hand, the notebook into his left, and walked off ... after searching the body. . . ."

"How do you know it was searched?"

"One of the pockets was turned inside out. I looked through them myself, while you were calling the verger. Stuffed in his tobacco pouch I found this." She took a crumpled paper from her purse.

I read the words on it, written in a crabbed, feminine hand.

Received of Eric Sefton 30 shillings for one week's board and lodging in advance. MRS. ELLEN CHOWN —Dover Road.

"We're going there now," Shirley murmured. "To see Mrs. Chown. His landlady, it appears. The receipt, you may have noticed, is dated the day before yesterday!"

"But shouldn't we have told the police?"

"Yes. But they'll find out soon enough. And I wanted to get there first. Even now we may be too late!" She glanced at the house before which we presently drew up ... a small but very homelike cottage on the edge of the town. "Let me do the talking, Joan," she went on, as we hurried to the door.

The middle-aged woman who opened it for us seemed, I thought, a bit startled.

"Mr. Sefton isn't in,", she said, "but I'm looking for him back at any moment."

"I'm afraid he won't be back at all, Mrs. Chown," Shirley said gravely. "A young man answering his description was found dead in Canterbury Cathedral this afternoon . . ."

Mrs. Chown sagged against the door frame, her expression dismayed.

"Oh ... the poor young fellow!" she murmured. "My daughter will be terribly upset!"

"She was a friend of his, then?"

"In a way, miss. They'd got to know each other quite well, in the short time he'd been here. Such a nice young man!" She wiped a suggestion of tears from her eyes. "Mabel was real fond of him."

"If we might come in for a moment," Shirley said quickly, "I'd like to ask you a few questions. My friend and I" — she glanced at me — "are journalists from London." This was true enough, as far as /

was concerned, at least. Shirley might have been anything, from a duchess down.

"Why ... of course." Mrs. Chown ushered us into her small, plain parlor. "I'll be glad to tell you what little I know. Mr. Sefton arrived here about ten days ago. A writer, he said he was, a poet, on a walking tour for his vacation, and wanted lodgings for the night. The next day he liked his room so much he thought he would stay on, and paid a week's board in advance. The day before yesterday he paid for a second week. A very quiet respectable young man; spent most of his time in his room. My daughter, Mabel, who works for Frost & Chandler's, the florists, in town, used to talk to him, evenings. She rides to work every day on her bicycle, but of course, at night -

"I see," interrupted Shirley quickly, and I saw that she was tremendously interested. "Mr. Sefton didn't go out much, then?"

"Scarcely at all, miss, since he came. He wouldn't have gone to Canterbury today, he told me, if he hadn't wanted to get his hair cut."

"He was left-handed, wasn't he?" Shirley asked.

"He was, miss. But very quick with tools, just the same. I know, because he put a new stopper on the water butt for me. And fixed my rustic rose arbor, when the storm last week blew it down. And mended the broken kitchen step, just as good as new. You wouldn't think a writer would be so handy with tools."

"You certainly wouldn't," Shirley agreed. "Did he have many callers, Mrs. Chown?"

"Not a one, miss, all the time he was here, until this afternoon."

"This afternoon?" Shirley's eyes were snapping.

"Why . . . yes, miss. The man who came just before you did. A friend of Mr. Sefton's, he said, with a message for him . . ."

"Did you let him go up to Mr. Sefton's room?"

"Why . . . yes, miss. How did you know?"

"I suspected it," Shirley replied, frowning. "What did he want there?"

"To leave him a note, he said . . ."

"Oh!" Shirley rose. "I was afraid we'd be too late. Will you let us see his room, too, Mrs. Chown?"

"Why ... I don't know of any objection." The landlady went to the door. "There's really nothing in it ... the poor fellow only brought a knapsack. Come this way."

We hurried up the stairs. Mrs. Chown's statements about the young man's room were borne out by the facts. His knapsack, empty, hung on the back of the door. Its contents, a meager supply of shirts, socks and underwear, had been arranged in the drawers of the dresser. The small wooden table contained only a few gaudy-magazines, with no' sign of poems or literary work of any other nature to be seen. In fact there was not a letter or scrap of paper in the place . . . not even the note the young man's caller was supposed to have left for him.

"He must have changed his mind," Mrs. Chown muttered, her old eyes troubled. "When he came down, he asked me about Mabel . . . wanted to know where she worked."

"Indeed!" said Shirley, who was making a meticulous search of the room. "What did this friend look like?"

"He was medium-tail," the landlady replied, "smooth-shaved, and had on a gray suit ... or was it blue ... ?"

"How old?" Shirley groaned, realizing the uncertainty of all such evidence.

"Around thirty, I'd say."

Shirley led the way down the stairs. From her expression I was certain that she had not discovered a single clue of any value in solving the mystery. But her face still wore its gay and indomitable smile.

"Wouldn't you like to show us your rose garden, Mrs. Chown?" she said, as we reached the lower hall. "I adore flowers."

"I'd be proud to," the landlady replied. "Come this way." She led us to the kitchen, opened the rear door. "Here's the step Mr. Sefton fixed for me," she went on, as we passed into the garden. "Concrete. Much stronger than the old one was. And there's the rose arbor he mended." She indicated a rustic trellis covered with a mass of crimson blossoms. "The wind had knocked it flat. My larkspur and primroses are doing very well, don't you think?"

"They are indeed," Shirley agreed, but I saw that she was not interested, and after a few moments she put out her hand. "Thanks for your kindness, Mrs. Chown," she went on. "And don't say anything to the police about our having been here, will you ? They rather object to journalists butting in." She shook hands with the old lady and a moment later we were on our way back to the car.

"The murderer didn't find what he wanted when he searched the body," Shirley said, "or he wouldn't have come here."

"Do you think he found it here?" I inquired.

"That," Shirley smiled, "depends on whether he has gone to see Mrs. Chown's daughter. Since we are about to interview the young lady ourselves we shall soon know." She added another five miles to the speed of her small, smart roadster. "One thing is clear . . . Mr. Sefton was no poet. Did you notice the way the step, and that rose arbor, were mended ? Skillful work, my dear Joan. Our young friend, without meaning to do so, told the world that he was a first-class mechanic." She did not speak again until we drew up before the expensive-looking shop of Messrs. Frost & Chandler.

Miss Chown, a sharp-eyed, good-looking girl, was waiting on a customer when we came in, but presently joined us.

"You want to see me?" she asked, her manner apprehensive.

"Yes." Shirley laid her hand on the girl's arm. "About that man who called here . . . talked with you, this afternoon. The young man in a gray suit?"

"He wasn't young," Miss Chown objected. "Forty, at least. And his suit wasn't gray ... it was tan . . ."

"My mistake," Shirley murmured, giving me a triumphant glance. "Would you mind telling me what he wanted?"

The girl's eyes narrowed, at this.

"Why should I?" she asked. "Who are you?"

Shirley did not pursue the fiction of our being journalists.

"Miss Chown," she said gravely, "a desperate crime was committed in Canterbury Cathedral this afternoon. A young man, known to you as Eric Sefton, was deliberately murdered there!" She tightened her grip on the girl's arm as the latter swayed against the counter. "Don't do anything to attract attention, please, but I suspect that this man who came to see you was his murderer. He believes himself safe, for the time being at least, because the police think Mr. Sefton committed suicide. Please tell me, as briefly as you can, what the fellow wanted."

Miss Chown passed her hand across her eyes; it was clear that the news of Mr. Sefton's death had come as a great shock.

"Are ... are you sure it was . . . Eric?" she whispered.

"Not absolutely," Shirley said. "I am going to ask you, when we leave here, to go to the police . . . identify his body. But first tell me why that man came to see you." "He ... he wanted to know," Miss Chown stammered, "if ... if

Eric had given me anything of value to keep for him. He said he was a friend of Eric's and had been looking for him all the afternoon. It seems that unless he could produce this . . . this article . . . immediately, Eric would lose a great deal of money."

"He didn't tell you what it was?"

"No."

"Or that Mr. Sefton was dead?"

"Oh, no. He said he'd been trying to find him."

"And what did you say?"

"That Eric never gave me anything to keep for him at all ... that I knew nothing about his affairs. Finally the man went away. But I was frightened, because . . . because Mr. Sefton did tell me that . . . that somebody might try to rob him, and that was why he was afraid to go out. . . ."

"Rob him of what?"

"I don't know. He never said. But it must have been something he carried in his knapsack, because, when he first came, he wouldn't let the thing out of his sight. Later on, after he unpacked it, he didn't seem to care. . . ."

Shirley stood staring at the girl without seeing her; there was a queer, clairvoyant look in her eyes that told me her thoughts were far away. Presently she shook her head with a swift, decisive gesture, glanced at her watch.

"Half-past five!" she said. "You close at six, I imagine. Get your hat, Miss Chown! I'll arrange with the proprietors for you to leave!" She hurried to the small office at the rear of the shop and returned almost immediately with a slim, gray-haired gentleman who assured the sales-girl she was at liberty to go for the day. A moment later we were climbing into Shirley's car.

We did not, however, drive at once to the police station, but made a short stop at what appeared to be a newspaper office on the way. Shirley, although she left us for ten minutes, offered no explanations, and presently we were once more facing the beetle-browed sergeant who had questioned us at the Cathedral.

"Have you found out who the dead man was?" she asked.

"Not yet," replied the sergeant, eyeing us curiously, "but we are expecting reports at almost any moment."

"I think this girl may be able to identify him," S'hirley went on.

"Her name is Chown . , . Mabel Chown . . . and she works for Frost & Chandler, the florists. Unless I am very much mistaken the young man was a boarder at her mother's house."