The Mystery of a Butcher's Shop (12 page)

‘That's a threat, you know,' said Jim, reddening.

‘By no means, sir. Well now. I understand that you were the last person to see your cousin, Mr Sethleigh, before his' – he made a slight but suggestive pause – ‘his sudden disappearance.'

‘You can't prove that,' said Jim. ‘And look here, inspector, there's no sense in going over all that ground again. You asked me that the last time you came.'

‘Very good. So I did. Well now. What was Mr Sethleigh wearing when you walked into the Manor Woods together at' – he consulted his note-book – ‘at five minutes to eight on the evening of Sunday, June 22nd?'

‘I'm not swearing to the time, mind!' cried Jim jumpily. ‘I don't know what the time was. The date is all right. Rupert was in dark brown, I think.'

‘Plus fours, sir?'

‘No. It was Sunday evening. A lounge suit.'

‘I see.' He glanced at his note-book again. ‘The colour of the suit as given by Mrs Bryce Harringay is medium to light grey. And she says it was not a lounge suit nor plus fours, but a pair of grey flannel trousers supported by a silk scarf, and that he was also wearing a tennis shirt, owing to the heat of the day and the fact that a cold supper was to be served at ten o'clock instead of the usual dinner at a quarter to eight.'

He glanced up keenly into Jim's angry face.

‘Look here,' said the young man, clenching his fists inside his blazer pockets, ‘I don't know what you mean by checking all my statements against those of my aunt. I'm telling the truth as far as I can remember it. I'm a man. I don't notice what people wear. My aunt's a woman. She does notice such things. And, anyway, what difference does it make what he was wearing?'

‘Well, sir, if he's roaming about the countryside and we want to look for him, a good deal, I should say. And if that's his corpse which was found in Bossbury market, a good deal more, because' – he eyed Jim keenly again – ‘we haven't discovered the clothes belonging to that body yet. And we haven't been able to identify that body yet either.'

‘I thought you'd all made up your minds it was Rupert,' said Jim. ‘Didn't Uncle Reggie find his skull or something? I heard some garbled yarn from Aunt Constance about it.'

The inspector smiled.

‘It's an interesting little story, that, sir. Care to hear it?'

Jim shrugged his shoulders and commenced filling his pipe.

‘A skull was presented to your uncle, the Bishop of Culminster, by a man named Markham. The bishop showed the skull to the Reverend Stephen Broome, Vicar of Wandles here, and they had a bit of an argument about it. The upshot was that Mr Cleaver Wright, the artist chap up at the Cottage, took it to his studio with the idea of building up the head and face on to it. Well, I decided to take charge of Mr Wright's model, which was the image, I'm told, of your cousin Mr Sethleigh, and it's up at the station now. At least, the bits of it are, for when we broke up the clay in which Mr Wright had modelled the head and face there was no skull inside at all! Nothing but a coconut, sir.'

‘That's interesting,' said Jim, offering his pouch to the inspector.

‘No, thank you, sir. I don't smoke when I'm on duty. Well, I was somewhat knocked out, as you might imagine, especially as, between ourselves, the superintendent and I had come to the conclusion that the skull was a red-herring. Now we are not sure. Of course, we've questioned Mr Wright on the matter, and he tells rather a funny tale which may or may not be true. He says that he dabbed clay all over the skull to make a kind of foundation to work on, and then he was called away to speak to someone at the door. When he came back he went on with his modelling, as he thought, exactly where he left off. But it almost seems as though somebody must have stolen the skull and substituted the coconut while he was gone. He was absent nearly three-quarters of an hour, you see.'

Jim shrugged his shoulders, relighted his pipe, which had gone out, and tossed the match into the garden.

‘I wish, sir, you would tell me what passed between your cousin and yourself in the woods that Sunday evening,' said the inspector, after a pause.

‘Well, I know it had no connection with his disappearance,' replied Mr Redsey curtly.

‘I suggest that it had, Mr Redsey. We've received an important letter from a firm of solicitors in London, signed by the senior partner, a Mr T. T. Grayling, which makes us rather anxious to know what happened in the Manor Woods that evening. Reading between the lines of that letter, Mr Redsey – for you know what lawyers are; always very guarded; never give themselves away – it almost seems as though you and your cousin quarrelled that night.'

Jim shifted uneasily in his chair.

‘What if we did?' he said. ‘I imagine it isn't an unknown thing for cousins to have a bit of an argument?'

‘Bit of an argument hardly meets the case, Mr Redsey,' said the inspector. He drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair a moment, and then rose.

‘Well, sir,' he said, ‘I must say I think you'd do better to come across with what you know. Oh, don't tell me that!' And he held up a large square hand to stem the flood of angry denial which the young man commenced to pour forth. ‘I've had a good bit of experience, sir – not in cases of murder' – he lingered slightly over the dreadful word – ‘I must admit. But I know men pretty well, and I know when people are concealing something from me. . . . It's no good going on like that, sir. The more you use language like that, the more certain I am that I'm right. And I say you'd do better to come clean. I'm speaking ex-official, and I'm giving you a friendly tip. So now, what about it?' And he sat down again.

‘I'll tell you one thing,' said Redsey dryly, ‘and that is, I think you are right about the body being that of my cousin. Rupert Sethleigh was more than a bit of a blackguard. I found that out when my aunt and I went through his private papers after his disappearance. Our idea was to find something to give us a lead in tracing him. We didn't get that, but we got plenty of evidence that at least six people had a splendid motive for murdering the beast.'

The inspector nodded.

‘Yes, sir. You're right. I came across the same evidence myself in his desk. I am glad you were not so foolish as to destroy it for the sake of the family name, or anything of that kind. Sethleigh was a moneylender at exorbitant rates of interest, and he was in possession of enough incriminating evidence against certainly four, perhaps five, and possibly six persons of recognized wealth to have allowed him to live in luxury on the proceeds of blackmail for the rest of his life.'

‘Yes. Well, there you are then! One of 'em has done in my precious cousin, and a good job too!'

‘Well, sir, you may be right, but I don't think so. No, I fancy we shall have to get some other reason for Mr Sethleigh's disappearance or death. You see, sir, we've got on to all those six people, and the curious part of the matter is that, although Sethleigh knew enough to get one of 'em hanged and the others penal servitude or social Coventry for life or thereabouts, he doesn't seem to be known to a single one of them, and they are all living in peace and prosperity, and aren't even alive to the fact that there ever was such a fellow as Rupert Sethleigh. What do you make of that?'

‘This,' said Jim doggedly, removing his pipe and pointing the stem of it at the inspector. ‘The names of these six happen to have come to light. They know nothing of my cousin –'

‘They will soon, when I've put Scotland Yard on their track,' grunted the inspector. ‘You see if they don't!'

‘Yes. My point is this, though. What about all his other victims, whose names have not yet come to light?'

‘Ever go to the Picturedrome in Bossbury High Street, sir?' asked the inspector, grinning broadly. ‘I used to go regular when I was courting. We used to see headings on the films very like that mouthful you've just spoken. Mind you,' he added, with lumbering tact, ‘I don't say there's nothing in the idea. I don't say that at all. All I do say is – it takes me back ten years at least, blowed if it don't. Victims! That's a good word, that is. Victims!'

He sat and bellowed with joy.

‘Don't mind me,' said Jim, furious. The inspector sat up and mopped his brow.

‘No offence, sir,' he remarked, rising and resuming the mantle of gravity. ‘Well, I'd better be off, unless, of course – ?' He looked enquiringly at the young man.

‘If you mean, will I make a voluntary statement, or some such rot as that, you can jolly well hop it out of here,' said Jim savagely. ‘I'm not going to do your sneaking work for you!'

The inspector left him, and was walking down the drive towards the lodge gates when he met a perspiring and very dusty middle-aged gentleman in morning dress, who stopped to speak to him.

‘Inspector Grindy? You received my letter? I ought to say that in justice to my client – perhaps I ought to say my late client – Mr Sethleigh, you should find out whether his cousin, Mr Redsey, was acquainted with the terms of his will.'

‘What about the terms of his will, sir? You suggested something about a will in your letter.'

‘Yes. Yes, I did. But one hardly likes to commit oneself on paper, you know, inspector.
Littera scripta manet!
Eh? Paper is so – so permanent at times. Yes. Well, this is the point. It seems to me I ought, in fairness to my client, to mention it, especially if he has met with foul play. According to the terms of Mr Sethleigh's will, this Mr Redsey inherits the whole fortune and estate with the exception of about three thousand pounds. If the will were altered in accordance with a rough draft which Mr Sethleigh drew up less than three weeks ago, and which I have in my possession, Mr Redsey would find himself completely disinherited, as the result of a serious quarrel between the cousins.'

‘They did quarrel then?' cried the inspector. ‘What was the cause, sir? Do you know that?'

‘Money. Mr Redsey wanted Mr Sethleigh to make him an advance – a loan, of course, not a gift – to enable him to buy a share in a Mexican ranch instead of going out there as a paid servant of the owner, a friend of his.'

‘And Mr Sethleigh refused?'

‘In the roundest terms, inspector. Rather a pity, I think, as he could so easily have afforded the money.'

‘Redsey was angry, of course, sir?'

‘Very angry. According to Sethleigh, he said, at the conclusion of one of the several acrimonious arguments which took place, “Very well, you mingy devil! I suppose the stuff will be mine some day! Perhaps that day will come sooner than you think!”'

‘And after that Mr Sethleigh decided to alter his will and leave Redsey out of it?'

‘That's it. But, you see, he hasn't had the chance, apparently. I came down on Monday last and interviewed Mr Redsey, as Sethleigh was not there. A most unsatisfactory interview in every way. Oh, and a curious feature of the afternoon was Redsey's determination that Mrs Bryce Harringay and I should on no account approach the Vicarage by way of the Manor Woods. He went through the most extraordinary manoeuvres to prevent it.'

‘The Manor Woods?' said the inspector thoughtfully. ‘I wonder – ? We've exhausted the clues in Bossbury, I think, and in this house. In fact, I don't really know that there were any in Bossbury except fingerprints. Plenty of those! But who to fix 'em on to beats me, sir, blowed if it doesn't! But the Manor Woods! Tried to prevent your going in, did he? Did it come off?'

‘I humoured him,' confessed the lawyer. ‘I am sorry now that I gave way.'

‘Well, he won't prevent
me
going into them,' said Inspector Grindy, ‘although, after all this time – a full week, you see – I doubt whether there will be anything much worth finding. Still, thanks for the tip, sir.'

‘A pleasure,' said the lawyer. ‘Well, I might as well return to Town. You are the person I came to see, and I would just as soon not encounter Mrs Bryce Harringay,' he added, as he saw the stately matron approaching them across the lawn, ‘as I am in haste to return to the station.'

‘There's just one thing,' said the inspector, ‘and that is – could you give me any idea of a birthmark or other marks Mr Sethleigh might have had on his body, by which he could be identified?'

‘No idea! No idea!' cried the lawyer, observing with dismay that Mrs Bryce Harringay was hastening towards them, and obviously had recognized him. ‘No idea at all! So sorry! I must really get that train!'

So saying, he gripped his neat attaché-case a trifle more firmly, snatched his silk hat from his head, and sprinted rapidly down the drive.

‘Mr Grayling! Mr Gray-ling!' called Mrs Bryce Harringay behind him. The lawyer clenched his teeth and put a spurt on.

Mrs Bryce Harringay approached the inspector.

‘Most unfortunate,' she said, raising lorgnettes and glaring after the flying figure of the lawyer with an expression of intense annoyance upon her florid countenance. She objected strongly to calling loudly after people who took no notice of her cries.

‘He was trying to catch a train, I believe, madam,' said the inspector soothingly. ‘I suppose you can't offer any suggestion as to what became of that skull, madam, can you?'

‘What information, exactly, are you attempting to extract from me, inspector?' enquired Mrs Bryce Harringay haughtily. ‘Pray ask your questions in a proper manner. I object to your attitude and your tone.'

‘Have you any reason for supposing that in a fit of absent-mindedness the bishop might have taken the skull away from Mr Wright's house?' enquired the inspector bluntly.