Who Killed Charmian Karslake? Read online

  Larpent took a few steps up and down the room.

  “Suppose I tell you that you are entirely mistaken – that I did not recognize Charmian Karslake at Hepton, that I was not in that room leading off the conservatory?”

  The inspector put one hand in his coat pocket and there was an ominous jingle.

  “I shall have no choice but to arrest you as an accessory before the fact to the murder of Charmian Karslake. We know much more than you think, Mr. Larpent. You can only save yourself and others by speaking out.”

  The barrister went over to the small, barred window and stood with his back to the detectives, staring out at a small patch of blue sky that was all that could be seen. At last he turned.

  “If I tell you that I did not recognize Miss Karslake when I first saw her, that I was not in the room off the conservatory –”

  “When did you recognize Miss Karslake as Sylvia Gossett?” demanded the inspector.

  John Larpent drew in his lips.

  “How do you know that she was Sylvia Gossett?”

  “By the testimony of people who knew her. There is no possibility of any mistake, Mr. Larpent. You had better speak out. My patience is not unlimited,” the inspector added severely.

  “There is very little I can tell you,” John Larpent said with a side look at the detective. “I had no idea that I had ever known Charmian Karslake when I heard she was coming to Hepton. I did not recognize her when she came into the hall, though I had a haunting sense of familiarity with her voice. When she entered the ballroom I saw to my amazement that she was a young actress whom I had known as Sylvia Gossett.”

  “Did you speak to her or dance with her?”

  “No” – Larpent faced the inspector fairly enough now – “I neither spoke to her nor danced with her.”

  “You were in the smoking-room at the end of the passage. Didn’t Miss Karslake speak to you when she came in?”

  “I was not there when she came in,” Larpent said, holding up his head, a shade of defiance creeping into his voice. “I came into the conservatory with my partner and left her there while I went in search of ices. I certainly passed through the small smoking-room. But I saw nothing of Miss Karslake there and I came back through the ballroom to the conservatory.”

  “Was there anyone in the smoking-room when you went through?”

  Larpent’s momentary hesitation did not escape the inspector.

  “No, there was not!” he said at last.

  The inspector kept his eyes fixed on Larpent’s face.

  “That is all you can tell me, sir?”

  “Certainly it is,” Larpent said steadily. “I knew Miss Gossett very slightly. To Charmian Karslake I never spoke at all. I could not even be certain that they were the same person, though to the best of my belief they were.”

  “You couldn’t give me any information with regard to Miss Gossett’s marriage?”

  “I could not. Was she married? I really knew scarcely anything of her.”

  The inspector did not speak at first, then after a momentary pause he said slowly: “That is your last word – there is nothing more to be done, Mr. Larpent.”

  Larpent only responded by a slight bow as he turned to the door. The detectives stood by to let him pass. Then Stoddart beckoned to a man who was doing something at a window close at hand in the corridor.

  “You saw that barrister who came out of this room just before us?”

  “Yes, sir – Mr. Larpent it was. I know him well by sight.”

  “H’m! He doesn’t know you, does he?” the inspector questioned sharply.

  “Oh, no, sir. But I am often round here and I get to know a lot of folks.”

  “Well, have him shadowed. Worledge will relieve you and report yourselves at the Yard when you go off duty.”

  Harbord and Stoddart departed, making their way from the Law Courts as quickly as possible. Outside Stoddart looked down the crowded Strand.

  “I think we will walk down the Embankment, have a rest and a bit of supper and get to the station in good time. What did you make of Mr. John Larpent?”

  “A good liar,” Harbord said laconically.

  The inspector nodded.

  “Did he marry Sylvia Gossett?”

  Harbord shook his head.

  “I don’t know, sir. My opinion all along has been that it was the other, but now I am not so certain.”

  “They are both of them in it, of course.” Stoddart looked at the rippling river without speaking for a minute. “The motive is much stronger in Dicky Moreton’s case, of course. Larpent may be only an accomplice. Will Moreton speak out?”

  “Would he have assaulted his wife?” Harbord asked slowly. “That’s the weak point, sir. Suppose that both these men are innocent. The two Moretons are a good deal alike. And Larpent appears to have been Sir Arthur’s friend,” Harbord said thoughtfully. “We have definitely failed to prove any connexion between Sir Arthur and Charmian Karslake. At the time of the marriage he was with his regiment at Carlisle. At the time, as near as we can ascertain it, of the murder he was in the smoking-room with several of the house-party.”

  “That certainly seems to narrow it down to the other two,” said the inspector. “Besides there is the registry of the marriage and Mrs. Sparrow’s unbiased testimony. I think we can rule out Sir Arthur from the case. And yet – I don’t rule anyone out at present. Wartime marriages, you know. Sir Arthur might have had short leave just then. And the smoking-room alibi may not hold water. We’ll look into that more thoroughly when we have seen Mr. Dicky.”

  “You will make the arrest?”

  “Either when he comes off or later. I do not want to do it publicly if there is any way out. At the same time, they are getting impatient at headquarters.”

  The two detectives met at Waterloo and after a quick run to Southampton settled down to await the arrival of the “White Wings.” It came in true to time. Neither Mr. Juggs nor his son-in-law was to be seen, but Venables was watching for them. It seemed a long time to Harbord before the preliminaries were gone through and at last the detectives were able to go on board. Before, however, Stoddart had put his foot on the gang-way a familiar figure sprang down to him and he was greeted by a familiar voice:

  “I declare it is the same old sleuth. Makes one feel quite at home to see your dear old phiz, inspector.”

  “Just as well that it does, Mr. Moreton, for I expect you will see a good deal of it in the near future,” Stoddart said grimly.

  “Do you really think so?” Dicky’s voice and manner were unchanged, but the inspector fancied he looked thinner and more worn in spite of the additional tan acquired on the “White Wings.” It was the first time, too, that the inspector had seen him without his monocle. This morning Dicky held it in one hand and tapped the fingers of the other with it in a dégagé fashion.

  “And it was kind of you to meet us,” Dicky went on in a chaffing tone. “Made me feel that somebody wanted me, don’t you know?”

  “I fancy a good many people are likely to want you in the future.” The inspector was not in a mood to be trifled with.

  “I see what you mean, old thing.” Dicky’s tone did not alter one whit. “Jack Ketch and all that sort of thing; but there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

  “Certainly there may be. For your sake I hope there will be.” The inspector drew in his lips. “Now, Mr. Moreton, we are wasting time. I must trouble you to come with me. I hold a warrant for your arrest for the wilful murder of your wife, Sylvia Penn-Moreton, otherwise Gossett, otherwise Charmian Karslake, at Hepton Abbey on the 24th of April last. And it is my duty to warn you that anything you say in answer to the charge will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.”

  “The same kind old sleuth!” Dicky ejaculated. “Regular guardian angel, keeping the record, eh? I hope your fountain-pen is full, old dear. For I shall probably say a good deal. What is that you are murmuring? Shorthand? Dear, dear! And now what do you say to a little tod
dle? Such a lot of people beginning to take an interest in us, you know. And Father-in-law waiting to speak his mind.”

  “I have a car waiting,” said the inspector, beckoning to it.

  Two or three men who had been standing near closed in. Dicky glanced at them with a smile.

  “Nice-looking lot of assistants you have, inspector,” he said as he got into the car. “And your sleuths have been so attentive on the yacht. Father-in-law has cursed them all terribly.”

  The inspector placed himself beside his prisoner, Harbord sat opposite and another man outside.

  “So glad you don’t want to put those nasty steel things on my wrists,” Dicky remarked, looking plaintively at his hands.

  “Mr. Moreton, does it ever strike you that you talk too much?” the inspector inquired severely.

  “Can’t say that it does.” Dicky screwed in his monocle now. “We couldn’t ride along in this old bus and not speak a word, could we? And by and by it is you who will be doing all the talking, apologizing and all that, don’t you know. Father-in-law is threatening terrible things to you all, especially you. Still you may be sure I shall do my best for you. You’ve been a tidy old sleuth all along.”

  The inspector made no answer to this sally and presently Dicky relapsed into silence. Not for long. Silence was a real physical impossibility to Dicky, and he made various spasmodic attempts at conversation with both Harbord and the inspector.

  They drove to the junction and caught the midday train to Medchester. They went through straight to the old gaol on the hill, leaving Dicky in the charge of the police.

  Before leaving him the inspector spoke to him seriously:

  “You have a solicitor, of course, Mr. Penn-Moreton. It will be best for you to send for him at once and put yourself in his hands. You will be charged with the murder of Charmian Karslake in the morning, and my advice to you is to say nothing and reserve your defence. Also tell your solicitor everything just as it happened.”

  “Good old thing! I am sure you mean well!” Dicky said gratefully. “You’ll have to look me up before I’m turned off, you know. And now I think I’ll just send a wire for Larpent. Good-bye, old dear.” And Dicky disappeared for a short sojourn in the cells.

  “Dear me, what a to-do there will be when it gets into the papers,” the inspector said to Harbord as they walked across to the nearest restaurant.

  “Silas P. Juggs will make things hum,” Harbord remarked. “Dicky seemed to say his father-in-law was wholeheartedly on his side.”

  “Will he be when he has heard all there is to hear against Mr. Dicky?” the inspector inquired pertinently. “When he realizes what sort of a husband his dear daughter has got – or rather that she has not got a husband at all. For of course his previous marriage with Sylvia Gossett will invalidate that with this American lady altogether.”

  “Of course it will. I saw that,” Harbord assented. “But it is a good thing she is an American. A marriage more or less doesn’t make much difference to them.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The old town of Medchester was in a ferment of excitement. In all Meadshire there was no family older or more respected than that of the Penn-Moretons. Meadshire was justly proud of Hepton Abbey as perhaps the most interesting show-place in the Midlands.

  The Penn-Moretons had always held their heads high and now a member of the family was lodged in the gaol at the top of the hill, charged with the murder of a great London actress, who turned out to have been only a poor girl living on the Canal bank at Hepton. That she was or ever had been Dicky’s wife Medchester society absolutely refused to believe. No Penn-Moreton of them all had married beneath him. For the most part they had raised themselves either financially or socially by their marriages.

  Dicky had made one appearance before the magistrates. He had been supported by his brother, by his father-in-law and by a host of friends, for Dicky was a general favourite. By the advice of the family solicitor who had represented him, Dicky had said nothing, but had merely reserved his defence.

  That the case was very strong against Dicky, the solicitor, Mr. Medlicott, did not attempt to disguise. But the general public had little idea of what was to be brought against him, as the evidence had been little more than formal.

  The police had asked for an adjournment in order to make further inquiries in connexion with the case. But today many developments were expected, and the wildest rumours were current.

  Dicky was decidedly thinner and paler, than at his arrest, when he was placed in the dock. Sir Arthur, looking careworn, sat immediately behind him, with Mr. Juggs, truculent as ever, John Larpent, anxious and heavy-eyed, and a whole host of the Penn-Moretons, friends, many of whom had been members of that ill-starred house-party at Hepton Abbey. Sylvan Wilmot, the greatest criminal lawyer of the day, had been instructed by Mr. Medlicott.

  The magistrates filed in, took their places on the Bench. The chairman was a grave, white-haired old squire, who had known Dicky from babyhood. He was looking perturbed and worried as he glanced round the crowded room. The prisoner had been the bosom friend of a son of his who had been killed in the Great War. Before the case was opened he turned over some papers that lay before him and finally drew out a piece of paper and a common-looking blue envelope. Then he glanced across at Stoddart.

  “I feel it is my duty to let you see – er – this document, inspector. So far I have shown it only to my colleagues on the Bench. I will not make the contents public, but I think I should show it to you, inspector. I know you will agree with me that it is attempting a contravention of justice.”

  He handed the paper to an usher, who took it across to the inspector. Stoddart, looking a little puzzled by the chairman’s exordium, took the paper and looked at it with growing amazement. The paper, blue in colour and very thin, was possibly the commonest procurable, evidently a sheet torn from a writing-pad of the poorest description. Across it was carefully written in printed characters – “Dicky Penn-Moreton did not kill Charmian Karslake. From the One Who Did.”

  Stoddart read it through and glanced up in surprise.

  “When did this come, Sir John?”

  “Second delivery this morning,” the chairman said laconically. “Otherwise you would have seen it before.”

  Stoddart was turning the envelope about. He saw that the postmark was Medchester. He looked at Larpent who was sitting with his arms crossed, his eyes gazing straight in front of him; his dark face immovable, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Stoddart turned back to the chairman.

  “May I keep this, Sir John?”

  “Of course. I hope you may be able to trace the writer.”

  “I hope so,” the inspector assented. “At any rate we shall do our best.”

  A murmur ran round the Court which was quickly suppressed. It was rumoured that, in Stoddart’s opinion, the paper contained the confession of the real murderer. People craned their necks in a vain attempt to gather from Stoddart’s expression the contents of the envelope.

  Dicky himself cast a curious glance across. Mr. Juggs moved nearer as though to seize the paper from the detective’s hand.

  The clerk to the magistrates, sitting just beneath them, looked round severely.

  Officials from St. Mary’s, Marylebone, proved the marriage of Peter Hailsham and Sylvia Gossett.

  Mrs. Sparrow appeared, voluble and inclined to be tearful, and after some moments of indecision, identified the prisoner as the man she had known as Peter Hailsham, and Larpent as the man who had been best man. She also swore that the photographs of Charmian Karslake were those of the Miss Gossett, afterwards Mrs. Hailsham, who used to attend St. Mary’s in the days of Father Thompson. Mrs. Walker was the next witness. She gave an account of Charmian Karslake’s earlier struggles in New York. Then Dr. Brett appeared and deposed that he had seen the body of Charmian Karslake and that, to the best of his belief, it was that of a young girl named Sylvia Gossett who had formerly lived in Hepton.

  Of him Sylvan Wilmot aske
d his first question – why he had not spoken of this recognition sooner.

  It was quite obvious that Dr. Brett was considerably discomposed.

  Gossips from Medchester nudged one another and exchanged glances as he explained that he had not felt positive at the time – that the conviction had strengthened later. Further, that it was not so much Miss Karslake herself that he recognized, as he had not met her since she was a child, but the very strong likeness he had seen to the Mrs. Gossett who used to live on the Canal bank at Hepton and with whose appearance he had been familiar.

  “Ay! Too familiar!” the gossips smiled.

  John Francis Larpent was the next witness called. He gave his testimony in a clear, matter-of-fact tone. He had known Sylvia Gossett in London, and had been present at her marriage with the prisoner who had passed as Peter Hailsham. He had no idea that she came from Hepton. Had not at first recognized her when he saw her at the Abbey, but had done so in the ballroom. He had neither spoken to her nor danced with her. His acquaintance with Miss Gossett had been but slight. Looking back, he considered that he had behaved badly in assisting at her marriage without telling her the true name of the bridegroom, but had no doubt that the marriage was perfectly legal. Pressed, he acknowledged that Peter Hailsham was a name that had been used at times both by himself and by Richard Penn-Moreton. He, at one time, had himself written for the press, and had occasionally used this pseudonym. He did not know on what occasions it had been used by Richard Penn-Moreton, except at his marriage, but had been informed that it had been so used.

  “Who informed you?” the chairman asked.

  Witness returned that it was the prisoner himself.

  The chairman asked next that the paper, now in inspector Stoddart’s possession, might be handed to the witness.

  Questioned again, Larpent stared at the paper in obvious amazement, and stated that he had no previous knowledge of it or of the sender.

  When he stood down Inspector Stoddart intimated that that was as far as the police were prepared to take the case today, and asked for a further remand.

  The chairman formally adjourned for a fortnight to give the police time for their inquiries. Dicky was taken back to the cells, his brother, Mr. Juggs and his solicitor being allowed access to him. The magistrates retired and the spectators poured out, hotly discussing the question of Dicky’s guilt or innocence and marvelling at what was contained in the mysterious note.