Who Killed Charmian Karslake? Page 20

  Harbord and Stoddart came out with the local superintendent of police, Stoddart with the envelope and paper safely in his pocket-book.

  “Our first job must be to trace this anonymous communication home to the sender,” Stoddart said, tapping his breast pocket.

  “A hoax,” the superintendent remarked shortly.

  “I’m not so certain of that,” Stoddart disagreed. “It may be a feeble attempt to get Penn-Moreton off, or it may be, though I must confess this seems unlikely, that Penn-Moreton is innocent, and that the real murderer does not wish an innocent man to be convicted of his crime.”

  The superintendent raised his eyebrows. “Scarcely fits in with my conception of the Hepton Abbey murderer.”

  “No?” The inspector gazed straight in front of him, as the crowds from the Castle came pouring down chattering loudly among themselves, and anxious to catch their trains or trams. Then Stoddart looked round. “Suppose, just suppose for a minute, that Penn-Moreton is innocent, that the one who is guilty is attached to him and is going to make every attempt to get the young man off, short of disclosing his own identity.”

  The superintendent looked at him.

  “Larpent?”

  “I name no names,” said the inspector. “Time will show.”

  The superintendent still kept his eyes fixed upon him.

  “You arrested Richard Penn-Moreton.”

  The inspector shrugged his shoulders.

  “Headquarters’ orders, I had no choice. The evidence against him is terribly strong. Looked at dispassionately one can see no faintest hope of proving his innocence. And yet sometimes a creeping doubt does assail me. The weak point in the theory of the prosecution is, of course, the attack on Mrs. Richard. Supposing Charmian Karslake to have been murdered to keep the knowledge of Penn-Moreton’s first marriage and the consequent invalidity of the second from Silas Juggs and his daughter, would Richard Penn-Moreton have been likely to have committed a murderous assault upon Mrs. Richard? For, remember, she only escaped death by the skin of her teeth.”

  “A man is generally ready to sacrifice anybody or anything to save his own skin,” the superintendent remarked. “Anyhow, the father-in-law and, I suppose, the second wife seem to stick to Penn-Moreton, which is distinctly a point in his favour.”

  They went into the police station. Stoddart handed the envelope to the superintendent.

  “Posted in Medchester, you observe.”

  “It bears the Medchester postmark, I see,” corrected the superintendent. “That’s not so conclusive as it appears. There are a lot of, or at any rate several outlying hamlets, some of them several miles from Medchester, postmarked Medchester. A few years ago there were different post towns – Barsford, Lapstown and others – the advent of the motor-bus, rather of the motor-van, has changed everything. The mails can quite as easily and more quickly be collected from the country town.”

  “But aren’t the letters stamped at these little villages? The smallest of them has some sort of post office it seems to me.”

  “Not all of them,” the superintendent remarked. “Some of ’em are too small to be dignified by the name of villages or even hamlets. Still, of course, the probability is in favour of postage in Medchester. It would be much more easily done unobserved here.”

  “Exactly.” The inspector was twisting the envelope about. “No, there is not the slightest sign of anything but the Medchester postmark. The address is printed in the same characters as the note inside, not well done either – SIR JOHN BUCKLAND, GROOME HALL, MEDCHESTER. I should say, compared with the ordinary writing of the sender, it should not be difficult to discover the similarity of the two.”

  “The snag will be to get the two together.”

  “Ah! But it may not be impossible,” the inspector said thoughtfully, as they turned their steps towards the post office.

  “Here we are. Let us see if the post office can help us,” said the superintendent.

  They went in, and asking for the postmaster were shown into his office. The inspector explained their errand and produced the envelope and the enclosure, carefully keeping the writing concealed. The postmaster examined it.

  “It is impossible to say anything more, offhand, than that it has been stamped at this office,” he said at last. “The only help that I can give you is about the paper. That has been torn from a writing-pad, note size, and the paper is of the commonest kind. Well, ordinarily, I should know nothing about that, but for the last two weeks we have had a child staying with us – A niece of my wife’s – convalescing after an attack of double pneumonia. Well, this kid was for ever scribbling notes to her school friends and her brothers and sisters. She found writing-paper expensive, I suppose, and she told me with glee that she had found a shop where she could get writing-pads at threepence each. She showed me one the other day. It was blue, and it had faint lines across it, as this one has. But, if you could wait a minute, I’ll see if I can get the pad for you to look at. I believe Mona is in the house at the moment.”

  “I should be much obliged if you could,” the inspector said gratefully.

  They had not long to wait. The postmaster came back in a minute with a rather dilapidated writing-pad. The inspector spread out his anonymous communication, keeping the envelope carefully over the written sentence. One glance was enough to show that the paper was exactly similar, but the inspector examined the two through his microscope in the most careful fashion. At last he looked up.

  “Yes, there is no possibility of mistake. This is a stroke of luck. Near the station you say the shop is?”

  “Yes, a little lower down, nearer the town on the right-hand side. The name is Weaver.”

  “I am much obliged to you,” the inspector said again. “We will call on Mr. Weaver at once. Come along, Harbord.”

  The detectives left the superintendent outside, promising to look in again before they went back to Hepton, where for the present they had fixed their headquarters.

  They had no difficulty in finding the stationer’s. Weaver’s was just one of those old-fashioned shops that seem to survive and flourish regardless of modern improvements. Outside there were a few posters of newspapers. In the doorway were racks containing copies of the cheaper periodicals and paper-covered novels.

  Inside the shop there was a counter on each side, one with a varied assortment of penholders, pens in boxes, pencils, boxes of note-paper and envelopes. Opposite there were cigarettes, boxes of cigars and tobacco, with various properties needed by smokers – holders, lighters and all kinds of pipes.

  An elderly man with a bald head and a grey beard was moving about at the back of the shop. He came forward as the detectives entered and looked at them inquiringly. The inspector handed him his card.

  “Mr. Weaver, I presume? We have come to see you on a little matter of business.”

  Mr. Weaver looked at the card, took off his glasses, rubbed them, replaced them and looked at the card again.

  “Inspector Stoddart,” he read, “of the C.I.D. Gentlemen, I am at a loss to understand –”

  “Just a little matter of business, Mr. Weaver,” the inspector repeated. He drew out the envelope and the anonymous note and handed the former to the newsagent. “Can you tell me whether that envelope was bought from you?”

  Mr. Weaver looked at it and turned it about. Then his face brightened.

  “These envelopes and the writing-blocks to match are a special line of ours, inspector. I should say in all probability it came from here. Quantities of these envelopes and pads to match must be sold in other towns, but in Medchester we are the sole agents for the firm that supplies them. You would get no better or cheaper envelopes anywhere, sir. Can I show you –”

  He reached down a big box of envelopes and took out a packet.

  “Just the same pattern as yours, you see. Twopence per packet, and the writing-blocks to match are threepence. You wouldn’t get anything better or cheaper than them anywhere, though I don’t like praising my own goods.�
��

  “I’ll take a packet of the envelopes and a couple of the blocks. They are always useful to make notes on,” the inspector said, throwing a shilling on the counter.

  He picked up one of the blocks and, walking to the door, compared it with the sheet received from “The One Who Did.” Then he held the two out to Harbord. “Not much doubt about it, is there?”

  “None at all, I should think,” Harbord responded. “H’m! I shouldn’t go as far as that,” said the inspector. “But still, the probability – I wonder whether you sold one of these blocks yesterday, Mr. Weaver, or within the last few days?”

  “I sold a good few yesterday. Monday being market day we are pretty busy. Otherwise trade has been slack lately.”

  “Can you describe any one of your customers, or were any of them known to you?”

  Mr. Weaver shook his head. “I can’t say that I can. Several children were in. I know them by sight, but I couldn’t give them a name or tell you where they live. There was one gentleman, though, now I think of it. I never saw him before. A tall, dark man he was and he paid with a pound note which I don’t often get.”

  “Could you by any chance give me the number?”

  “Yes, I believe I could. I always take the numbers in case of any accident.” He opened a book. “Yes, here it is: 04792.”

  The inspector copied it into his note-book. “Well, we must see what we can make of this. If you should discover anything further please let me know at once, Mr. Weaver.”

  At the door he stopped and took out an envelope from his pocket-book.

  “I suppose you cannot tell us anything about this one, Mr. Weaver?”

  The news-agent came forward. It was a small envelope and heavily perfumed. Even from where he stood the faint smell of patchouli reached Harbord.

  “No, inspector,” Mr. Weaver said at last. “I had nothing to do with this. I have nothing of this sort in the shop.” He sniffed at it. “I should say by the look of it, this – hem – smell, it is foreign, though I see it has been posted in London.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Outside the shop Harbord looked at his superior.

  “Not much forrarder, sir?”

  “Well, I don’t know. That pound note was one of those given by the Bank to Charmian Karslake before she left London. I, too, have had an anonymous communication. That envelope I showed Weaver –”

  Harbord’s eyes grew keen. “Ah! That? I wondered –”

  The inspector quickened his steps. “We will go into the Games’ Ground as they call it. It’s just down here.” The Games’ Ground, with its lawn-tennis courts, its bowling green and its cricket-pitch, was absolutely deserted. Ordinarily, there would have been a few people here at this time, but, today, the big events that were taking place at the Castle on the Hill were absorbing all the interest of the Medchester folk. The inspector led the way to a seat in the middle of a large open space.

  “No chance of eavesdropping here,” he said, with a glance round. He passed the scented envelope to Harbord. “This was brought to me in Court this morning.” Harbord looked at the address – “To the Chief of Police, The Police Court, Medchester,” he read. The writing was weak and straggling, and slanted backwards across the envelope. The ink was very faint and the pen with which it was written had apparently been very fine. The thought occurred to Harbord that it looked rather as though it had been written by a spider with a pin.

  “Ever seen the writing before?” the inspector questioned.

  Harbord turned the envelope about. “I seem to have a vague idea that I have seen something like it. It looks to me rather as if the writer had tried to disguise it, though. It isn’t the same as the one the chairman received.”

  “Distinctly not!” the inspector agreed. “This was the enclosure.”

  Harbord made a face as he took it. “How it reeks of that beastly patchouli!”

  He unfolded the paper. Across it was written in the same spidery, wobbling hand as that on the envelope, “Richard Penn-Moreton did not murder Miss Karslake. You stupid policemen – you cannot see any further than the tip of your long nose!”

  That was all. There was no signature. No clue apparently to the identity of the sender.

  Harbord studied it in silence for a minute, then he looked up.

  “I should say this was written by the French maid.”

  “So should I,” the inspector assented. “You remember the writing?”

  “Can’t say I do,” Harbord said, holding the paper to the light and gazing at it. “But the phraseology made me think of Celeste. She is with some friends of Lady Moreton’s I think.”

  Stoddart nodded. “Lady Somerfield, at Trewhelly Castle,” he confirmed. “That is where she went when she left Hepton, and the only address she gave us in England. But she is not there now. I phoned from the Court and was informed that she was called away suddenly, a couple of days ago, by the illness of a relative. Lady Somerfield, quite an old lady, you know, was out for her daily drive when Mademoiselle received the summons and immediately departed. The local police were supposed to be shadowing her, but their shadowing does not seem to have amounted to much, for the young lady got clean away, and the only thing the Trewhelly police have been able to discover is that she took a first-class ticket from Trewhelly to Paddington. I expect she joined the express at Chester. Of course I wired to headquarters. There will be a regular contingent out ready in the Paddington district. It is impossible for a foreigner to hide himself or herself in London nowadays.”

  “Yes.” Harbord sat thinking for a minute or two staring at the paper, drawing his brows together. “I shouldn’t think Mademoiselle Celeste would have sufficient cash to keep her going for long. She may come to grief over that. I mean if she gets another situation or applies for one she will be spotted at once.”

  “She was pretty well down on her uppers when she was at Hepton,” the inspector said. “That was why she took a temporary place instead of having a holiday. But I hear from Trewhelly that she very soon began to throw her money about pretty freely.”

  Harbord raised his eyebrows. “Blackmail!”

  “I wonder!” The inspector stared straight in front of him. “Of course Celeste had every opportunity of helping herself to her mistress’s belongings before we arrived on the scene. We only had her account of what ought to be found there. I wouldn’t give a fig for the activities of the local police, either at Hepton or at Trewhelly. Bower has brilliant moments, but as for the rest –”

  “Neither would I.” Harbord hesitated. “It was queer she didn’t recognize the man she saw in the passage outside Miss Karslake’s room.”

  “Not so queer she did not recognize the man at the time,” the inspector corrected, “for you must remember that she went down to Hepton a stranger, knowing no one by sight. What does seem strange is that she could not pick the man out afterwards.”

  “For couldn’t read wouldn’t,” Harbord commented.

  “Precisely!” the inspector agreed. “She saw how it might be turned to her own advantage afterwards. But of course –”

  “Naturally!” Harbord assented. “That’s quite obvious. The question that has occurred to me more than once though is this – Was there a man there at all?”

  The inspector eyed his assistant curiously. “You mean that Celeste suffers from delusions, or that she invented the man in the passage.” There was a faint undertone of mockery in the inspector’s voice.

  “Neither,” Harbord said steadily. “I mean that Celeste herself shot her mistress.”

  “And her motive?”

  “Well, greed of gold. As you remarked just now, we have only Celeste’s account of what ought to have been found in Miss Karslake’s room. She may have had a great deal of valuable jewellery that we have never heard of.”

  “Quite.” The inspector took out his invariable companion, his note-book, and glanced at it. “But against this theory of yours –”

  “It doesn’t amount to a theory,” Harbord interrup
ted. “It is certainly not more than a question.”

  “Well, against this question, then,” the inspector continued, “in leading one to answer it in the negative are three facts, first indisputably, Miss Karslake was shot and fell to the floor on to the rug near the fireplace. Then she was picked up and placed on the bed. Now, Charmian Karslake was a tall woman, though slender, she was not thin. She was also a woman of the athletic type, while Celeste, like most of her countrywomen, took practically no exercise at all. As I see things it would have been a physical impossibility for Celeste to have raised Charmian Karslake’s body unaided and placed it on the bed.”

  “Still, many people have done seeming impossibilities in moments of excitement,” Harbord argued.

  “Granted. But why should Celeste move the body to the bed?”

  “Why should the murderer in any case?” Harbord returned. “Every moment spent in that room was an added danger. To my way of thinking, this case bristles with improbabilities that are practically impossibilities.”

  “How about the footprint?” the inspector said quietly.

  “A bit of a snag,” Harbord acknowledged. “But of course anybody can manage to procure another pair of shoes. There was nothing distinctive about these except the size.”

  The inspector smiled grimly. “No, no, you can’t ride a theory to death, Alfred. Providing herself with different shoes of a size that would be enormous for Celeste too would mean that the murder was premeditated. Now the evidence, as I see it, shows that Charmian Karslake was shot with her own automatic, after a violent struggle, probably following a quarrel. If her assailant had spoken out at the time a plea of manslaughter might have succeeded. As it is, should there be a conviction it will probably be tried as an appeal.”