Who Killed Charmian Karslake? Page 3

  “In whose way?” Harbord questioned.

  “How can I tell?” the inspector continued. “There is a snag or two in any theory that I can evolve as yet. However, we shall know more about it in an hour or two.”

  Hepton Abbey was a little more than an hour’s run from town. As the inspector had prophesied, the first edition of the evening papers was procurable at St. Pancras.

  “The murder of Charmian Karslake” in big, black type occupied the front page of most of them. But of details, evidently little was known, nothing was there that the inspector had not already heard, the papers had to content themselves with reprinting the little that had reached them of Charmian Karslake’s career in the States, and giving long accounts of the play in which she had been taking part in London.

  It was already dark when they reached the station for Hepton. Here Sir Arthur Moreton’s car met them, and a run of a very few minutes brought them to the Abbey. They were taken at once to Sir Arthur’s study.

  He greeted Stoddart with outstretched hand. “This is very good of you, Stoddart. I remembered your work in the Craston Diamond Case last year – Lord Craston was a friend of mine, you know – and then there was the Barstow murder. You tracked Skrine down when there did not seem to be the ghost of a clue pointing to him, and I made up my mind to ask specially that you might be sent to us. This affair has got to be probed to the very bottom. That a woman should be murdered in my house and the assassin go unpunished is unthinkable.”

  The inspector permitted himself a slight smile.

  “It has not happened yet, Sir Arthur. And it is early days to think of failure in connexion with Miss Karslake’s death. Now, you are anxious that we should set to work as soon as we can, I know. I gather that the local superintendent has set a guard over the house and its inmates, so that no one who was known to have slept in the house last night has been allowed to leave.”

  Sir Arthur nodded. “That was done at once. But I cannot believe –”

  Stoddart held up his hand. “Belief does not enter into these cases, Sir Arthur. Now, I must ask you to give me particulars of as many of these said inmates as you can. First, your immediate circle.”

  Sir Arthur drew his brows together. It was obvious that the task was not to his taste.

  “Our immediate circle,” he repeated. “Well, first, there is, of course, the young couple for whom last night’s ball was given – my younger brother and his American bride.”

  “American?” The inspector, who had taken out his notebook, held his pencil poised for a moment. “The States, I suppose?”

  “California,” Sir Arthur assented. “But I do not imagine my young sister-in-law has spent much time in her native country. She was educated at a convent near Paris; when she left there she went for a long Continental tour with her father, Silas Juggs – the canned soup magnate, you know. Then she probably went home for a time, I am not sure. Later, she had one season in London when my brother fell a victim to her charms; result a violent love-affair, a short engagement, and a speedy marriage. No, as I see my sister-in-law’s life there is no point in which it could have touched that of Charmian Karslake. Besides, she would have told us if she had known anything of Miss Karslake.”

  “Ah, of course,” the inspector murmured, as he made an entry in his notebook. “Now, Sir Arthur, the other members of the house-party – I have heard a Mr. Larpent’s name.”

  “Yes, Mr. John Larpent, a distant connexion, and my friend from boyhood,” Sir Arthur assented. “We were at Eton and at Christ Church together. But of course you have heard of him before, inspector. He is doing extraordinarily well at the Bar.”

  The inspector brought his hands together sharply. “Of course; I knew the name was familiar. It was he who defended Mrs. Gatwick last year.”

  Sir Arthur nodded. “He did not get her off, but it was a narrow shave. Quite possibly he may be able to help you, inspector. I fancy he has been making a few inquiries on his own.”

  The inspector did not look particularly gratified. “Well, we shall see. Mr. Larpent is unmarried, I believe?”

  “At present.” Sir Arthur smiled faintly. “He has lately become engaged to a friend of Lady Moreton’s – Miss Galbraith.”

  The inspector looked up. “Daughter of Lord Galbraith?”

  “The last – not the present peer,” Sir Arthur corrected.

  “She would be here,” Stoddart said, as if stating a fact.

  “She was, naturally,” Sir Arthur assented.

  The inspector glanced over his notes. “Anybody else? I mean guests. I shall have to get the servants’ names from the housekeeper, I presume?”

  “I expect so,” Sir Arthur said slowly. “As for the other guests, there were in the bachelors’ wing Captain Arthur Appley, Lord John Barton, Mr. Williams. But I made a list – here it is,” drawing a piece of paper from his pocket. “I thought it might save time. There, do you see, all the bachelors on this side. The unmarried ladies in the opposite wing.”

  The inspector took the list and studied it in silence for a minute. Then he said without looking up:

  “Miss Karslake did not sleep on this side of the house with the other unmarried ladies, I gather?”

  “No –” Sir Arthur hesitated. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, “Lady Moreton was rather pleased – flattered perhaps I should say – at getting Miss Karslake to attend the ball, as she is reported to have refused all such invitations since coming to England, and Lady Moreton made every effort to do her honour and put her in one of the big rooms in front of the house.”

  “I see!” The inspector tapped his fingers reflectively on his notebook for a minute; then he glanced up sharply. “Why did Miss Karslake accept Lady Moreton’s invitation, Sir Arthur, when, as you say, she had refused all others since coming to England?”

  Sir Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “Ask me another. Why does any woman ever do anything? They made one another’s acquaintance somehow, I really don’t know how, and apparently took a fancy to one another. Miss Karslake was enormously interested in antiquities of all kinds, and the Abbey is distinctly unique, you know. Lady Moreton talked about it, and when the idea of this ball was mooted she asked Miss Karslake to come down for it and take the opportunity of seeing the Abbey. She was gratified, and I may say almost surprised at Miss Karslake’s acceptance.”

  “Was she interested in the Abbey when she arrived?”

  “Oh, yes. I think so –” Sir Arthur hesitated again. “As a matter of fact she had not much opportunity of expressing her interest in anything. The house was – well, in the state a house generally is when a big entertainment is about to take place in it. I promised to show her over it next morning, when it was, alas, too late!”

  The inspector’s penetrating glance was still fixed upon Sir Arthur.

  “You have no clue to this apparently inexplicable mystery?”

  Sir Arthur shook his head. “Not the faintest. Miss Karslake was an absolute stranger to me and, as far as I know, to every one in the house. I can only suggest that the motive may have been robbery, since the great sapphire ball she always wore, and which is generally spoken of as her mascot, is missing.”

  “Any other jewels?”

  “Her maid seems to think not. She wore a quaint old necklace of pearls at the dance and apparently threw it, and a magnificent marquise ring she generally wore, on her dressing-table. All are quite safe.”

  “With regard to the blue ball,” the inspector questioned again, “it is, of course, of great value.”

  Sir Arthur looked doubtful. “I really don’t know. I am no judge of such things, but I should imagine a great part of its value came from its historic association, and that of course would not exist from a burglar’s point of view. At the same time it has brought bad luck to most of its possessors as far as I can ascertain. When first one hears of it, it was the property of the ill-fated Paul of Russia. Later it passed to the hapless Princess de Lamballe and the murdered Queen Draga of Serbia, to name ju
st a few of the unfortunate possessors. How it came into the possession of Miss Karslake I have no idea. But I have heard that, though she had been warned that misfortune always followed in its train, Charmian Karslake laughed at the very notion and said that it was going to be her mascot, and would bring her nothing but good. Since her coming to England, the fact that she invariably wore it has often been commented upon in the papers and may have attracted the cupidity of some of the criminal classes.”

  “Quite!” The inspector stroked his chin. “Of course it would be obvious that the chance of getting hold of it would be far better here than in town, but there must have been more valuable jewels worn here than that ball.”

  Sir Arthur smiled. “Decidedly there were. To go no further, Lady Moreton’s pearls must have been worth ten times the amount, to say nothing of Mrs. Richard’s diamonds. But these were put into the safe. I offered to take care of the sapphire, but Miss Karslake laughingly told me she wore it day and night.”

  The inspector nodded. “Any money missing, Sir Arthur? Any valuables from anyone else in the house?”

  “Nothing at all, as far as we can ascertain.”

  The inspector rose. “I’m very much obliged to you, Sir Arthur. Now, if you please, we will have a look at the scene of the crime and then I shall be glad to have a few minutes’ conversation with the different members of the house-party.”

  “The – the body has been moved, inspector, to the private chapel on the north side of the house. It was removed after Superintendent Bower had made his examination.”

  The inspector’s lips tightened. “H’m! that’s a pity. Still, possibly it was unavoidable under the circumstances. I should like to have a word with your butler, Sir Arthur.”

  “Brook? Oh, certainly. He shall take you up to the room.” Sir Arthur opened the door as he spoke. “Ah, there you are, Brook. Take these gentlemen up to Miss Karslake’s room.”

  “Yes, Sir Arthur.”

  The butler was a man of middle age. Ordinarily no doubt as impassive as most of his kind, today he was shaken out of his usual calm. His face had a mottled, unhealthy appearance. As he turned to precede them Stoddart saw that his eyes looked frightened, that his hands were shaking. He led the way upstairs and down a passage immediately opposite. At the first door they came to a policeman was stationed, and as he moved aside at a word from Stoddart they saw that the door had been broken open.

  The inspector stepped softly over to the bed. Harbord followed. He looked at it for a moment, then he glanced at the inspector.

  “She was not killed here, sir. Not on this bed, I mean.”

  “No, the assassin must have moved her.” Stoddart pointed to a rug before the fire-place. “She was standing over there, I think.”

  Harbord turned his attention to the place indicated. The rug had evidently been kicked aside. On the polished floor beyond there were evident traces of bloodstains.

  The inspector took a tiny pill-box from his pocket and shook it over the blood. After a minute or two he picked it up and signalled to Harbord, who was leaning over the window-sill, microscope in hand.

  He looked round. “No one got out of this window!”

  “No,” said the inspector slowly. “No, I’m afraid they did not.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Well, you may say what you like about the police methods of this country, but I do believe in the States we should have laid our hands on the murderer before now.”

  Mrs. Richard Penn-Moreton was the speaker. She, her sister-in-law and hostess, and the latter’s great friend, Paula Galbraith, were in the morning-room.

  Like all the rooms at the Abbey it was rather small, the walls were thick, the windows high up and many paned, with the lead casing and the old grey bottleglass that the Penn-Moretons prided themselves on replacing.

  The present Lady Moreton had a sense of the fitness of things. The old stone walls were untouched, un-desecrated by modern prints or photographs. Some fine old carving surmounted the high mantelpiece, wonderful Gobelin tapestry hung opposite. The oak floor was polished by the elbow grease of centuries. Eastern prayer-rugs took the place of carpets. There were two or three big arm-chairs; and a luxuriously padded chesterfield stood before the fire-place. For the rest, the chairs, like the various occasional tables that stood about, were of oak. A great brass bowl of Parma violets was under the window, and a big bunch of sweet-smelling roses near the open fire-place, in which a bright fire burned, though the night fell hot and airless.

  Lady Moreton was sitting huddled up in one corner of the chesterfield. Usually a bright, sparkling little brunette, tonight all her colour had faded – even her lips were pale – there were deep, blue lines under her eyes. She glanced up at her sister-in-law.

  “I don’t know what they would do in your country, I am sure, Sadie,” she said wearily. “But, before you blame our police for not discovering the murderer, you must make sure a murder has been committed. I don’t believe anybody would hurt Charmian Karslake. Why should they? I believe that gun went off by accident.”

  “Don’t talk such nonsense,” Mrs. Richard reproved.

  She was a typical-looking American: slim, smart, with a wonderfully tinted skin, bright, restless eyes, elaborately dressed hair, and a frock that was the latest fashion from Paris. It was extremely short, extremely skimpy. Her long, thin legs, in their silk stockings, were crossed as she leaned back against the high wooden mantelpiece, and her little feet in the suede shoes were tapping restlessly on the floor, their elaborate buckles twinkling as they moved.

  “What gun?” she went on in her high-pitched voice. “If she had been playing about with one it would have been found there on the ground or in her hand. Besides, who locked the door and took the key away?”

  “Was the door locked and the key taken away?” Lady Moreton inquired.

  “I should just about think the door was locked and the key taken away,” Mrs. Richard mimicked. “Really, you British are the limit. Now, in the States, we should be just frantic. Hurrying up the police in every way we knew and going mad until the right man was in the Tombs. And you – you just sit on that chesterfield, and stare up at me – ‘was the door locked and the key taken away?’ you say. I declare I could shake you.”

  “It would not do any good if you did,” said Lady Moreton, listlessly. “Oh, it is all horrible!” She shivered from head to foot. “I wish I had never asked her here.”

  “Yes. That is just the sort of thing you would wish,” Mrs. Richard observed. “But it doesn’t help matters much. I dare say Charmian Karslake would have been shot anyhow. I have no doubt that the criminal followed her down from town, and just came and mixed with your guests till he saw his opportunity and then concealed himself till the lights were out, and then went up and shot her. Ugh! Ugh! What do you make of it, Miss Galbraith?”

  Thus directly appealed to, the third member, Paula Galbraith, turned from the window against which she had been leaning.

  She was a tall, slim girl, with a pretty, shingled head, with hair of the hue her friends called golden, her enemies, of which pretty Paula had few, sandy. Her skin was of the clear, pure white that goes with the hair, and with a faint rose-flush in her cheeks that flickered deeper and fainter as she talked.

  As she glanced at Mrs. Richard a momentary look of fear flashed into her blue eyes, which did not escape the astute young American.

  “I don’t know at all,” she hesitated. “I have never been mixed up in anything of the kind before, and I don’t understand –”

  “Bless my life! We have none of us ever been mixed up in a murder before,” Mrs. Richard said impatiently. “But that doesn’t prevent us using our wits now we have encountered one. What puzzles me, is that nobody seems to have heard the shot. Dick and I were pretty near, but not a sound reached us. Reached me – I should say – for Dick’s dressing-room is on the other side, farther away from Miss Karslake’s than mine. For that matter, I must have been one of the last people that saw Charmian alive.


  “My door was open, and I was looking out for Dicky when she went by. ‘Good night! Miss Karslake. Some dance, wasn’t it?’ I said, and she called back, ‘‘Yes, wasn’t it? They do these things better here than we can in the States.’ ‘I say, I want to look at your mascot,’ I said. ‘Why?’ She just laughed and held it out to me. ‘Oh, I wish to see if it tells me anything of your future,’ I said, and took the chain into my hand and looked right into the sapphire ball. I have what you people over here call ‘psychic powers,’ and I have seen some queer things in these balls.”

  She stopped and helped herself to a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece and lighted it very deliberately.

  “Go on, Sadie! Go on!” her sister-in-law said impatiently. “What did you see?”

  “Why, nothing,” said Mrs. Richard slowly. “That is to say, the thing clouded over at first, as it always does, and then I saw a lot of things all mixed up. Soldiers, and it looked like people being killed and all that, and then I saw Charmian herself. She was all smiling as if she was beckoning somebody. Then something came along right between us. It seemed like a man’s back and it seemed that I ought to know whose back it was, but I couldn’t remember. Anyhow, it blotted out Charmian, and look as I would I couldn’t see her any more. I suspect that it was the man who shot her. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘‘what have you got to tell me?’ ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘was just looking at you, and a man came right between, and I couldn’t tell her any more.’ I think she was disappointed, but she laughed and nodded and said good night, and went on, poor dear, to meet her doom, not knowing –”

  She paused as a footman entered the room.