Crow's Inn Tragedy Read online

  “How long have you been with Mr. Bechcombe?”

  “Just over a month.”

  “Where were you previously?”

  “At school. Miss Arnold Watson’s at Putney. I stayed there until I was nineteen as a governess-pupil. Then—I hadn’t any real gift for teaching—I took a course in shorthand and typing. Mr. Bechcombe wanted a secretary and I was fortunate enough to get the job.”

  “Um!” The inspector turned over a new page in his notebook. “Now will you tell me all you know about Mr. Bechcombe’s death?”

  Cecily stared at him.

  “But I don’t know anything,” she said helplessly. “I never saw Mr. Bechcombe after he called me into his office about a quarter to twelve.”

  “A quarter to twelve!” The inspector pricked up his ears. “You saw Mr. Bechcombe at a quarter to twelve?”

  “At a quarter to twelve, she confirmed. “He sounded the electric bell which rings in my office, and I went in to him. He told me that he should have some important work for me later in the day, but that at present there was nothing and that I could go out to lunch when I liked. When I came back there were some letters to be attended to, and then he said I was to wait until he rang for me. That was all.”

  “You saw and heard nothing more of Mr. Bechcombe until you came on the scene when the door was broken open by the clerks?”

  “I did not see anything.”

  The slight emphasis on the verb did not escape the inspector.

  “Or hear anything?” he demanded sharply. “Be very careful please, Miss Hoyle.”

  “I heard him speak to some one outside very soon after I had gone back to my office, and I heard him moving about his room after I came from lunch,” Cecily said, her colour rising a little.

  The inspector looked at her searchingly. “To whom did you hear Mr. Bechcombe speak?”

  Cecily hesitated, the colour that was creeping back slowly into her cheeks deepening perceptibly.

  “Some one was knocking at the door,” she stammered. “I think Mr. Bechcombe spoke to him. I heard him say he was engaged.”

  “Who was he speaking to?”

  The girl twisted her hands together.

  “It was his nephew, Mr. Anthony Collyer.”

  “How do you know?” The inspector fired his questions at her rather as if they had been pistol shots.

  Cecily looked round her in an agony of confusion.

  “He came to my office—Mr. Anthony, I mean.”

  “Why should he come to your office?”

  “He asked me to go out to lunch with him,” Cecily faltered. Then seeing the look on the inspector’s face, she gathered up her courage with both hands and faced him with sudden resolution. “We are engaged,” she said simply. “We—I mean it hasn’t been announced yet, but his father knows; and we shall tell mine as soon as he comes home—he is abroad now—we are engaged, Anthony Collyer and I.”

  The inspector might have smiled but that the thing was too serious.

  “Did Mr. Bechcombe know?”

  The girl hesitated a moment.

  “I think he guessed. From the way he smiled when he mentioned Mr. Collyer in the morning.”

  The inspector looked over his notes. He was inclined to think that Cecily Hoyle’s evidence, if it could be relied on, would put Anthony Collyer off his list of suspects. Still, he was not going to take any chances.

  “I see. So you went out with Mr. Anthony Collyer. Where did you lunch?”

  “I said he asked me,” Cecily corrected. “But I didn’t say I would go. However, we were talking about it and walking down—the passage together when Mr. Bechcombe called Tony back—‘I want you a minute, Tony,’ he said.”

  “Well?” the inspector prompted as she paused.

  “Tony did not want to go back,” the girl said slowly. “But I persuaded him. ‘I will wait for you in St. Philip’s Field of Rest,’ I said. He ran back, promising not to keep me waiting for a minute.”

  “Field of Rest,” the inspector repeated. “What is a Field of Rest?”

  “At the back of St. Philip’s Church—just over the way. It is the old graveyard really, you know,” Cecily explained. “But they have levelled the stones and put seats there, and it is a sort of quiet recreation ground. I often take sandwiches with me and eat them there.”

  The inspector nodded. There were many such places in London he knew.

  “And I suppose Mr. Anthony Collyer soon overtook you?”

  “No. He didn’t. He—I had to wait in the Field of Rest.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t really know,” Cecily said uncertainly. “Perhaps it wasn’t very long. But it seemed a long time to me.”

  The inspector looked at her.

  “This is important. Please think, Miss Hoyle. This is very important. How long approximately do you think it was before Mr. Anthony Collyer joined you in the Field of Rest?”

  “Twenty minutes perhaps—or it might have been half an hour.”

  The inspector looked surprised.

  “Half an hour! But that’s a long time. What excuse did Mr. Collyer make for being so long?”

  “He said he couldn’t find the Field of Rest. He hadn’t been there before, you know.”

  The inspector made no rejoinder. He turned back to his notes.

  “What time did you come back to the office, Miss Hoyle?”

  “We were a little over an hour,” Cecily confessed. “After half-past one, it would be.”

  “Did Mr. Collyer go back with you?”

  Cecily shook her head.

  “Oh, no. He walked as far as Crow’s Inn—up to the archway with me.”

  The inspector was drawing a small parcel from his pocket. Laying back the tissue paper he slowly shook out the white glove he shown to John Wallis.

  “Have you ever seen this before, Miss Hoyle?”

  The girl leaned forward and looked at it more closely.

  “No, I am sure I have not.”

  “It is not yours?”

  Cecily shook her head.

  “I could not afford anything like that. It is a very expensive glove—French I should say.”

  “That glove was found beside the writing-table in Mr. Bechcombe’s private room this afternoon,” the inspector said impressively.

  Cecily looked amazed.

  “What an extraordinary thing! I don’t believe it was there when I was in this morning. I wonder who could have dropped it?”

  “Possibly the murderer or murderess,” the inspector suggested dryly.

  Cecily shivered back in her chair with a little cry.

  “It cannot be true! Who would hurt Mr. Bechcombe? He must have had a fit!”

  “Miss Hoyle”—the inspector leaned forward—“it was no fit. Mr. Bechcombe was certainly murdered, and Dr. Hackett says that death must have overtaken him either a few minutes before twelve or a few minutes after.”

  “What!” Cecily’s face became ghastly as the full significance of the words dawned upon her. “It couldn’t—” she said, catching her breath in a sob. “He—he was quite well at twelve o’clock, and when I came back from my lunch I heard him moving about.”

  “Could you hear what went on in his room in yours?”

  “Oh, no. Absolutely nothing. But as I passed his door when I came back from lunch I distinctly heard him moving about. I was rather surprised at this, because I don’t remember ever hearing any sound from Mr. Bechcombe’s room before.”

  “What did you do after you went back?”

  “I finished some letters that had to be ready for Mr. Bechcombe’s signature before he went home. I was still busy with them when I heard them breaking into Mr. Bechcombe’s room.”

  “Now one more question, Miss Hoyle. Did you notice anything particular about Mr. Anthony Collyer’s hands when you first saw him?”

  Cecily stared.

  “Certainly I did not. Why?”

  “He did not wear gloves?”

  “Oh, dear, no!”
Cecily almost smiled, “I should certainly have noticed if he had. I have never seen Tony in gloves since I knew him.”

  The inspector’s stylo was moving quickly in his notebook.

  “You are prepared to swear to all this, Miss Hoyle?”

  “Certainly I am!” Cecily said at once. “It is absolutely true.”

  “Your address, please.”

  “Hobart Residence, Windover Square. It is a club for girls,” she added.

  “But your permanent home address,” the detective went on.

  There was a pause. The girl’s long eyelashes flickered.

  “My father is away on some business abroad; when he comes back we shall look for a cottage in the country.”

  “Oh!” The inspector asked no more questions, but there was a curious look in his eyes as he scrawled another entry in his book.

  “That is all for the present, then, Miss Hoyle. The inquest will be opened to-morrow, and you may be wanted. I cannot say.”

  He rose. Cecily got up at once and with a little farewell bow went out of the room.

  The inspector stood still for a minute or two, then he opened the door again.

  “Call Mr. William Spencer, please.”

  Ordinarily Mr. Spencer was a jaunty; self-satisfied young man, but to-day both the jauntiness and the self-satisfaction were gone and it was with a very white and subdued face that he came up to the inspector.

  “Well, Mr. Spencer, and what have you to tell me about this terrible affair?” the inspector began conversationally.

  “Nothing; except what you know. I heard the governor tell Mr. Thompson not to let anyone into his room, and I heard no more until Mr. Walls asked me to go round to the private door.”

  “You were the first to see the body, I understand.”

  “Well, looking through the keyhole, I saw a heap and I told Mr. Walls I thought it was the governor.”

  “Exactly!” The inspector looked at his notes. “You were right, unfortunately. Now, Mr. Spencer, have you ever seen this?” suddenly displaying the white glove he had previously shown.

  Mr. Spencer’s eyes grew round.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean by that?” the inspector questioned. “Have you any reason to suppose you have done so?”

  Spencer stared at it.

  “I met a lady with long gloves like that coming up the stairs when I went out to lunch.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About half-past twelve, it would be, or a little later, I think,” debated Spencer.

  “Ah!” the inspector made a note in his book. “What was she like—the woman you met?”

  “Well, she was tall with rather bright yellow hair and—and she had powder all over her face. The curious thing about her was,” Spencer went on meditatively, “that I had an odd feeling that in some way her face was familiar. Yet I couldn’t remember having seen her before.”

  “Did you notice where she went?”

  “No, I couldn’t. It was just where the stairs turn that I stood aside to let her pass, and you can’t see much from there. But I thought I heard—”

  “Well?”

  “I did think at the time that I heard her stop on our landing and go along the passage—”

  “To Mr. Bechcombe’s room?” said the inspector quickly.

  “Well, it would be to his room, of course,” Spencer said, his face paling again. “But I dare say I was wrong about her going down the passage. I didn’t listen particularly.”

  “Do you know that I found this glove beside Mr. Bechcombe’s writing-table when I went into the room?” questioned the inspector.

  Spencer shivered.

  “No. I didn’t see it.”

  “Nevertheless it was there,” said the inspector. “Mr. Spencer, I think you will have to try to remember why that lady’s face was familiar to you. Had you ever seen her here before?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I seem to—” Spencer was beginning when there was an interruption, a loud knock at the door. Spencer turned to it eagerly. “Mr. Thompson has come back, I expect.”

  The inspector was before him, but it was not Amos Thompson who stood outside, or any messenger; it was a tall, thin clergyman with a white, shocked face—the rector of Wexbridge to wit. He stepped aside.

  “I must apologize for interrupting you, Mr. Inspector. But I represent my sister-in-law, Mrs. Luke Bechcombe. I had just called and was present when the sad news was broken to her. I came here to make inquiries and also to arrange for the removal of the body. And here I was met by these terrible tidings. Is it—can it be really true that my unfortunate brother-in-law has been murdered?”

  “Quite true,” the inspector confirmed in a matter-of-fact fashion in contrast with the clergyman’s agitated tone.

  “But how and by whom?” Mr. Collyer demanded.

  “Mr. Bechcombe appears to have been attacked, possibly chloroformed, deliberately, and strangled. His body was found in his private office.”

  The rector subsided into the nearest chair.

  “I cannot believe it. Poor Luke had not an enemy in the world. What could have been the motive for so horrible a crime?”

  “That I am endeavouring to find out,” the inspector said quietly.

  “I can’t understand it,” the clergyman said, raising his hand to his head. “Nobody would wilfully have hurt poor Luke, I am sure.”

  “It is tolerably evident that somebody did,” the inspector commented dryly.

  Mr. Collyer was silent for a minute; putting his elbow on the table, he rested his aching head upon his hand.

  “But who could have done it?” he questioned brokenly at last.

  The inspector coughed.

  “That also I am trying to discover, sir. When did you see Mr. Bechcombe last, Mr. Collyer?”

  “Last night. I dined with him at his house in Carlsford Square. Just a few hours ago, and poor Luke seemed so well and happy with us all, making jokes. And now—I can’t believe it.”

  He blew his nose vigorously.

  “Was your son one of the dinner party?” the inspector questioned.

  Mr. Collyer looked surprised.

  “Oh, er—yes, of course Tony was there. He is a favourite with his uncle and aunt.”

  “Did you know that he was here this morning?”

  Mr. Collyer’s astonishment appeared to increase.

  “Certainly I did not. I do not think he has been. I fancy you are making a mistake.”

  “I think not,” the inspector said firmly. “Your son was here this morning just before twelve o’clock. He appears to have caused quite a commotion, demanding to see his uncle and announcing his intention of going to the private door and knocking at it himself.”

  Mr. Collyer dropped his arm upon the table.

  “But—Good—good heavens! Did he go?”

  “He did. He also saw his uncle,” said the inspector. “And now I am rather anxious to hear your son’s account of that interview, Mr. Collyer.”

  CHAPTER V

  “It is the aftermath of the War,” said Aubrey Todmarsh, shaking his head. “You take a man away from his usual occupation and for four years you let him do nothing but kill other men and try to kill other men, and then you are surprised when he comes home and still goes on killing.”

  “Don’t you think, Aubrey, that you had better say straight out that you believe I killed Uncle Luke?” Tony Collyer inquired very quietly, yet with a look in his eyes that his men had known well in the Great War, and had labelled dangerous.

  Instinctively Aubrey drew back. “My dear Tony,” he said, with what was meant to be an indulgent smile and only succeeded in looking distinctly scared, “why will you turn everything into personalities? I was speaking generally.”

  “Well, as I happen to be the only man who went to the War and who profits by my uncle’s will, and who was at the office the day he was murdered, I will thank you not to speak generally in that fashion,” retorted Anthony.

/>   His father lifted up his hand.

  “Boys, boys! This terrible crime is no time for unseemly bickering,” he said, in much the same tone as he would have used to them twenty years ago at Wexbridge Rectory.

  The three were in the dining-room of Mr. Bechcombe’s house in Carlsford Square. They had been brought there by an urgent summons from the widow of the dead man. Mrs. Bechcombe, prostrated at first by the news of her husband’s death, had been roused by learning how that death had been brought about, and, in her determination that it should be immediately avenged, she had insisted on her husband’s brother-in-law and his two nephews coming together to consult with her as to the best steps to be taken to discover the assassin.

  In appearance the last twenty-four hours had aged the rector by as many years. His shoulders were bent as he leaned forward in his chair—the very chair in which Luke Bechcombe had sat at the bottom of his table only the night before last. There were new lines that sorrow and horror had scored upon James Collyer’s face, even his hair looked whiter. Glancing round the familiar room it seemed to him impossible that he could never see again the brother-in-law upon whose advice he had unconsciously leaned all his married life. He was just about to speak when the door opened and Mrs. Bechcombe entered. She was a tall, almost a regal-looking woman, with flashing dark eyes and regular, aquiline features. To-day her beautifully formed lips were closely compressed and there was a very sombre light in her dark eyes, and there were great blue marks under them.

  Mr. Collyer got up, raising himself slowly. “My dear Madeleine, I wish I could help you,” he said, taking her hands in his, “but only Our Heavenly Father can do that, and since it is His Will—”

  “It was not His Will!” Mrs. Bechcombe contradicted passionately. She tore her hands from his. “My husband was murdered. He did not die by the Will of God, but by the wickedness of man.”

  “My dear aunt, nothing happens but by the Will of God—” Aubrey Todmarsh was beginning, when the door opened to admit a spare, short, altogether undistinguished-looking man of middle age.

  Mrs. Bechcombe turned to him eagerly.

  “This is my cousin, John Steadman. You have heard me speak of him, I know, James. He is a barrister, and, though he does not practise now, he is a great criminologist. And I know if anyone can help us it will be he.”