Crime at Tattenham Corner Read online

  “Did Sir John Burslem’s car pass you?”

  “Shouldn’t have been any the wiser if it had,” Stanyard retorted. “I shouldn’t have recognized Burslem passing quickly in a car. I might have made a shot at him if he had been walking, but just jigging by in a car what chance should I have? Besides, most of the time my old bus was on top of me, and I was poking at her inside; should not have seen Peep o’ Day himself, let alone Burslem.”

  “But Lady Burslem was with Sir John. You would have known her?”

  Stanyard turned his head away, and catching up an ivory ornament from the mantelshelf began to turn it about in his fingers.

  “Now you are talking! And I know what you are getting at. Because I was a silly ass about Sophie Carlford in my salad days, you think I am keen enough after all this time to do old Burslem in so that I can marry her myself. As if when a chap had been chucked over once he is dotty enough to go on hankering after the girl. If he is – well, his name will not be Charles Stanyard, and that is all there is to that!”

  “You were dancing with Lady Burslem at the Ruthwyn Club a week or two ago.”

  “Now, how did you tumble to that?” Sir Charles inquired, staring at him. “Yes, I just came across her by chance talking to a friend of mine. I had nothing against her. Never do bear malice, you know, so I said, ‘Let’s have a turn for the sake of old times.’ So we did, and that’s all there is about that.”

  “Thank you for being so frank, Sir Charles.” Stoddart waited a moment as if considering some point, then said:

  “And about the row at the Wilton Club a week before Sir John’s death?”

  Stanyard opened his eyes wider than ever. “I say, you have been pokin’ round, haven’t you? Well, it was a bit of a ramp – seemed as if the old chap was trying to get me. It was something I said about Peep o’ Day and old Matt Harker, and Burslem overheard and came for me. Bad-tempered sort of chap, I should say. But, bless your life, it meant nothing. Should have got over it and been good friends later on, I dare say.”

  “Well, you might,” Stoddart said doubtfully. “Now, what about this, Sir Charles?”

  He drew a little packet carefully wrapped up in tissue paper from his pocket; he threw off the paper and disclosed a silver cigarette-case with a monogram on the side.

  “Is this yours?”

  “Why, yes it is,” Stanyard said, taking it from him. “I was wonderin’ this morning what had become of the bloomin’ thing. How did you come across it, inspector?”

  “It was found in Sir John’s run-about the day after his death,” the inspector said quietly.

  The ivory ornament in Stanyard’s hand cracked suddenly. “Oh, I say, that’s impossible! How could it have got there?”

  “That,” said the inspector very softly, “I thought you could explain, Sir Charles.”

  “Well, then, I can’t,” said Sir Charles, setting down the broken ornament with a snap and putting the cigarette-case beside it. “I know no more about it than the man in the moon or yourself, inspector; not so much I expect. So that’s that! Hadn’t you better arrest me and save yourself the trouble of lookin’ after me. There’s a dirty sort of dodger always at my heels; I guess he’s one of your lot.”

  The inspector made no answer to this sally. “Then there is nothing more to be done now, Sir Charles,” he said gravely.

  When they had left the Mansions and were walking across the Green Park, Stoddart glanced round at his assistant.

  “What do you think of that young man, Harbord?”

  “I really don’t know.” Harbord hesitated. “I thought he was all quite straight and above-board at first; but I didn’t quite like his manner over the cigarette-case. He wasn’t quite frank about that, I am certain. But he doesn’t look like a murderer.”

  “Murderers never do. If they did they wouldn’t get the chance to murder anybody,” the inspector observed sententiously.

  “When was the cigarette-case discovered?” Harbord inquired.

  “The day after the murder, as I said – that is to say, on June 4th. The car was found at the parking place in South London, you remember; at least, the car is said to have been found there. A man who hangs about the parking ground looking for odd jobs said he found it in the car afterwards identified as Sir John Burslem’s. His account is that when he saw it he took it out, thinking it would be stolen if left there, and that the owner, when he came back, would reward him. Sir John, of course, did not return, and in the hue and cry about the car, and Sir John’s mysterious death, he forgot all about the case, until yesterday morning, when he suddenly remembered it and brought it to the Yard.”

  “A queer tale, isn’t it, sir?” Harbord said doubtfully. “What sort of chap is this man?”

  “Oh, William Dawson, his name is – a good character in the neighbourhood, as far as I can make out. Otherwise, of course, he wouldn’t be allowed on the parking ground. And I expect his tale is substantially true, but of course it’s impossible of verification.”

  “How in the world did it get there?” cogitated Harbord. “I don’t see –”

  “Nor I,” Stoddart agreed. “Take it all in all, I never met with an affair that bristled with such difficulties as this Burslem case. Granted that Stanyard’s case was found in the car, and that, in spite of his denial, Sir Charles Stanyard had been in the Burslem car that night, Sir John himself took the car to the parking ground, so he was alive and well after Stanyard lost the case.”

  “That seems one point at which our inquiries might begin,” Harbord said, wrinkling his brows. “Suppose it was not Sir John himself but his murderer who took the car to the garage, the whole affair becomes more simple.”

  “Yes. But unfortunately the case does not fall into line with our ideas,” the inspector observed sarcastically. “Dawson’s description of Sir John is fairly accurate. He picked his photograph out from a dozen others. The only thing that strikes me as odd is that a woman drove on to the ground almost immediately after Sir John and ranged her car beside the other. He did not take particular notice of her, he said, but he saw her stooping over the car. Then she almost ran off the parking ground and hurried away in the same direction as Sir John Burslem, who had turned to the right. But they didn’t appear to know one another, Dawson says. They met when Sir John was going out and she was coming in, and they didn’t speak. I don’t think it helps us much. It is quite likely that the woman has nothing to do with the case.”

  “On the other hand,” Harbord suggested, “suppose this was the woman who watched among the trees at Hughlin’s Wood?”

  “Was there such a woman?” the inspector questioned. “I must confess I’m rather sceptical.”

  “The bag seems to me pretty strong evidence,” Harbord persisted.

  The inspector thought the matter over for a minute or two. At last he said:

  “Are you working on the theory that this unknown woman was the murderess? Because against that there is this fact that, whether Burslem was shot in the car or out of it, no woman could have lifted up a man of his bulk and build and pitched him into that ditch.”

  “No, sir, I am not working on that theory or any other,” Harbord answered in an injured tone. “As you have so often impressed upon me, it is fatal to start with a preconceived theory. Besides, so far as I can see, no theory that I can form in any way fits the case. Why should Sir John bring his wife home hurriedly, draw up a will, rush his car to that parking place, and then tear back to Hughlin’s Wood and get himself murdered? It sounds quite mad, and yet I suppose it is what really happened.”

  “Suppose!” the inspector echoed, looking at his young subordinate keenly. “Not much supposition about it. We know it happened. What bee have you got in your bonnet?”

  “Well, I expect you will say it is worse than that.” Harbord dropped his voice, looking round for possible eavesdroppers. “This case intrigues me more than I can say. I think of it all day and lie awake at night trying to think of some possible solution. Last night, like an in
spiration, it flashed across me – impersonation. Has that occurred to you, sir?”

  “No, I cannot say that it has,” said the inspector in the same low tone. “At least, to be quite candid, I have had such a thought and I have dismissed it as untenable.”

  “I suppose it is,” Harbord said reluctantly. “And yet I cannot help saying to myself” – his voice becoming a mere whisper – “supposing an appointment was made for that night of June 2nd at Hughlin’s Wood. And supposing – just supposing for argument’s sake – that the murderer assumed his victim’s identity, drove the car back to town, forged the new will, and left the car in the parking place. On that theory alone can we explain certain happenings.”

  “Can we explain them on that theory?” the inspector questioned, his face very grave. “Be careful, Harbord; do you realize what your words imply?”

  “I think so,” Harbord answered, his face distinctly whiter, but his eyes like steel as he faced his superior squarely.

  “A man’s nearest and dearest have conspired to get him out of the way before now; also a murderer has passed as his victim. You remember that case a couple of years ago when a lawyer was murdered in the Crow’s Inn?”

  “Perfectly,” the inspector assented. “But the two cases are not on all fours. In the Crow’s Inn case no one who knew the victim saw the murderer. In this, if there were any foundation for your theory, there must not only be the complicity of the wife, the drive back to town, but the connivance of the servants who signed the will – which the experts say, though showing signs of being hurriedly written, is undoubtedly in Sir John’s writing and on his own notepaper – and the testimony of Dawson, who picked out Sir John’s photograph from a quantity of others.”

  “I am assuming the complicity of the first – I must,” Harbord said, his tone troubled. “As for the others – well, people can be made up to look like anybody. Fat people can be made to look thin and thin people fat.”

  “Possibly,” the inspector said doubtfully. “But I must remind you that there were signs of a struggle at Hughlin’s Wood and also in the state of Sir John’s clothing. No make-up would stand it!”

  “Does not the assumed complicity rather settle that?” Harbord questioned.

  “How about the servants? The footman who admitted them, and Ellerby, the valet, who witnessed the will?”

  “Would it be possible to examine these two with a view to my possible theory?” Harbord asked tentatively. “Their evidence at the inquest was purely formal, and we have had no opportunity.”

  “Inquest!” the inspector broke out irritably. “The deuce, what’s the good of an inquest anyway. Just to allow folks to make a nuisance of themselves, to defeat the ends of justice. Even if you do manage to give the coroner a hint and he takes it some damned juryman is sure to jump up and ask the very question you want to avoid answering, and that gives the whole show away. Tell you what, Harbord, we will just take a taxi to Porthwick Square, interview these two men and see what support we can get for this previous theory of yours.”

  He put up his hand as he spoke and caught a passing taxi. It was only a few minutes drive to Porthwick Square, and the inspector did not speak. But glancing at his knit brows, Harbord knew that he was revolving some of the knotty problems presented by this new theory.

  In Porthwick Square the door was opened by James, the second footman. The butler came forward.

  “Mr. Ellerby?” the inspector said inquiringly. “I must see him with as little delay as possible.”

  The butler opened the library door. “Her ladyship said that this room was to be at your service whenever you wanted it, inspector.”

  “Very kind of Lady Burslem,” Stoddart said as they went in. “Oh, by the way, I should like a word with the young man who admitted us – James, isn’t he called? Would you send him in first, please?” The second footman did not, from his appearance, suggest unusual intelligence. As he came into the library he looked thoroughly scared.

  The inspector took the chair at the top of the table and motioned James to stand so that the light fell upon his face.

  “Just a question or two about the night of June 2nd, or rather the morning of June 3rd. I believe that you opened the door for Sir John and Lady Burslem when they returned?”

  “Yes, sir. I did.”

  “What was Sir John wearing?”

  “Just a cap, pulled down pretty well over his ears, a lightish sort of overcoat – it was a warm night, and Mr. Ellerby made the remark that it was too hot for his usual motoring coat. I noticed that he had on a sort of white muffler, though, when he came back.”

  “Just tell us in your own words what Sir John did after he came in?”

  James fidgeted about from one leg to the other. “He didn’t do anything, sir, not that I saw. He came into this room, where we are now, and her ladyship with him. She came out again in a minute – her ladyship – and she says, ‘James, you must call Ellerby. Sir John told him not to sit up, but finds he must have him now.’ So I went and called Mr. Ellerby. Pretty cross he was too, to be roused up at that time of night. But he was not long in coming, and then Sir John called us both into the library and he signed some paper and we both signed after him.”

  “What did you do next?” Stoddart questioned.

  “Well, sir, I came out and waited about, not knowing whether I should be wanted again. But before long Sir John came out and went out to the car that was standing before the door.”

  “‘You can go to bed, James,’ he called out. ‘I shall not be long and I can let myself in.’”

  “Where was Mr. Ellerby?” Stoddart was looking at his notes.

  James hesitated. “Well, I don’t know, sir. I didn’t see him come out of the library again. But then I didn’t take much notice, being too sleepy to think of much but going to bed.”

  The inspector scribbled something in his notebook. “Were you always the one to sit up for Sir John?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Henry, the first footman, he generally did the sitting-up. Not that Sir John wanted much, being an independent sort of gentleman.”

  “How long have you been in the situation?”

  “Just over three months, sir.”

  “Did you see much of Sir John?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Waiting and that, and valeting him sometimes when Mr. Ellerby was out.”

  “I suppose,” the inspector said, keeping his eyes fixed on the young man, “you are quite certain that it was Sir John who came into the house that night – who signed that paper?”

  “Certain it was Sir John!” the man echoed. “Why, of course it was Sir John. Who else could it be? Didn’t her ladyship and Mr. Ellerby and all see him?”

  “We will leave her ladyship and Mr. Ellerby out of it for a moment,” the inspector said quietly. “Are you of your own knowledge prepared to swear it was Sir John Burslem you saw the night of his death?”

  The man stared at him. “Why, of course I am prepared to swear that it was Sir John.”

  “You saw his face plainly?”

  “Yes, sir! At least” – James hesitated and began to stammer – “not so very plainly perhaps, for he kept his motor cap on all the time, which I thought it was rather queer of him to do. And he wore a white choker thing round his neck, muffled up like, because he was going out again. But of course it was Sir John right enough!”

  “Well, I think that is all today, my man,” the inspector concluded. “Ask Mr. Ellerby to step this way, please.”

  James’s face had a bewildered expression as he went out.

  They had not long to wait for Ellerby, who was evidently expecting the summons. As he entered the inspector was struck by the indefinable change that had come over him. He looked years older than the man who had come down to Hughlin’s Wood to identify his dead master.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ellerby,” the inspector began genially. “I am sorry to trouble you, but there are a few little things that are worrying me, and I thought it might make matters clearer if we had a little ta
lk together – you and I and Mr. Harbord. Shall we sit down to it, Mr. Ellerby?”

  He drew a chair into position carefully. It did not escape Harbord’s keen eyes that the valet, without moving it, twisted himself round so that he had his back to the light.

  “I am sorry to see you are not looking well, Mr. Ellerby,” the detective went on sympathetically. “But I am sure you have gone through enough lately to try the strongest man.”

  “Yes, that I have, sir,” the valet agreed. “Nobody knows what the strain of this – this dreadful thing has been but those that have gone through it. Sir John, he was as dear to me as if he had been my own son. And to see him like that –”

  His voice failed. He drew out his handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously.

  “It must have been terrible for you.” The inspector looked the other way for a minute. “Such a shock too, for you had seen Sir John only a few hours before, hadn’t you?”

  “Of course I had, Mr. Stoddart, and looking no more like death than you or I do today.”

  “Yes, that is a true saying – ‘In the midst of life we are in death,’” the inspector observed sententiously. “I wish you would tell me the story of that night, or rather the early morning of the third of June. I would not trouble you, Mr. Ellerby, but I know you are as anxious as we are to find out Sir John Burslem’s murderer.”

  “As anxious? My God! I would give my life to have saved him, to avenge him!” Ellerby choked again.

  “Take your time, take your time!” the inspector encouraged. “Tell us about that last interview with Sir John and about your signing the paper, in your own words, please.”

  “Well, it was like this, although I am sure you have heard it again and again,” Ellerby began in a shaking voice. “Sir John had told me that he and her ladyship were going to Oxley, and he said I need not wait up for him – he often did. A most considerate master was Sir John; we shall never have another like him. So I was rather surprised when James came to tell me that Sir John wanted me. About one o’clock, I suppose it would be. I dressed as quickly as I could and went to the library. Sir John and her ladyship were both there. Sir John was writing at the table and her ladyship stood at the door. ‘Come in, Ellerby,’ she says. ‘Sir John wants you to witness his signature.’ Then she called to James and we went in together. Sir John signed the paper – the will as we know it was now – and I and James signed after him.”