Who Killed Charmian Karslake? Read online

  “Mrs. Lee Carslake. The Red House,” said a little man who had been standing at Stoddart’s elbow ever since he came in. “I never thought of her when you began to talk about Karslakes. An’ yet I used to do bits of gardening jobs for her, time gone by. Her little wench, I heard her mother call her Lotty time nor I can remember.”

  “Lotty!” The inspector thought a minute. “That will be short for something, surely. A pet name you might say.”

  “Ay, like enough! But I don’t know what it might be,” the first speaker went on. “I never heard her spoken of as anything but Miss Carslake; Charlotte the word may be.”

  Charlotte and Charmian. The inspector’s heart felt perceptibly lighter. Things were beginning to shape themselves much as he had expected.

  “Where are they now, Mrs. Carslake and her daughter?” he questioned. “I presume they have left Hepton.”

  “Ay. They are not here now,” the old man quavered. “A matter of going on for twenty years it is now. Mrs. Carslake, she never left it, I should say. Carried out of her house she was and into the old church and put in aside of her father, back o’ the church. That’s how Mrs. Carslake left the Red House. She didn’t never leave Hepton.”

  Stoddart took another drink before he went on.

  “And Miss Karslake, what became of her?” he asked at last.

  The old gentleman scratched his head. “Don’t know as I ever heard. Went away from Hepton, she did, with her brothers, before her mother was cold in her grave you might say. Ondaycent other folks called it. Word came back to Hepton that one of the lads, the youngest, was killed in the War. But Miss Lotty, I never heard what come o’ Miss Lotty. Maybe she got married. Fine, upstanding, personable sort of wench she were.”

  “I was just about to ask you what she was like. Good-looking, was she?”

  “Ay. You would call her that. Like one of they young larches in the copse down Homer way. Tall she was, and a pair of bootiful eyes, I mind. T’ young men would be after her soon enough, I reckon.”

  “And her hair – light or dark?” the inspector asked, striving to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

  “Well – er, I don’t rightly remember much o’ that,” the old fellow acknowledged. “Lightish like, I should say, and long down her back, not cut off like these young girls nowadays.”

  “Her golden hair was hanging down her back,” murmured the inspector’s first friend, who was evidently by way of being facetious.

  “Still, twenty years ago, or eighteen years ago is not so long but that there must be some people in Hepton who would remember Miss Carslake and know what has become of her.”

  “Dare say there are,” assented the other man in a listless tone, apparently losing interest in the subject. He picked up his empty glass and looked into it reflectively.

  The inspector took the hint for both his loquacious friends. He got little more out of them, however, except the remark that old Dr. Brett, him as had give up doctorin’ and gone to live retired in a house on the Bourton Road – he’d know all there was to know of the Carslakes.

  At any rate there seemed to be little more to be gleaned at the “Moreton Arms.” A glance at his watch showed Stoddart that there was time to spare before lunch, and after a moment’s indecision he made up his mind to seek an interview with Dr. Brett. If the old doctor had retired, probably time hung heavily on his hands and he would welcome a visitor and a chat over old days.

  Just past the “Moreton Arms” the main street divided itself into two roads, one, that on the right, going on past what was known as the high causeway to the range of hills overlooking the wide level ground that stretched over to Lichfield. These hills running more or less continuously to the Welsh borderland were known as Hepton Edge. The other road ran by the old Vicarage to the nearest town of Bourton. On this road, the very few houses that had been added to Hepton in the memory of living man had been built. To one of these comparatively modern abodes the inspector was directed when he inquired for Dr. Brett.

  The doctor was at home, he was informed by the smiling, white-capped maid who answered the door. Apparently Hepton required no credentials, there was no question of his admission. He was taken at once to a pretty little drawing-room with enough old silver about to make a thief’s eyes water.

  Dr. Brett did not keep him waiting long. He was a fussy-looking little man with a bush of white hair and what looked like the remains of side-whiskers, contrasting oddly with his rosy cheeks and pale blue eyes.

  The inspector stood up. “Dr. Brett, I presume?”

  The doctor bowed. “You have the advantage of me. But the maid understood that you wished to speak to me on business.”

  “I did, sir.” The inspector handed him a card. “You will see, I am from Scotland Yard.”

  “Dear, dear, yes – ‘Detective Inspector Stoddart,’” he read. “Dear me, yes. I suppose you are here in Hepton in order to investigate this shocking affair at the Abbey. But I don’t know that I can be of any assistance to you. I have long ago given up practising.”

  “So I have heard,” the inspector said quietly. “Nevertheless I am here to ask your assistance this morning. I believe you knew a Mrs. Carslake at the Red House?”

  “Knew her! Bless my life, of course I did,” the doctor ejaculated. “But sit down, Mr. – Stoddart” – consulting the card again – “and tell me what I can do for you. Poor Eleanor Carslake, I was at her wedding. I brought all her children into the world, and I went to her funeral. Saw her laid to rest in Hepton Churchyard, to my mind the prettiest in England. Dear me, yes, I should say there is no one in Hepton who knows more about Eleanor Carslake than I do.”

  He took off his glasses and wiped the dew from them.

  “Now, tell me, what you want to know,” he began as he replaced them, “though I cannot conceive why Scotland Yard should make inquiries about Eleanor Carslake.”

  “It is not really Mrs. Carslake herself about whom I wanted to ask a few questions. It is really about her daughter.”

  “Ah, poor Lotty!”

  In some curious fashion the muscles of the doctor’s face began to stiffen.

  “What can I tell you about her?” he inquired abruptly.

  “Really I hardly know,” the inspector said frankly. “But perhaps the most important thing I want to know is just where Miss Carslake is at present.”

  “And that I am sure I can’t tell you,” Dr. Brett said decidedly. “I haven’t heard of her for years. Two of her brothers were killed in the War and the youngest went out to Australia. I believe he is still there. Lotty – well, Lotty married – a war marriage, you know. It was not happy – was not likely to be – there was a divorce; so much I saw in the paper. But though I wrote to Lotty I got no answer and have never heard a word of her since.”

  “Was she to blame for the divorce, or was her husband?” the inspector inquired quietly.

  Brett sighed. “I feared you were going to ask that. I am afraid – I am sadly afraid the poor unhappy child herself was in the wrong. So I gathered from the account in the paper.”

  The inspector made a note in his book.

  “Was Miss Carslake very handsome, Dr. Brett?”

  Dr. Brett appeared to reflect a minute. “Not when I saw her last. An ordinary, plain-looking girl, I should have called her.”

  “I see.” The inspector shut up his book and snapped the elastic round it. Then he looked the doctor squarely in the face. “I am going to be pretty frank with you. Do you think the Miss Lotty Carslake you knew in Hepton could possibly be this poor Charmian Karslake who lies dead at the Abbey?”

  “Bless my soul! I do not think so,” the doctor said emphatically.

  Yet the inspector fancied that there was something that did not ring quite true in his voice.

  “This poor thing was an American, wasn’t she? And exceptionally beautiful. Now, none of the Carslakes could lay claim to anything remarkable in the way of good looks.”

  “Is that so? But this girl might have
improved considerably after leaving Hepton, mightn’t she?” The inspector watched the doctor’s face carefully. “As for being an American, so much was given out in the Press. But I find that practically nothing seems to be known of her antecedents. She was playing small parts – extremely small parts – in New York three years ago, when the illness of one of the principals gave her her chance, and she leapt at once to fame and fortune. But I may tell you in confidence – in strict confidence – Dr. Brett, that we have some ground for thinking that Charmian Karslake had some previous knowledge of Hepton, and that it was this knowledge that made her accept Lady Penn-Moreton’s invitation to come down for the ball.”

  “Dear, dear, is that so?” The doctor’s face looked troubled. “But if she was a Hepton girl it does not follow that she was little Lotty Carslake. I altogether refuse to believe that she was. Carslake’s not an uncommon name.”

  “Not so common as Brown, Jones and Robinson,” Stoddart rejoined. “But I am afraid that I must ask you to come with me to the Abbey now, Dr. Brett. I want to know whether you recognize this dead Charmian Karslake.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Neither the doctor’s tone nor his expression was indicative of any willingness to undertake the task.

  “Absolutely,” the inspector replied, getting up. “Now, if you please, Dr. Brett.”

  “I suppose I have no choice,” the doctor said reluctantly.

  “No choice at all,” the inspector said decidedly.

  CHAPTER 6

  The private chapel at the Abbey, half-ruined now, had not been part of the original structure, but had been built by the Penn-Moretons when the Abbey Church had become the Parish Church of Hepton. On one side of the chancel was the Priests’ Vestry. It was here, as a temporary mortuary, that poor Charmian Karslake’s body had been taken. It lay on a long trestle-table in the middle of the room. Kindly hands had thrown a sheet over the body and had laid a white veil on the face, but otherwise it was untouched and clothed just as it had been found.

  Thither Inspector Stoddart conveyed Dr. Brett, much against that gentleman’s will. Police and plainclothes men were stationed all round the Abbey and at the door of the private chapel, but the men stood aside and saluted as they saw the inspector and his companion.

  “You have allowed no one to enter, Barnes?” the inspector questioned sharply.

  “No, sir. Her ladyship’s maid, she came and wanted to put a lot of flowers here, but I told her it was not allowed unless you gave permission, sir.”

  “Quite right,” the inspector said approvingly.

  Accustomed as Dr. Brett must surely have been to scenes of death, he was distinctly paler as he followed the inspector into the vestry and up to the silent form that lay on the trestles in the middle of the room.

  Very reverently the detective laid back the covering from the dead face. Dr. Brett gazed at it long and earnestly, bending forward to see more closely after the first moment. The golden hair had been smoothed back, but it still waved round the waxen face. The deep blue eyes refused to be closed and the lips were still parted. She still wore the yellow underclothing and the white dressing-gown in which she had been shot.

  At last the doctor drew himself up and taking off his pince-nez polished it industriously for a minute.

  The inspector replaced the covering over the dead face and led the way out of the vestry, treading softly.

  In the body of the chapel he paused and looked at Dr. Brett.

  “Well?”

  “It is not Lotty Carslake,” the doctor said slowly. “But –”

  The inspector looked at him. “Yes? But –”

  “It is not Lotty Carslake I am pretty sure,” Dr. Brett went on. “But I have an odd feeling of familiarity with that poor dead face, as if somewhere I had seen it before.”

  “In Hepton?” the inspector questioned sharply.

  Dr. Brett raised his eyebrows. “In Hepton presumably. Most of my life has been spent here. But I cannot say more. I cannot place my recollection at all.”

  “But you are quite definite in your statement that it is not Miss Lotty Carslake?”

  The inspector fancied that the other’s eyes did not meet his quite frankly.

  Dr. Brett paused a moment before replying. “As definite as it is possible to be with regard to a girl I have not seen for seventeen years, not since she was sixteen.”

  “The points of difference?” the inspector suggested.

  The doctor hesitated. “Lotty Carslake’s hair was much fairer, her complexion was not so good, and her features were not so regular, larger I think.”

  “It seems to me that the passage of time might account for most of that,” the inspector rejoined thoughtfully.

  “I don’t think so,” Dr. Brett dissented. “In fact, in my own mind, I am sure that this poor thing is no Carslake.”

  “But you are equally sure that you have seen her before?”

  “No, I could not say that.” The doctor spoke ponderously. “But I have a haunting feeling that the face is not entirely strange to me. More I could not say.”

  The inspector looked profoundly dissatisfied.

  “Do you think that this sense of familiarity of which you speak may be accounted for by the portraits of Miss Karslake which have been appearing in the papers of late, ever since Charmian Karslake came to England. You may even have seen her act?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Certainly I have not. Haven’t been inside a theatre for years, and never was very keen on them. No, I feel that my recollection goes further back. I tell you what, inspector, I will go home and have a look at my old case book. That may revive my memory.”

  “One more question,” said the inspector, detaining him. “Was Miss Lotty Carslake – were Mrs. Carslake and her daughter friendly with the people here – the Penn-Moretons?”

  “They knew them, of course.” The doctor smiled in a curious fashion. “But when you ask if they were friendly, inspector, you show that you have very little knowledge of the ramifications of county society. No doubt, the Penn-Moretons knew the Carslakes by sight, possibly to bow to. Anything further would be out of the question.”

  “But the young men of the two families?” the inspector suggested.

  “I never heard that there was any friendship or even acquaintanceship between them,” the doctor said decidedly. “Of course the Carslakes were rather older than the Penn-Moretons.”

  The inspector considered a minute. “I suppose they would be. Well, I am much obliged to you, Dr. Brett, you have been of real help to me.”

  “Not much. I wish I could have been of more,” the doctor said as they left the chapel. “Oh, well, you know where to find me when you want me, inspector.”

  The inspector went back to the house. As he neared the front door Harbord came out and, after a glance round, crossed the garden to meet him.

  “I am glad that you have come back sir,” he began, “one of the maids is telling a curious tale this morning. It may be of some help to us. I don’t know, but I think you should hear it without delay.”

  The inspector quickened his steps. “I will come at once. What about the churchyard, Alfred?”

  “I found the grave of a Mrs. Carslake, sir. That was all. I couldn’t get at the registers. The vicar keeps them locked up and he is out for the day. So I thought I might as well return to the Abbey. And here I came across a girl, Myra Smith. She was having hysterics in the housemaids’ room. Thinking the noise might have some connexion with Miss Karslake’s death, I found – But I should like you to hear for yourself, sir.”

  “I will see her in the library which Sir Arthur has kindly placed at our disposal. Tell Myra Smith to come to me at once,” he said to the butler as he admitted them.

  That functionary was looking whiter and even more nervous than on the preceding evening.

  “Certainly, inspector, I will send her to you,” he said in a quavering voice.

  “Thank you. Come along, Harbord.”

  The library w
as empty. Sir Arthur had removed himself and his belongings to a room overlooking what was still called the Monks’ Garden. In the library Stoddart’s papers and his big case book were housed in the escritoire at the top end of the table. The inspector unlocked it now and took out his notes.

  In another moment there was a knock at the door and a stately looking dame appeared. Stoddart recognized her as the Abbey housekeeper. She was holding firmly the arm of a weeping girl who was obviously being brought very unwillingly into the inspector’s presence.

  The inspector moved forward quickly. “Is this Myra Smith, Mrs. Cowell? Now, Myra, what are you crying about? There is nothing to frighten you here. If you will just answer a few questions –”

  “Which she had better at once, and truthfully, if she wants to keep her place,” the housekeeper interposed in a wrathful voice. “She has done wrong, and she knows it, and she had better own up at once.”

  “Yes, I feel sure she will,” said the inspector soothingly. “But do you know, Mrs. Cowell, I think I shall have to see Myra alone. It is our rule, at Scotland Yard, never to take the statement of a person with another who may herself be wanted later as a witness, and an important witness in the same case. You will understand me, I am sure?”

  The housekeeper tossed her head. Evidently she was much displeased at the suggestion.

  “Well, if you want to see her alone, I am sure you are welcome to,” she said huffily. “But I doubt if you will get as much out of her as I should.”

  “I dare say you are right, Mrs Cowell,” the inspector said in a placatory tone. “It is just the rule, foolish I dare say, but just the rule.”

  “Oh, well, I am sure you are welcome to keep it.” And without another look either at him or at Myra Smith the housekeeper walked out of the room.

  The inspector looked at the girl standing by the table, drooping over it as though she had scarcely strength to hold herself up.

  He drew a chair forward near the fire, which was burning cheerily.

  “Now, Myra,” he said in a fatherly fashion, “don’t you get frightened, I only want you to help me on a little bit. I expect you are all tired and done up. The work for the ball and this terrible affair of Miss Karslake on the top of it.”