Crow's Inn Tragedy (18 page)

The barrister did not appear to be impressed.

“Nobody is aware that he is acquainted with murderers until the murderer is found out,” he remarked with a certain air of stubbornness. “Besides, it might not have been from Mrs. Carnthwacke that this murderer had to fear recognition. He may have been known by sight to lots of people who might possibly have encountered him on his way to and from the room. All the clerks for example, the messengers, office boys, tenants of the neighbouring offices. Other people might have come to Mr. Bechcombe's private room too. Mrs. Carnthwacke may not have been the only expected client. But one thing is certain; this new evidence of Mrs. Carnthwacke's does throw a good deal of light on the much vexed question of the time at which the murder took place.”

“As how?” Cyril B. Carnthwacke's voice did not sound as though he would be easily placated.

Steadman shrugged his shoulders.

“Don't you realize that the medical testimony that Luke Bechcombe met his death soon after twelve o'clock has always been at variance with Mrs. Carnthwacke's statement that she saw him alive and well at one o'clock, and afterwards Miss Hoyle too heard some one moving about in Mr. Bechcombe's room when she returned from lunch? Now we realize that the doctors were right and that Mrs. Carnthwacke's interview took place with the murderer and that Miss Hoyle—”

The last word was interrupted by a hoarse, muffled shriek from Mrs. Carnthwacke. “I can't bear it, Cyril B. Carnthwacke. If you don't take me away I shall die.”

The American looked round doubtfully, then he drew her to her feet and supported her with one arm.

“Guess there is nothing to be gained by staying any longer,” he said, a certain note of truculence in his voice as he met Steadman's eyes. “Sure thing you know where to find us if you want us. Come then, little woman, we will just say good morning.”

No one made any effort to detain them as they went towards the door. John Steadman followed them into the hall.

Cyril B. Carnthwacke was bending over his wife and saying something to her in a low, earnest voice. As John Steadman came up to them he turned.

“Guess that little fair lady on your side the table is some one you know well, sir?”

Steadman looked at him curiously.

“Well, fairly well. She is engaged to Luke Bechcombe's nephew. She is a compatriot of yours too—a Mrs. Phillimore.”

“Gee whiz!” ejaculated the American. “And is that Mrs. Phillimore?”

“You have heard of her?” Steadman questioned.

“Reckon I have,” Cyril B. Carnthwacke assented, “and seen her too. Though it don't seem to me she was called Phillimore then.”

“Before she was married perhaps,” suggested Steadman.

“Perhaps,” drawled the American. “Anyway I have glimpsed the lady somewhere. Americans mostly know one another by sight you know,” a faint twinkle in his eye as he glanced over his wife's head at the barrister.

When Steadman went back to the dining-room Mrs. Bechcombe was lying back in her chair apparently in a state of collapse. Mrs. Phillimore was bending over her, looking very little better herself. All her little butterfly airs and graces had fallen from her. Her make-up could not disguise the extreme pallor of her cheeks, the great blue eyes were full of horror and of dread. She appeared to be trying to persuade Mrs. Bechcombe to drink a glass of wine which Mr. Collyer had poured out for her.

But as Steadman re-entered the room Mrs. Bechcombe sprang up, pushing Mrs. Phillimore aside and throwing the wine over the table cloth.

“Have you let her go?”

Steadman looked at her.

“Control yourself, my dear Madeleine. Let who go?”

“That—that woman. That Mrs. Carnthwacke,” Mrs. Bechcombe stormed hysterically. “I thought at least that you could see through her, that you had gone with her to make sure that she was arrested, that—”

A gleam of pity shone in Steadman's eyes as he watched her—pity that was oddly mingled with some other feeling.

“There is not the slightest ground for arresting Mrs. Carnthwacke, Madeleine. I have told you so before. Less than ever now.”

“Why do you say less than ever now?” demanded Mrs. Bechcombe. “Are you blind, John Steadman? Or are you wilfully deceiving yourself? Do you not know that that woman was telling lies? I can see—I should think anyone with sense could see—what happened that dreadful day in Luke's office. She took her jewels there, her husband followed her—I believe he is in it too. Probably he has lost his money—Americans are like that, up one day and down the next. He didn't want it to be known that his wife was selling her jewels. Yes. Yes. That is how it must have been. He sent her with the diamonds to Luke and followed her to get them back and make it look as if Luke had been robbed. Luke resisted and he was killed in the struggle. Oh, yes, That was how it was! And this cock and bull story of theirs—” She paused, literally for breath.

Steadman looked pityingly at her wide, staring eyes, at her twitching mouth and the thin, nervous hands that never ceased clasping and unclasping themselves, working up and down.

“Madeleine, this suspicion of Mrs. Carnthwacke is becoming a monomania with you. It is making you unjust and cruel,” he said, then waited a minute while she apparently tried to gather strength to answer him. Then he went on, “There is not the slightest ground for this new idea. Cyril B. Carnthwacke's name is one to conjure with in Wall Street as well as on the Stock Exchange here. Do you imagine that the police have neglected so very ordinary a precaution as an inquiry into his circumstances?”

With a desperate struggle Mrs. Bechcombe regained her power of speech.

“The police—the police are fools!” she cried passionately. “If a crime of this kind had been committed in Paris or New York, the murderer would have been discovered long ago, but in London—Scotland Yard cannot see what the merest tyro in such matters would recognize at once.”

“Do you think so?” John Steadman's clean-cut, humorous mouth relaxed into a faint half-smile. “I can tell you, Madeleine, that both in New York and Paris it is recognized that our Criminal Investigation Department is the finest in the world. But your feeling towards Mrs. Carnthwacke is becoming an obsession. When the mystery surrounding Luke's death is cleared up, and somehow I do not think it will be long now before it is, I prophesy that you will repent your injustice.”

“I prophesy that you will repent your folly in not listening to me,” retorted Madeleine Bechcombe obstinately. “That woman was lying. Ah, you may not have thought so. It takes a woman to find a woman out. If I had my way I would have women detectives—”

“Do you suppose we haven't?” John Steadman interposed gently. “Dear Madeleine, no stone is being left unturned in our endeavours to bring Luke's murderer to justice. Have patience a little longer!”

“Patience, patience! I have no patience!” Mrs. Bechcombe pushed Steadman's outstretched hand away wrathfully and turned to Mrs. Phillimore. “Sadie, you thought the same—you said you did just now!”

In spite of her pallor Steadman fancied that the Butterfly looked considerably taken aback.

“I don't think I said quite that,” she hesitated, “I don't know what to think. I feel that I can't—daren't think—anything.”

“What?” Mrs. Bechcombe raised her hand.

For one moment Steadman thought she was about to strike her guest, and with some instinct of protection he stepped to the Butterfly's side.

The Butterfly visibly flinched. “I—I think I said more than I ought,” she acknowledged frankly. “When you said she was telling lies, I—I didn't know what to say.”

“What did you say?” Steadman inquired quietly. “Did you say anything that could be misinterpreted?”

The Butterfly raised a fragment of cambric, widely edged with real lace. Apparently it did duty as a pocket-handkerchief. She pressed it to her eyes, taking care, as Steadman noticed, not to touch her carefully pencilled eyebrows.

“I said I didn't think Mrs. Carnthwacke was telling us all she knew,” she confessed. “I cannot tell what made me feel that, but I did. She—she was keeping something back, I am sure, and her husband knew that she was.”

“I wonder whether you are right,” said John Steadman slowly.

“I hear you are very busy, Aubrey, and I am very sorry to interrupt you. But I thought perhaps you would spare me a few minutes.”

The head of the Confraternity of St. Philip was sitting at his writing-table apparently absorbed in some abstruse calculations. He looked up with a furrowed brow and without his usual smile as the rector of Wexbridge advanced into the room.

“I can't spare very long, Uncle James. This enforced absence of Hopkins is throwing double work on my shoulders.”

“I know, I know!” assented Mr. Collyer. “You must realize how sincerely I sympathize with you, my dear Aubrey. But I bring some news that I feel sure will interest you. The police have found some of the emeralds.”

“Is that so?” There was no doubting the interest in Todmarsh's voice now. “Where? And why only some? Why not all?” He sprang up as he spoke and took up a position with his back to the fire, one elbow resting on the high wooden mantelpiece. “My dear Uncle James, this is good news indeed! And I am sure we all need some!”

“We do!” assented Mr. Collyer. “As to your questions, my dear Aubrey, the police preserve a reticence that I find extremely trying. They have just told me that they have found them, not when or where. The only thing they will say is that they believe they were stolen by the Yellow Gang. It may retard developments to say much of their find now, they say.

“But how?” questioned Todmarsh.

The rector shook his head.

“I don't know. I don't know how they can even be sure that the ones they have are my emeralds. They all look alike to me. However, they seem very certain. But what I came in for now, my dear Aubrey, is to ask if you can come to Scotland Yard with me. I don't seem much good alone and Anthony went away for the week-end last night. And I do know you would be more useful in identifying the jewels than he would.”

“I wonder whether I could,” debated Aubrey. “Perhaps if we took a taxi and I came straight back— Stolen by the Yellow Gang, you say, Uncle James?”

“Well, the police seem to think so,” Mr. Collyer assented. “But I doubt it myself. What should the Yellow Gang be doing at quiet little Wexbridge?”

Aubrey smiled in a melancholy fashion that was strangely unlike his old bright look.

“The Yellow Gang infests the whole country. They brought off a big
coup
at a country house in the north of Scotland a week or two ago. That they should be able to do so and escape unpunished shows the absolute inefficiency of the police system. The Yellow Dog, as they call him, sets the whole authority of the country at defiance. Personally I find myself up against him at every turn.”

“How?” the rector questioned.

“Why, all this.” Todmarsh made a comprehensive gesture with his arm that seemed to include not only the Community House but the men playing squash racquets and cricket outside. “All this is a direct challenge to the Yellow Dog. We get hold not only of those who have already gone astray, but of the potential young criminals who are his raw material, and do our best to turn them into decent members of society.”

Mr. Collyer looked at him.

“But do you mean that any of your community men were ever members of the Yellow Gang?”

“Many of them—Hopkins himself and at least two more of my best workers.”

“Then I should have thought it would have been a comparatively easy matter to get such information from them as would enable you to have broken up the Yellow Gang,” argued Mr. Collyer shrewdly.

Todmarsh shook his head.

“One would think so on the face of it. But, as a matter of fact, not one of them has ever seen the Yellow Dog. His instructions have always reached them in some mysterious fashion and they have known nothing of the headquarters of the gang. We have never been able to get hold of anyone who knows anything of the inner workings.”

“Extraordinary!” said the rector. “Still, I can't believe that they took my emeralds. With regard to your Uncle Luke, it is a very different matter. What do you think?”

“I have not had time to think lately,” Aubrey Todmarsh said dully. “This terrible affair of Hopkins obsesses me, Uncle James. I cannot help thinking that l am responsible for the whole thing.”

The rector looked at him pityingly.

“I know you do, my dear Aubrey. But you have described this idea of yours rightly when you call it an obsession—you are not struggling against it as you ought. No. That is not quite what I mean—you can't struggle against an idea. What I mean is that you should try to realize, as your friends do, how very much you did for Hopkins, and how entirely blameless you are in the matter of his downfall.”

This was rather in the rector's best pulpit style, and the young head of the Community House of St. Philip moved his shoulders restlessly.

“You see we don't look at the matter from the same standpoint, Uncle James. I do not acknowledge that Hopkins has fallen.”

Mr. Collyer stared.

“I don't understand you, my dear Aubrey.”

“No,” said Todmarsh, speaking very rapidly. “I don't suppose you do. But I saw Hopkins yesterday and heard his story. It made me feel both thankful and ashamed,” pausing to blow his nose vigorously. “Uncle James, when you know it, I am certain you will feel as I do, that it bears the stamp of truth. Hopkins, has been working of late among some of the plague spots of the East End, and has been most marvellously successful. By some means he learned of the intended burglary at Whistone Hall, and also that one of the men engaged was one whom he had regarded as a most promising convert. He came to ask my advice, but I was out with Sadie and he couldn't reach me. I shall never cease to regret that I failed him then. In his anxiety to stop the plot he could think of no better plan than going down to Whistone himself and reasoning with the men. Only in the event of their very obstinate refusal did he intend to give the alarm. However, when he reached the scene of action, he found that operations had been begun sooner than he expected and that they had already effected an entrance. Hopkins went after them. He pleaded, he argued and just as he thought he was on the point of success he found that they were surrounded. Then, it is a moot point what he ought to have done. So conscious was he of his own integrity that the idea of making his escape never occurred to him; and, when he found himself arrested with the others, he thought he only had to explain matters. His amazement when he was disbelieved was pathetic—so pathetic that I lost my own composure when listening to him.”