Death of a Peer (25 page)

Perhaps if the sound had not begun again Roberta would have lain still in her bed. But there are degrees of terror and with the stealthy resumption of the sound she knew that she could not endure it alone. She snapped down the switch by her door but no light came and she supposed that it had been turned off at the main. She groped on her bedside table, found a box of matches and lit her candle. Now her room was there with her clothes lying across a chair. Her shadow reared up the wall and stretched halfway across the ceiling. She put on her dressing-gown and, taking her candle, went to her door and opened it. As she did this the sound stopped again.

Henry’s door was wide open. Roberta crossed the passage and went into his room but before she looked at the bed she knew he would not be there. The clothes were turned back and there was no candle on his table. She found some comfort in being in Henry’s room. It smelt faintly of the stuff he put on his hair. Roberta wrapped his eiderdown quilt round herself and sat on the bed. Henry had heard the noise and had gone to see about it. But at once she grew afraid for Henry and as the seconds went by this fear increased until it became intolerable. She went to the door and listened. The sound had stopped for some minutes and she heard only the rain, muffled here where there were no windows. She faced the passage and perceived a thinning of darkness at the far end, where the landing was and where the well of the house gaped up to the roof. As she peered down the passage this dimness changed stealthily to a faint shadow, moving slow. It must be Henry returning with his candle. Now she could see the landing with its gallery rail and stairhead. She caught a glint of light on a far wall and remembered that a looking-glass hung there. A glowing circle appeared on the landing floor. It widened and grew more clearly defined. Henry was coming upstairs. In a moment she would see him.

Framed by the black walls of the passage, a figure carrying a lighted candle moved from the stairs across the landing. It paused, and slowly turned. The light from the candle shone upwards into its face. It was Lady Wutherwood. Her head was slanted as if she listened intently; her eyes were turned upwards towards the next landing. She moved away, became a receding shape rimmed by a golden nimbus, and disappeared.

Roberta, in the dark passage, stood still. Henry’s door, caught in a draught from his open window, banged shut, and her whole body leapt to the sound and was still again. At last the landing began to grow light once more. The manner of its lighting was so exactly as it had been before that her nerves expected Lady Wutherwood to come upstairs again like a ghost that punctually repeated its gestures. But of course it was Henry. He shielded his candle with his hand and seemed to look directly into Roberta’s eyes. Forgetting she was invisible she wondered at his look, which held nothing of the comfort she had expected. Then, realizing that he had not seen her, she went down the passage to meet him.

“Robin! Why have you come out! Go back.” He scarcely breathed the words.

“I can’t. What’s happening?”

“What have you seen?”

“I saw her. I think she went up to the next landing.”

“Go back to your room,” Henry said.

“Let me stay. Give me something to do.”

He seemed to hesitate. She touched his arm. “Please Henry.”

“What wakened you?”

“A noise in that room. Like sawing. Have you been there?”

Again Henry hesitated. “It’s locked,” he said.

“Where’s the detective? Shouldn’t you find him?”

“Come with me.”

So he was going to let her stay with him. She followed him across the landing. He paused at a door, bent down to listen. Then, very gingerly, he turned the handle and with his head motioned Roberta to come closer. She obeyed. Through the crack of the door came the sound of snoring, very deep and stertorous.

“Night nurse,” breathed Henry and closed the door.

“What are you going to do? Find the detective?”

“I’d like to find out for myself what she’s up to.”

“No, Henry. If anything’s wrong it would look so strange. Ssh!”

“What?”

“Look.”

A circle of light bobbed up the stairs and across the landing. “Damn!” whispered Henry. “He’s coming.”

He walked swiftly to the stairhead. “Hullo,” he said softly, “who’s that?”

“Just a minute, sir.”

The man came up quickly, flashing his torch on Henry. As he moved into the candlelight Roberta saw he wore a heavy overcoat and muffler and remembered that she herself was cold.

“What’s wrong here, sir?” asked the man. “Who’s been interfering with these lights? I said they were to be left on.”

Henry told him quickly that he had been awakened by a sound from the green drawing-room, and that he had seen Lady Wutherwood walk across the landing with a candle in her hand. “Miss Grey saw her too. Miss Grey came out soon after I did.”

“Where did she go, sir?”

“Upstairs.”

“You stay here, if you please, sir. Both of you. Don’t move.”

He threw his torch light on the upper stairs. They were half the width of the lower flight and steeper. The man ran lightly up and then disappeared. Roberta and Henry heard a door open and close, then another, and another. Then silence.

“Hell!” said Henry loudly, “I’m going…” Roberta snatched at his arm and he stopped short. Somewhere in the top floor of the house Lady Wutherwood screamed. Roberta knew at once it was she who screamed. It was the same note that had drilled through the silence of the lift well. It persisted for some seconds, intolerable and imbecilic, and then a door slammed it away into the background. Other voices sounded on the top floor. Somebody had joined them on the landing. It was the night nurse with her veil askew.

“Where’s she gone?” cried the night nurse. “I don’t accept the responsibility for this. Where’s she gone?”

On the top floor the man in the overcoat was saying: “Get back to your rooms, the lot of you. Move along now. Do what you’re told.” And a voice, Tinkerton’s: “I’m going to my lady.”

“You’re doing what you’re told. Into your rooms, now, all of you. I’ll see you later.”

“You can’t lock me out.”

“I have locked you out.Stand aside, if
you
please.”

The man in the overcoat came downstairs.

“Where’s my patient?” said the nurse. “I must get to my patient.”

“You’re too late,” said the man, and to Henry: “You two come along with me, sir. I’m going to the telephone.”

They followed him to a small study on the second landing. He sat down to a desk and dialled Whitehall 1212. His fingers shook and his mouth looked stiff.

“… Campbell here on duty at 24 Brummell Street. Mr. Alleyn, please. What’s that? On his way? Right. There’s been a fatality here. We’ll want the divisional surgeon quick. Get him, will you, I’m single-handed.”

He replaced the receiver.

“Look here,” said Henry violently. “What was she doing? You can’t drag us around like a brace of dummies and tell us nothing. What’s happened? What’s this fatality?”

The man Campbell bit his fingers and stared at Henry.

“Who locked the door of the room where the body is?” he demanded.

“
I
didn’t,” said Henry.

“But you knew it was locked, sir?”

“Of course I did. I heard a damned ghastly noise in the room and went down to investigate. What’s happened upstairs?”

The man seemed to weigh something in his mind and come to a decision. “Come and see,” he said.

They seemed to have forgotten Roberta but she followed them up the long stairs. On the next landing they picked up the nurse and went on to the top floor, a strange procession. The nurse and Campbell had a torch and Henry his candle. The top landing gave on to a narrow passage. The detective opened the first door. The Moffatts, two girls, and Tinkerton, fantastic in their night-clothes, were huddled round a candle.

“Here, you,” said Campbell, “Mr. Moffatt. Go down and fix up the lights. Some one’s pulled out the main fuse. Find it and get it back. Or have you got a spare?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, fix it. Have you got a police whistle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go to the front door and blow it. When the constable comes, take him up to the door of the room where the body is and tell him I said he was to stay there. Detective-Sergeant Campbell. Then wait by the front door. Let in a doctor who will be here in a few minutes and send him upstairs to the top floor. Then wait for Chief Inspector Alleyn who’s on his way from Victoria Station. Send him up too.”

He passed the next door and paused by a third. “Your patient’s in there, nurse. We’ll take a look at her first. We’ll have to see if there’s a key on her. You come in with me, sir, and look out for yourself. She may give trouble.” He turned to Roberta. “You slip in after us if you please, Miss, take my torch and shut the door. If we’ve got to hold her I may trouble you to help. And you, Nurse. Now then.”

He unlocked the door, glanced at Henry, and then opened it quickly. He went in, with Henry on his heels. The nurse followed; Roberta slipped in behind her and shut the door.

It was an unused servant’s bedroom. For a moment Roberta thought Lady Wutherwood was not there but the light from the torches found her. She sat on the floor at the head of the stretcher bed. She turned her head and looked blindly into the light and though her retracted lips at first suggested a snarl it was evident by the noise she made that she was laughing. Her hair hung about her eyes; the white discs at the corners of the mouth glistened; she turned her head gently from side to side. Her throat was bare and in its pale thickness a pulse beat rapidly. She wore a dark gown over her nightdress and her hands moved among its folds.

“Now, my lady,” said Campbell, “nobody’s going to hurt you. Here’s Nurse come to take you back to bed.”

The nurse in a most unnatural voice said: “Come along, dear. We can’t stay in a nasty cold room can we? Come along.” Lady Wutherwood shrank back against the wall. The nurse said; “We’ll just help you up, shall we?” and moved forward.

Lady Wutherwood was on her feet with a swiftness that suggested some violent wrench of pain. She pressed herself against the wall. Her hands were in the pockets of her gown, holding them together, crushed tight against herself.

“That’s better,“ said the nurse. Campbell moved closer to Lady Wutherwood and in answer to this signal Henry followed him.

“Now you come along with Nurse, my lady,” said Campbell. “We’ll just take your arms.
Look out
!”

Henry’s candle rolled on the floor and went out. The nurse and Roberta pointed their torches at the three struggling figures. Lady Wutherwood struck twice at Campbell with her right hand before he caught her arm. Henry had her left arm. The left hand was still rammed down in the pocket of her dressing-gown but she fought with the violence of an animal. Suddenly the room was flooded by a hard white light. Roberta threw her torch on the bed. “Collar her low, Robin,” said Henry’s voice. Roberta was on the floor. Her arms embraced a pair of soft legs, struggling inside the folds of robe and nightgown. “Disgusting,
disgusting
,” said her thoughts but she held on. ‘That’s better,“ Campbell said, and abruptly they were all quiet, blinking in the glare. The nurse still pointed the torch at them. She was talking. “It’s a case for a mental attendant. I should never have been asked to take the case,” gabbled the nurse, carefully pointing her torch. “It’s not a case for ordinary duty.” Lady Wutherwood’s left hand doubled inside her pocket, touched the top of Roberta’s head. The hand and arm were rigid, yet they moved with their owner’s violent breathing. A new voice, harsh and broken, sounded and was silent.

“What’s she say?” Campbell demanded. “She said something. What was it?”

“German, I think,” said Henry.

“What’s she got in her pocket? Here, Nurse! Get rid of that torch.” The nurse looked at her hand. “Oh. Silly of me,” she said, and put the torch down.

“Now,” said Campbell, “put your hand in her pocket and see what she’s got hold of. Carefully. It may be a knife.”

“Why a knife?” asked Henry.

Campbell didn’t answer him. The nurse approached her patient and over Roberta’s head gingerly slid her hand down Lady Wutherwood’s arm into the pocket. Roberta, looking up, saw the nurse’s face bleach out abruptly to the colour of parchment.

“What’s the matter!” Campbell demanded.

“She’s — she’s — got — both her hands — in her pocket.”

Henry said violently; “Don’t be an ass, Nurse. What d’you mean?”

The nurse backed away from Lady Wutherwood, pointing at the pocket and nodding her head.

“I’ve got her right hand,” said Campbell impatiently. “What are you talking about?”

“There are two hands in her pocket,” said the nurse, and fainted.

The taxi pulled up at 24 Brummell Street, discharged its fares and skidded off into the rain.

“Quiet enough,” said Nigel. “You’ve got a jitterbug, Inspector.”

“There’s a light on in the hall,” said Alleyn. “What about the entrance here, Fox? Wasn’t there a man outside?”

“The P.C. on this beat,“ said Fox. ”He was told to stay outside and another chap was put on the beat.”

“Well, where is the P.C.?”

“Taking shelter, most likely,” said Fox. “He’ll hear about this.” Alleyn rang the bell at 24. Immediately they heard inside the click of a lock.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “That’s sudden.”

The door opened. Moffatt, very pale, with a rug clutched about him, stared at them.

“Are you from Scotland Yard, sir?”

“Yes. Anything wrong?”

“Yes, sir. Something terrible’s happened. I don’t know what it is, but…” Moffatt followed them up, leaving the door open behind him.

“Where is it?” Alleyn asked. “We’re all here. You’d better shut the door. Where’s the man on duty?”

“Mr. Campbell, sir? He’s upstairs, sir, and there’s a doctor there too, sir.”

“A doctor!” said Alleyn sharply.

“And there’s a policeman outside the room where his lordship’s lying. Something terrible—”

“We’ll go up,” said Alleyn. “How many floors?”

“Three, sir. And his lordship’s lying on the next floor. Her ladyship, sir, has been screaming something frightful to hear and…”

Alleyn was half-way up the first flight. The others followed him, Moffatt bleating in the rear. The fourth-floor landing was brightly lit. On the top stair Alleyn found a group of three. A uniformed nurse, white to the lips, was on the floor, propped against the stairhead. Above her stood Henry Lamprey and Roberta Grey. They, too, were deadly pale. As soon as she saw Alleyn the nurse said: “I’m quite all right and ready for duty. I don’t know what happened to me. It wasn’t natural. I’ve never slept on duty before, never. If the doctor wants me—”

“Where is the doctor?”

“In the fourth room along that passage,” said Henry. “Don’t mistake it for the third room. My aunt is locked in there. Stark mad, with her husband’s hand in her pocket.”

“They took it away,” said the nurse in a high voice.

Alleyn strode down the passage, followed by Fox.

“Henry,” said Nigel, “what in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“Hullo, Nigel,” said Henry. “Follow your boy friends and find out.”

“But—”

“For God’s sake,” said Henry, “leave us alone.”

Nigel followed Alleyn and Fox.
ii

In the fourth room along the passage Alleyn examined the body of William Giggle. He lay in his bed, on his right side, with the clothes drawn up to his mouth. There was a bloodstained dent on his left temple, a horseshoe-shaped mark pointing downwards towards the cheek with the arched end near the brow. When Alleyn drew down the bed-clothes he saw Giggle’s throat. A razor lay on the sheet close to Giggle’s head. Alleyn bent lower.

“Cooling,” he said.

“He’s been dead at least two hours,” said Dr. Curtis.

“Has he, by gum?” said Fox.

The bed was against the left-hand wall of the room. There was a space between the head of the bed and the back wall. Alleyn moved into it and made a gesture over the throat.

“Yes,” Curtis said, “like that. You notice it begins low down on the right near the clavicle, and runs upward almost to the left ear.”

“There’s no blood on any of them, sir,” said Campbell. “Not on her or any of them.”

Alleyn pointed to a slash in the collar of the pyjama jacket and Curtis nodded. “I know. It was done under the bedclothes. Look at them. Yes,” as Alleyn stooped to peer at an object at his feet. “She knocked him out with that boot. There’s blood on the heel.”

“Put it away carefully, Campbell. Chalk the positions. We’ll want Bailey and Thompson.”

“They’re coming,” said Curtis.

“Good.” Alleyn took a counterpane from the end of the bed and covered the body with it. “The same idea, you see,” he said, “with a difference. She’s learnt that an injury to the brain doesn’t always mean instant death but she’s stuck to the preliminary knock-out. It works well. Two hours, you say?”

“Or more.”

“We wouldn’t have saved him, Fox, if we had caught the express.”

“No, sir.”

“If only I’d seen that book a little earlier. What have you got in there, Campbell?”

Campbell had taken a rolled-up towel from the top of the dressing-table.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” sakd Campbell. “My Gawd, sir, we found it in her pocket with the key of the room downstairs. It’s like one of these damn-fool stories.”

“
The Case of the Severed Hand?
”

“How did you know, sir?”

“Her nephew told me. I’ll see the thing later.”

“Mr. Alleyn expected it,” said Fox quickly.

“I’m afraid it makes very good sense, Campbell,” said Alleyn. “Where is Lady Wutherwood?”

“Next door,” said Curtis. “I gave her an injection. Had to. She’d have hurt herself otherwise. She’s quieter now. I’ve telephoned Kantripp.”

“And the others?”

“The servants are all in the room at the end of the passage,” said Campbell. “Her personal maid, Tinkerton the name is, keeps asking to see her.”

“Let her stay where she is.” Alleyn moved to the door, turned, and looked at the bed.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose if he’d been asked he’d have preferred this.”

“To what?” asked Nigel.

“To the quick drop, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox.

“Good God, was he the murderer?”

“Yes, yes,” said Alleyn impatiently. “Come on.”
iii

Alleyn sent Curtis to look at Lady Wutherwood, and Campbell to the servants’ room where one of the maids could be heard enjoying fits of hysterics. Henry, Roberta, and the nurse were still on the landing. The nurse again expressed her devotion to duty and was told she could report to the doctor. Henry and Roberta were sent upstairs.

“If you can find a room with a heater,” said Alleyn, “I should use it. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“I want to know—” Henry began.

“Of course you do. Give me a little longer, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Alleyn and Fox went down to the green drawing-room, followed by a completely silent Nigel. Alleyn sent the policeman on guard there up to Campbell. He unlocked the door with the key that had been found in Lady Wutherwood’s dressing-gown pocket; The room was heavy with flowers.

The sound of wind and rain was loudest here. Gilded chairs and china cupboards stood at intervals round the walls, which were hung with green silk. Behind those sad folds the wainscoting uttered furtive little noises. A monstrous chandelier chimed dolefully as some one walked along the passage overhead. On three trestles in the middle of the room lay Lord Wutherwood’s body in an open coffin. The face was covered and a sheaf of lilies quite hid the breast. Alleyn moved them away. For a moment they were all silent. Then Nigel took out his handkerchief.

“God,” said Nigel shakily, “this is — it’s a bit too much.”

“Hacked off at the wrist,” said Fox. “Sawn off, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “If you’re going to be sick, Bathgate, I implore you to go outside.”

“I’m all right.”

Alleyn slid his hand out of sight round the sharp outline of the body. After a moment he drew something out of the coffin. Nigel had turned away. He heard Fox’s exclamation and then Alleyn’s level voice: “So the tool, you see, was to be buried with the crime.”

“It’s from the kitchen,” said Fox. “They saw up stock bones with them.”

“Put it away, Fox. Bailey will have to see it. Thompson had better take a shot of the dismembered arm. In the meantime—”

Alleyn replaced the sheaf of lilies and stood for a moment looking at the shrouded figure.

“What sort of epitaph,” he said, “can be written for the late Lord Wutherwood, killed by cupidity and mutilated in the interests of black magic? We’d better finish our job, Fox. We haven’t got a warrant. She’ll have to be taken away and charged later. You attend to that, will you? I’d better see that young man.”

“Robin may stay and listen too, mayn’t she?” asked Henry.

“Certainly. In a sense,” said Alleyn, “Miss Grey is the heroine in this case.”

“I am?” asked Roberta. “How can that be?”

“Your statement last night gave us the first inkling as to Giggle’s activities. You remember that you told us how, when you were alone in the dining-room, you heard the lift. Do you mind repeating that story once more?”

“Of course not. I heard Lord Wutherwood call out the second time. Then I heard the lift go down. Then I took a cigarette. Then I heard the lift again. Coming up. Then I hunted for matches and leant out of the window, smoking and listening to London. Then I heard Lady Wutherwood scream. The screams got louder and louder as…” Roberta stopped and stared at Alleyn. “Now I see,” she said slowly. ‘That’s why you made me repeat it twice over. The lift noises didn’t fit with the screams.”

“That’s it,” said Alleyn. “You see, according to all the other evidence, Lady Wutherwood began screaming while the lift was still going down and all the time it was coming up. But you heard the lift go down and come up with no disturbance. Then you leant out of the window and listened to London so you didn’t hear the lift go down on the second trip. You only heard her scream as it returned.”

“So there was a trip down and up unaccounted for,” said Henry.

“Yes. But the commissionaire said positively that the lift only made one trip and that the fatal one, when your brother stopped it before it actually reached the ground floor but when it was within view of the hall. What of this other trip? The only explanation was that it didn’t go all the way down. Now, when Miss Grey heard the lift, Michael and Giggle had just left her. They both say that Giggle went straight downstairs. Yet Giggle stated that the lift made no movement while he
was
going downstairs. He swore that it was at the top landing with Lord Wutherwood inside. It is at least true that Lord Wutherwood was inside. But we know it went down and we know Giggle must have seen it. The lift can be summoned from any floor at any time. The flat on that landing below yours is unoccupied. Our theory is that Giggle, on leaving Michael, went down to that landing. Michael saw him go and went into Flat 26. That gave Giggle his dubious alibi. He summoned the lift with Lord Wutherwood inside it. He entered the lift and inflicted the injuries. He was wearing your motoring gloves. He threw them under the seat, got out of the lift and went on down to the ground level where the commissionaire spoke to him. He then walked through the front entrance and got into the car.”

“But why!” Henry said. “Why did he kill him?”

“Because he knew he would come into £300 a year and a small property.”

“For so little!”

“Not so little to him. And I learnt that the property has increased considerably in value. He would have been comfortably set up for life. But there was another driving factor which we shall come to in a minute or two.”

“One moment,” said Henry. “Did Aunt V. know Giggle was the murderer?”

“We’ll take her next. As your family pointed out with tireless emphasis, Lady Wutherwood is mentally unhinged. May I say in passing that the emphasis was just a little too pointed? They would have been wiser to have left us to form our own opinion. However, she is undoubtedly insane and — a point that you may have missed — she is almost certainly taking some form of drug; morphia, I should think. She has also become deeply interested in witchcraft and black magic. The interest, I think, is pathological. In the police service we see a good deal of the effect of superstition on credulous and highly-strung people. We learn of middle-aged men and women losing their money and their sanity in the squalid little parlours of fortune-tellers, spirit-mongers, and self-styled psychiatrists. Lady Wutherwood, I think, is an extreme example of this sort of thing. She has wooed the supernatural in the grand macabre manner and has paid for her enthusiasm with her wits.”

“She’s always been a bit dotty,” said Henry.

“When Dr. Curtis and Fox and I interviewed her, we were puzzled by her reference to a couple of obscure mediaeval witches. A little later she certainly suggested that her husband had been killed by some supernatural agent who had taken the form of your brother Stephen.”

“Well!” said Henry. “I must say I call that a bit thick. Why pick on poor old Step?”

“Simply because she saw him in the lift. Her behaviour at this interview was in every way extraordinary. She had, we were assured, screamed violently and persistently when she discovered the injury to her husband, yet one couldn’t miss a kind of terrified exulting in her manner when she spoke of it. Lastly, and most importantly, she insisted that his body was to be sent to their London house. I’m no psychiatrist but it seemed to me that, however insane she was, if she had murdered her husband she wouldn’t desire, ardently, to spend a couple of nights in a half-deserted house with the dead body.
Unless
, and here’s an important point, she had some motive connected with the body. Very stupidly, I could think of no motive and was therefore still doubtful if she was guilty of her husband’s death, since Giggle’s guilt was not certainly known. This afternoon at Deepacres Park I believed I had discovered the motive. In a copy of a mediaeval work on witchcraft we found a chapter dealing with the various kinds of soporific spells.”

“My God!” Henry whispered, ‘“The Hand of Glory.”

“Yes. The hand cut from the wrist of a corpse, preferably a felon or a murdered man. It renders the possessor safe from discovery since — but you know your
Ingoldsby Legends
, I see.

“That’s it. Lady Wutherwood determined to make the experiment. As soon as her copy of the
Compendium Maleficomm
opened itself at that chapter, as soon as I saw her pencilled marks in the margin, I guessed what was up. I ought to have guessed before.”