House in Charlton Crescent (11 page)

“Five people!” Dorothy interrupted him. “Six, you mean, for you surely cannot omit the man at the window?”

The inspector accepted the correction. 

“Six, then. Of course you saw this sixth—the man at the window—yourself, Miss Fyvert?”

“Well, I can't say exactly,” Dorothy said honestly. “I was at the tea-table, and was so amazed to see Soames drop the cakes that I was looking at him, and only had the most casual glance at something moving at the window. Also, of course, everybody made a rush for the window, so that they got between.”

“And you saw and heard nothing else?” the inspector said sharply.

“Well, I have told myself since that it must have been a mistake,” Dorothy said doubtfully. “But I did fancy at the time that I heard a soft eerie laugh.”

“Ah! You did?” the inspector's eyes grew keen. “Now where did it seem to come from, up or down, or one side?”

“Really, I couldn't tell,” Dorothy said, a strange look compounded of fear and some subtler emotion coming over her face. “It just seemed to be in the air. I can't tell you any more, Mr. Furnival.”

“Ah—um—well!” The inspector dismissed the subject. “Well, you went with the others to the window, I presume!” he proceeded.

“I went with them,” she acquiesced. “I think I was the last to reach the window. I remember Soames standing aside for me. And then it was all confusion till we heard that horrible groan and cry and I found out that poor Aunt Anne had been stabbed.”

“The last to reach the window,” mused the inspector. “H'm! Now, Miss Fyvert, can you tell me of any one of the others who was near you all the time right up to the moment when you heard that groan?”

Dorothy drew her delicate brows together, her blue eyes looked puzzled and worried. “I don't know. I don't think so,” she said slowly at last. “It seems to me that Mr. John Daventry was close to me a good deal of the time, but could not swear to the exact moment when we heard the groan.”

“I see. I wish you could,” the inspector said. “Now with regard to this question of motive, it is a curious thing that every person in the room would be better off at Lady Anne's death. To you she bequeathed her pearls and her jewels.”

“Some of her other jewels,” Dorothy corrected. “Both my little sister and Miss Balmaine have legacies; Mr. Daventry also. But, Mr. Furnival” —her blue eyes growing wide with horror, her voice vibrating with indignation—”you cannot mean to suggest that I killed Aunt Anne in order to obtain her legacy. I did not even know that she had left the pearls to me. You cannot think—”

“I do not think—I do not suggest—anything,” the inspector interrupted gravely. “It is my duty to deal with facts as they are. Now, Miss Fyvert, I happen to know that a very short time ago you were in urgent need of a large sum of money. You wrote to Lady Anne and asked her to help you; and she refused—”

“How in the world do you know that?” Dorothy gasped, every vestige of colour fading from her cheeks, even her lips turning blue, the pupils of her eyes distending until the eyes themselves looked black.

For answer the inspector held her letter to Lady Anne out to her.

“Your handwriting, I think?”

The girl bent her head. She was biting her underlip, her fingers were turning and intertwining themselves together.

“Miss Fyvert,” the inspector went on, a kindlier note creeping into his voice as he noticed the girl's agitation, “there is a saying that a man should have no secrets from his doctor or his lawyer. Believe me, in a case of this kind it is best to have no secrets from the police. Now will you tell me whether you obtained that money and how?”

“I—I can't,” faltered the girl. “I do not think”—rallying all her courage—“that you have any right to ask me. You see that Aunt Anne refused me. The rest cannot concern you.”

“Everything concerns me that may bear upon the doings of any of you in the room that evening. Won't you be frank with me, Miss Fyvert? A few words to me now may save you much unpleasantness later on. In a court of law you can be compelled to answer.”

“Nobody can compel me,” the girl said, raising her head proudly. “Besides, are not people who are accused warned not to speak because what they say may be used in evidence against them.”

“But you are not accused!” the inspector said quietly. “No one is accused yet. I said that any one of you four—Mr. Daventry, Miss Balmaine, yourself and Soames, the butler—might be accused, because you were known to be in the room.”

“No!” Dorothy contradicted in a defiant tone. “Once more you have forgotten the man at the window—the Cat Burglar as they call him in the papers—and—and Mr. Cardyn.”

The softening in her tone did not escape the inspector's quick hearing.

“Ah! the Cat Burglar!” he repeated, an odd little inflection in his voice. “Well, I do not see how the Cat Burglar outside can have much to do with the murder of Lady Anne Daventry from the inside. As for Mr. Cardyn, I think we must put him out of court, because—I am speaking to you confidentially now, Miss Fyvert—he is a private detective engaged by Lady Anne herself, to prevent this very thing that happened—”

“What! Mr. Cardyn a detective! I do not believe it!” Dorothy caught her breath sharply. “I am certain he is not—could not be anything of the kind.”

The inspector raised his eyebrows. “I assure you he is. But now, Miss Fyvert, I tell you what I am going to do. I'm going to leave you here alone for a few minutes just to think things over before we start for the inquest. I think, on reflection, you will see that it is best to tell me everything.”

“I shall not, I will not,” Dorothy contradicted hotly.

The inspector paid no heed. He left the room with his usual catlike tread and Dorothy was alone.

Her first proceeding was to jump up and take a few steps up and down the room, her breath coming in quick strong gasps, her small brown hands gripping one another.

“I do not believe it—I know it is not true,” she said passionately to herself.

Then she threw herself back in her chair, her breast panting, her foot tapping the floor.

“What am I to do?” she cried to herself. “Heaven help me, I do not know what to do now.” 

At this moment Bruce Cardyn opened the door and looked in.

“You sent for me, inspector? Miss Fyvert” —his tone changing to one of consternation—”you are in trouble. Can I help you?”

Wrath dried Dorothy's tears. She dropped the handkerchief.

“You! No! You would only make things worse for me. I have been told—”

“What have you been told?” Bruce stood before her, his arms folded. Instinct told him what was coming.

“You know!” the girl said scornfully. “I have been told—the—the inspector has told me—you are here to watch, to pry—Oh, it is loathsome—loathsome! I wonder that a man can stoop so low!”

Bruce Cardyn took rapid counsel with himself. The inspector must have had some motive for giving away the secret he had hitherto guarded so successfully.

“You have heard that I am a detective,” he said quietly. “Does that seem so terrible a thing to you?”

Dorothy struck her hands together passionately.

“It seems horrible, detestable! To spend your time trying to find out other people's secrets—to be a spy, an informer! Would it be possible for a man to sink lower? And that it should be you—you who have done this vile thing!”

The hot blood flew to Cardyn's brow. For a moment he struggled to find words to answer. At last he said, controlling his voice:

“Does it seem so dreadful a thing to you to put oneself on the side of the law? The innocent— the innocent have nothing to fear from a detective, Miss Fyvert.”

“Oh, yes, they have!” Dorothy said wrathfully. “You may be quite innocent, but they will go prying and poking about trying to find out things that are no concern of theirs all the same. And you—you who saved me from that terrible fire—whom I have looked upon as a friend—” Tears choked her utterance.

The anger her words had caused in Bruce Cardyn's heart died down, to be succeeded by pity and a stronger, simpler emotion, that even to himself he had hardly dared yet to acknowledge.

“It has been a great joy—a supreme honour for me that you have allowed me to count myself among your friends,” he said quietly. “For the sake of that friendship, will you listen to me for one minute? Your aunt, Lady Anne, sent for me; she told me that she was frightened, that some member of her household was trying to murder her—she did not know who—and she asked me to come here as her secretary and find out which one it could be. It seemed to be then—it seems to me now—a very pitiful case. Here was a woman, old, alone, fearing the death that was lurking near all the time, not knowing from what corner it might come. I promised to do my best for her. Heaven knows I meant to make her safe!”

“But you didn't,” Dorothy said scornfully. “You didn't pry about in the right direction, you see, Mr. Cardyn.”

“I did not,” Bruce Cardyn acknowledged, a faraway look in his grey eyes. “I shall never forgive myself for having failed her, and yet I do not see what could have done—that I did not do. Now—now I have sworn to avenge her murder. When I have fulfilled my vow, I shall come to you and say, I am a detective no longer. Will you give me a word of hope, Miss Fyvert, will you be my friend again?” He made a slight gesture as though to put out his hand.

But Dorothy would not take it. She put both hers firmly behind her.

“I shall say, however much you give it up, the remembrance of what you have done and been in the past will cling to you still,” she said cuttingly. “Friends with a detective—a spy! No. thank you, Mr. Cardyn!”

The hall at the back of Charlton Crescent where the inquest on Lady Anne Daventry was resumed was crammed to its utmost limit when the inquiry was reopened. Crowds waited outside, unable to get in, but hoping for a glance at those who were to give evidence to-day. The curiosity of the sightseers was not to be gratified this morning, however. A private car with the rector of North Coton, his wife and the two girls came first. They were followed quickly by another car containing Bruce Cardyn, John Daventry, Inspector Furnival and Soames.

They were both driven through the crowd to a back entrance, and while the sightseers were still watching for “the Five” they were safely inside the court-house.

The inquest was held in a big room, while there sat at the table near the coroner the counsels who held watching briefs for the five and for the Fyvert and Daventry families, and, much to the surprise of the general public who did not see the connexion, for Messrs. Spagnum and Thirgood. Close behind them again were the solicitors who instructed them, and the seats allotted to the witnesses. Every other seat, every other inch of standing room was quickly filled when the coroner took his place and the doors were opened.

Francis Herbert Soames was the first witness called and there was a sharp stir of expectation through the court.

Soames looked as urbane and dignified as even as he made his way through the crowd, but it was evident to a keen observer that the tragic events of the past fortnight had left their mark upon him. His shoulders were more bowed, his face was paler, even his lips were white as he kissed the book.

After the preliminaries were over the coroner bade him tell the story of the afternoon of Lady Anne's death to the jury, as clearly and as concisely as possible.

He stated his length of service in the Daventry family and gave his age as fifty-six, to the surprise of the sightseers, who thought he looked more. Then he passed on to what he saw on the afternoon of the 29th.

“It was getting dark,” he began, “and I took up another relay of hot cakes to my lady's sitting-room, knowing how fond the young ladies were of them. I had got in the room and was surprised to find how dark it was, it not being my lady's custom to sit in the gloaming. One of the young ladies began to joke about the cakes,” he went on, a huskiness coming in his voice for the first time. “I was just opposite the window, and as I answered Miss Dorothy something seemed to move across the glass. I looked more closely and saw a white face—a noticeably white face, staring in at us. I was so startled, sir,” looking apologetically at the coroner, “that I am ashamed to say I dropped the plate of cakes in my hand and called out. I often say to myself that if I hadn't done so my poor lady might have been alive now. For there was such an outcry when Mr. Daventry and the young ladies saw the face at the window that the murderer was able to come in and work his wicked will on my lady. The next thing I heard, while we were all looking out, was that dreadful gasping cry, and when we turned round, there was my lady choking her life-blood away, with that dagger sticking out of her breast.”

He stopped. The coroner looked at his notes.

“You say, ‘the murderer was able to come in.' Why do you say he came in? Did you see him? Did you hear any movement?”

“No, sir, no.” The witness paused as if to suppress some emotion. “But it stands to reason that some one did come in. It is impossible to suppose—”

“You are not asked to suppose, witness,” the coroner interposed. “Did you or did you not hear or see anything to show you that another person had entered the room.”

“No, I did not, sir,” the witness replied unwillingly.

“Now with regard to this man at the window,” the coroner went on, after another glance at his notes, “will you tell us exactly about the state of these windows—this one and the other? Were they open or closed?”

“This one was open a few inches from the top, sir. The one nearest her ladyship—not the one the man came to—was a little open. The other was latched. They were just as my lady always gave orders they should be, sir.”

“I have no doubt of that,” said the coroner. “Now can you conceive it possible that a man could have got through either of them into the room?”