Jack on the Gallows Tree (5 page)

“I find speculation on the subject most distasteful and quite fruitless. It cannot have been anyone sane, surely?”

“Sanity can cover a multitude of aberrations, though. It might be someone who is accepted by the world as sane, I think. I shall hope to tell you a little more about that if you give me your authority to make a few enquiries.”

“I will give you that.”

“The first I wish to make relates to your chauffeur, Harold Wright.”

“Indeed? And what has Wright to do with it?”

“He knew Miss Carew?”

“He had driven her, on occasion.”

“He has been with you some years?”

“Since he was five years old. He is the son—I regret to say the
natural
son—of an excellent cook I had when I kept up our home at Ventnor. His mother died when he was seventeen and he has remained in my service.”

“He's a good chauffeur?”

“He is most devoted. Unfortunately, my lawyers have recently informed me that I am not justified in the expense of maintaining a motor-car. It seems some investments made by my father have not appreciated as they should. As I now live entirely in hotels the car is a most expensive luxury.”

“Wright knew this?”

“I had felt it best to give him a preliminary warning. He was most distressed. Since I have learned the terms of my cousin's will I realize that I shall be able to keep the car. But I really cannot see what connection this has with …”

“Oh, none. Miss Carew seems to have had a very small acquaintance and Wright was known to her.”

“Small acquaintance? My cousin was far too indiscriminate. It does not do to hob-nob with every kind of canaille. She would probably be alive now if she had listened to my advice in this matter. No one can be too careful in a place like this.”

“Have you any particular reason for saying this, Miss Tissot? Was there someone of whom you particularly disapproved?”

“No. But her whole manner of life showed lack of discernment. She lived with these so-called Baxeters …”

“Did you know them?”

“Know them? Certainly not. I shouldn't dream of being acquainted with such people. They had made their home a common lodging-house.”

“But Miss Carew was their only paying guest, I understand?”

“Numbers, Mr Deene, are irrelevant. They let rooms. I can only suppose that my unfortunate cousin inherited the
prodigality with which she made friends from her father. Her mother, you see, was my father's sister and married a man called Carew, a clergyman whose very profession brought him into contact with the most undesirable people. This is even more apparent in her disreputable nephew, Charles.”

“Is he disreputable?”

“Utterly. But what can you expect?”

“Nothing. I know very little about him.”

“His father was an artist.”

“That surely …”

“Not even an Academician. Fortunately, he had money of his own.”

“There seem to be a number of artists connected with this case.”

“I have told you, my cousin was quite without discrimination. I can well believe her death has associations of that sort.”

“Did Charles Carew inherit his father's talent?”

“I do not know that his father had any talent. And talent, Mr Deene, is only too apt to make people forget their place.”

“I see what you mean.”

“As for Charles Carew I had nothing to do with him. He was not a blood relation of mine. His father was Sophia's father's brother. I gather he did everything possible to distress Sophia's father, who at least was a clergyman.”

“What sort of thing?”

“He was an artist of the old and most disreputable school. A Bohemian, a vagabond, a character from the Latin Quarter who looked the part.”

“That certainly sounds rather shocking.”

“For a time he even lived in Paris, I believe.”

An exodus had started from the lounge. Walking sticks were seized with alacrity to assist the guests, making their way to the dining-room, their faces brightened by the prospect of lunch. Old ladies leaned on the arms of younger
ones, but managed to move at a surprising pace; elderly gentlemen ignoring all about them resolutely threaded their way between the tables. Only a few stragglers paused to leave books or needlework on their chairs to reserve them.

In the huge dining-room there was no time wasted with conversation. The waiters rushed forward, like hospital nurses in an emergency case, to hand out menus, which were studied with ferocious concentration through every variety of seeing-aid, from normal spectacles to old-fashioned pince-nez and lorgnettes.

“I haven't got my glasses,” wailed an old lady at a table near Carolus. “Read it to me, Annie dear. Read it to me.” It was a cry from the heart.

Across the room, alone at a table like himself, Martha Tissot was as busy as the rest.

Napper appeared beside him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said in a man-to-man way; “I had to get ‘em going first. Hell breaks loose if they're kept waiting. Tell you what's good if you're hungry. Boiled silverside and dumplings.
Boeuf bouilli aux boudinettes
this bloody fool of a cook calls it, though why I can't think. He's from Chiswick and his name's Wilkes. Beer? Yes. I'll bring you in a pint. It'll shake ‘em in here. They toy with a sip of white wine usually.”

Finding his appetite returning with his energy, Carolus felt better than he had for weeks. He realized that he had committed himself now to entanglement in the murder case in the town, but decided to take it easily. He found the problem an intriguing one, but since John Moore was in charge he could think of it without urgency and without any sense of responsibility. John would unravel it, all right; he, Carolus, could regard it as a chance to exercise his hobby.

As he left the dining-room he was called to the telephone. A Mr Gabriel Westmacott wanted to speak to him.

“Mr Deene?” came a fruity voice. “My name's Gabriel
Westmacott. I have read a book of yours and I wanted to see you.”

“How did you know I was here?” asked Carolus, rather sharply.

“Oh it gets around, you know. May I come and see you?”

“Perhaps you would say what you want to see me about?”

Carolus expected an evasive answer, but no, it came pat.

“My mother's murder,” said Gabriel Westmacott.

Carolus considered quickly, then said: “Would you please call here about four today?”

“I will, with pleasure.”

At four o'clock the room designated ‘Residents' Writing-Room' was empty, since the guests were mustering in the great Palm Lounge for afternoon tea. Carolus had given instructions in the lobby and went there to await his man.

Gabriel Westmacott was tall and pale, his long auburn hair was silvering a little and he had innocent-looking pale blue eyes. Even in his appearance there was something unmistakably Pre-Raphaelite, and his movements, his white skin and look of a middle-aged angel confirmed it. He smoked with a cigarette-holder.

“When I heard you were in the town I could not help guessing the object of your stay,” he said. There was something supercilious in his manner which Carolus found hard to bear. “My mother's death must have been irresistible to you.”

“I was here before it happened,” said Carolus shortly. “I came to recuperate after an illness.”

“In that case it must be very fortunate for you. You have a diverting problem laid on your doorstep, as it were.”

“What did you want to see me about?”

“Just that. I cannot believe that you're not going to take up the case.”

“So?”

“I should like you to act on my behalf.”

“I'm afraid that's impossible. I am already committed.”

“My brother Dante?”

“No. I'm acting for the cousin of Miss Carew.”

“I never knew she had a cousin.”

“You were acquainted with Miss Carew?”

“No. That is, I had seen her. I had read her book.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Oh come now, Mr Deene. Don't begin to question me, please. I have had enough of that from the police. I came to enlist your aid.”

“Have you any suspicions at all about your mother's death?”

“None. I know of no enemies. The only people who benefit from it are her legatees, and I don't suppose the most suspicious person would think that I or my brother would strangle my mother for her money.”

“There were other legatees.”

“Yes, but … I really think that is a fruitless line of enquiry.”

“What do you think then, Mr Westmacott?”

“Someone with a penchant for murdering old ladies, surely? The lilies argue that, I feel.”

“Yet you say the police have questioned you?”

“Rigorously, yes. And that is the unfortunate thing. You see, I was in the town that evening and the police are aware of it.”

“Awkward, that. You were supposed to be lecturing in Lancashire.”

“I do quite often lecture and it nearly always seems to be Lancashire or Yorkshire or some place to which the fare costs almost as much as the lecture fee. But this time I wanted, frankly, a couple of nights in London. I left on the Wednesday morning, stayed Wednesday night …”

“Where?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where did you stay?”

“That surely has nothing to do with it. It was on Thursday night that my mother and Miss Carew were murdered.”

“A hotel?”

“No. A private flat, as a matter of fact. Friends.”

“I see,” said Carolus pointedly.

“On Thursday I felt I couldn't come tamely back here for another long period on the following day. But I had run out of money and also I thought I should tell my mother what I was doing. So I drove down here.”

“What is the exact distance from London?”

“Thirty-seven miles.”

“You left London at?”

“Eight o'clock. Reached my mother's house a little before ten. She was alone in the little sitting-room in which she was found next day.”

“Oh, you saw her?”

“Certainly. I was with her for about an hour. I explained that I wanted a few days' holiday. She gave me the money I required.”

“A cheque?”

“No. My mother kept a large sum in cash in the house. She gave me sixty pounds.”

“Where did she keep that money?”

“In her bedroom, somewhere. I don't know exactly. She went upstairs to fetch it.”

“Has the remains of her hoard been found since, do you know?”

“I don't know. I parted with my mother at eleven. She was in excellent health and spirits. I drove away and reached London soon after midnight.”

“Have you any proof of that? It would make an excellent alibi for you, if you have.”

“I haven't, I'm afraid. I had a latch-key of the flat where I was staying and nobody was up. But I think it's rather
absurd to talk about alibis. Surely no one in their senses could suspect me of murdering my mother?”

“My dear Mr Westmacott, in these days of schizophrenia anyone may be suspected of anything. Somebody entered your mother's house that evening, either with his own key or by her consent. It limits the field quite a little, doesn't it?”

The long pale face remained expressionless.

“You think the police may even be foolish enough to suspect me?”

“You must be on the list of possibles for anyone investigating these murders. I take it you don't wish to give details of your movements in London?”

“No. They had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

“Tell me a little about your mother, Mr Westmacott.”

“My mother was nearing eighty years old. You have probably seen photographs of her. She was considered a very handsome woman. She had a wide acquaintance among artists and writers, particularly those who were interested in the Pre-Raphaelite school. She inherited my father's collection of William Morris textiles, pottery, books and furniture, and although she was not precisely what you would call an intellectual woman she appreciated these and was proud of our family connection with that famous circle of craftsmen. She liked to invite people who were interested to the house, and entertained very freely.”

“You were all brought up in this atmosphere, then. Weren't you apt to rebel at times? I should have thought you had had enough of Burne-Jones and whatnot.”

Gabriel Westmacott blinked solemnly.

“I believe my brother Dante is less interested than I. His wife is not of an art-loving disposition, by any means. For my own part I am proud to be the grandson of a man who was familiar with those giants.”

“Was your mother's kindness to artists appreciated?”

“Almost universally. There were exceptions, of course.
Or at least one exception. A disreputable painter called Ben Johnson….”

“But he's considered one of our most remarkable living artists.”

Gabriel Westmacott seemed to have something uncomfortably hot in his mouth.

“I know nothing about his pictures. He is a dissolute man, given to drunkenness and other vices. His language is abominable and he is unable to control his violent temper and outrageous manners in the presence of ladies.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him. He lives not far away and is notorious as a rake and a rowdy. When he first came here my mother was good enough to invite him to the house, but he declined in the most offensive terms.”

“So your mother never met him?”

“No. Never. She was so unwisely generous as to repeat her invitation, which was made by letter on a later occasion, possibly more than once. I think she felt that it was a pity that a painter, however undisciplined his private life, should be living and working near Rossetti Lodge and remain unknown to her. But he either ignored her invitation or replied in ribald terms.”

“He's a fine painter,” said Carolus.