The Ginger Cat Mystery (22 page)

“Of course you told her,” suggested Vereker mischievously.

“Not me, sir. I wasn't going to create no trouble just because the young gent thought he'd got a soft mark and found he hadn't. There was nothing in it because I clearly showed him I wasn't going to stand for any nonsense. After that he behaved himself as he ought and I liked him all the better then. After a time I could almost have wished I hadn't been so stiff with him. He used to tease me all about my young men and say he was sorry for them, but, of course, I had no young men. I think he got quite fond of me as time went by and never called me Lister as he used to. He nicknamed me ‘Quite Contrary' because my name's Mary.”

“Rather a nice nickname,” commented Vereker and added, “What a pity he didn't become engaged to Miss Stella!”

“Mr. David Cornell wouldn't hear of it all because Mr. Frank liked his drop of beer and was always ready for a bit of mischief. There's no harm in beer in moderation and although Mr. Frank got into one or two scrapes there was no real wickedness in him. Miss Stella would have made him a good wife; anyway, better nor Miss Mayo. She's just a vamp if you ask me.”

“I've not met Miss Mayo, so I can't say, but there's one thing I particularly wanted to ask you, Miss Lister. Do you remember what dress Miss Stella was wearing on the night that Mr. Frank was killed?”

“Yes, sir, I remember quite clearly. She had been out on her motor-cycle all afternoon and was wearing a jumper and her flannel trousers. She didn't change into a dress that evening at all and was wearing her flannels when I went to bed.”

“She wasn't wearing the muslin frock she wore when Mrs. Cornell mistook her for a ghost?” asked Vereker.

“No, sir, I'm quite certain of that.”

For some moments the conversation lapsed and the two walked along as if lost in their own thoughts. The silence was at length broken by Vereker who asked: “Do you know anyone in the village who has a ginger tabby cat, Miss Lister?”

“What a funny question to ask!” remarked Miss Lister with a note of surprise in her voice. The question had been so alien to their former conversation that for a moment she wondered whether her companion was joking.

“Well, ginger tabby cats are rather rare and I'm fond of them. I was wondering if I could buy one to take back to London with me. I've got mice in my flat and I want a good cat to clear them out. Has anyone in the village got a ginger tabby?”

“I've got one myself, but he's not for sale. I call him Sandy and he came from my aunt's at Long Melford. I think he's the only ginger tabby in Marston.”

“I'm sorry you won't part with him. Have you had him long?”

“I got him the day before Mr. Frank was shot. I brought him up to the bungalow that morning to show Miss Stella. She fell in love with Sandy at once and wanted to keep him because Misty, her cat, is getting old and won't bother about catching mice now.”

“Mr. Cornell seems very fond of Misty,” suggested Vereker irrelevantly for his thoughts were elsewhere.

“He hates cats and won't let them come near him,” replied Miss Lister emphatically. “He only puts up with Misty because Miss Stella is fond of her.”

“That so,” remarked Vereker and at this point the conversation widened out on the subject of cats of every kind, colour and temperament until the lights of the bungalow brought it to an end. Bidding Miss Lister good night, Vereker turned and, walking at a rapid pace, made his way to Marston Manor. His brief interview with the maid had given him food for thought and he was soon lost in speculation as to the importance of the clue of the ginger tabby in his investigation. Was it irrelevant as Heather had almost suggested, or would it assist him in the solution of the problem on which they were engaged, a problem which at the moment still appeared an impenetrable mystery? Moreover, he felt he must not take Heather's jocularity about ginger tabbies as the inspector's real opinion. No one knew better than Heather the importance of the most trifling clue. Often from his marvellous memory he would quote cases in which vital conclusions had been drawn from some seemingly unimportant detail. Vereker particularly remembered the case in which a microscopic particle of thread attached to a chisel at the junction of blade and handle had been identified as belonging to the pocket of a waistcoat worn by the criminal on the day of the crime. No, he would persist in attaching some importance to his singular discovery of that ginger-coloured hair. As he pondered on the subject, he concluded that if the hair had been brought into the music room by an accidental attachment to human clothes, it pointed at once to three people as possible agents. The music room had been vacuum-cleaned on the morning preceding the murder and fresh covers had been fitted to the chairs and settees. It could therefore be argued that the hair had been introduced by someone entering the room and using the settee subsequent to the cleaning operations. Marston was a small Suffolk village, and Miss Lister had declared that her cat was the only ginger tabby in the village. Ergo, somebody who had handled Miss Lister's cat or come in contact with him must have entered the music room subsequent to the cleaning. This, in a way, narrowed the problem to three people: Miss Lister, Miss Cornell and Mr. David Cornell. Though the last-named had not fondled the animal, it was quite possible that his clothes had accidentally picked up and retained one of its hairs. Dr. Redgrave and Mrs. Cornell had certainly been in the room on the fatal night, but at the moment there seemed no connection between them and ginger tabby cats. On the other hand, there might be several mysterious and accidental ways in which the hair had come to rest on the settee, and it was this lack of conclusiveness that had doubtless deterred Heather from attaching too much importance to the clue. Vereker was still weighing his discovery in a searching critical analysis when he arrived at the main entrance to Marston Manor. On explaining his business he was at once shown up to Mrs. Cornell's private sitting-room. From Heather's brief allusion to her good looks, Vereker was prepared to see a comely woman who, with the aid of art, might appear considerably more attractive than nature had made her. He was certainly not expecting the serene vision that met his eyes on entering Mrs. Cornell's sitting-room. Auburn haired, with large, limpid brown eyes and a dazzlingly beautiful complexion, she reclined with graceful ease on a settee. On Vereker's entry she excused herself for not rising and extended a delicate and exquisitely-shaped hand. In a few sentences, spoken with a soft, lazy intonation, she put him at his ease.

“Bring a chair quite close to me, Mr. Vereker,” she said. “I want to speak confidentially to you. Please help yourself to cigarettes. You'll find a box on the table near the door. Also whisky and soda, or if you prefer something else to drink, I'll ring.”

“Thanks, I'll smoke if you don't mind, but I'd rather not have anything to drink just now. I think you understand, Mrs. Cornell, that I've come instead of Inspector Heather.”

“So Crawley told me. I believe the great man's very busy and couldn't come himself.” With these words Mrs. Cornell raised herself to a more comfortable posture for conversation and continued, “I wanted to discuss this dreadful business of Frank Cornell's death. You've decided it's a case of murder, I believe?”

“We've been obliged to conclude that his death wasn't accidental or suicide, Mrs. Cornell.”

“Just so. Personally I know nothing about these things and I'm not in a position to contradict you. What I want to do is to make my own position quite clear once and for all. As you may guess, it has been a very painful affair for me. I'm not much moved by what other people think of me, and I've tried hard to keep a non-committal attitude throughout the whole business, but there are times when one can't remain detached. This affair has shown me that I cannot. It's no use my trying to hide the fact, but I feel I'm the centre of a great deal of nasty suspicion.”

“You're not alone in that, Mrs. Cornell,” ventured Vereker diplomatically.

“I daresay not, but I don't feel any happier for being one of a company of suspects. As you probably know, Mr. Vereker, I was only twenty-six years old when I married John Cornell. I'm not going into a long explanation why I married a man so much older than myself. That's purely my own business, but I can tell you quite truthfully that his wealth had nothing to do with my choice of John Cornell as a husband. You may not believe me and only a few of my intimate friends did. It's natural for the world to judge people by its own material standards and I can hardly blame it for thinking I was a cunning little gold-digger. I suppose you know the provisions of my husband's will?”

“Only from hearsay,” replied Vereker.

“Under my marriage settlement I have an income of five thousand a year. I didn't benefit under the terms of John's will to any great extent and most of his property, real and personal, went to his son, Frank. As you will see, my marriage settlement provided for me amply and I'm not an extravagant woman. I've never spent anything like my annual income. But John inserted a clause that if Frank predeceased me without issue, the whole of the property and investments reverted to me.”

“I understood that to be the case,” remarked Vereker.

“Very good. His death means that my income is now about ten thousand a year. I'm sure I'm not exaggerating when I say that in a case of murder the capture of five thousand a year would be considered a sufficient motive.”

“Quite an appreciable motive,” agreed Vereker dispassionately.

“Anyhow, I feel it's quite a good reason for suspecting me of having committed the crime,” continued Mrs. Cornell, idly admiring a large, single-stone ruby ring which gleamed from the forefinger of her left hand. “But the matter, as far as I'm concerned, didn't begin with Frank's death; it had its origin in my husband's death. Long before the latter occurrence I'd become very friendly with Doctor Stanley Redgrave whom I hope you'll meet later this evening. For some months previous to John's death I was very much in love with Doctor Redgrave. I suppose from a rigid social point of view this was reprehensible.”

“I'm afraid people would say it wasn't quite the correct thing,” said Vereker in a tone devoid of all expression.

“Exactly. I ought to have severed the friendship before it grew into love, and shown myself a perfect example of reason and correct conduct. Well, I damned well didn't!” said Mrs. Cornell with airy impatience and then with sudden emphasis, “But I didn't do what the world thought I'd do as an ordinary human being—as a common example of itself. I'd made my vows on my marriage with John and I kept them strictly. His sudden death released me from that stringency of behaviour, but it brought quite an unexpected load of mischief in its train. I suddenly discovered that people began to think that John's death was not due to natural causes and that I possibly had some hand in it. I'm not going to try and defend my conduct as far as falling in love with Stanley Redgrave is concerned. It simply happened. I can only make the excuse that I was helpless. My instincts were stronger than any precepts I'd swallowed in my youth as to what one ought to do, but you can imagine my distress on learning that I was being suspected of murder to satisfy a guilty passion. It was terrible—it was damnable!”

Overcome by her emotion, Mrs. Cornell buried her face, now scarlet with anger and shame, in her hands. For some minutes there was silence, a silence more embarrassing to Vereker than he had ever before experienced. At length, recovering her composure, Mrs. Cornell uttered a sigh of weariness and continued:

“I presume we shape our conduct or ought to shape our conduct to win the esteem of our fellow-beings. The sexual side of that conduct is the most intractable of all and the most open to suspicion and attack. That side of my life I've tried to live blamelessly. If I had erred and given John cause to divorce me, it wouldn't have been considered a very terrible thing in these days. I would simply have been classed as one of the many hundred people who in a year are parties to undefended cases and are forgotten if not altogether forgiven by the world at large. Life's no longer provincial. But I had too lively a regard for that kind of conduct which, generally speaking, makes for orderly and happy living, to entertain the idea of divorce. I'm orthodox and have a touchy social sense. Therefore I was illogically suspected of going the length of murder to preserve the esteem of my fellow-beings!”

“Strange to say that has often been done, Mrs. Cornell. It's logical enough: the murderer stakes everything on the chance that the major offence won't be discovered. He wants his cake but isn't prepared to steal it. He'd like it to appear that the cake had fallen into his lap by a dispensation of Providence.”

“That's the outlook of a lunatic and I hardly expected anyone to think I was mad. However, I was evidently classed as such and had to suffer the consequences. My brother-in-law, David Cornell, made representations to the Home Office and as a result my husband's body was exhumed. The result of the official analyst's report was only partially satisfactory to me, for there's always a suspicion that in poisoning, say by vegetable alkaloids, the poison cannot always be detected. Since the affair I've regained my peace of mind to a certain extent. On looking at things from a matter-of-fact point of view, I've had to admit to myself that David Cornell probably acted from motives which he thought justifiable. I've forgiven him and though we've never been very good friends we're not what you'd call hostile to one another.”

“Your position was certainly most unpleasant, but who do you think was at the root of the trouble, Mrs. Cornell?”

“It all started with Roly Carstairs discussing with Frank Cornell the presence of George Tapp in our household. Now Roly's a very conscientious, well-meaning fellow and he had no idea he was going to set match to such a train of gunpowder. He knew that Tapp was a germ-carrier and he knew that Stanley Redgrave had recommended him to my husband as a valet. The discussion ended there as far as Roly was concerned, but Frank was not always sober enough to be responsible for what he said. He foolishly hinted on one occasion to Stella Cornell that his father's death was not altogether above suspicion. He made no definite statement about the man, Tapp, or the subject of germ-carriers, and Stella, in turn, stupidly repeated the conversation to her father. David Cornell, who is at times terribly impetuous, at once suspected that his brother had been poisoned and wrote to the Home Office.”