The Ginger Cat Mystery (4 page)

“The sergeant's gone over to Bury and won't be back to-night. The inspector's just come in and is in his room having a wash and brush up before his supper.”

“That's excellent. I'll have my supper along with him.”

“I think he wants to be alone, sir. He was very particular on that point.”

“You needn't worry about that, Mr. Borham. We're old friends and he won't be the least surprised to find me here.”

“Very good, sir. It will be less trouble for us. Everything will be ready in about ten minutes in the little private room second on the right at the foot of the stairs.”

After the refreshing effects of a basin of clear rain water, Vereker descended to the room the landlord had indicated and finding a table laid for two, seated himself and waited for the arrival of Heather. A few minutes later, the inspector walked in carefully carrying two brimming pint mugs of beer. Without any greeting he handed one of these mugs to Vereker.

“I thought you'd be thirsty after your journey, Mr. Vereker,” he remarked and raising his own mug added, “Here's luck to us both and may the best man win.”

“You were expecting me, Heather?” asked Vereker smiling. “I thought I was going to surprise you.”

“I was just wondering whether the Stop Press news to-night would bring you down here when I heard your voice talking to the landlord. I saw you in Regent Street about a fortnight ago. You were looking as miserable as a man who'd been jilted by his best girl or one whose wife had presented him with twins when he was out of a job. I knew you were busy on your picture painting; it always gives you a sort of drunk and disorderly look. This morning I met Mr. Ricardo just after I had learned that I was to take charge of the Marston business. We had a little bet that you'd be on it. Remembering that haunted look on your face, I bet him a sovereign that you wouldn't and he took me on. I always lose my bets, so I was dead certain you'd turn up.”

“I wondered why he was so eager I should have a change,” remarked Vereker, “but let's tackle this cold beef and salad and discuss matters.”

“You've read up the case in the papers, Mr. Vereker?”

“Yes, I think I know all that's been divulged in the Press, but as you know that's not much of a foundation to build on. What do you make of the exhumation business that preceded the murder of young Cornell? Has it any connection?”

Heather munched silently for a few minutes before replying. “It's early days yet,” he said at length, “and that was naturally one of the first questions I asked myself. But as you know, I stick to hard facts while you generally let your imagination run riot. I'd like to bet you've got some fantastic notion that they're connected.”

“I had an intuition that they were, that's all.”

“Well, it's a bad beginning. The road to error is paved with bright intuitions, Mr. Vereker. If I were you I'd keep intuitions for your art. You know that the Home Office analyst found no poison in the samples submitted to him for examination?”

“Yes, yes, I read all about that, but I can't do without my intuitions. I was born with a big share of what the scholastics called
habitus principiorum
.”

“I don't know what that means but at the back of your mind you've a doubt about the correctness of the analyst's conclusion.”

“Well, even a Home Office analyst is human. The body was buried in February and exhumed in August. All sorts of things can happen in that time. I always have a lively suspicion about the effects of decomposition on the human body and on poisons. Then the said analyst merely stated that he had found no poison in the samples he had examined. This is a very non-committal and guarded statement. In the circumstances it was all he could possibly say. But as you'll remember, Heather, if Crippen hadn't buried his wife's body in lime, it's almost certain that it would have been impossible definitely to state the cause of her death. The lime prevented the decomposition of the hyoscine.”

“Yes, I remember that point clearly, Mr. Vereker. But as no poison was found in the case of John Cornell, I'm assuming temporarily that he wasn't poisoned.
Prima facie
he died a natural death and it was only the suspicious mind of his brother that caused all the bother about exhumation. Now I'll go further and say you've an intuition that Mrs. Cornell being a young and beautiful woman married to an old man had fallen in love with someone of her own age.”

“The possibility certainly struck me,” agreed Vereker laughing as he helped himself to more salad.

“Well, as far as I can gather from the little conversation I've had with the villagers here, your intuition's correct,” replied Heather with his slow smile.

“That's one up for intuition!” said Vereker and asked, “Who is the gentleman?”

“The village doctor is a handsome bachelor. Mrs. Cornell and he are as thick as thieves, so you've got a line on the first part of your mystery right away. Who could poison the old man more cleverly than a doctor?”

“This is serious,” commented Vereker quietly.

“Very serious, Mr. Vereker. Could you manage another pint?”

“Not for me, thanks, Heather.”

“The beer's first rate here. It's a good omen. All my failures have been coupled with inferior brews. Sound liquor brings out the best in a man. But to proceed. We must extend your romance to the killing of young Cornell.”

“A natural step. What were the terms of John Cornell's will?”

“We've got to look into that.”

“I daresay the widow has been provided for and the son inherited the greater part of the estate. There'll be a proviso should he predecease his stepmother and leave no family that the money will revert to her.”

At this suggestion Heather burst into loud laughter. “So you've now got a line on the killer of Frank Cornell. The stepmother is the culprit. Pack up your bag and go back to London and I'll take out a warrant for her arrest.”

“By Jove, Heather, your wits grow nimbler with every case. I hadn't jumped to that conclusion. It's feasible.”

“Everything's feasible in this world, Mr. Vereker. What I don't like in this case is the absence of clues. That's where your fictional detective scores. What with cigarette ends, maker's name on the butts, handkerchiefs, buttons, scent, finger-prints, footprints in snow and elsewhere, stones out of rings, his job is comparatively simple. Even if the murderer hasn't left a tangible clue, there'll be a tiny but necessary gap in the time-table. The one clue he never gets is a laundry mark because that would entail pages of hunting for a laundry. You can't spend an hour reading about a hunt for a laundry; it's not what you'd a call a blood sport.”

“No revolver even in our case!” agreed Vereker with a simulation of depression. “It's a bad look-out.”

“No revolver yet, but we're going to make a thorough search. I've got a squad of assistants. The lily pool in the formal garden hasn't been properly dragged. The house will have to be ransacked and the garden and grounds overhauled systematically.”

“It would be glorious, Heather, if detection wasn't such a prosaic job at times. It reminds me of archaeological excavation. Days, sometimes weeks, of digging before one thrilling little find.”

“It often reminds me of sea fishing, one of my hobbies,” agreed Heather bringing out a short briar pipe and filling it with strong tobacco. “You figure you'll get a bucket of lovely whiting and you come home with an unpleasant-looking tope and a case of empty beer bottles.”

“Who were in the house on the night of the tragedy, Heather?”

“Mrs. Cornell and her stepson Frank; a young man called Roland Carstairs who was a great friend of the dead man. They were at college together. A pretty and very modern young lady, Valerie Mayo, and her mother. Miss Mayo is stage-struck. She was the young man's fiancée. They had just become engaged and she was on a visit to see her young man's stepmother and get her bearings, so to speak, with regard to the family and, more important, the property. I saw her to-day when I called at the Manor. Very dignified, rather cocksure, and gives you the impression that she had her head screwed on all right and keeps her hand on her tram fare.”

For some moments Vereker was lost in thought, puffing quietly at his cigarette. “What a pity there's no such thing as pure romance, Heather! Love, like religion, can't escape the economic argument. Before the nicest marriage there's generally a settlement and after the most spiritual sermon, the plush offertory bag!”

“Well, I can't shed tears on the subject, Mr. Vereker. Even as it is, life's not half-bad and perhaps some day, ahem! under a Liberal government, all things'll be added unto us.”

“How many servants in the house, Heather?” asked Vereker reverting to the subject uppermost in his mind.

“A butler; old Mr. Cornell's valet who was being retained by the son till he got another job; a cook and three housemaids. These all live in the Manor itself. The gardener and chauffeur have cottages in the village and there's a boy who helps the gardener and does odd jobs for the house.”

“They've not been questioned yet?”

“Not by me. I'll also question the family and friends, but you'll help me greatly if you can worm your way in somehow and pump them in your most plausible manner. There's always a barrier between the gentry and the most aristocratic and handsome detective-inspector. I can manage servants rather well. They never take me seriously. Something to do with my phiz, I suppose.”

“It's that playful little moustache, Heather, and you simply ooze good nature.”

“In any case it's always the same. When I was questioning the cook in the Armadale case, I asked her quite seriously if she was married. She blushed, looked coy and replied, ‘Lor', Inspector, you are a speed hog!' What can a man do in such a predicament? On the spur of the moment I nearly proposed. It was a narrow shave,” said the inspector with humorous smugness.

“It ought to have been literally, Heather. But what are you going to do to-morrow?”

“I'm going to examine the scene of the crime more closely. You'd better come along and nose round. We can compare notes later and I can correct your intuitions with deductions from mere facts.”

“Good. But there's one point, Heather, that puzzles me right away about the killing of Frank Cornell. From the Press reports I gather that one of the maids discovered the body. She was taking up morning tea to the young man's bedroom at eight o'clock. She found the body fully dressed. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor Redgrave, I believe, was at once called in. Did he express any opinion as to when the shot was fired?”

“He gave it as his opinion that the man had been dead eight or nine hours.”

“If the doctor's correct, Cornell must have been shot about midnight or, say, one o'clock?”

“That's so.”

“What was he wearing? Evening kit?”

“No, a tweed lounge suit. He must have gone up to his room after dinner and changed.”

“When did he go up to his bedroom?”

“About eleven o'clock.”

“No one heard the shot?”

“Apparently not, but that's a point that I must go into farther. Questioning people's often like squeezing a lemon. If you put on a bit of extra pressure you get the extra drop of juice you want. The rest of the house went to bed roughly about the same time and it's not likely everyone was asleep when the shot was fired.”

“Very peculiar,” remarked Vereker reflectively. “He went up to bed at eleven and was shot somewhere about midnight. He had changed into a tweed suit and ordinary walking shoes. It's quite out of order. He ought to have been found in his pyjamas and dressing-gown and red morocco slippers.”

“And in his fiancée's bedroom to make the story interesting,” remarked Heather quietly. “Still you shan't be cheated of your romance, Mr. Vereker. I forgot to tell you a most important point. The house is haunted.”

“Since the arrival of Scotland Yard, I suppose,” commented Vereker glancing up at the inspector to see if he were joking.

“No, it's one of the hundred per cent. ghost-haunted houses of old England,” assured Heather earnestly. “I know you have a weakness for the supernatural and I treasured this bit of news till the last.”

“I keep an open mind on everything psychic, Heather. There's too much evidence by reputable witnesses for any man to say off-hand that it's nonsense.”

“Tommy rot!” exclaimed the inspector emphatically.

“It's no use trying to convince you, Heather. Belief is much more a matter of temperament than of truth. You belong to the nineteenth century and the mechanistic school of thought. You won't have haunted houses in spite of Mannington Hall, Holland House, Glamis castle, Corby Castle, Bisham Abbey, Grachur Manse, Cawood Castle and innumerable other spook-ridden places. But we'll discuss this matter when we've finished with the Marston Manor affair. I'll say good night. I'm tired and we've a big day in front of us.”

“I've got the local police reports to run through and I think I can manage another…”

“Pint,” concluded Vereker.

“Pipe,” corrected Heather solemnly.

When Vereker got into bed that night he tried in vain to fall asleep. At first his mind, running on the last topic discussed with Heather, busied itself with ghosts and haunted houses. If apparitions were actually what Heather called “tommy rot,” the persistence of human belief in them was almost miraculous. The old-world room in which he found himself with its carved oak central beam, black with age, its uneven, creaking floor, faded carpet and hangings, its faint smell of musty lavender, its intense silence so different from the noise of his London flat, even the feeble candle which had lighted him to bed were favourable for the growth of eerie musing and strange, unquiet dreams. In his mind's eye, too, was the brief glimpse he had caught towards the close of his journey of Marston Manor in the bright moonlight, its chimneys and roofs just visible through the sombre belt of trees that almost completely screened it from the road. That such a peaceful, old-world seat should be the scene of a murder seemed at first incongruous; on second thoughts he realized that the haunts of ancient peace had generally been the haunts of ancient strife. The very architecture of such manors echoed the words, defence against assault, even if they had not primarily been built for such. As he mused, the very setting by some curious association of ideas seemed to throw a fantastic glamour over the crime that had so recently been committed there. The harsh brutality of the act softened under the romantic power of lapsed time; it seemed to be thrust back into the past, gathering from the mediaeval structure some essence of the long bygone, of the irrevocable, and losing the sharp horror of recency.