The White Cottage Mystery (16 page)

‘He began as usual trying to make love to me; and then suddenly, as I wouldn't listen, he caught my wrist and said he'd make me give in to him. Then he told me about – Grace and Joan – and said that if I didn't marry him he'd tell Roger, and – and everyone …' Her young voice died away into silence.

‘What did you say?'

‘I laughed,' she said. ‘Naturally. I didn't believe him.'

‘Naturally,' agreed the old detective. ‘Did he convince you?'

‘Not – not quite. He was very plausible, though, and I began to be afraid. He told me to go into the office of our local newspaper and look up the files for December 1914. He said I'd find a
notice of Jack Grey's death, with the date on which he left England in it, and that there'd be a photograph of him too, and I could see how like Joan was to him.'

‘And the next day you went?'

She bowed her head.

‘Yes,' she said softly; ‘and it was true.'

‘I met you coming back?' said Jerry.

‘Yes,' she smiled at him. ‘I didn't want you to bring my basket down to the porch in case he saw you – you see, I knew he was coming over.'

‘Oh – how was that?' W.T. asked the question quickly.

The girl looked at him in surprise.

‘He had written to Grace asking her to go over there,' she said. ‘He did from time to time – just to be offensive, I suppose, and to try to make Roger jealous. She had told me she should take no notice of it, so I guessed he'd come over … he would be anxious to see me, too.'

W.T. looked at her.

Was it possible, he reflected, that she did not see where these admissions were taking her?

‘Norah,' he said suddenly, ‘what did you do when you got in: what was your first thought?'

The girl smiled.

‘The blister on my heel,' she said. ‘That's why I was so thankful to Jerry for bringing me home from the bus. I hobbled straight upstairs to take off my shoe and stocking –'

‘Were you alone in your room when you heard the shot?'… W.T. put the question slowly. ‘You said you were, you know, at the inquest.'

Norah nodded.

‘I know,' she said. ‘That was perjury or contempt of court or something awful like that, wasn't it?'

‘Why – Norah, what are you saying?' Jerry's voice was husky with emotion. ‘Where were you?'

‘In the spare room,' said the girl, ‘talking to Estah.'

‘Talking to Estah? … Why didn't you say so before when asked at the inquest?' W.T. spoke sharply.

Norah looked at him helplessly.

‘Don't you see,' she said, ‘I wanted to make sure about Joan – I knew Estah would know, so I went to her at once. She had begun to tell me when we heard the shot. As soon as we realized there was going to be an inquiry we agreed to forget the conversation in case we were asked about it. I was to have remained in my room.'

W.T. bowed his head over his hands and ruffled his hair until it stood up all over his head like a snow-covered furze-bush.

‘You were with Estah,' he repeated slowly to himself, as if he were dinning the words into his brain. ‘You were with Estah … Then who in the name of all that's wonderful…?' He paused and looked up sharply.

‘I shall have to verify that, of course,' he said.

Norah nodded.

‘If you can get Estah to talk she'll tell you the same story,' she said, and added, turning, ‘How's your face, Jerry?'

W.T. looked at her slender back in despair. She seemed to have forgotten all about the murder.

In reply to your inquiry, an interview with Estah Phillips resulted in a corroboration of Miss Bayliss's account. Great care was taken to ensure that there was no connivance between the two women, and there can be no doubt that they were together when the shot was fired.

O. H. Deadwood.

W.T. put down the letter which he had been reading aloud, and looked across the hotel bedroom at Jerry.

‘And that is that,' he said dryly.

‘Well, naturally, what did you expect?' Jerry spoke contemptuously.

‘I'll get to the bottom of this mystery if it's the last thing I do. Hang it all, Jerry, it happened – someone must have done it.'

Jerry shrugged his shoulders.

‘Taking the fellow's temperament and habits into consideration, I should call it an act of God and leave it at that,' he said.

W.T. shook his head.

‘I won't be beaten,' he said.•Everything that happens in this world has a natural, simple, logical explanation. I'm not a believer in magic, Jerry. In this case there doesn't seem to be any proof except that everyone is innocent … Everyone wanted to kill Crowther – everyone admitted they entertained the idea – everyone had an opportunity, and yet nobody did it. It's an incredible situation.'

Jerry looked at his father sharply.

‘I say,' he said, ‘you are convinced now that neither Mrs Christensen nor Norah know anything about it, aren't you?'

The old man nodded.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I think I'm sure – as sure as anyone can be in this world.'

‘Thank heaven for that,' said the boy. ‘I'm glad you've got that letter. It'll make things so much more comfortable for the girls. I'll go down and tell Norah right away if you don't mind.'

‘Very well,' W.T. spoke resignedly.

As the door closed behind the boy the man rose to his feet and walked slowly up and down the room.

‘There must be some explanation,' he said aloud. ‘Something simple – something so obvious that I've overlooked it – something – someone …' His mind went back to the beginning of the case, following it step by step through its tangle of secrets. Everything was there as he had said-motives, opportunities, inclination, and yet no proof against anyone, or even sufficient grounds for a strong suspicion.

He sat down wearily in his armchair by the window. His theories were in ruins about him, his weeks of work had taught him much, but led him no nearer to the vital points. The secret was as much a secret as it was on the day of the murder. He remained motionless for some time, thinking; then stretching out his hand, took an old battered book from the table at his side. It was
Gross's Criminal Psychology,
a book that he was in the habit of carrying about with him wherever he went.

He opened it at random, turning over the pages idly, his mind still half on the case that was worrying him. Suddenly his eye caught a phrase, and he stared at it. Then he laughed to himself as if at an absurdity, and went on reading. After a moment or so, however, his eye wandered back to the sentence that had arrested him, and again he stared at it, incredulity fighting with doubt in his mind.

At last he put the book face downward on the table and drew towards him his brownish-red notebook that looked so much like a Boy Scout's diary.

‘Impossible,' he murmured. ‘And yet …'

He took out a pencil and wrote a list of names down the page – the name of everybody in the house at the time of the murder, and one who was not.

For some time he sat staring at it, his forehead screwed up and his eyes narrowed. Then he sprang to his feet.

‘My God!' he said. ‘My God! Of course!'

Hastily he crammed things into a suitcase, and seating himself at the table scrawled a few words to Jerry.

On the track at last [he wrote]. Going to London. Wait till you hear from me. All the best.

Dad.

He folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope, leaving it with the concierge as he passed through the hall.

‘No, no letters.' Jerry glanced down the rack and spoke with some disappointment. Norah looked up at him sympathetically. They had been dining together and had walked back to the hotel to see if the evening's post had brought any news from W.T. It was three days now since he had gone.

They wandered into the deserted and stuffy gilt-and-stucco drawing-room, and went out on to the balcony, where they stood for some time in silence.

The Riviera at night has a peculiar beauty of its own that is not quite equalled anywhere else.

The lights of the town winked and danced in the clear air with a gaiety of their own, and beyond, glittering in the moonlight, lay the Mediterranean, that blue jewel that seems to retain a little of its colour even in the darkness.

They were alone and the girl spoke softly.

‘It seems an awful long time ago,' she said.

The boy replied without looking at her.

‘Ages. It was horrible, of course; it must have been a nightmare to you – the whole business, I mean.'

She nodded.

‘It has been – beastly,' she said. ‘But not really worse than it was before – when he was alive.' She paused, and then went on again, her voice quiet and pleasant in the general dreaminess of the atmosphere. ‘How queerly things happen!' she said. ‘I mean you giving me a lift from the bus and then running right into it all,
like that. You might so easily have come along ten minutes earlier or ten minutes later.'

The boy did not answer. He was staring out across the town to the sea. Somewhere hidden in the blackness he knew there were great mountains falling up against the sky, a world of incredible loveliness hidden under the coverlet of the dark. He felt rather like that about himself. His mind was in the dark. There was a screen between him and something, something utterly beautiful, and tonight, very near.

Instinctively he changed the conversation because he was afraid.

‘Your sister,' he said – ‘you're sure she's all right now?'

‘Oh yes.' The girl spoke confidently. ‘She's getting to be her old self again – now that she's sure her secret is safe. It has been terrible for her, poor dear … she loves Roger, you see. It must have been ghastly for her to know that at any moment he might hear about Joan – he worships that kid. It would break her heart.'

Jerry nodded.

‘What will they do?' he said. ‘Stay at the White Cottage?'

‘Oh no; we shall go abroad, I think. Roger has been talking of it for years. He came from the Argentine, you know, and I expect we shall all go out there. I know Grace wants to get right away from England – she's been so unhappy there, you know. I think that's what will happen.'

Jerry glanced at her. Her face was very pale in the faint light, and the clear-cut profile against the shadow of the sky was very lovely. He sighed.

‘The Argentine?'

‘Yes – all Roger's people are over there.'

Jerry was silent.

‘You'll go too?'

‘Oh yes!'

Her hand lay on the iron rail of the balcony. Jerry could see it very white in the darkness. He put his own over it.

‘I love you, you know,' he said simply.

She did not speak for a moment, but stood very straight, staring
out across the town. Then she chuckled a little with sheer happiness.

‘Yes, I know,' she said.

‘And you?' He put the question fearfully.

‘I love you,' she said, without hesitancy.

‘Shall we get married?'

She turned to him, and there was that expression in her eyes that is half adoration and half triumph.

‘Shall we?' she said.

Jerry pulled her towards him and kissed her lips.

‘
I
think so,' he said, and there was silence between them for a long time after that.

By and by she stirred at his side.

‘Jerry,' she said, ‘what will happen about this case – will your father give it up?'

The boy shook his head and his arm tightened about her shoulders.

‘No,' he said, ‘I'm afraid not. He'll go on to the bitter end.' He paused and looked down at her. ‘But whatever happens,' he went on, ‘we'll stick together, don't you think so?'

The girl laid her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly.

‘I do, my dear,' she said. ‘Oh, Jerry, I am glad of you!'

The boy laughed and kissed her. A step in the room behind them made them start and the next moment the concierge appeared at the window.

‘A cablegram for monsieur,' he said.

Jerry took the flimsy envelope and tore it open. The next moment an incredulous expression appeared on his face.

‘Thank you,' he said briefly to the man, and, as he disappeared, handed the wire to Norah.

She took it and read it in the faint light from the drawing-room windows.

Abandoning case finally [it ran]. Shall be at home if you want me.

Dad.

The girl stared at it and then glanced up at the boy.

‘I don't quite understand,' she said. ‘Does that mean he can't find out who did it?'

Jerry looked at her gravely, an anxious expression on his face.

‘No,' he said slowly, his voice oddly husky and afraid. ‘It means … he has.'

It was one of those pleasant, lazy days in summer when the over-bushy tree-tops stir themselves heavily like fat oxen in the sun, and the shadow under the elms at the far end of Jerry's garden was very comfortable.

They were having tea out there the three of them – Jerry, his wife, and W.T., who looked not a day older than he had done on that evening seven years ago when he had left Mentone in such excitement.

Jerry looked a little older perhaps but life had been kind to him. Norah was radiant. Marriage and two babies had given her a new interest without robbing her of her beauty. Altogether they were a happy tea-party, and laughter mingled with the tinkle of china.

The White Cottage Mystery was a tabooed subject in the house-hold. From the time of his cablegram to the present moment, W.T. had obdurately refused to discuss it, and his children, after several unsuccessful attempts to draw the truth from him, had respected his wishes and allowed him to keep his secret.

The Christensens had sailed to the Argentine almost directly after Norah's marriage. The White Cottage had been sold to a retired grocer who had distempered it buff colour and rechristened it ‘Acacia Cot'. The whole affair was forgotten by the public, who had mercifully never been greatly interested.