Thirteen Guests (16 page)

Chapter XXII

Earnshaw Answers Some Questions

Sir James Earnshaw looked through his mirror as he called, “Come in.” The door opened, and the inspector's face loomed over the white shoulder of his evening-shirt.

“Ah, Inspector, I was wondering when I should have the pleasure,” he greeted the reflection. “You will forgive my shirt-sleeves.”

“No ceremony on an occasion like this,” replied Kendall, as Earnshaw turned.

“And a shocking occasion it is,” answered Earnshaw. “Have you any news of Mrs. Chater?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“I had your sergeant in here a few minutes ago, examining cupboards. What was the idea?”

“He didn't tell you?”

“He was much too well trained! As a matter of fact, I have heard very little. Please sit down. Do you mind if I shave while we talk? I am filling in the time by dressing early, since social activities are temporarily at a standstill. You have some questions to ask me?”

“A few, sir,” responded the inspector, as he took a chair. “You won't object if I jot down your answers?”

Earnshaw eyed the official note-book with a slight smile.

“No—not in the least,” he said. “I realise my position.”

Kendall looked at him sharply.

“As far as you know, I was the last person to see Chater alive,” explained Earnshaw. “I have already given Lord Aveling the particulars, but you will naturally want them, also.”

“I shall be obliged,” nodded Kendall. “Mr. Chater was a friend of yours?”

“Well, perhaps hardly that.”

“But he received his invitation through you?”

“That is true. Mr. Chater assisted me at the last election—he was quite useful—and as his work was entirely voluntary, I said I hoped I would be able to return the service some time.”

“He was a keen Liberal?”

“One would think so. But I have wondered since—”

He paused and regarded the chin he was lathering.

“What did you wonder?” pressed Kendall.

“Well—he never struck me as politically minded. When he asked whether I could return his service by giving him an insight into how the rich live—that was how he put it—I did wonder whether perhaps his assistance had had an ulterior motive. Whether, in fact, he had been less interested in the Liberal Cause than his own smaller cause—and wanted to use me as a stepping-stone for the satisfaction of social ambitions. And his wife's. Not an uncommon type, Inspector.”

“One comes across them,” agreed Kendall. “So you decided to satisfy the ambition?”

“I did not see why not. At the time. Perhaps I see more reason why not now.”

“Would you explain that?”

“Well—this is in confidence?”

“I can't make any promise, sir.”

“No? Even if the lack of the promise bars my tongue?”

Kendall smiled rather grimly.

“I shall learn what I need, sir—whether now or later.”

Sir James Earnshaw smiled back through a layer of white soap.

“You are quite right. I withdraw my hesitation, and shall rely on your discretion.…I had not seen Mrs. Chater when I gave the invitation. I hope nothing has happened to her, and I am sincerely sorry for the poor lady, but—well, she has not assisted the week-end gaiety. Glum. Moody. To be candid, I doubt whether she is very well.”

“What about Mr. Chater?” asked Kendall. “Did he work out better?”

“Mr. Chater is dead,” murmured Earnshaw, stropping his razor.

“Yes, that's why we're talking about him,” answered Kendall.

“True. Well, then—Mr. Chater was not more helpful than his wife. I did not like the man.”

“Just his general manner? Or did he do anything special to worry you?”

“His general manner worried me.”

“In what way?”

“He was rather too curious, for my taste.”

“Poking his nose into other people's business?”

“That is my meaning exactly. He himself did not seem to have any other business. I felt like apologising to Lord Aveling for having introduced him—and I very nearly did.”

“Did you quarrel with Mr. Chater?”

“What makes you ask that?” demanded Earnshaw, pausing in his stropping.

“A natural question, sir. You might have spoken to him about his behaviour. Anyway, whether it's a natural question or not, I have my reason for asking it.”

Earnshaw touched the edge of his razor with his finger and began shaving. The inspector watched his hand, and noticed it was quite steady.

“I can guess your reason,” replied Earnshaw. “Yes, I did speak to him about his behaviour, and we did have a quarrel.”

“When?”

“To-day.”

“Can I hear what happened?”

“Certainly. Chater and I got separated from the rest of the party soon after we started—”

“What time was that?”

“I'm afraid I cannot tell you exactly. Round about midday, I should say. We got lost, and eventually struck a small inn at a place called Holm. We decided to have lunch, and it was while we were waiting for our lunch that we had our little argument. Chater had been in a very surly mood. Over breakfast he had been almost rude. I considered this a good moment to—well, give him a little instruction. He didn't appreciate the lesson.”

“What did you say to him?”

“You mean, my exact words?”

“If you can remember any of them.”

“I can remember how I, so to speak, opened fire. I was quite blunt. ‘Look here, Chater,' I said. ‘What's the matter with you?' ‘What do you mean?' he replied. ‘Your attitude,' I said. ‘Do you know, you are putting me in a very difficult position?' ‘What the hell are you talking about?' he answered.”

“He spoke like that to you?”

Earnshaw paused in his shaving to nod.

“That shows you his humour. Once he had got the invitation, he lost all sense of social responsibility. ‘I am talking to you about your behaviour,' I said. ‘Take a word of advice from me, and don't ask so many questions about other people's affairs. Even Mr. Bultin, who is a journalist and who deals professionally in other people's affairs, shows less curiosity than you do.' The debate did
not
continue. He flew into an atrocious temper. It was so atrocious that I left him—to consume both lunches. Yes, and now I come to think of it,” he added, “also to pay for them.”

“What did you do then?” inquired Kendall.

“Well, I felt pretty warm myself,” answered Earnshaw, “and I rode my horse hard. Lost myself again—not that this mattered, for I was in no hurry to return to the rather uncomfortable atmosphere here—and eventually got back just before five. I walked into the middle of a painful scene with Mrs. Chater in the hall—I expect Lord Aveling has told you of this?” Kendall nodded. “She went up to her room. I went to mine. And just after I left the hall, I understand, the phone message came through about Chater. I think that's about all I can tell you—unless you have any questions you want to ask?”

Kendall did not answer for a few moments. He studied his notes, and then made one or two additions while Earnshaw continued with his shaving.

“Yes, I have a few questions I would like to ask, if you've no objection,” said Kendall, looking up from his book.

“My only object is to help you,” responded Earnshaw.

“What was the name of the inn where you left Chater?”

“Oh, yes, I should have told you. The Rising Sun.”

“Had you stopped previously at any other inn?”

“No.”

“Then, as far as you know, Chater had not eaten or drunk anything during the ride? Up to lunch?”

“As far as I know.”

“Did he carry a flask?”

“I should think it highly probable, but I did not see it.”

“No flask was found on him.”

“Then apparently he did not.”

“Well, sir, I am inclined to think, from the condition of his hip pocket, that he did. However, I shall find that out later. Had the lunch been served before you left the inn?”

“Fortunately, no.”

“Why fortunately?”

“If it had been served, I might have sprayed poison over it, in revenge for being called a something fool.”

“You know the doctor's theory, then?”

“I imagine everybody knows it.”

“And you know where Chater was found?”

“At a spot called Mile Bottom. By the way, the innkeeper at the Rising Sun will be able to corroborate the fact that I left before the meal was served. I expect you have already made a note of that.”

“Did you pass Mile Bottom on your way home?”

“I did.”

“About what time? Can you say?”

“I can say approximately. Between a quarter and half-past four.”

“Did you look at your watch?”

“No. I judge by the time it took me to ride from there to here. Half an hour, it should be, or a little over.

Kendall stared at his pencil rather intently. Earnshaw watched him through the mirror.

“Mrs. Chater was with the main party, wasn't she?” asked Kendall abruptly.

“I believe so,” replied Earnshaw.

“Did she see you ride away with her husband?”

“She may have done so. I can't say.”

“Who were the last people you saw before you rode away?”

“Miss Aveling and Mr. Taverley. As a matter of fact, they broke away from the main party with us, and a little later they took another direction by themselves.”

“It was Miss Aveling and Mr. Taverley who found Chater's body.”

“Yes.”

“On their way home.”

“I believe so. Yes, of course.”

“They must have reached Mile Bottom after you.”

“That is obvious.”

“Yes. The phone message came through at about five, so we may guess they were fifteen or twenty minutes behind you.”

“And in that fifteen or twenty minutes Chater reached Mile Bottom and fell from his horse?”

“Oh, no,” corrected Kendall. “Chater's horse returned without him soon after four, just as Lord Aveling was on his way to see the other dead man in the quarry.”

Earnshaw frowned.

“Then I suppose your next question is, why did I not see Chater's body?”

“I'll give you your answer, sir,” smiled Kendall. “Chater's body was well off the road.”

“Quite true. I was told that. And now I recall that the others only turned off the road because they saw his hat—as
I
should have done, had
I
seen the hat. Does that cover the point? Really, Inspector, this is worse than question time in the House—but carry on!”

“I shall only keep you a moment or two longer, Sir James. You got lost on two separate occasions, did you not? Once with Chater, before lunch, once alone, afterwards?”

“I must have got lost twenty times.”

“You do not know this district very well?”

“Not particularly.”

“Is there a signpost at Mile Bottom?”

“Signpost?”

“Or anything else to identify the spot?”

“Inspector,” remarked Earnshaw, “I am very glad I have a clear conscience. Lord Aveling came to my room after the phone, and he described the spot to me. It is a wild spot, and there is a brook and a stone bridge. I recognised it at once.”

Kendall nodded and closed his book.

“Thank you, Sir James,” he said. “You have answered my questions very patiently, clearly and helpfully. Now I will go and torture somebody else.”

“Give them my sympathy,” replied Earnshaw. “But, before you go, I would like you to answer one question for me.”

“What is it?”

“Unless Chater was poisoned at the Rising Sun by a total stranger—we only went to this inn by the merest chance—how could the alleged poison have been administered?”

“That is what I am here to find out,” answered Kendall. “Of course, I shall make inquiries at the Rising Sun, but I don't imagine I shall find that he was poisoned there.”

Outside Earnshaw's door, Inspector Kendall paused to reflect that Sir James Earnshaw had taken very considerable pains to clear himself. On the other side of the door, Sir James Earnshaw wiped his razor, and then his brow.

Chapter XXIII

Theories of an Authoress

A figure darted towards Kendall, like a ghost that had suddenly materialised out of a shadow and had urgent business to do before dissolving back into ethereal form.

“Ah, Inspector! Can I have a word with you?”

He found Edyth Fermoy-Jones's large tense eyes goggling at him.

“Certainly,” he answered. “Have you discovered anything?”

“We mustn't talk here!” she whispered. “You never know who may be listening!”

She seized his sleeve and drew him towards the door of her room. It was at the end of the passage. When he had entered, and she had closed the door behind him, she glanced suspiciously at the walls, then asked:

“Is an authoress privileged to suggest a theory?”

“I'll listen to any theory,” he replied. “I've listened to thousands.”

“Yes, I expect you have,” she nodded. “Everybody has a theory. At least, they have in my own mystery novels. Though, of course, I write about sport, too—that's why it seems so—so ordained, almost—that I should have struck both here. In
A Fool Surprises
, it was the fool's theory that proved correct.”

“I should very much like to hear yours,” said Kendall.

She looked at him with a slight frown. Had he meant anything? She decided not to dwell on the possibility.

“It's about Mrs. Chater,” she answered. “But, first, have you found her yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You know, your sergeant came here to my room and asked me to look in all the cupboards?”

“He was acting under my instructions.”

“Then you think she is in the house?”

“You'll forgive me, I'm sure, but at the moment I am listening to theories, not giving them.”

“Yes, of course. That's wise.” Miss Fermoy-Jones recalled, with a sense of satisfaction, that she had once made a detective say almost the same thing—though, of course, it had not been to a well-known authoress. “Well,
one
of my own theories is that Mrs. Chater is
not
in the house.”

“And the reason?”

“That brings me to my other theory. Of course, if she is not in the house, she may be wandering about anywhere, and a description of her should be circulated as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

“One is only too glad to help, if one can.”

“The description has already been circulated.”

“Oh!”

“We phoned through to the local station the moment the necessity arose.”

“I see.” Miss Fermoy-Jones managed to conceal her disappointment. “Well, the theory. Naturally, I am speaking in absolute confidence.” Kendall maintained a non-committal silence. It was a pity he was not a little more chatty. “Has it occurred to you, inspector—of course, perhaps it has—that Mrs. Chater may have
run away
?”

“I should very much like to know why it has occurred to you?” Kendall answered.

“No, no, I won't say any more about it!” Miss Fermoy-Jones recanted. “After all, if we assume the fact, you can probably find a reason just as well as I can!”

“Probably,” agreed Kendall. “But you may have more information to go upon.” Now it was Miss Fermoy-Jones who maintained the non-committal silence. “Would you answer a question or two?”

“Certainly.”

It was a humiliating fact, but the authoress had never spoken to a detective before, although she had written about dozens. She found them easier to deal with on her typewriter. Not that the reality before her was rude or discourteous. Nothing of that sort. But—well, there was something behind his manner that failed to augment an authoress's superiority complex.

“When did you last see Mrs. Chater?” asked Kendall.

“At tea. In the drawing-room.”

“Who were with you?”

“Just ourselves and the Rowes—Mr. and Mrs., and their daughter. Oh, and Lady Aveling.”

“Did anything strike you about her manner?”

“Something always struck everybody about Mrs. Chater's manner. She was one of those—I mean, she is one of those neurotic people. Belonging to what I call the Emotionally Suppressed Type. I dare say you have your own technical term for this class of person.”

“Your own could not be improved on.”

Miss Fermoy-Jones felt better.

“Well, we have to study and classify types, just as you do,” she ran on. “I had some one very like Mrs. Chater in my first book,
Forty-Nine Stairs
. Mr. Buchan rather copied my title a year later, but of course I didn't do anything about it. These things happen. Everybody thought she had committed the murder, but she hadn't, that was the red herring. Still, you won't want me to talk about my work. Mrs. Chater. Well, she hardly said a word. She'd been like that during lunch, and all the way home. Really—since we
are
speaking in confidence—really a most uncomfortable person to be with. No, I don't think she said six words before Mr. Bultin came into the drawing-room. But when she heard about her husband's horse returning without him, and when Mr. Bultin asked whether she could identify the man who was found in the quarry—well, she said enough then, though she got so excited no one could hear exactly what it was she
did
say! She stormed out of the room into the hall, and—so I heard; I wasn't actually there—no, perhaps after all I'd better not mention it.” She paused dramatically. “Or shall I?”

“You know best whether it is important,” answered Kendall.

“Very well, then, since you put it like that,” she responded. “Sir James Earnshaw had just got home, and she practically accused him of having something to do with her husband's accident.”

“Is that true?” demanded Kendall sharply.

“It wasn't in words—it was in looks,” replied Miss Fermoy-Jones quickly. “Quite definite looks, though. So I understand.”

“Who told you?”

“Lady Aveling. Well, no, I didn't say anybody told me!” The authoress developed a sudden internal panic as she recalled how often she had brought her own characters low by a trip of the tongue. “What I said was that I
heard
. I happened to hear Lady Aveling mentioning it to Lord Aveling.”

Kendall's expression was not complimentary. It was unfortunate for his opinion of the literary profession—never very high—that he had struck a member who could only be effective in her own study, where she had everything her own way, and where people did and said exactly what she wanted them to.

“Tell me if I have interpreted you correctly,” said Kendall. “I understand you overheard Lady Aveling telling Lord Aveling that Mrs. Chater had given a look that accused Sir James Earnshaw of causing Mr. Chater's accident—before the accident had been reported?”

Miss Fermoy-Jones grew warm.

“The riderless horse had been reported,” she exclaimed, an indignant note in her voice. “She could have guessed about the accident! But, even if she couldn't, that would make it all the more ominous that she should act as she did—implying some private knowledge!”

“Ominous?”

“Well, don't guilty people ever try to throw suspicion on other people—and give themselves away by doing so?”

They frequently did in Miss Fermoy-Jones's novels.

“Thank you—I will make a note of your theory,” said Kendall; “but I suggest that, for the time being, we keep it strictly to ourselves.”

“Of course! I've made a special point of not mentioning it to any one else,” retorted Miss Fermoy-Jones. “And now, if you don't mind, I really must get on with my dressing.”

Kendall did not mind in the least. He did not even mind the reflection, as he left the room and mounted to the second floor, that in her next book Edyth Fermoy-Jones would probably give him a thorough trouncing.

Sergeant Price met him in the doorway of the Chaters' room.

“Well?” asked Kendall.

“Settled the point,” answered Price. “The fingerprints on the drawer are Mrs. Chater's. She took that knife all right.”

“What did you compare them with?”

“Hairbrush.” He turned and pointed to a silver-backed hairbrush on the dressing-table. “Same prints on both.”

Kendall nodded, then asked:

“Anything else?”

“Mr. Bultin came out of the next room and popped his head in.”

“What happened?”

“I sent him back again. And Taverley went into his room. Door opposite.”

“I thought Taverley
was
in his room?”

“So did I. The Rowes are on the other side here. They've nothing to do with it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I can listen through a wall when I want to. Conversation quite innocent. Guessing right and left like new-born babes.”

“Two tips about that, Price. New-born babes don't guess, and they're not always innocent.”

“That's right, sir,” agreed Price, with a grin; “but I'm not a new-born babe myself. You can learn more from hearing people talk than from asking them questions, and if the Rowes have ever murdered more than sausages, I'm an Italian!”

“And one point about that. How do you know the Rowes weren't aware that you were on the other side of the wall and talking for your special benefit?”

“Because one of the things she said to him was, ‘And do be sure to-night, dear, not to make a noise over your soup.'''

“You're improving, Price,” smiled Kendall.

The sergeant concealed his pleasure at the compliment.

“Have
you
got anywhere, sir?” he asked.

“All sorts of places, but that's not saying I've got to the right one. It's Mrs. Chater who's worrying me at the moment—especially as it's clear now that she took that knife.”

“She's not in the house.”

“You feel sure of that?”

“Not a spot we haven't looked in.”

“Bold assertion, Price. Still, you're probably right. She got out of the house before we came, and relocked the door to gain more time.”

“I suppose you've got your ideas why she went?”

“And plenty of other people's. If she went. What's yours?”

“Wind up.”

“Does that explain the knife?”

“It might, sir,” said Price solemnly.

“Yes—it might. This is a worrying business. I wish we'd hear something from outside.”

“I'm banking we'll hear from the railway.”

“That's a possibility, though I'm not banking on anything. Well, there's enough people searching and watching for her now, anyway—good thing, Price, we phoned through so quickly—so I'll go along and see Taverley. No news, of course, about the bicycle and the bag?”

“Not yet, sir. They've orders to report the moment they have any luck.”

“Doctor gone?”

“To make tests.”

“Right. Ring up the Rising Sun, Holm; speak to the innkeeper and find out all you can about a lunch that was served there soon after two o'clock. According to Earnshaw, he and Chater arrived at the inn at about two, ordered lunch for both of them, quarrelled, and then Earnshaw left. So two lunches will have been ordered, but only one eaten. See if the innkeeper's story fits Earnshaw's. Check the items. Find out exactly what Chater ate, if you can, and what happened to the remains. If they are still available—they're probably not—have them set aside and kept under lock and key. Then send a man over to cart the stuff to Pudrow for analysis. I don't think we're going to find the trouble there, but I want you to take care of all that for me.”

“Right, sir,” answered Price. “By the way, there's one bit of conversation I heard through the wall I might mention.”

“What?”

“About the Chaters. They had a quarrel last night.”

“Oh! Did they?”

“The Rowes heard the fuss—though not, I gathered, what it was about. Rowe said, ‘If they'd gone on much longer I'd have banged on the wall!'''

“Any idea of the time?”

“Got that, too. At least, approximately. ‘Getting on for two, it was,' he said. ‘Damned inconsiderate, I call it, damned inconsiderate.'''

“Well, that's interesting,” replied Kendall. “When you die, your ears ought to be framed.”

He turned towards the two single beds. Their heads were against the wall next to the Rowes' room. He moved to the wall and listened.

“Anything?” asked Price.

“Yes,” answered Kendall. “Soap in his eye!” He glanced towards the opposite wall.

“Nothing from there,” said Price. “They're just thinking hard!”

“So am I,” returned Kendall, and left the room.