Thirteen Guests (18 page)

Chapter XXVI

Shocks for Earnshaw

Sir James Earnshaw did not join the ladies. The inspector was standing in the hall when the men left the dining-room, and he stepped forward quietly and barred the baronet's way.

“A word with you, sir,” he said.

“Certainly,” replied Earnshaw.

While the others continued on their way, he stepped back into the dining-room. Kendall followed him and closed the door.

“Now, then,” said Kendall. “What did Chater have on you?”

“I beg your pardon?” answered Earnshaw.

“I am afraid there can be no more beating about the bush, sir. We're getting down to hard facts. I know Chater was a blackmailer. He's been jugged for it. I know he came here by your invitation—”

“I have explained that—”

“And I know there's another explanation. I know that Mrs. Chater had some special reason to suspect or fear you—as a matter of fact, I gathered this a little while ago, but now I know it. And I know why she took that knife. Was your door locked at about a quarter to six?”

Earnshaw looked astonished.

“It was,” he admitted.

“Any special reason?”

“No. Just a habit when I want to rest.”

“Well, if you'd broken the habit that time, I should probably be investigating your murder at this moment, along with the rest. She went to your door.”

Earnshaw sat down rather abruptly.

“But—why—?” he began.

“We're coming to that,” answered Kendall. “When you went up to your room to change—about five o'clock—?”

“It would have been about that time.”

“Mrs. Chater went up just before you. After the bad scene.”

“That is correct.”

“You know that?”

“I saw her go. Lady Aveling followed her, and returned to say she had locked herself in her room.”

“Her room is on the second floor, and yours on the first?”

“That, also, is correct.”

“Did she come down again from her room?” As Earnshaw did not answer immediately, he added sharply: “Was she waiting on the first landing when you got there? And did she speak to you? It is only fair to tell you, Sir James, that I know considerably more than I knew an hour and a half ago, so what you tell me will be largely corroboration.”

“Thank you—I appreciate the warning,” replied Earnshaw. “But there is something
I
should like to know. Is it an official warning? If so, you have not used the right words. Am I under arrest?”

“Certainly not, sir.”

“But suspicion?”

“Mrs. Chater's suspicion.”

“And yours?”

“That will depend entirely on the result of this interview and your attitude, sir. Any unfounded suspicion can always be disarmed by absolute frankness—even if that frankness is sometimes painful. If it will ease the situation for you, I may add that you are not the only person who may find the world a happier place without Mr. Chater in it.”

“That, I confess, is a relief,” murmured Earnshaw. “But how are you so sure, now, of Mrs. Chater's suspicions?”

“I have found Mrs. Chater,” answered Kendall quietly. “I have seen her.”

“Ah.”

“But I want your version of certain matters, sir, and that is why I am asking you to tell me exactly what happened when Mrs. Chater stopped and spoke to you on the first landing—if, in fact, you admit that she did?”

Earnshaw stretched out his hand and poured himself out a glass of port.

“Will you have one?” he asked.

The inspector shook his head. Earnshaw raised the glass to his nostrils, drew comfort from the aroma, and then said:

“Mrs. Chater did speak to me, but I take leave to question whether that statement of fact forms an admission on my part. She was, as you doubtless know, in a highly excitable condition. She was on the border of hysteria. An almost chronic condition with her, but at this moment definitely acute. Her husband's death had not been reported at that time—to her, at any rate—and she merely knew that his horse had returned without him. But—yes—she
did
accuse me of having caused an accident. Naturally, I was angry.”

“Did you express your anger?”

“In no parliamentary language.”

“Could you be a little more explicit?”

“I cannot give you my exact words. I was tired, and the thing came upon me as a surprise. And naturally I did not want any one to come along and find us quarrelling.” He paused. “I think I told her to go to her room at once, or I'd—” He paused again.

“What?”

“Send for the police.”

“Would that worry her? Would she interpret it as a threat?”

“I don't know how she would interpret it! Yes, perhaps. You see—all this is very distasteful, Inspector—I make no excuses for my anger; but if you had seen the woman—if you knew her as I do—”

“I thought you had never seen her before she came here,” interposed Kendall. “Only her husband?” Earnshaw frowned. “But perhaps you meant that you had sized her up even in a few hours?”

“It would not take longer than that to size her up,” replied Earnshaw uncomfortably.

“Well, we will leave that for the moment. You were telling me why she might interpret your remark as a threat?”

“Yes. This is where perhaps I was not wise. When she continued to accuse me, I told her that, if any accident did happen to her husband, she might have as good a reason to have caused it as myself.”

“Why?”

“They were always quarrelling. I'm sure she hated him.”

Kendall nodded.

“So, when she eventually heard that the police had been sent for, she went to your room with a knife. That, on the face of it, might imply either of two things. First, that she wished to be revenged on you for sending for the police—”

“I did not send for the police.”

“No. But she might have thought that. Second, that she wished to be revenged on you for causing the death of her husband. Again, I am merely implying her possible motives through what she may have thought, not through necessary facts. But why should she have been so quick to accuse you in her mind? Let us get back to that.”

Earnshaw shrugged his shoulders, and suddenly remembered his port. He sipped it.

“Watch me, Inspector,” he said with a sudden smile. “See that I do not slip a tablet into my glass to end the business.”

“Why should you do that?”

“I haven't the slightest intention of doing that!” retorted Earnshaw. “But if I had murdered Chater, this might be the moment! Mrs. Chater saw me ride off with her husband.”

“She also saw Mr. Taverley ride off with her husband, and Miss Aveling. They were all in the party.”

“That is true.”

“So she must have had another reason. And now, Sir James, we will get back to the very start of this interview, and I will repeat my original question. What did Chater have on you? What was the real reason why you were forced to get him this invitation—so he could look round for fresh victims? Your best protection is the truth, especially when it is liable to be exposed by some one else if you do not expose it yourself?”

“After which,
you
expose it?”

“If necessary. Not otherwise.”

A look of angry despair suddenly shot into Earnshaw's eyes. “Hell!” he said. “I expect I've no alternative!” He glanced towards the door. “Well, I'll get it over. Of course, I have no idea what Mrs. Chater has told you—probably she has embellished the facts—but here
are
the facts. Chater's original name was Rawlings.”

“And after that became Green,” answered Kendall. “When his father turned him out of his business.”

“Oh! You know that?”

“It was shortly afterwards that we nabbed him on the blackmailing game.”

“That would explain his disappearance for a while. Do you know who took his place in the business?”

“Well, sir, you're supposed to be telling the story.”

“Quite so. I took his place. And when he came back after his father died—there was no will, so he got everything—he continued the blackmailing game.”

“By blackmailing you?”

“Yes, though not till he'd got through all the money. He'd found—and preserved—a letter and a forged cheque among his father's papers. Of course, I had left then, and was starting my political career—so it was awkward.”

“It must have been.”

“He only worried me periodically,” continued Earnshaw. “He had other irons in the fire. But once the wretched business had begun there was no end to it. There was one break of three or four years. I thought I'd finished with him, but back he came, with a new name and a wife—and a story that matrimony was expensive!”

“Had his father known of your forgery?” asked Kendall.

“Oh, yes,” replied Earnshaw. “He had found out. The letter was a confession he made me write, and he was keeping the letter and the cheque till I paid him back in full. His alternative to prosecution. But he died too soon—and his son has had ten times the original amount.”

“And has asked for favours, as well as cash?”

“Favours? Oh, I see what you mean. This invitation was the first. If I had refused, my political prospects—and also certain private ones—would have been ruined.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, now the power passes from him to you. That is, if I find some way of silencing Mrs. Chater.”

He regretted the remark as soon as he had made it. In the circumstances it had an unintentionally sinister ring. He found the inspector looking at him rather hard.

“But I did not silence her husband,” said Earnshaw.

“And you won't be able to silence Mrs. Chater,” answered Kendall. “I found her at the bottom of a hill, by a smashed bicycle.”

Earnshaw looked astounded, then flushed angrily.

“You—you don't mean—?” he began.

“I'm afraid I do,” replied Kendall. “She's dead. Sorry, sir, but my job's to get information, and if it isn't given to me the first time, I'm not particular about the method.” He turned his head suddenly as a knock came on the door. “Yes? Come in!”

It was Sergeant Price.

“You're wanted, sir,” he said. “We've found something.”

Chapter XXVII

Contents of a Bag

“Well, what have you found?” asked Kendall, when he had left Earnshaw to his thoughts and joined the sergeant in the hall.

“The black bag, sir,” answered the sergeant, with a touch of pride.

“Well done, Price! Where is it?”

“I took it to the studio—thought you might prefer to open it there, with no one around.”

“Right. Come along! But where did you find it?”

“In an old shed, under a pile of straw,” replied Price, as they made for the back door to the lawn. “I don't suppose you saw any odd bits of straw sticking to that bicycle? In the mudguards or anywhere?”

“Why?”

“There's some oil on the straw. Looks like lamp-oil.”

“You mean the bicycle might have been stowed in the shed, as well as the bag?” queried Kendall. “That's very probable. Are you any good at making maps?”

“What sort?”

“I want a map showing certain spots and distances—the studio, the place where the dog was found, the quarry where the man was found, the pool where the knife was found, and the shed where the bag was found.”

“You shall have it, sir, though it won't be a work of art. Did you get anything out of Earnshaw?”

“I got a motive.”

“Ah!”

“But a motive isn't proof. Earnshaw isn't very fond of me at this moment. I got him to talk through a dirty trick. I was right about that button, Price.”

“The one I found outside his door?”

“Have you found any other?”

“Sorry, sir,” grinned Price.

“Yes, the one you found outside his door, and that
I
found was missing from Mrs. Chater's dress. Possibly it got loose because nervy people are apt to twiddle with their fingers. Earnshaw's door was locked when Mrs. Chater took the knife, and they had previously had a fuss—just before she saw Bultin put the knife in the drawer—which had given her cause to fear Earnshaw. That woman must have been in a ghastly state. On the verge of breakdown. Terror and revenge chasing each other. Very unpleasant. By the way, I dropped in on the doctor before returning here, and there's no doubt Chater was poisoned, though the Rising Sun proved a wash-out. When are you going to find that flask for me, Price?…Here we are.”

They entered the studio, which was now guarded by a rather mournful constable. He did not care much for his company, and welcomed the arrival of living matter.

“They ain't moved,” he reported, driving away depression with a callous jest.

“I'll hold you responsible if they do,” answered Kendall.

The black bag was on the ground by the ruined portrait. Kendall took the key from his pocket and suddenly smiled.

“Funny if we've been wrong about this key all along,” he said.

But the key fitted. In a moment the bag was open, its contents revealed. They were a revolver, a black wig, a small make-up box, and an old plus-four suit.

Kendall took each item out carefully, then broke the revolver.

“Meant for business,” he commented, closing it.

He took up the wig and turned towards the man who had been found in the quarry.

“Try the fit, sir?” inquired the sergeant.

“Would you like to?” replied Kendall. “For the moment we'll take that for granted. And the same with the suit.”

He opened the small make-up box and regarded the untidy conglomeration of grease-paint, powder, and crêpe-hair in the tray. He lifted the tray. His eyes brightened.

“Hallo, here's something!” he exclaimed.

He took out an envelope. On it was written, “Mark Turner, Esq., Theatre Royal, Stranford, E.” He drew a sheet from the envelope and read. Then he passed the letter to the sergeant and turned to the two silent figures. “There are some rats in the world, Price,” he said.

The sergeant read the letter, and nodded as he handed it back.

“Who is the lady?” he queried.

“We have five to choose from,” answered Kendall. “But it may not be hard to guess the right one. Have
you
got a skeleton, Sergeant?”

“Don't go in for 'em, sir.”

“Well, if ever you do, don't pay anybody to keep them locked up—have them out of the cupboard and finish with them.”

He walked to the picture and stared at it.

“But where do
you
come in?” he demanded.

“P'r'aps it doesn't come in,” the sergeant suggested.

“You may be right there, Price. This may be quite a separate matter. And yet I've a hunch it'll connect up somewhere.…Well, now for the next step.”

“The lady?”

“No, there's some one else I think I'll have a few words with first.” He had moved to the studio door and was looking along the bush-bordered path towards the lawn and the house. On the previous evening the lights of the ballroom had invaded the shadows, but to-night the ballroom was in darkness, and the lawn received its only glow from a single window. It was towards this window that Kendall's eyes were directed. “Some one I've not seen yet.”

“Who's that?”

“The unexpected guest.”

“Oh, you mean Foss. He's nothing to do with it, sir,” declared the sergeant.

“If you're right, that may make him all the more useful,” answered Kendall. “The spectator sees most of the game, and this one has a good view.” He added: “And the spectator isn't vitally affected by the result.”

“Unless it's on a race-course,” murmured the sergeant. “Well, sir, while you're at the house I'll get on with that little map you want. Dinner's over, so if we go on pulling out drawers we may be interrupted.”

“I hope you left nothing to show Taverley you've pulled out his?”

“No, sir. That was a neat bit of work, though I sez it as shouldn't. Yes, and precious small change from it! I thought I was going to find a live bomb in it, the way you spoke, and nothing but a score-card of M.C.C.
v
. Somerset.”

“And perhaps you'll tell me, Price, why Mr. Harold Taverley, who must have had hundreds of score-cards in his time, should trouble to keep one locked in a drawer?”

“There you are, sir,” answered the sergeant.

“Most helpful,” said Kendall. “Hallo—somebody on the lawn!”

He darted out of the studio.

Bultin stood his ground and was perfectly composed when the inspector reached him. He was not wearing an overcoat, his badly-tied white tie made an almost impudent spot in the darkness, and his large squash felt hat was tilted at an independent angle.

“Hallo, what are you doing here?” asked Kendall.

“Out of bounds?” inquired Bultin. “Have a cigarette.”

“He's trying to get back on his high horse,” decided Kendall. “I've given his pride a jolt.” Aloud he said, “Yes, to the first. No, to the second.”

“Yes, you
are
almost as rude as I am,” answered Bultin admiringly.

“Occasionally I try to be. You haven't answered my question.”

“Oh, what am I doing here? Enjoying the peaceful atmosphere of an English ancestral home. If that is illegal, arrest me. My prison experiences would bring me a very big cheque.”

“Is that all your journalists think about?”

“Of course.”

“Then what about an article on ‘Thoughts Before Hanging'?”

“That would bring an even bigger cheque, but it would be the last, and I have no progeny. I'd like a signed article, though. Can you tell me who to apply to?”

Kendall shook his head.

“I help you, and you will not help me,” observed Bultin. “Very well. Good-night.”

He turned away, but felt a hand on his sleeve.

“I'll risk a snub,” said Kendall. “Have you found out anything more?”

“You get it,” answered Bultin.

“I can stand it,” replied Kendall. “You see, Bultin, I don't work for cheques, or for publicity, or for notoriety. Of course, I need my bread and butter, like you, and I'm always ready for a bit of cake if it drops in my mouth. But would it surprise you to learn that I'm keen on my job? Oh, yes. Just an inspector. Nothing special about me. There are thousands just like myself. But I like to see a thing through, and to do that I'm willing to be hurt or to hurt others. Am I saying things you understand, or is this double-Dutch?”

Bultin did not answer for a few moments. He understood perfectly. The question was whether he should admit it. Altruism, humanity, the common good, ideals beyond Self—these were his early companions, when his feet had stumbled over shifting sand. He had scrapped them years ago so that he could plant himself on hard ground.

“I can make up my mind about most things,” said Bultin. “But I can't make up my mind whether I like you, Kendall.”

“I'm quite ready to like you,” responded Kendall. “You've helped me a lot.”

“I can only repeat, you are not helping me.”

“My job's to help justice, not journalism.”

“A good alliteration? Do they conflict?”

“Not necessarily. Otherwise I wouldn't be talking to you. I'm not doing it to supply you with titbits for your column.”

“Are there any titbits?”

“Maybe. Is your word to be trusted?”

“That is why I so rarely give it.”

“Would you give it to me, in exchange for the first rights of a story, blue-pencilled by me? I wouldn't blue-pencil the fact that Lionel Bultin made me look for a black bag I've found.”

“Ah!”

“It has given me the identity of, to use your phrase, Body Number One.”

“Really?”

“And I've found the bicycle—also first mentioned by Lionel Bultin. And I've found Mrs. Chater beside it—stone dead.”

Bultin stared. Kendall deduced that Sir James Earnshaw had not passed any news on.

“But I haven't found how, when or where Mr. Chater was poisoned, or by whom.”

“You know there is a Chinese cook?” said Bultin.

“Who had no possible reason to poison Chater,” answered Kendall. “The sergeant has been into the food question, and has put a few questions to him, and is quite satisfied on that point. We are a bit too quick to suspect the Orient! Any more suggestions?”

“No, not at the moment,” replied Bultin slowly. “But I might have later, if I were free to roam again.”

“That's what I wanted!” exclaimed Kendall. “You've got the type of mind I need. If I give you your freedom—even to go in the studio, if you like—will you give me my blue pencil?”

Bultin nodded. The inspector promptly took one from his pocket.

“Then here's for a start,” he said, and wrote on a card. “Show that if any of my men challenge you—and don't boast to the other guests about your special privileges. You can boast when it's all over and you've shown the police how to do their own work!”

“I shall make a point of it,” replied Bultin, pocketing the card.