Thirteen Guests (19 page)

Chapter XXVIII

John's Turn

“I hoped I was going to be let off,” said John, as the inspector entered the ante-room.

“I don't let anybody off, sir, if I think they can tell me anything,” answered Kendall.

“What makes you think I can tell you anything?” asked John.

“Well, for one thing, you haven't denied it,” replied Kendall. “For another, a good deal has happened yesterday and to-day not far from your door and window. For another, some one has suggested I won't waste my time with you.”

“Who?”

“I'll keep that to myself, if you don't mind.”

But John guessed rightly that it was Pratt.

“I can understand your hesitation,” continued Kendall, as John did not respond immediately. “You feel in a difficult position. You've been shown hospitality, and you don't like the idea of casting any reflections on anybody. That's a natural and a right sentiment. I'd feel the same in your place. But—well, we've got beyond that stage. If you've anything to tell, you may help to prevent me from arresting the wrong person.”

“Do you suspect any one particular, then?” asked John.

“I know at least two people who had strong motives for murder.”

“Guests?”

“I'm asking the questions, sir.”

“Sorry,” said John, “but I'm not used to this sort of thing.”

He would have given much to be out of the business. He had decided that he would say nothing unless circumstances forced him to. The circumstances were now all too evident. If the inspector was already forming suspicions, how could he withhold what he knew? “Well, I'll start the ball rolling,” he thought, “and see where it leads.”

“There was a fuss outside this room late last night,” he began. “Quite a bad one.”

“What time?”

“I can't say exactly. Soon after one.”

“It woke you up?”

“Yes. No, it was the dog that woke me up. That time.”

“Oh, then there was another time? Well, we'll have that later. Please go on.”

“I also heard glass breaking. Then the barking stopped—”

“For good?”

“I believe so. I was a bit muzzy. I don't remember hearing it any more. Then, shortly after that, the row in the hall started. It was between two men. One was Chater, the other was a butler named Thomas.” Kendall's eye lighted. “They seemed to have bumped into each other by accident and were trying to find out why the other was there. I gathered in the middle that Chater had some sort of a hold over the butler—”

“Yes, but wait a moment!” interrupted Kendall. “This won't do! Can't you remember the actual conversation?”

John repeated it as far as he could recall, and the inspector listened intently. When he had finished, Kendall went into the hall and returned immediately. Then he walked to the window, raised the blind, looked out, and lowered it.

“And the butler, you believe, went back to his room?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied John.

“And Chater went out?”

“Yes.”

“When did he return?”

“Just after half-past one.”

“You heard a clock strike?”

“There's one in the hall. Strikes the half-hours.”

“Then this might have been one, and not half-past?”

“I looked at my watch immediately after Chater had come back and gone upstairs. It was twenty-five minutes to two.”

“Let me see your watch now.”

John showed it to him. Kendall went into the hall again, and again returned at once.

“You're half a minute fast by the hall clock,” he said. “Have you altered it to-day?”

“No.”

“Good time-keeper?”

“It gains a minute a week.”

“What time did Chater go out after the row? Any idea?”

“Only a rough one. About ten past one. Don't take that as accurate, though—just a guess. Might be a minute or two earlier.”

“You think he was outside twenty minutes?”

“That was my idea.”

“But he took four or five minutes to go upstairs, after returning?”

“Yes, and I don't know where he went then, or what he did.”

“Can you remember this, Mr. Foss? Get your mind back to the last time you heard the dog bark. Was it before or after you heard the breaking of the glass?”

“After,” answered John. “As a matter of fact, the breaking of the glass came into a dream, and I only realised the sound was actual just after I woke up.”

“I see. And it was about one. How do you know that?”

“Only another guess. Working backwards.”

“Well, if it's a good guess, we may say that the glass broke at about one a.m., the dog's last bark was at—a minute past—?”

“Say two minutes past, if you want to be particular,” interrupted John. “It barked three or four times.”

“Then we'll put the last bark at two minutes past one. And the row at four or five past, till ten past.”

“That won't be far out.”

“Of course, the barking came from across the lawn?”

“Yes.”

“What was the last bark like?”

“I've an impression it wasn't particularly nice, but that may just be retrospective exaggeration. You see, I know now what happened.”

“Quite so. Do you remember whether the final bark was as close as the previous barking?”

“No, it was farther away.”

“As though the dog was barking while it ran?”

“Definitely.”

“That fits. Well, now, let's get to the other time you woke up. No, wait a moment, though. Was there anything else you can recall between one and one-thirty? Even if it seems trivial, it may be important.”

“I believe I heard a gasp,” answered John, with hesitation.

“When?”

“Just before the row.”

“That might have been Thomas when he heard Chater coming down the stairs?”

“It might.”

“Only you know it wasn't!” commented Kendall, with a smile. “How do you know it wasn't? Wrong gender?”

“You can't always tell the gender of a gasp,” fenced John.

“Not always, but you could this one,” replied Kendall, “and you are now ready to lie to save a lady's honour. But we know, from the conversation between Chater and Thomas, that Thomas is rather fond of Bessie?”

“I never thought of that,” murmured John.

“And we know that Chater had some hold over Thomas. Was he threatening to expose a love affair? Well, I'll find that out when I interview Thomas. Meanwhile, let's talk about the other time you woke up, and what woke you.”

John wrenched his mind to the occasion. He was growing a little dizzy. He was convinced it was not Bessie who had gasped, yet he had no desire to express his doubt.…

“You know, I'm getting muddled,” he confessed. “It was the dog that woke me both times.”

“Was this other time before or after one o'clock?”

“Before.”

“Do you know how long before?”

“Half an hour.”

“You heard the hall clock strike?”

“Yes, and thought it was one or half-past. But my watch corrected me.”

“Anything happen?”

“Nothing of importance. I just heard Lord Aveling going upstairs.”

“Was he talking to himself?” inquired Kendall.

“No,” answered John. “Why?”

“Did his boots have a particular squeak?”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” said John, trying not to flush. “How did I know it was Lord Aveling? I didn't say he was alone!”

“But your chivalry was quite ready to imply it. I'm sorry I'm so annoying. Am I right in thinking that Lord Aveling did not go upstairs last night at 12.30 with Lady Aveling?”

“Of course, that sounds perfectly horrible, and I agree you are annoying!” retorted John. “I heard him saying good-night to Miss Wilding, who had been reading a play to him. You know she is an actress?”

“I have seen her act.”

“Well, so that's in order. Lady Aveling knew she was reading the play to him.”

“If that is true, her knowledge must have been a matter of regret to Mr. Chater,” remarked Kendall dryly. “But you are making a mountain of this, not I. Did anything else occur?”

“Nothing else.”

Kendall removed his eyes from John and fixed them on the opposite wall.

“I am sure you are keeping nothing you think vital from me,” he said. “But unless, like nearly everybody else here, you have some personal axe to grind, there is no need to. Outside my job, I'm not interested in scandal. I have even mentioned this fact to our friend Mr. Bultin. Now, is it your private opinion that Lord Aveling and Miss Wilding are having an affair?”

“Is my private opinion of any value?” demanded John.

“On this point it is.”

“I can't see it.”

“You shouldn't have to. You should trust my sight. But I'll tell you, Mr. Foss. Do you know the sort of man Chater was?”

“He didn't appeal to me.”

“Do you know he was a professional blackmailer?”

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“And that if Lord Aveling and Miss Wilding were having an affair, and he got to know of it, they would both have motives for wanting him to be out of the way?”

“Look here!” exclaimed John. “You're surely not suggesting—?”

“I am not suggesting anything. I am just giving you some elementary reasoning.”

“Very well, then. Here's my private opinion. Lord Aveling may or may not be interested in Miss Wilding, but I am convinced she is not having an affair with him. Will that do?”

“I expect it will have to, unless I bring the question up again,” replied Kendall, “which I shall do if necessary. Did you hear anybody else in the hall between twelve-thirty and one?”

“Nobody. I went to sleep very soon afterwards.”

“And woke up at one.”

“Yes, as I've told you.”

“And kept awake till one-thirty-five. And then?”

“I slept.”

“At once?”

“Pretty well.”

“And didn't wake any more?”

“There was no dog to wake me.”

“That's hardly an answer.”

“No, I didn't wake any more.” To himself he thought, “There, now I've done it! Perjury! Well, if I'm hauled up for it, I'll take what's coming!”

Kendall looked thoughtful, then suddenly rose.

“Well, that's that,” he said. “And now for our friend Thomas.”

Chapter XXIX

The Troubles of Thomas

When Thomas heard that the inspector wanted him, he did a very foolish thing. He ran. All that trying day his nerves had been getting worse and worse. He dropped plates, jumped at shadows, and endured spasms of violent heart-beating. Even Bessie's attempts to sooth him had been unavailing, and now he was crowning his chaotic condition by flight.

But the inspector ran faster and caught him up by the stables. For a few moments he hung limply in Kendall's grip. Then Kendall's words sent his limp form rigid.

“Now, then, let's have it,” barked the inspector. “Where did you get that poison?”

“Poison?” gasped Thomas.

“Never heard the word?” asked Kendall.

“I didn't take it—I swear I didn't—I was going to, but I didn't.”

Kendall rejoiced secretly, while his stern features gave no sign of the rejoicing. He was getting somewhere at last. The truth was emerging out of panic.

“Well, tell your story,” he ordered, “and remember while you're telling it that I know most of it already. You didn't know that some one was awake in the ante-room last night at one o'clock, did you, and heard your little business with Mr. Chater?”

Thomas's heart beat wildly. What had been said during those wretched minutes? He could hardly remember. It had all been too quick, and too confusing, and too painful. In his hopeless bewilderment he was driven now to the right course, and decided to tell the facts.

“It—it was only an idea, sir—I swear it was,” he blurted out. “I meant to get it because—because I was off my head, sir, that's a fact! But I didn't mean it for anybody—at least—no, I meant it for myself. And then I changed my mind—well, you can prove that!”

“We'll do the proving in a minute, my man,” retorted Kendall, “but first I want to know who you
did
mean that poison for?”

“I told you, myself—”

“And you told me a lie.” Kendall had not missed those self-condemning words, “at least.” “Perhaps you did change your mind. Perhaps you did think that, if matters went too wrong, you'd end them with a dose. But you had some one else in your thoughts first, and as I know already who it is, you'd better not try to hide it. There's only one thing that can save you, and that's the truth—every little letter of it. One slip may hang you.”

“Oh, my God!” muttered Thomas, and nearly crumpled again.

“Take your time, if you need it,” said Kendall.

But Thomas merely swallowed, and then his words came with a rush. He wanted to get it over.

“It was about one of the maids,” he gulped. “She and I, we're engaged, and—well, you know how certain people look at a pretty girl. And when Mr. Pratt wanted her to be a model—she told me once, and I heard it myself the next time—well, you know what happens—”

His voice trailed off, and he suddenly took out his handkerchief and wiped his streaming forehead.

“Jealousy-phobia,” reflected Kendall, while he asked, “Did Bessie agree?”

“Bessie? Oh, of course, you know who it is. No, not then. But he was pestering her—she said he wasn't, but one's got eyes—and—well—”

“And so you thought you'd get a bit of your own back by ruining Mr. Pratt's picture?”

Thomas was silent.

“Go on!” ordered Kendall sharply. “Everything. What happened after you ruined the picture?”

“I was sorry I'd done it afterwards,” mumbled Thomas. “I'd happened to find the door unlocked. The key was in it. And then, a bit later, I went back to see if I could do anything about the picture—make it a bit better—and it was then that—”

He stopped dead.

“Yes?” said Kendall.

“Somebody caught me,” muttered Thomas.

“Well, go on! Who?”

“The—the man that was found in the quarry, sir,” answered Thomas tremulously. “I don't know who he is. I'd never seen him before. But he came running into the studio—I didn't know if he was running after me, or to get away from anybody else—anyhow, he got in, and, well, saw what I'd done.”

“Half a moment,” interrupted Kendall. “What time was that?”

“Time, sir?”

“Yes. Pull yourself together. Let's have all this clear. When did you go into the studio first and spoil the picture?”

“It was during tea, sir. I'd seen Mr. Pratt leave the studio with Mr. Rowe, and on his way to his room he asked Bessie again about being a model. You may think there's nothing in it, but I know what happens—”

“Yes, so you said before. Don't get excited. And the second time in the studio? The time you were caught?”

Thomas pressed his hand to his forehead and thought.

“I should say about an hour later. No, more. An hour and a half.”

“Get your mind on it, my man! Five? Half-past five? Six? Half-past six? Seven—?”

“Half-past six,” interposed Thomas. “Yes, it must have been. A bit after.”

“That'll do. The first time, round about five, eh?”

“Yes, sir. It struck five almost as soon as I got back.”

“Then we can say a bit before five for the first visit, and a bit after half-past six for the second. Right. Go on. How did the man find out that you had ruined the picture?”

“Well, you see, sir, at first I thought it was Mr. Pratt, and I said quickly that I hadn't done it. I'm telling you everything—”

“You'll be a fool if you don't!”

“And when I turned and found it was this man, I'd given myself away. I expect he saw I was upset. Anyhow, he said he'd tell on me if I didn't do something for him.”

“What was that?”

“Take a note.”

“Who to?” As Thomas hesitated, he repeated sharply: “Who to? Don't hide anything!”

“Miss Wilding, sir,” answered the butler miserably. “He wrote it there, in the studio, while I waited. Then I left, but he stayed inside, because people were about. I hid behind a bush. One of the people was Mr. Pratt. That was the time he went in and—and found what I'd done.”

“Why did you wait?”

“Well, sir, I wanted to see what would happen. You see, this man was inside…and then I thought there was somebody by the back door, but I might have been wrong about that. It was dark.”

“Was Mr. Pratt inside the studio long?”

“No, sir. Only a few minutes. I listened for a row, but there was nothing. The man must have hidden somewhere, because Mr. Pratt came out again alone and locked the studio, and then he nearly caught me. I just managed to get away in the dark.”

“Without his seeing who you were?”

“He couldn't have, sir, or I'd have heard of it.”

“Nobody saw you?”

“I—I think Mr. Chater did.”

“He'd have a shot,” commented Kendall grimly. “What makes you think he did?”

“He came to the stairs when I was giving the note to Miss Wilding. I thought there was nobody about—I'd been told to give it only when there wasn't anybody looking—but Mr. Chater suddenly came, out of nowhere, like, and made her drop the envelope. He picked it up for her, and then she went off with it.”

“I suppose Chater had a good look at the writing on the envelope before he gave it back?”

“I expect so, sir.”

“Well? Did you have any trouble with Mr. Chater?”

“Not then, sir. But—it was funny—he seemed to be everywhere. Even when—”

He stopped again, and terror re-entered his eye.

“Even when—?” prompted Kendall. “If you're innocent, you won't hang.”

“I am innocent, sir,” replied Thomas earnestly. “I mean, about everything but the picture. I did that. I'm admitting it. It'll get me the sack. But what's the good? Only I didn't do anything else. Except—well—think about it.”

“You're talking now about the poison?”

“Yes, sir.” Thomas's voice was very low.

“Where was the poison?”

“Where it still is, sir—in the cook's bedroom.”

“In the cook's bedroom,” repeated Kendall slowly, as though he were checking the information and not receiving it. “Go on.”

“That's where I was going to get it from.”

“When?”

“In the night. The time I had the fuss with Mr. Chater.”

“How did you know it was there?”

“Like this, sir: The chef is Chinese. He's all right, though, only you never know what's going on in his head. I got talking to him. I was nearly off my
own
head—that's a fact. I'm not making excuses. I'm just telling you. I wondered whether to finish it—not only about the picture, but Bessie—thinking I might lose her; we'd had a quarrel, you see—and so I said to the cook, ‘How would
you
finish yourself if you decided to?' We talk about things.”

“That's all right. Go on.”

“He said, ‘This way,' and he made as if he was putting something into his mouth. ‘Velly quick,' he said—that's how they talk—‘velly quick, no pain, all over.' ‘Yes, but where would you get it?' I asked him, and told him you couldn't get it, not in this country, without signing things. So then he said—these were the words—‘I no need to get it; I got it, in little cupboard over my bed, all ready,' he said, ‘if I ever get big pain I can't stand.' ‘Aren't you afraid some one'll steal it?' I said. ‘Oh, no,' he said. ‘Keep cupboard locked and key always in pocket.' ”

“Well?”

“It was then, sir,” went on the butler, twisting his head round as though searching for ghosts, “that I wondered if—if Mr. Chater had been listening.”

“Why did you wonder that?”

“I thought I heard somebody, but when I looked round they'd gone.”

“Only thought?”

“No, sir, I'm sure.”

“What made you think it was Chater?”

“I'd felt he was watching me, ever since he saw me give that letter to Miss Wilding.”

“Where was this? Where did you have your talk with the chef?”

“In a passage.”

“What passage?”

“Near his bedroom. It's between the hall and the servants' quarters.”

“Then his bedroom is near the hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's go to that passage. No, wait a moment. What time did this conversation occur?”

“It was soon after dinner started, sir. As a matter of fact, I was bringing away a tray.”

“Why wasn't the cook in the kitchen?”

“I don't know, sir. He pops about.”

“Yes, perhaps that's not important. But this is: If the conversation occurred during dinner, how could Mr. Chater have heard it?”

“Well, sir,” answered Thomas, “I found out something that made me all the more sure it was him. I found out he was late for dinner.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Kendall. “You're certain of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you certain?”

“Bessie told me, sir. You see, thinking it had been him, I asked her, and she'd seen him snooping about—I mean, she'd seen him—”

“Snooping was right. Yes?”

“Eh? It was on the first floor, outside Miss Wilding's bedroom.”

“And Miss Wilding was down in the dining-room?”

“Yes, sir. All the guests were seated, I found out when the meal started. All but Mr. Chater, I mean.”

“But didn't you notice his empty chair yourself?” demanded Kendall. “Why did you have to ask Bessie?”

“I wasn't in the dining-room till after the soup—the time I came away with the tray.”

“I see. And had your chat with the cook in the passage. I suppose it was then you decided to get the poison?”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Thomas.

“When did you change your mind?”

“Well, I don't know that I'd ever made up my mind, really. When I met Mr. Chater in the night—well, even then I was only thinking about it, as you might say, but of course that ended it. I guessed then that he'd heard—”

“But he made other suggestions, according to what I have been told about your conversation.”

“What's that, sir?”

“About you and Bessie. Was Bessie there? In the night?”

“No, sir!” replied Thomas, with sudden emphasis.

“Is that the truth or gallantry?”

“The truth, sir. It was when Mr. Chater spoke about that—about me and Bessie, who's a good girl—that I tried to hit him. I don't know if you heard about that?”

“I did. And, though one isn't supposed to speak ill of the dead, it's a pity you missed him. But some one was there before you and Chater. Some one was in the hall, Thomas. Didn't you know that?”

“Well, sir, I did think I heard a sound, but I couldn't be sure.”

“What sound?”

“A sort of gasp, sir.”

“Male or female?”

“More like a woman, sir. No, I don't know. I wasn't in a condition.”

Kendall looked at the butler hard.

“There's something in your mind, Thomas,” he said, “and I want it. If a woman gasped, and if that woman wasn't Bessie—”

“It wasn't, I've told you!” interrupted the butler.

Kendall's method was to ride over everything that interfered with justice, but he always sympathised with men who defended womenfolk, truthfully or otherwise. His attitude to the butler had softened since the beginning of the interview, and he spoke now quite kindly.

“I am accepting your word that it wasn't Bessie. I'm sure you are telling me the truth. But I want you to go on telling me the truth. Who do you think that person was?”

Thomas hesitated, despite the inspector's encouraging tone.

“I may be wrong, sir,” he muttered after a silence.

“Let me judge that,” replied Kendall.

“Well, sir, I thought it might be Miss Wilding—you see, I'd given her that letter. And, then, the back door being open. But, of course, that's only what I thought.”