Who Killed Charmian Karslake? (8 page)

“What can I tell you about her?” he inquired abruptly.

“Really I hardly know,” the inspector said frankly. “But perhaps the most important thing I want to know is just where Miss Carslake is at present.”

“And that I am sure I can't tell you,” Dr. Brett said decidedly. “I haven't heard of her for years. Two of her brothers were killed in the War and the youngest went out to Australia. I believe he is still there. Lotty – well, Lotty married – a war marriage, you know. It was not happy – was not likely to be – there was a divorce; so much I saw in the paper. But though I wrote to Lotty I got no answer and have never heard a word of her since.”

“Was she to blame for the divorce, or was her husband?” the inspector inquired quietly.

Brett sighed. “I feared you were going to ask that. I am afraid – I am sadly afraid the poor unhappy child herself was in the wrong. So I gathered from the account in the paper.”

The inspector made a note in his book.

“Was Miss Carslake very handsome, Dr. Brett?”

Dr. Brett appeared to reflect a minute. “Not when I saw her last. An ordinary, plain-looking girl, I should have called her.”

“I see.” The inspector shut up his book and snapped the elastic round it. Then he looked the doctor squarely in the face. “I am going to be pretty frank with you. Do you think the Miss Lotty Carslake you knew in Hepton could possibly be this poor Charmian Karslake who lies dead at the Abbey?”

“Bless my soul! I do not think so,” the doctor said emphatically.

Yet the inspector fancied that there was something that did not ring quite true in his voice.

“This poor thing was an American, wasn't she? And exceptionally beautiful. Now, none of the Carslakes could lay claim to anything remarkable in the way of good looks.”

“Is that so? But this girl might have improved considerably after leaving Hepton, mightn't she?” The inspector watched the doctor's face carefully. “As for being an American, so much was given out in the Press. But I find that practically nothing seems to be known of her antecedents. She was playing small parts – extremely small parts – in New York three years ago, when the illness of one of the principals gave her her chance, and she leapt at once to fame and fortune. But I may tell you in confidence – in strict confidence – Dr. Brett, that we have some ground for thinking that Charmian Karslake had some previous knowledge of Hepton, and that it was this knowledge that made her accept Lady Penn-Moreton's invitation to come down for the ball.”

“Dear, dear, is that so?” The doctor's face looked troubled. “But if she was a Hepton girl it does not follow that she was little Lotty Carslake. I altogether refuse to believe that she was. Carslake's not an uncommon name.”

“Not so common as Brown, Jones and Robinson,” Stoddart rejoined. “But I am afraid that I must ask you to come with me to the Abbey now, Dr. Brett. I want to know whether you recognize this dead Charmian Karslake.”

“Is this really necessary?” Neither the doctor's tone nor his expression was indicative of any willingness to undertake the task.

“Absolutely,” the inspector replied, getting up. “Now, if you please, Dr. Brett.”

“I suppose I have no choice,” the doctor said reluctantly.

“No choice at all,” the inspector said decidedly.

The private chapel at the Abbey, half-ruined now, had not been part of the original structure, but had been built by the Penn-Moretons when the Abbey Church had become the Parish Church of Hepton. On one side of the chancel was the Priests' Vestry. It was here, as a temporary mortuary, that poor Charmian Karslake's body had been taken. It lay on a long trestle-table in the middle of the room. Kindly hands had thrown a sheet over the body and had laid a white veil on the face, but otherwise it was untouched and clothed just as it had been found.

Thither Inspector Stoddart conveyed Dr. Brett, much against that gentleman's will. Police and plainclothes men were stationed all round the Abbey and at the door of the private chapel, but the men stood aside and saluted as they saw the inspector and his companion.

“You have allowed no one to enter, Barnes?” the inspector questioned sharply.

“No, sir. Her ladyship's maid, she came and wanted to put a lot of flowers here, but I told her it was not allowed unless you gave permission, sir.”

“Quite right,” the inspector said approvingly.

Accustomed as Dr. Brett must surely have been to scenes of death, he was distinctly paler as he followed the inspector into the vestry and up to the silent form that lay on the trestles in the middle of the room.

Very reverently the detective laid back the covering from the dead face. Dr. Brett gazed at it long and earnestly, bending forward to see more closely after the first moment. The golden hair had been smoothed back, but it still waved round the waxen face. The deep blue eyes refused to be closed and the lips were still parted. She still wore the yellow underclothing and the white dressing-gown in which she had been shot.

At last the doctor drew himself up and taking off his pince-nez polished it industriously for a minute.

The inspector replaced the covering over the dead face and led the way out of the vestry, treading softly.

In the body of the chapel he paused and looked at Dr. Brett.

“Well?”

“It is not Lotty Carslake,” the doctor said slowly. “But –”

The inspector looked at him. “Yes? But –”

“It is not Lotty Carslake I am pretty sure,” Dr. Brett went on. “But I have an odd feeling of familiarity with that poor dead face, as if somewhere I had seen it before.”

“In Hepton?” the inspector questioned sharply.

Dr. Brett raised his eyebrows. “In Hepton presumably. Most of my life has been spent here. But I cannot say more. I cannot place my recollection at all.”

“But you are quite definite in your statement that it is not Miss Lotty Carslake?”

The inspector fancied that the other's eyes did not meet his quite frankly.

Dr. Brett paused a moment before replying. “As definite as it is possible to be with regard to a girl I have not seen for seventeen years, not since she was sixteen.”

“The points of difference?” the inspector suggested.

The doctor hesitated. “Lotty Carslake's hair was much fairer, her complexion was not so good, and her features were not so regular, larger I think.”

“It seems to me that the passage of time might account for most of that,” the inspector rejoined thoughtfully.

“I don't think so,” Dr. Brett dissented. “In fact, in my own mind, I am sure that this poor thing is no Carslake.”

“But you are equally sure that you have seen her before?”

“No, I could not say that.” The doctor spoke ponderously. “But I have a haunting feeling that the face is not entirely strange to me. More I could not say.”

The inspector looked profoundly dissatisfied.

“Do you think that this sense of familiarity of which you speak may be accounted for by the portraits of Miss Karslake which have been appearing in the papers of late, ever since Charmian Karslake came to England. You may even have seen her act?”

The doctor shook his head. “Certainly I have not. Haven't been inside a theatre for years, and never was very keen on them. No, I feel that my recollection goes further back. I tell you what, inspector, I will go home and have a look at my old case book. That may revive my memory.”

“One more question,” said the inspector, detaining him. “Was Miss Lotty Carslake – were Mrs. Carslake and her daughter friendly with the people here – the Penn-Moretons?”

“They knew them, of course.” The doctor smiled in a curious fashion. “But when you ask if they were friendly, inspector, you show that you have very little knowledge of the ramifications of county society. No doubt, the Penn-Moretons knew the Carslakes by sight, possibly to bow to. Anything further would be out of the question.”

“But the young men of the two families?” the inspector suggested.

“I never heard that there was any friendship or even acquaintanceship between them,” the doctor said decidedly. “Of course the Carslakes were rather older than the Penn-Moretons.”

The inspector considered a minute. “I suppose they would be. Well, I am much obliged to you, Dr. Brett, you have been of real help to me.”

“Not much. I wish I could have been of more,” the doctor said as they left the chapel. “Oh, well, you know where to find me when you want me, inspector.”

The inspector went back to the house. As he neared the front door Harbord came out and, after a glance round, crossed the garden to meet him.

“I am glad that you have come back sir,” he began, “one of the maids is telling a curious tale this morning. It may be of some help to us. I don't know, but I think you should hear it without delay.”

The inspector quickened his steps. “I will come at once. What about the churchyard, Alfred?”

“I found the grave of a Mrs. Carslake, sir. That was all. I couldn't get at the registers. The vicar keeps them locked up and he is out for the day. So I thought I might as well return to the Abbey. And here I came across a girl, Myra Smith. She was having hysterics in the housemaids' room. Thinking the noise might have some connexion with Miss Karslake's death, I found – But I should like you to hear for yourself, sir.”

“I will see her in the library which Sir Arthur has kindly placed at our disposal. Tell Myra Smith to come to me at once,” he said to the butler as he admitted them.

That functionary was looking whiter and even more nervous than on the preceding evening.

“Certainly, inspector, I will send her to you,” he said in a quavering voice.

“Thank you. Come along, Harbord.”

The library was empty. Sir Arthur had removed himself and his belongings to a room overlooking what was still called the Monks' Garden. In the library Stoddart's papers and his big case book were housed in the escritoire at the top end of the table. The inspector unlocked it now and took out his notes.

In another moment there was a knock at the door and a stately looking dame appeared. Stoddart recognized her as the Abbey housekeeper. She was holding firmly the arm of a weeping girl who was obviously being brought very unwillingly into the inspector's presence.

The inspector moved forward quickly. “Is this Myra Smith, Mrs. Cowell? Now, Myra, what are you crying about? There is nothing to frighten you here. If you will just answer a few questions –”

“Which she had better at once, and truthfully, if she wants to keep her place,” the housekeeper interposed in a wrathful voice. “She has done wrong, and she knows it, and she had better own up at once.”

“Yes, I feel sure she will,” said the inspector soothingly. “But do you know, Mrs. Cowell, I think I shall have to see Myra alone. It is our rule, at Scotland Yard, never to take the statement of a person with another who may herself be wanted later as a witness, and an important witness in the same case. You will understand me, I am sure?”

The housekeeper tossed her head. Evidently she was much displeased at the suggestion.

“Well, if you want to see her alone, I am sure you are welcome to,” she said huffily. “But I doubt if you will get as much out of her as I should.”

“I dare say you are right, Mrs Cowell,” the inspector said in a placatory tone. “It is just the rule, foolish I dare say, but just the rule.”

“Oh, well, I am sure you are welcome to keep it.” And without another look either at him or at Myra Smith the housekeeper walked out of the room.

The inspector looked at the girl standing by the table, drooping over it as though she had scarcely strength to hold herself up.

He drew a chair forward near the fire, which was burning cheerily.

“Now, Myra,” he said in a fatherly fashion, “don't you get frightened, I only want you to help me on a little bit. I expect you are all tired and done up. The work for the ball and this terrible affair of Miss Karslake on the top of it.”

Then Myra Smith found her voice:

“That's it, sir. That's what did it. It wasn't the ball. We were all glad to have a bit of fun and liveliness in the house. It is quiet here mostly as a rule. But to think of that beautiful young lady, as well as you or me, dancing away one minute, as you might say, and then killed by some nasty, murderous brute the next.”

She dabbed her little wet ball of a handkerchief into her eyes.

“Yes, yes,” the inspector said in a more soothing voice. “And now it is just to find out who that nasty, murderous brute was that I want you to help me. First, just how much did you see of Miss Karslake?”

A loud sob burst from the girl. “I never saw her at all but once, sir. And it was natural we should like to see a bit of what was going on – me and Alice Thompson.”

“Quite natural,” assented the inspector. “I am sure I should have done the same. Now, just tell me all about it, Myra. You won't mind me calling you Myra, I know. It has always been a favourite name of mine. I had a sister named Myra once” – mendaciously.

“I don't mind anything,” the girl said miserably, “only I wish me and Alice had never gone to the conservatory, the night before last.”

“To the conservatory?” the inspector echoed in surprise. “How did you get there?”

“Well, there is a back passage, sir, the gardeners use it to take things in, soil and such-like as they can't get in from the front. And it comes out just behind that beautiful passion-flower that droops all over the trellis. The door itself is only trellis-work and you have to push the long sprays aside to get out into the conservatory. We thought, me and Alice Thompson, that if we went along there and peeped through the trellis we would, maybe, see a bit of the dancing. Anyway, we knew we should see some of the wonderful frocks and jewels we had read about in the papers. And – and it is dull like at Hepton, you know, sir.”