Wicked Uncle (14 page)

Lamb sat back and said, “Well—”

Frank Abbott transferred his gaze from the door which had recently closed upon Leonard Carroll to his Chief’s face. It was a cool and sarcastic gaze. It conveyed an opinion of Mr. Carroll which would hardly have pleased him.

“Well, sir?”

“I’m asking you.”

There was nothing in this to minister to a junior officer’s self-esteem. Schoolboys do not get wind in the head when the schoolmaster asks them a question. All this, and more, was not only a well-established fact, but was even now conveyed by the Chief Inspector’s air and manner. Frank became deferential.

“They’re all full of reasons why someone else should have done it. Masterman was very ingenious about the possibility of Tote’s having slipped across the hall in the dark and waited behind the service door. Carroll had a few kind words for Tote too. And both he and Masterman, and Tote himself, simply tumble over themselves to underline the fact that Mrs. Oakley went down on her knees by the body and addressed it as Glen.”

Lamb grunted.

“Yes—we’ll have to go into that. Let me see—we haven’t seen Miss Lane or Miss Masterman. Mrs. Tote is negligible. If she’d seen her husband in the hall she wouldn’t say so, and she didn’t want to say anything about anyone else. I think we can count her out. I’d say it was one of those three men, if it weren’t for the complication about Mrs. Oakley. There might be something there that would give Oakley a motive, so I’m keeping an open mind. But taking the three in the house—Carroll’s clever enough and quick enough, and by Pearson’s account he’d motive enough. Masterman had his fingerprints on the switch by the hearth and a very good reason for having them there. We don’t know much about a motive, but it looks as if he might have had one. The Yard can get on with looking up his record. Then there’s Tote—now, what did you make of Tote?”

Frank lifted his eyebrows.

“If the murderer had to be clever and quick, you’d hardly say that Tote would fill the picture. On the other hand, if Tote was quite as thick in the head as he seems, how did he make so much money?”

Lamb nodded.

“There’s two answers to that, you know. The first is, he didn’t make it, he stole it. And the other is that he’s not such a fool as he looks.”

Frank thought the Chief was in good form. He said,

“I don’t think so much of the first reason. That Black Market racket had brains behind it. If a man was stupid, they might use him as a tool, but they wouldn’t let him get away with anything big—why should they? Tote, I gather, is fairly rolling, and if that’s the case, I doubt his stupidity. A little man would make a little profit. If Tote got away with the big stuff, the second answer is right—he’s not such a fool as he looks.”

Lamb sat there looking blank. He drummed with his fingers on the blotting-pad.

“He would have had to mark Porlock with the luminous paint, and he would have had to get to one of those switches. There was just a muddle of prints on the one by the service door, and the same on the door itself. It’s more or less what you’d expect. But the one at the top of the stairs had been wiped clean.”

“That looks like Carroll.”

Lamb nodded.

“Or Tote. He could have got up there if he’d gone through the service door and up the back stair—though I don’t know why he should.”

Frank shook his head.

“Doesn’t seem likely. He’s not the build for sliding the banisters or running down stairs. You know, sir, I don’t see how anyone could have run down or up those stairs without being heard. You can’t walk silently on bare oak.”

“Not unless you’re in your stocking feet. If Carroll slid the banisters and ran back up the stairs he could slip off his pumps and leave them handy to get back into. Tote could have carried his down in his hand—fat men are often extraordinarily light on their feet. I don’t think there’s much in that. But I don’t know why he should have bothered to go upstairs to turn off the lights, when it would have been a whole lot simpler to have done it downstairs from the service door.”

“Well, that’s Masterman’s theory—he could have followed the others out of the drawing-room when they went out to watch the charade and got across the dark hall to wait behind the service door, and he could have put the mark on Porlock as he followed him into the hall. That would give him the switch by the service door to play with, and the luminous paint on Porlock’s back to guide him when the lights were out again. It’s all quite possible in theory, and not as much evidence as you could balance on the point of a needle.”

The door was opened in a tentative sort of way. Pearson made his appearance with a tray. Something about his manner suggested that he was, for the moment, a butler and not a detective. The tray supported a tea-pot, milk-jug and sugar-basin of a Queen Anne pattern, two cups and saucers, a covered dish, a dark fruit cake, and a plate of sandwiches. There was an agreeable smell of muffins, or perhaps buttered toast.

Pearson shut the door behind him dexterously and set down the tray.

“I thought you’d be ready for some tea, sir. Anchovy toast under the cover, and the sandwiches are egg and Gentleman’s Relish.” Then, reverting to the private detective, “If I may offer a word, sir, there’s something I think you ought to know.”

“What is it?” Lamb recalled his eye from the covered dish. “Well, speak up, man!”

Pearson looked deferential.

“In the matter of Mrs. Oakley’s maid—”

“What about her?” He jerked round upon Frank Abbott, who had picked up the tea-pot. “Pour out your own wash if you want to. If I have a cup of tea I like a bit of body in it. Brew it well, stand it well, sugar it well—that’s what my old Granny used to say, and she made the best cup of tea I ever tasted.” He turned back again. “What’s this about Mrs. Oakley’s maid?”

“Hooper, sir—Miss Hooper. Nothing, sir, except that she was in Mr. Porlock’s pay.”

Lamb sat up square, hands on knees.

“Oh, she was, was she? What makes you think so?”

Pearson looked more deprecating than ever. Quite irrationally, Frank was reminded of an earwig coming out from under a stone—or didn’t earwigs come out from under stones? He didn’t know, but that was what Pearson reminded him of. He was saying,

“Oh, I don’t think, sir—I know. In this sort of house the telephones are very convenient for listening in, and a butler is most commodiously placed with an extension in the pantry all to hand and private, as you might say. If I happened to know that Mr. Porlock was telephoning, I’d only to go into my pantry and shut the door. Or, in this case, if Miss Hooper rang him up—which she did, only not of course under that name—I’d only to put the call through to Mr. Porlock and make believe to hang up myself. With a little care the click can be induced or avoided, to suit the occasion.”

Frank Abbott put three drops of milk in his straw-coloured tea. Lamb grunted.

“How did you find out that it is this Hooper woman, if she didn’t give her name?”

Pearson evinced a modest pride.

“The young lady at the telephone exchange was able to give me the subscriber’s number. The name Miss Hooper gave was Robinson. I soon discovered that there was no one by that name at the Mill House. From the substance of the conversations it was quite clear that someone of the nature of a personal maid was speaking.”

“What had she got to say?”

“Well, the first time was last Tuesday. She said her name was Miss Robinson, and I put her through to Mr. Porlock. Tuesday evening it was. He says, ‘Anything to report?’ and she tells him, ‘Not very much. They’ve arrived, but Miss Cole, the governess, she’ve gone back to town, and the old nurse is there again.’ Mr. Porlock says he’s not interested in old nurses—what about the new secretary? And the maid sniffs and says Mrs. Oakley’s all out to spoil her, sending her up to London to get herself an evening dress. And Mr. Porlock says, ‘When?’ The maid says, ‘Tomorrow,’ and Mr. Porlock takes her up sharp. ‘Now listen,’ he says—‘this is very particular.’ And he tells her Mr. Oakley wants some luminous paint to dodge up a clock for the little boy, and she’s to get Mrs. Oakley to send Miss Brown—that’s the secretary—to the Luxe Stores between twelve and one o’clock, because they’ve got some there. ‘Now don’t forget, and don’t make a mess of it,’ he says. ‘She’s to go to the Luxe Stores between twelve and one.’ And he asks her what Miss Brown will be wearing, and she tells him she’s only got the one coat, a light brown tweed, and shabby at that. So he asks about her hat, and her shoes, and her handbag, all very particular. He says with a sort of a laugh, ‘Do her hair and eyes still match?’ and the maid sniffs and says she hasn’t taken that much notice. Then he says, ‘Is there anything else?’ and she says, ‘Something funny’s happened.’ And he says, ‘What?’ and she tells him. It seems Mrs. Oakley went through from her bedroom to the boudoir before dinner—there’s a door going through. Hooper hears Mrs. Oakley call out as if she was hurt. She goes to see what’s the matter, and she finds her with a crumpled-up photo in her hand, staring at it. Mrs. Oakley, she sits down sudden as if she’s going to faint, and Hooper picks the photo up. ‘Well?’ says Mr. Porlock, and the maid says, ‘Do you want me to tell you who it was?’ A very nasty sort of way she says it. And Mr. Porlock says, ‘You can tell me the photographer’s name.’ She says, ‘Rowbecker & Son, Norwood,’ and Mr. Porlock whistles and rings off. A minute or two later he rings up a London number—here it is, sir—and talks to someone he calls Maisie. He tells her, ‘It’s for between twelve and one tomorrow. Look out for a long tweed coat, light-coloured and shabby,’ and gives her the rest of the description he’s got from the maid, and finishes up with, ‘Her hair and eyes used to be a perfect match. I expect they are still—golden brown and very attractive. Get on with it!’ That was all that time, sir.”

“There were other times?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Hooper rang up next day about half past seven —said she couldn’t ring before, she had to wait till Mrs. Oakley went to her bath. She says Mr. Oakley and Miss Brown was back, and Mr. Porlock swore. And then he laughs and says, ‘What’s the odds?’ and rang off.”

“That all?”

“No, sir. She rang up yesterday afternoon and said Mrs. Oakley had been very upset ever since Wednesday—‘the day you came to see her.’ And Mr. Porlock says, ‘Is she coming tonight?’ And the maid says she’s in two minds about it, but she don’t want Mr. Oakley to know there’s anything wrong, and she thinks she’ll come.”

Lamb said, “H’m!” and then, “Thanks, Pearson.”

When the door had shut again he turned to the tray, poured out a good stewed cup of tea, added milk and sugar with a liberal hand, and did full justice to the anchovy toast, the sandwiches, and the cake, the only contribution he made to the case from start to finish being a grunt and a “So he went to see her on Wednesday. Well, we’ll be along as soon as we’ve finished our tea.”

They were passing through the hall on their way to the front door, when Justin Leigh came up.

“If you can spare me just a moment— I’m arranging to do some of my work down here until after the inquest, but I shall have to run up to town and get the papers I want. I thought of going up first thing in the morning. I’ll be back in time for lunch.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Leigh.”

It appeared that Mr. Leigh hadn’t finished.

“Miss Lane would like the lift both ways. I suppose there’s no objection to that?”

The Chief Inspector didn’t answer so quickly this time. When he spoke, it was to say,

“I haven’t seen Miss Lane yet. She mayn’t be very important, but I want to see her. Will you make yourself responsible for having her back here by two o’clock tomorrow?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Lamb walked on, then halted rather suddenly and looked back.

“What does she want to go up for?”

“Her cousin, Lady Pemberley, is an invalid. She wants to go up and see her. She’s afraid all this may have been a shock. I’ve arranged to drop her there and pick her up again.”

There was another slight pause. Then the Chief Inspector said,

“All right, Mr. Leigh. But I shall be wanting to see her not later than two o’clock.”

Martin Oakley met them with a flat refusal. “My wife’s ill—she can’t see anyone.”

“Have you a doctor’s certificate, Mr. Oakley?”

“No, I haven’t, and I don’t need one. I know my wife a great deal better than any doctor. She’s not fit to see anyone. Good heavens, man—a gentle, delicate woman has a man killed practically next door to her, and you expect her to be able to discuss it! Why, the shock was enough to kill her. And she’s got nothing to say, any more than I have myself. We were all there, standing close together. Mr. Porlock had gone over towards the stairs. Then he began to come towards us again, and the lights went out. We heard a groan and a fall, and less than a minute after that the lights came on, and there was Porlock lying dead on the floor with a dagger in his back. That’s all I know, and that’s all my wife knows. She’s very sensitive and tender-hearted. She went down on her knees to see if there was anything to be done, and when she found he was dead she became hysterical.”

Lamb said, “So I understand.”

They were in the study, among its incongruous chromium plating and scarlet velvet, registered by the Chief Inspector as ‘gimcrackery.’ He knew what an English gentleman’s study ought to look like, and it wasn’t anything like this. He said,

“How long have you known Mr. Porlock?”

“A couple of months.”

“And Mrs. Oakley—how long has she known him?”

“She never met him until he paid a formal call on Wednesday last.”

“Are you quite sure of that?”

“Of course I am—you can ask anyone you like. I’d met him in the way of business. She didn’t so much as know him by sight.”

“Then will you explain why she should have called him Glen?”

“She did nothing of the kind.”

“Mr. Oakley, there were eight people present besides yourself and your wife. They all agree that Mrs. Oakley called out repeatedly, ‘Oh, Glen! Glen’s dead—he’s dead! Oh, Glen— Glen—Glen!’ ”

“I should say they had made a mistake. How could she call him Glen? His name was Gregory. We were all calling him Greg. She was in the habit of hearing me speak of him as Greg. What she said was, ‘Greg’s dead! He’s dead—dead—dead!’ She was sobbing and crying, you understand, and I can’t think why anyone should have thought she said Glen—it makes nonsense.”

The Chief Inspectai allowed a pause to follow this statement. When he thought it had lasted long enough he said,

“I should like to see Miss Dorinda Brown and Mrs. Oakley’s maid. Perhaps I might begin with the maid.”

Martin Oakley stiffened.

“The maid? She’s only been with my wife a week. She wasn’t there last night.”

“I should like to see her, Mr. Oakley.”

Hooper came into the room in a black dress with a small old-fashioned brooch at the neck. The faded hair might have been a wig, or the part-wig which is called a front. It had small, close curls fitting tightly on to the head. Under it one of those round bony foreheads, dull pale cheeks, and a tight mouth. She came up to the table and stood there with an air of professional respect.

“Your name is Hooper, and you are Mrs. Oakley’s personal maid?”

The tight lips opened the smallest possible way.

“Yes, sir—Louisa Hooper.”

“How long have you been with Mrs. Oakley?”

“It will be ten days. I came in on the Saturday. We came down here on the Tuesday.”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. She kept her eyes down. The lids reminded Frank Abbott of those little hooded awnings which you see at the seaside, keeping out the light, hiding the windows.

Lamb’s next question came rather quickly.

“How long had you known Mr. Porlock?”

“Mr. Porlock?”

He said sternly, “Come, come—we know you knew him. We know you were in the habit of telephoning to him. Your conversations were overheard. What’s the good of wasting time? You were in his pay—I want to know why?”

The lids did not rise, the lips were tight. Then quite suddenly they produced a smile—not a nice smile.

“If a gentleman takes an interest in a lady, I don’t see that it’s any business of the police.”

“Then you’d better do some thinking. When a gentleman’s murdered everything to do with him is of interest to the police. Got that? Now—why did he pay you?”

The smile persisted.

“He took an interest in Mrs. Oakley.”

“Whom he’d never seen till Wednesday last.”

The lids came up with a jerk. The eyes behind them were cold, with a bright point of malice.

“Who says so?”

“Mr. Oakley does. If you know any different you’d better say so.”

The lids came down again.

“He came to see her on Wednesday afternoon. I suppose a gentleman can come and call on a lady he’s taken a fancy to?”

Lamb fixed her with his bulging stare.

“Now look here, Miss Hooper, it’s no good your giving me that kind of stuff. I’ve told you your conversations with Mr. Porlock were overheard. You rang him up on Tuesday night and told him about Mrs. Oakley finding a crumpled-up photograph and being very much upset over it. You asked him if you should tell him whose photograph it was, and he said to give the photographer’s name, which you did—Rowbecker & Son, Norwood. Now—whose photograph was it?”

“How should I know?”

“You knew all right when you were talking to Mr. Porlock.”

She looked up again, not meeting the stare but, as it were, sliding past it.

“Well then, it was Mr. Porlock.”

“Sure about that?”

She nodded.

“He takes a good photograph.”

“Do you know where it came from?”

“The little boy must have got at it. It was in his toy-cupboard. Nurse was saying how spoilt he’d got whilst she was away. She said Miss Brown picked up a photograph from the nursery floor and took it away.”

“What happened to the photograph?”

“Mrs. Oakley said it was spoilt, and she went over and dropped it in the fire.”

“Mr. Porlock came to see her on Wednesday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Where did she see him?”

“Upstairs in her sitting-room.”

“And how much of their conversation did you overhear?”

“I don’t listen at doors.”

“Is there a door you could have listened at—a door through to her bedroom?”

“I don’t listen at doors.”

“I’m asking you if there’s a door through from her bedroom. I can ask Mrs. Oakley, you know.”

“There’s a door.”

“And you don’t listen at doors? Look here, Miss Hooper, I’m making no threats, and I’m making no promises—I’m just poiting out one or two facts. This is a murder case. It’s a serious thing to obstruct the police in their inquiries. If you listened at that door and got any information that would help the police, it’s your duty to tell them what it is. If you have any idea of trying to dispose of that information for your own profit, it would be a very serious offence—it would be blackmail. Blackmail is a very serious offence. You know best what your past record is— whether it will bear looking into. I don’t want to have to look into it. Now then—how much of that conversation between Mrs. Oakley and Mr. Porlock did you hear?”

She stood there weighing her chances. Mr. Oakley would pay her to hold her tongue. Would he? Gregory Porlock was dead. Mrs. Oakley would pay her. Yes, and go and cry on Mr. Oakley’s shoulder next minute and tell him all about it. Mr. Oakley was the sort that might turn nasty. She couldn’t afford to have the police come ferreting round. Chances were all very well when you were young and larky. She’d got past taking them. Safety first—that’s what you came to. It wasn’t safe to get on the wrong side of the police. Better tell him what he wanted to know, and see what pickings she could get from Mrs. Oakley— quick, before it all came out. She’d be easy managed the way she was, crying herself silly one minute, and wanting her face done up so that Mr. Oakley wouldn’t notice anything the next.

Lamb let her have her time.

“Well?” he said at last.

She gave a businesslike little nod.

“All right, sir.”

“Good! You’d better have a chair.”

She took one with composure, settled herself, folded her hands in her lap, lifted those cold eyes, and said,

“The door wasn’t quite shut. I didn’t do it, Mrs. Oakley did. She knew Mr. Porlock was coming, because he telephoned—I took the message. But she didn’t have any idea who he was—she didn’t know who she was going to see.”

“Sure about that?”

“I don’t say things unless I’m sure.”

“Go on.”

“I thought I’d like to hear what they said, because all he’d told me was, I was to go there as maid and tell him anything he wanted to know. He didn’t tell me why, and I don’t like working in the dark, so I thought I’d listen.”

“Yes?”

“Well, the first I heard was him calling her by her Christian name. ‘Well, Linnet,’ he said, ‘I thought it would be you, but I had to make sure.’ Then he said to pull herself together. And she said, ‘I thought you were dead,’ and she called him Glen.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I can’t remember it all, but she was crying and saying why did he let her think he was dead. And he said, ‘I suppose you told Martin you were a widow?’ and she said she thought she was.”

“Do you mean—”

She nodded.

“It was as plain as plain—you couldn’t miss it. They’d been married, and he’d gone off and left her, and nine months after she’d married Mr. Oakley. Mr. Porlock, he kept talking about bigamy, and saying she’d broken the law and he hadn’t, and in the end he got her so she’d do anything he wanted. And what he wanted was for her to put Mr. Oakley’s dispatch-case out on the study window-sill. Mr. Oakley was expected down by tea-time. She was to put the case outside the window when he went to dress for dinner, and leave the window unlatched, so that everything could be put back and no one any the wiser. And in the end that’s what she agreed to.”

“Did she do it?”

“I couldn’t say, but if you want my opinion, she’d be too frightened not to. She’s easy frightened, and he’d got the whip hand—talking about putting her in the dock for bigamy, and Mr. Oakley putting her out in the street. Well, in my opinion she wouldn’t have dared not do what he told her.”

“Now look here—did she tell Mr. Oakley?”

“She wouldn’t do that—not if she’d any sense.”

“Why do you put it that way?”

“Because that’s the way Mr. Porlock put it—said he knew she couldn’t hold her tongue, but if she went crying to Mr. Oakley about it she’d find herself in the dock for bigamy.”

“So you don’t think she told him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“They didn’t have anything like the scene there’d have been if he’d found out she wasn’t really married to him?”

“No—nothing like that.” She hesitated. “Not unless it was just before they started for the dinner party. He came in when she was dressing, and I left them there. She might have said something then, or in the car.”

Lamb grunted.

“But you don’t know whether she did?”

“No, I had to go downstairs.”

When he had sent her away with instructions to say that the Chief Inspector would like to see Miss Brown, he turned to Frank Abbott and said in an expressionless voice,

“That gives Mr. Martin Oakley a pretty big motive.”

“If she told him.”

“We’ll know more about that when we’ve seen her.”