The Phantom Hollow, page 5
part #1 of Trevor Lowe Series
To Lowe’s suggestion that the appearance of the rooms seemed to indicate that the intruder or intruders had been searching for some particular object, Mr. Wyse replied with a vehement negative. So emphatic was he on this point that Lowe did not believe it. In fact, he did not believe Mr. Wyse’s story at all.
His assertion that he had been chloroformed in bed before he had had time to give an alarm did not tally with the fact that they had found him in the armchair. Neither did it correspond with the state of the bed. The appearance of the clothes proved fairly conclusively to Lowe that Mr. Wyse had risen from that bed and had not been overpowered in it as he had stated; and if this was the case, he could not have been taken so much by surprise as he wished them to believe. And, therefore, he had had plenty of time to give an alarm if he had wanted to.
The dramatist, however, kept his suspicions to himself. There was no useful purpose to be served in letting the man see that he disbelieved his story, but he made a mental note that Mr. Wyse was worth a considerable amount of attention in the future, particularly when he remembered the behaviour of his daughter in the garden at Monk’s Lodge when he had watched her from the window.
The whole manner of the man convinced Lowe that he was keeping something back. According to his story, he had come to Friar’s Vale with Ursula because it was quiet and he was unlikely to be disturbed at his work. For Mr. Wyse revealed that he was a novelist, and one of that vast majority who turn out detective stories to satisfy the growing demand of an insatiable public. This may or may not have been true. A typewriter and a large stack of manuscript paper certainly served in some measure to bear out the truth of his words, and there was no doubt about his interest when he learned of the murder that had been committed at Monk’s Lodge, and that no less a person than Trevor Lowe was mixed up in it. But still, author or not, Lowe was certain that Mr. Wyse had something to hide and that he was not all he appeared to be.
A search of the cottage by both Lowe and the inspector revealed no clue at all. The method by which the intruders had entered — the state of the place, and the fact that Ursula had said she had heard whisperings, seemed to point to more than one person being concerned — was through a small window at the back; a pane of glass had been neatly removed and the catch pulled back. There was a professional touch about this that showed that whoever was responsible were not amateurs at the job. So, also, did the fact that they had not left so much as a fingerprint behind them. On the glass of the bookcase Lowe found several smeared marks, but the hand that had made them had obviously been covered by a glove.
The sun was well up when they had finally completed their examination, and Lowe, leaving Inspector Jesson to return to the police station, walked back to Monk’s Lodge with Tony. The weary policeman on guard let them in, and they found Ursula and Jack drinking tea in the sitting-room.
In reply to Ursula’s anxious questions, Lowe assured her that beyond a slight headache, her father was uninjured, and briefly related what they had found at the cottage. She seemed greatly relieved that it was nothing more serious; and, as in the case of Wyse himself, Lowe had an idea that she was keeping something back.
‘By the way,’ he said, accepting the cup of tea that Jack held out to him, with a nod of thanks, ‘although you’re unaware of it, we’ve met before.’
Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said hesitatingly.
‘Oh, you didn’t see me,’ said Lowe with a smile. ‘But I saw you — from the window, when you came to Monk’s Lodge the other afternoon.’
Her rather pale face flushed, and she looked embarrassed. ‘I — I didn’t know there was anyone in. I’m afraid I was trespassing; but the garden looked so attractive from the road that I just had to come in.’
‘What did you find in the flowerbed?’ remarked Lowe casually, sipping his tea.
The colour ebbed from her face. ‘In — in — er — the flowerbed?’ she repeated. ‘Oh, yes, I remember what you mean,’ she added quickly. ‘I dropped my handkerchief.’
She was lying, and Lowe knew she was lying. It had not been a handkerchief she had picked up from that mass of tangled blossoms. The object, whatever it was, had been much smaller. He said nothing, however, accepting her explanation as though he believed it, and presently she rose and announced her intention of going home.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jack hastily, and glared at Tony’s sudden smile.
When they had gone, and declining Tony’s offer of assistance, Lowe made his way upstairs to the lumber-room. Ogden’s body still lay where they had first discovered it, for the ambulance had not yet arrived from Friar’s Vale to convey it to the mortuary to await the inquest. The sun was streaming through the little window, flooding the room with light.
Shutting the door, the dramatist began a close and thorough examination. He had been unable to carry this out before with sufficient care to satisfy himself, for the dim light of the oil-lamp had been insufficient for his purpose. Now, however, every corner of the room was clearly visible. Starting from the door, he worked his way gradually over the entire apartment, moving the trunks and other odds and ends that it contained, and not even a speck of dust escaped his scrutiny.
It was not, however, until he reached the window and was looking at the frame that he discovered anything. And then, just below the catch and clearly visible in the grime that filmed the paintwork, was a distinct fingerprint. Taking out a penknife, the dramatist carefully slipped the thin steel blade between the paint and the woodwork, and by patient manipulation succeeded in removing a flake about the size of a two-shilling piece. It bore the impression that he wished to preserve; and, taking a small envelope from his pocket, he placed the paint-flake inside and licked down the flap. He found nothing else, although he searched carefully; and leaving the room, he went back again downstairs, where Tony was engaged in cooking himself some breakfast.
‘What time do they open the post office?’ asked Lowe.
‘Nine o’clock,’ replied Tony, spearing a spluttering rasher of bacon with a fork and skilfully turning it.
Lowe glanced at his watch. It was a quarter-past eight. ‘Then it will just be nine by the time I get there,’ he said.
‘Won’t you have some breakfast first?’ said Tony. ‘It’s just ready.’
The dramatist shook his head. ‘Keep it hot in the oven until I come back,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got an important letter that I want to get off as soon as possible.’
It was just nine when he turned into the little shop. Buying some paper and envelopes, he scribbled a note, enclosed it together with the small envelope containing the paint-flake in one of the envelopes, addressed it to Detective-Inspector Shadgold, New Scotland Yard, London, and handed it to the old lady behind the counter with the request that it should be registered.
He was leaving the post office when he saw Inspector Jesson coming along on the opposite side of the street. The inspector saw him at the same time and crossed over.
‘I’ve been on the phone to the chief constable,’ Jesson said, ‘and he’s calling in the assistance of Scotland Yard. He’s getting through to them at once, so I expect they’ll be sending a man down later on today. It’s a pity. I’d like to’ve had a go at this case myself. Only real chance I’ve ever ’ad, and now I suppose the Yard’ll step in and collar all the credit.’
‘I’ll see that you get all the credit that’s due to you, Inspector,’ said Lowe, who was not without sympathy for the man.
‘That’s very good of you, sir,’ Jesson said.
Lowe walked with him as far as the police station. When he got back to Monk’s Lodge, he found that the ambulance had been during his absence, and that the remains of Mr. Ogden had been removed.
Nothing occurred during the morning, and both Jack and Tony, who appeared in very low spirits, whiled away the time by rambling about the garden.
Just after lunch a telegram arrived for Lowe. He read the brief message and thrust it into his pocket. ‘Inspector Shadgold is coming down this afternoon,’ he said. ‘He arrives at King’s Hayling just after four. Do you think we could manage to put him up here? I’d rather like to have him with us if it is possible.’
‘Of course! Bring him along,’ said Jack, and Tony nodded his agreement.
Lowe walked into King’s Hayling, partly because he enjoyed the exercise, but mostly because it was the only way of getting there. Shadgold arrived by the same train that he had come on himself. He was a big, large-boned, heavily built man, red of face and cheery.
‘Hello, Mr. Lowe!’ he said as he shook hands. ‘Now what’s all this business? I’ve only got the barest outline. The chief constable rang up the Yard this morning, and they put me on to the case, but they couldn’t give me much information — said that I could get all there was to be had when I arrived.’
‘Before I answer any of your questions,’ said Lowe, ‘I want to ask you one. How did you know that I was down here?’
Shadgold grinned. ‘Happened to drop in and see Mr. White yesterday, and he told me,’ he replied. ‘He was grumbling because the repairs to your car kept him from joining you. When they told me about this job, I remembered you were staying at the same place, so I wired you.’
As they came out of the railway station, the dramatist, who had no particular wish to walk the six miles back to Monk’s Lodge if it could be avoided, looked round in the hope of finding the car that Jack and Tony had hired on the day that he had arrived. There was no sign of it, and he questioned a woman selling papers. She shook her head decisively.
‘No, sir, no moty-car ever stan’ ’ere.’
‘Surely you’re mistaken,’ said Lowe. ‘I myself was taken to Friar’s Vale in it only a few days ago.’
But the woman was positive. ‘Then it ’appened to be ’ere just that day,’ she asserted. ‘It’s never bin ’ere before, and it’s never bin ’ere since. I’ll take my oath on that, and I ought to know, seeing as ’ow I’m ’ere regular every day of me life.’
Lowe was very thoughtful as he moved away. ‘Now that’s very odd,’ he muttered, partly to himself; ‘very odd indeed.’
‘What’s odd?’ asked the burly inspector in surprise.
‘What that woman said,’ replied the dramatist.
‘I don’t see anything odd about it,’ argued Shadgold.
‘You will when you hear the whole story,’ said Lowe, and he proceeded to tell Shadgold as they walked towards Monk’s Lodge.
Chapter Seven – The Monk
They had almost reached Monk’s Lodge by the time Lowe had finished giving Shadgold a detailed account of what had happened. The inspector listened in silence until the dramatist had come to the end of his story.
‘It’s a funny business,’ he said then. ‘I suppose all these episodes have a connection, but I’m hanged if I can see it at the moment. There doesn’t appear to have been any motive for Ogden’s murder at all.’
‘But there is a motive somewhere, and a very strong motive,’ replied Lowe. ‘In my opinion Ogden was killed because he was unfortunate enough to know something concerning Monk’s Lodge, and the killer was afraid that he was going to pass that knowledge on.’
‘What knowledge could Ogden have had?’ asked Shadgold.
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ Lowe said. ‘That’s one of the things that we have to discover. If we knew that, there wouldn’t be any mystery.’
The burly inspector frowned. ‘If it’s your belief,’ he said, ‘that Ogden was killed outside — and from what you tell me about the marks on his clothes, I’m inclined to agree with you — why should the body have been placed in the lumber-room at all? Why didn’t the killer leave it in the place where the crime was committed?’
‘Well, it seems to me fairly obvious that some person or persons, for reasons of their own, are trying to get Monk’s Lodge to themselves,’ Lowe said. ‘In other words, they want Denton and Frost out of it — out of the way. That’s the only possible explanation of the warning that was written on the window. Now that warning failed in its effect; and when it became necessary to remove Ogden, because he was on the point of saying something that would put these people in danger, they concealed the body in the locked room with the sole intention of directing suspicion on Denton and Frost, hoping that this would achieve what the melodramatic warning had failed to do.’
Shadgold nodded his bullet head quickly. ‘That’s quite a logical piece of reasoning, Mr. Lowe,’ he agreed. ‘But how did they get the body into the house without being seen? Surely it was an enormous risk to run?’
The dramatist smiled. ‘You forget,’ he pointed out, ‘that Denton and Frost are on holiday, so they are out most of the day for hours on end, and Monk’s Lodge is a very lonely spot. It hasn’t got a very good reputation in the village, there’s a lot of stupid nonsense about it being haunted by the phantom of a monk or some such person — the local name for it is Phantom Hollow — and nobody goes near it, apparently, if they can possibly help it.’
‘I see,’ muttered the inspector. ‘That sounds logical. I suppose you haven’t any idea where the crime was actually committed?’
‘No — except that it must have been quite close to the cottage,’ Lowe replied, and Shadgold looked at him quickly.
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked.
‘The warning on the window,’ said the dramatist quietly.
‘Good God!’ Shadgold cried, a note of horror in his voice. ‘You don’t mean —’
‘I mean that that warning on the window was written with Ogden’s blood,’ Lowe finished grimly, and for the rest of the short distance that separated them from Monk’s Lodge Detective-Inspector Shadgold was a very silent and thoughtful man.
Jack and Tony were in the midst of tea; and to the inspector’s concealed annoyance — for he was hoping to have had a chance of questioning them concerning the strange business which had brought him down — they were not alone. A rather pretty woman was seated beside the teapot, and near her an elderly grey-haired man. Shadgold recognised them both from Lowe’s description. They must be Wyse and his daughter, whom Lowe had mentioned, and who seemed to be deeply involved in the mysterious affair. His supposition was confirmed when Jack introduced them.
‘It has always been a wish of mine,’ said Mr. Wyse, passing his cup to Ursula to be refilled, ‘to meet a detective-inspector from Scotland Yard in the flesh. I’ve written about these people over and over again, but this is the first time that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting one.’
‘I hope you’re not disappointed,’ said Shadgold. ‘I understand that you’re a criminologist, Mr. Wyse?’
‘Hardly,’ Wyse said, waving his head deprecatingly. ‘A mere scribbler of sensational literature, Inspector.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of reading any of your books,’ said Lowe.
‘In that respect,’ Wyse said, shaking his head sadly, ‘I’m sorry to say that you are in common with a great many other people. My manuscripts have so far not seen the light of day. Although I have submitted them to various publishers, I regret to say that they have not deemed them worthy of print. However —’ He sighed resignedly. ‘—I shall continue to write them if only for my own pleasure. My work is a labour of love, Mr. Lowe. You, of course, being a writer yourself, will appreciate that.’
Shadgold listened to this speech with a faint trace of bewilderment, and came to the conclusion that Mr. Wyse was slightly touched.
‘I’m immensely interested,’ the author continued, leaning back in his chair, ‘in everything appertaining to crime. I think I may say without boasting that my library on the subject is one of the completest in the world.’ He paused and looked across at the dramatist. ‘Tell me, Mr. Lowe,’ he said, ‘have you made any fresh discoveries in connection with this terrible business that has happened in our midst?’
‘No, I am afraid I haven’t,’ Lowe replied, slowly stirring the contents of his cup. ‘I don’t pretend to be a detective, Mr. Wyse. I am merely a student of human nature and human motives, and these I sift and sift, till all the dust has passed away and only the stones of importance remain.’
‘Very well put — very well put, indeed!’ remarked Mr. Wyse, nodding his silver head. ‘Really, I must remember that, and include it in one of my stories. But surely you have some theory with regard to this crime?’
‘To be perfectly candid I have six,’ replied Lowe. ‘But I’m afraid at the present juncture you must excuse me from discussing them.’
‘I quite understand — very proper!’ Wyse said, and changed the subject.
The conversation reverted to that disjointed small talk which usually occurs when several people are gathered together. When dusk had fallen and Shadgold and Lowe were beginning to think that Mr. Wyse was never going, that gentleman rose reluctantly and announced that they must be returning home.
‘I’ll walk with you if you have no objection,’ said Jack quickly. ‘I want some stamps.’
Tony grinned. It was the flimsiest of excuses, because he happened to know that Jack had a nearly full book of stamps upstairs in the bedroom.
‘If you’re going to the post office,’ he drawled, ‘you might post this letter to the guv’nor for me.’
Jack took it and slipped it into his pocket. Outside the Wyses’ cottage he said goodbye to them; and if he held Ursula’s hand a trifle longer than was strictly necessary, there was certainly every excuse, for she was the type that is often seen on the covers of magazines but seldom in the flesh.
