The Garston Murder Case, page 11
Bell was calmer. “I wouldn’t say. I don’t know so much. Bag o’ tricks, he is. But it’s not like Josh Clunk to rile you.”
“Isn’t it? You surprise me! He told us off in court spiteful enough.”
“Oh, in court,” Bell said with contempt. “That’s all guff. That’s nothing. He’s always very civil in private. Too civil by half. I don’t think he meant to put your back up, Gunn. It looked to me he was throwing a fly.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, say giving us the office we’d got this case by the wrong end. I don’t know but what we have.” Bell frowned and pondered and gave a short and angry laugh. “I was thinking so myself, old man. What bothers me now is that Josh Clunk wants me to think so. That’s a nasty blow.”
“Here, go easy,” Gunn complained. “Where are we getting to? What do you mean, the wrong end?”
“We went for the man that pinched the jewels. What about going for the man who wanted the love letters?”
“How do you know who he is? Lord, this is a bit too clever. We don’t even know anybody did want the letters.”
“We don’t. But that’s the only idea that makes sense of the case. Old Clunk hinted at it when he cross-examined Miss Morrow. He went very gently then. Now he’s given us a straight tip. The only reason there can be for anybody wanting the love letters is something to do with Garstons.”
“That old case! Twenty years dead!”
Bell nodded. “I know. But Josh Clunk don’t bother himself with cases that are dead. Look here—if those letters tell something the Garston family wants kept dark they might be worth anything you like—to Croyland. He could pay it.” Bell lit a pipe. “Remember him—in the old days, Gunn? Mr. Henry Garston. Hard as they make ’em, wasn’t he? I don’t suppose he’s got any softer. I’ve been thinking about him. He wouldn’t have stuck at a trifle when we knew him.”
“The other end of the case is the Garstons?”
Bell nodded. “Looks like it. It did look like it— till Josh Clunk chipped in with his tip and his allfriends talk. Now I don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t trust the little monkey if he told me I had my pants on.”
“No, but you might have, all the same. Oh, he’s up to something, I know that. And he thinks it’s going to be worth his while to stand in with us.”
“Then you bet your life he’s up to something uncommon dirty.”
“I’m not betting,” said Bell. “But if Clunk’s staying on here, I’m staying too. I reckon you’ll want me.”
And inquiries discovered that Mr. Clunk remained at the Victoria Hotel.
CHAPTER XIII
IN THE DARK
A LETTER which is posted in Bradstock on Saturday is delivered at Bradstock Abbey on Monday morning. Such is the reckless speed of modern civilization.
It was therefore when her morning tea was brought to her bedroom on Monday that May received her letter from Tony. She thought it an odd letter: an absurd letter; and in conclusion she did not like it.
DEAR MISS DEAN:
I know it looks cheek of me to write to you at all. Don’t take it that way. It would be, if I hadn’t reasons that matter. The reasons are about as serious as they can be.
I’ve seen Lord Croyland. That’s one. I shan’t be seeing him again. I can’t come to the Abbey again. But I must see you. I should have to anyway. But after what happened with Croyland I want to see you at once. I have things to say I can’t write.
I suppose you’ll get this on Monday. Walk over towards Bradstock any time you can. I shall be on the road looking for you. You must come. There’s things you’ve got to know.
Yours sincerely,
TONY WISBERRY.
An absurd person.
She read it again and liked it less. The tone of authority became clearer. A horrid youth.
It is probable that if Tony had not written she must come, she would have come to him. And if she had, he might have turned the stream of things, taken her at least from their course, perhaps others too. Afterwards, as he struggled, he wondered sometimes dismally over what might have been.
She crushed the letter in her hand, then tore it into small pieces and threw it away. She was not going to answer a letter like that.
The day went worse than dismally. Mrs. Garston was at her most exacting and unreasonable, her maid in a malignant temper. They spent the morning nagging at each other and uniting to put May in the wrong.
Mrs. Garston being told, what she had just said, that she was not well enough to go down to lunch, wept and insisted on going, and at table sighed and moaned.
Croyland’s usual careful kindness to her failed. Gladys’, for the first time in May’s knowledge of the house, gave no help, or less than none. She was sulky and sharp of speech when she did speak, making the dismal awkwardness of the party more oppressive.
That meal was hurried to its end. Mrs. Garston was taken complaining upstairs and a long struggle induced her to swallow some of Dr. Eves’ sedative. Then for her there was at last quiescence and May stole wearily a way to her room and tried in vain to rest. Everything was too horrible.
But the evening brought worse. Mrs. Garston woke late, fretting that she had not been waked, that the medicine made her so heavy, so weak, so depressed. Of course she knew that nobody wanted her, she was only in the way, but they needn’t make her feel so always—and the maid came in to dress her and inflame this state of mind.
She would go down to dinner, and greeted Croyland by pathetic surprise that he was still there. Why was he still there? He never stayed over Monday. He never did stay so long. Of course she knew it wasn’t to be with her. He needn’t say that! She gave a queer high laugh. And then was tearful.
Dinner was served. Croyland made talk of the affairs of Bradstock and May struggled desperately to help him. Gladys was still out of humour. Sneering at them all. But anything was better than silence. Croyland laboured on about the park, the gardens, something to be done to the house. “Oh!” Mrs. Garston gave a cry of pain. “You love Bradstock!” And she laughed and wept.
Croyland’s politeness snapped. “That’s enough,” he growled. He looked over his shoulder at the servants. He leaned across the table. “Control yourself, Mother, can’t you?” But Mrs. Garston lay back in her chair and sobbed. “Oh, be quiet, for God’s sake.”
Imperturbable servants served on and departed.
Croyland started up. “I can’t stand any more of this,” he glowered over his mother. “You’re not fit to be here. Take her away, Miss Dean. Get her to bed. You shouldn’t have let her come down.”
“Oh, I’ll go, I’ll go. I know nobody wants me.” Mrs. Garston hurried to the door.
“It’s no use scolding,” May cried. “You’ve made her like this, Lord Croyland.”
When she was gone too, Croyland stood plucking at his mouth.
“Doing anything to-night?” said the scornful voice of Gladys.
He grumbled an oath and strode out.
Gladys poured herself another glass of port. “The dirty dog,” she said, and her smile was malignant.
Mrs. Garston gave May the worst hour of all her wearing work at Bradstock. She would have nothing done for her; nothing could be done with her, but endure her complaints and reproaches. She would not go to bed. She knew that was all they wanted, to keep her shut up in her room, but she wouldn’t be, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t. She wasn’t dead yet. Of course they all wanted her dead. She wept. It would be the best thing for her, far best. But she mustn’t die. She wouldn’t.
“Who’s talking about dying?” The maid came in. “You aren’t going to die, ma’am. I’ll see to that, I’m sure.” She flashed a glance at May. “Don’t want any nurse, do we?” The maid began to put her to bed against her will.
And so to bed at last she went.
Utterly tired, body and spirit, May dragged back to her room. She could hardly find energy to undress. She lay down feeling as if she had never slept and would never sleep again.
She woke with the room dark and a cry in her ears. Another cry came, a stifled cry and a thud, the sound of a shutting, dragging door. She sprang up and, pulling a wrapper about her, ran out.
The vaulted corridor had no more than a glimmer of moonlight through its lancet windows, a ghostly place. She stood listening. There was movement somewhere. By the archway, or beyond, in the new part of the house. She ran on along the corridor, and in the black darkness of the archway stumbled over something soft and fell on her knees. She found herself beside a woman’s body.
Then she screamed, “Help! Help! Help!” and bending over the body in the dark felt at it. “Mrs. Garston?” she gasped, and then more loudly, “Mrs. Garston!” The body did not answer.
May scrambled to her feet, fumbled about the walls for the switch of the corridor lights, could not find it, ran to her room for a torch.
She came out with it, turned it on, and the beam piercing into the gloom of the archway showed Croyland standing there, still in his evening clothes, and at his feet the face of Mrs. Garston livid under the white glare.
“Who’s that?” he roared. “Miss Dean? What the devil’s happened?”
“How should I know?” May cried. “Hold the torch for me.” She knelt down by Mrs. Garston.
Servants were coming along the corridor. “Turn on the light, someone,” Croyland called, and the lights went up; but the archway remained dark save for the beam of the torch upon May and the unmoving body.
“It’s my mistress,” came a cry, “What have you done to her, Nurse?” The maid ran up to them. “What are you doing? How did she come here?”
“Hold your damned tongue,” Croyland growled. “Don’t you meddle.” And the maid gulped and muttered.
May stood up slowly. “I can’t do anything,” she said. “I’m afraid she’s gone.”
Croyland bent to look at the livid face and suddenly turned the torch from it.
“You must telephone for the doctor to come,” May said.
Croyland made noises.
Behind him spoke the voice of Gladys. For the first time May was aware of her presence. “Phone the doctor,” she repeated. “That’s my job. What’s the message?”
“Say Mrs. Garston’s had some sort of shock and he must come at once.”
“Right, I’ll get him.” Gladys swept away.
Croyland cleared his throat. “Mustn’t lie here. Get her back to her room, eh?”
“Leave me do it.” The maid thrust forward. “I’ve carried her often. As light as a baby, she is, poor angel.”
“Let her alone,” Croyland growled. He bent and lifted his mother. “Put the lights on for me, some of you.” The gallery beyond the arch was lit but in the archway darkness remained. He strode away with his burden. “Want you, Miss Dean.”
“Did you think I shouldn’t come?” May said fiercely. The maid pressed on at her side.
So Mrs. Garston was brought back to her room and laid on the bed. The maid ran round Croyland and hung over her. “Ah, the poor dear! She was a good lady, she was.” She began to fuss about the body with nervous hands. “She——”
“Don’t want you,” Croyland growled. “Miss Dean will look after her till the doctor comes.”
“Look after her!” the maid snarled. “She has, hasn’t she?”
“Get out.” Croyland turned on her and she went muttering.
May composed and covered the body, and while she did so was aware of Croyland wandering around the room, looking at things, opening drawers.
A tap came at the door. Gladys appeared. “Dr. Eves is on the way. Anything I can do?”
“Wait downstairs for him, will you?” said Croyland. “Bring him straight up.”
“Right,” Gladys nodded. “I’ll be about.” She was in a dressing gown, but as carefully arranged as usual and her cool and competent self. She seemed to have no emotions, but before she went out her bold eyes lingered on May with a queer, searching glance.
May sat down by the bed and Croyland came and stood over her.
“Well, Miss Dean. How did this happen?”
“I don’t know in the least. After that scene at dinner she was terribly upset. I was a long time with her. When she was settled in bed I left her and went to sleep. I woke up hearing a cry and some noise and a fall. I ran out and fell over her in the archway. Then I called for help.”
“Hmph. What was she doing there?”
“I don’t know. How should I know? What did you hear?”
“Heard someone screaming for help.”
“That was me, I suppose. You didn’t hear anything before?”
“Nothing at all. I was at work.” He looked heavily at May. “I suppose she felt ill and was coming to you and had a stroke, what?”
“I don’t know,” said May. She had reasons for another supposition.
“Hmph. Hear what the doctor says. Eves knows all about her,” Croyland grunted, and again he wandered about the room prying into his mother’s things….
Dr. Eves came, purple of face and blowing. “Aha,” he nodded at Croyland, “you’re here with her. Let’s see now, Nurse.” He was disturbed, he made jerky repeated movements and conversed with himself in sounds of surprise and disappointment, but in his muddling way he was thorough. May noticed that.
He turned to Croyland and shook his head. “Ah’m sorry.” His voice was subdued. “It’s all over with her, Croyland.”
“That’s what Miss Dean said. I thought you’d better see her though. Don’t mind my troubling you, eh?”
“I told him to telephone for you,” May cried.
Dr. Eves looked from one to the other. “Ah’m here,” he said. “How did it come on her? How did ye find her?”
“Miss Dean found her. She’ll tell you,” Croyland said, and again May told.
“Thaat’s all ye know of it. Croyland, will you be stepping downstairs? Ah’ll have to make an examination.” Left alone with May and the dead woman, he stood still meditating. “Aha. Ye left her in bed, the maid and yourself going away together. The next ye know she was lying out there in the corridor. Did she ever get up o’ nights before?”
“I never heard her.”
“Was she alive when ye came to her?”
“She didn’t stir. She didn’t seem to be breathing. I felt for her pulse and couldn’t find it.”
Eves went to the body again and his examination was long…. He stood up. “Come ye here,” he said, and pointed to small bruises on either side of the throat.
“Did ye see that?”
“Yes, I did.” May looked at him. “They were red at first. They’ve darkened since.”
“Maybe so. Ye said there was some trouble putting her to bed. Was she handled then?”
“No, not like that. Not there, of course. Her maid almost made her take off her things.”
“Ye caan’t account for it at all. Then ye’d better maake no talk about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah mean just whaat ah say, my girl.”
“Are you going to say she died naturally?”
Dr. Eves rubbed his chin. “Ah’m advising ye for your own good. Now, ye’re overwrought. Ye’d better be off to bed, my dear. Run along with you and get you rest. Ah’ll lock up here.”
May stared at him in horror. “You can’t hide it! You shan’t,” she cried.
“Now that’s foolish,” said Dr. Eves. “Away with you.” He thrust her out gently enough and locked the door on the dead woman and stumped downstairs.
Croyland stood in his study smoking. “Hmph. Here you are at last! What is it, eh, what was it?”
“Baad business, Croyland.” Dr. Eves shook his head. “Ah caan’t certify. Ah daren’t. Ah tell you fraankly, ah don’t like the looks of it. She’s been mishaandled, the poor woman. There’s been violence used to her.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“She’s had haands to her throat.”
Croyland swallowed. “Good God, man, it can’t be,” he said thickly. “What are you saying? She was strangled? That’s mad.”
“Ah’m not saying it. There’s a bit of a look of strangulation. But it wouldn’t need so much to kill her. She was weak all through, weak. The shock of it would be her death, poor soul.”
“Hmph. That’s what I thought,” Croyland turned to the glass at his elbow and drank. “Shock—some sort of shock. You know what she was. Full of fancies and wild ideas—dreams—imagining things all the time. Something startled her, I suppose—she ran out into the dark—frightened—and then-That must be it. Just shock.”
Dr. Eves shook his head. “Ah daren’t do it, Croyland. That’s the truth. She died by violence. Ah’ll have to say so.”
“It’s crazy. Who would hurt her here?”
“Thaat’s not for me. Ah can’t help ye. Ah’m sorry. There’s nothing ah can do in this, Croyland. Ah’ll just have to give information.”
“Police?” Croyland growled.
“Ay, ay, ye’ll have the police. There’s no stopping it. Ah’m clear, ah can’t do other. It’s a baad, baad business for you. Ah’ll be off now, if ye please.”
CHAPTER XIV
ON THE ROAD
Among the more genial qualities of Superintendent Bell is an enviable ability to find an old and cosy inn. He can do this in the most unlikely places. He had done it even among the opulence of modernized Limbay. He was in the bar parlour at the third sausage of breakfast when Inspector Gunn arrived.
“All right. Finish it,” Gunn answered his questioning eyes. “There’s no special hurry.”
“You can talk here,” Bell said placidly, and went on eating.
“Oh, I know. Well, it’s only murder. And we’re not more than six hours late on it.”
“Too bad.” Bell took much marmalade. “Who’s murdered?”
“Old Mrs. Garston, that’s all.”
“The mother!” Bell munched on. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“I haven’t begun to think myself. I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.”
“No use getting rattled.” Bell poured another cup of coffee. “How was it done?”
“That’s one of the little things we don’t know. It’s supposed to have been done in the Abbey.”
