The Garston Murder Case, page 21
“Now don’t talk what you don’t know,” Gunn said. “There’s a good deal been done, Mrs. Jones. And one of the things we’ve found out is that your mistress was drugged when she was killed. Do you know anything about that?”
The flood was checked. “Ah, poor dear!” Mrs. Jones rolled her eyes. “Who says she was drugged?”
“That’s the doctor’s statement.”
“Then it’s that nurse!” Mrs. Jones cried, and her yellow face was paler. “The wicked creature! Didn’t I tell you she was always vicious with my poor lamb?”
“You say the nurse drugged her. You didn’t think of that before.”
“I don’t ever say no more than I know.” Mrs. Jones tossed her head. “I wouldn’t do such a thing, I’m sure.”
“The doctor says it was done with a medicine called Algicure. There was a bottle of that in Mrs. Garston’s room. You’ve been buying Algicure in Limbay. The chemist will swear to you. Now be careful. Can you explain that?”
Mrs. Jones licked her lips. “What chemist?” she said.
“I’ve got the chemist all right. Warren & Son. You bought more than one bottle.”
“Which I use it myself, Inspector, suffering with my poor nerves like I do. Sometimes I go about with my head aching fit to split, I don’t rightly know what I’m doing, I couldn’t never have kep’ up and done my duty by my poor dear without my medicine. And it’s a very good medicine, I’m sure, I’ve took it for years, which the chemist recommended me to it himself and now to turn round and say it’s drugs, I don’t know what he means by it.” She wept.
“Your story is you bought the stuff for yourself. Why did Mrs. Garston take it?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t know as she did,” Mrs. Jones sobbed. “That won’t do. You were her maid. There was a bottle half empty by her bed.”
“I don’t know anything about it. I never had anything to do with her medicines. She had ever so many. That was the nurse’s business. That nurse, she wouldn’t let me give her anything, poor dear. I wish she’d never had anything worse than mine, which it’s a very good, nice medicine, and I never took any harm from it.”
“Very well. I don’t think much of your story. I’ll have to warn you, you’ll be asked about it at the inquest. That’ll do now.”
“It’s cruel, that’s what it is,” Mrs. Jones sobbed. “There was never anyone but me cared for her at all. And to blame it on me, oh, it’s wicked.” She wept herself out of the room.
Gunn thought her over with the help of a cigarette and decided that she was a nasty fool and rang the bell for Gladys.
She kept him waiting some time; she came in with a languid and careless manner and sat herself down. “Well, here we are,” she yawned. “What’s doing?”
“I thought you might be able to give me a bit of information, Miss Hurst.” Gunn gazed at her solemnly. It seemed to him the lines on her well-painted face were rather deep. “Just carry your mind back to the morning after the murder.”
“Righto. One steady rush. What about it?”
“I suppose there was a good deal of telephoning?”
“Quite a bit. Lord Croyland was putting people off all over England.”
“You’d be at the telephone?”
“Off and on. Getting numbers for him.”
“Did you get a number at Spraymouth?”
“Where’s that? If he asked me, I daresay I did. Don’t remember. Spraymouth. What is it?”
“Seaside place, fifteen mile away. Never heard of it?”
“Not that I know of.” She put up her eyebrows. “What’s the idea? I shouldn’t have thought Croyland had anything doing there. But he was on the phone most of the day.”
“Mr. Gordon Harwood was staying at Spraymouth.”
“Was he?”—an amused sneer. “Pal of yours?”
“You’ve met him,” Gunn frowned.
“Have I? My error. Didn’t know I’d had the pleashah. Who is the blighter? Oh, I remember. Fellow that came to see Croyland. I had the honour of showing him in, so I did.”
“First time you’d ever seen him?”
“First and only.” The eyebrows went up again. “I say, what’s all this about?”
“The morning after the murder, Mr. Gordon Harwood had a telephone message from this house. I want to know what it was.”
Gladys shrugged. “Then you don’t want me. I can’t tell you.”
“You didn’t send it?”
“Not me. I don’t know the beggar.”
“Any idea who did?”
“Oh, snakes! Anybody might use the phone.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?” Gunn frowned. “No explanation?”
“Not this child. Barking up the wrong tree, old man. What’s the matter with your pal, Gordon Harwood?”
“You’d better think about that.” Gunn glowered at her. “You can go now.”
“Thank you so much,” she laughed. She stood up with an elaborate arranging of herself. “Sorry, old thing. You look like making another bloomer.” She undulated out.
She left in Gunn’s mind the certainty that it was she who had warned Harwood to be off and that she was now alarmed for herself. But he worked his simple mind in vain to discover some way of dealing with her.
“My oath! Pack of beauties. Ought to hang the lot,” he grumbled. “Oh well! Got to go through ’em all.” He sent the butler to say that he wanted to see Lord Croyland.
Croyland came striding in and banged the door and stood over him. “What the devil do you want now?”
“You don’t have to take me like that, my lord.” Gunn got on his feet. “You ought to be helpful. And begging your pardon, it would be more decent if you was civil to men that’s working to get justice for your dead mother.”
Croyland made noises. “Want me to be civil? Don’t play the fool then. You’re not working, you’re making an infernal mess for yourselves. Can’t be plagued with nonsense day and night.”
“I know my duty, my lord. And I’m going to do it. I’ve come to tell you we’ve got that man Harwood.”
“What?” Croyland flushed dark. “Do you mean you’re charging him with the murder?”
“We’re not charging anybody—yet. We’re bringing Harwood down to give an account of his actions. Any objection?”
Croyland cleared his throat. “Not my business to object. Do as you like. If you want to know, I think it’s damned folly.”
“Much obliged. Well, we’ll find out what Harwood thinks. This is what I have to ask you, my lord. Who is it in your house that’s in collusion with Harwood?”
Croyland stared at him and rumbled. “Humph. Don’t believe a word of it.”
“That’s a pity. Early in the morning after the murder Harwood was rung up from here. As soon as he got that message he left Spraymouth. What was it? Who sent it? That’s what I want to know.”
Croyland made noises. “Somebody here telephoned Harwood after the murder?” he repeated. His heavy head sank deeper on his shoulders and he stooped the more.
“Yes, who would that be?”
“Damn it, man, I don’t know,” Croyland growled. “The whole thing is an infernal, mad mess. I can’t help you. Lies all round.” He drew back. He muttered incoherently. “Pack of fools. Damned fools. Don’t know what you’re doing.” He swung round and blundered out.
“My oath!” Gunn communed with himself. “He’s got the wind up proper. And what’s that mean? They’ve all got the wind up.” He drove his slow mind on to the increasing difficulties.
To this painful labour, the butler came. “Would you like tea now, sir?”
“I would,” said Gunn earnestly. “Thank ’e.”
“Thank you, sir.” The butler withdrew.
His lofty calm much impressed Gunn. It was a kind of comfort to discover that the Abbey contained someone without fear of what had happened or what was going to happen. That was the line to work on. Get at somebody who didn’t care a straw about Harwood or Croyland. The butler would be no good, though: wouldn’t know enough. The nurse, of course. Worth hearing what she’d got to say about Miss Hurst. Ought to hear her ideas about the maid too.
The butler came back with tea.
“Sad times for you here.”
“Very sad, sir.”
“Everybody’s upset, eh?”
“It has been depressing, sir.”
“Noticed anybody in particular?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir.” The butler stepped back. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes, I want to speak to Miss Dean, if she’s about. You know who I mean, Mrs. Garston’s nurse.”
“Oh certainly, sir,” the butler said quickly.
“Ah.” Gunn nodded. “Had rather a bad time, hasn’t she?”
“I’m afraid it has been unpleasant, sir.” The butler was at last tempted to speech. “I hope she’s not felt it too much. Always most careful and considerate.”
“Well liked, is she?”
“Very nice lady, if I may say so,” the butler pronounced.
“Oh, it’s just as well to say these little things, you know. Some aren’t.”
“No, sir.” The butler was not to be tempted further.
“Well, I’d like to see her.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The butler retired and after some long time returned to say that Miss Dean was out. She had gone out after lunch and not yet come back.
“I’ll wait a bit,” said Gunn. “Let me know when she comes in.”
But May had come back—come back urgently labouring at her problem: why was the murder done in the archway? Her memory had the scene cruelly clear: the black darkness beyond the glimmering corridor, her stumble over the body, the touch of her hands upon it, the stab of knowledge it was Mrs. Garston and dead. Her own cries sounded again in her ears. She saw the flash of her torch pierce into the darkness to show the livid face and Croyland standing beside it. Again the lights came on in the corridors on either side and still in the archway it was dark.
Why was it dark there? She had never seen it like that before or since. There must be a lamp in the archway, or she would have noticed some time. And as Bell had asked before her, she asked herself why it would not come on that night.
The archway! What was there queer in the archway? Something that had to be hidden there that night of the murder?—something more than the body? Or was it darkened for the murder to be done? But what brought Mrs. Garston there? Why should she be taken there, to be killed or in death?
What was there in the archway? Scores of times she must have passed through and never seen anything strange about it—a gloomy, creepy place, but not worse than other old corners of the horrible house—just a tunnel of an archway with panelling up the walls. Never anything strange there. Yes! Mrs. Garston’s maid. That very day she had been there, loitering, watching, spying. What could there be in the archway?
May ran upstairs. The archway waited for her, a patch of gloom at the end of the corridor. She switched the lights on and the lamp in it lit with the others. So that had been changed. Of course it had. She would have noticed else. She went into the archway and looked about her. The old oak floor, polished dark with ages of use, was solid as stone. She looked at the walls. There too the panelling shone black. She felt along it, tapped it here and there, and it answered with dull solidity. It was all alike, carved in linen fold with bands of deep bosses dividing the broad panels.
Her fingers ran over it, searching vaguely for something strange, anything—a mark of violence, a secret hiding place. There were marks enough, bruises of centuries, cracks, worm holes. She could find none new or sinister, no trace of anything hidden. She handled the bosses between the panels. At last one turned in her hand. She went on turning it slowly and felt something move with it in the wall. She pushed and pulled in vain. The panelling stood stolid. She tried one boss after another in that line till she found a second which would turn. Then as she pulled at both the whole panel came away, turning as a heavy door higher than her head, and hit the lamp and set it swinging wildly. In the tossing light she saw a black gulf beneath her.
Then she was thrust forward and the door pressed upon her and swept her away and she fell down and down into the dark, heard a faint clang above her, felt pain crush through her head and felt no more.
CHAPTER XXII
FURTHER INVESTIGATIONS
In this, if in this alone, resembling Mr. Clunk, Inspector Gunn liked a large and leisurely tea.
He had it, he rounded it off in comfort with some cigarettes, and the Abbey clock struck six. He rose and stretched himself. Conscience said that he ought to be getting on; waking intelligence remarked that the nurse was taking her time. But when he rang for the butler, he was told that Miss Dean had not come in. “Late, isn’t she?” The butler agreed that it was unusual. She was always in to tea. But she had certainly gone out: he had seen her himself: and certainly she had not come back: no one had seen her and she was not in the house.
The reluctant mind of Gunn was roused to suspicion. He had settled it that the nurse, if only the nurse, was all right, confirmed in this useful belief by her association with Tony, for whom he had acquired a liking. But if the girl had bolted just when things began to turn up it looked nasty. Gone out after lunch—that was just what she had done before when Bell followed her and she met Tony. Might have gone to meet him again—and having no policeman to bother ’em got on so nicely they forgot all about the time. Gunn’s amiable heart wouldn’t blame them. Pretty girl—manly young fellow—didn’t ought to be too careful. But he couldn’t let it go at that. Got to make sure she hadn’t nipped off. Better run over and look up Wisberry.
He did so and found Tony on the beach at Bradstock in talk with fishermen as they made ready for the night’s work. Tony was not, pleased at being asked if he knew anything about Miss Dean. Frank wrath gave way to franker amazement and anxiety when he heard the reason.
“But damn it, man, I left her less than a mile from the house, hours ago, four o’clock or so. She must have got back. Nothing could have happened to her.”
“Are you sure she meant to go back?”
“Absolutely. Why, I watched her almost up to the place. Besides, what else could she do?”
“Ah. That’s more than I know.”
“You mean she’s run away? That’s rot. It’s a hell of a house to be in, of course. But she wasn’t funking it. Not a bit. She was dead set on seeing this through. You can take that from me. I know she was going back. She was going to meet me again to-morrow.”
“Well, I’ll have to find out what’s happened to her,” said Gunn. “Can’t have her vanishing like this.”
“What do you think’s happened?”
“I’ve got to own it looks queer, Mr. Wisberry.”
“Damned queer,” Tony growled.
“I’ll ask you to come along and show me where you saw her last.”
“Righto. Let’s go on.”
They drove back along the coast road to the hillock where Tony had stopped his ear. “We talked just here. I watched her from here as she went back till she was out of sight. It’s getting dark now, but you can see how far that would be.”
“Pretty well up to the grounds,” Gunn nodded. “Anybody else about?”
“Not a soul.”
“She ought to have been in the house a few minutes after you saw her. That’d be four o’clock or so?”
“Just about. Couldn’t swear to five minutes.”
“Near enough.” Gunn let the car run on slowly while they scanned the road and the pasture on either side. They came to the house.
“Let me do the talking please, Mr. Wisberry,” said Gunn. But when the door was opened the butler began.
“Miss Dean has not returned, sir.”
“Just come upstairs.” Gunn led the way to the morning room. “This is a strange business. I have imformation Miss Dean was seen just before four o’clock walking straight to the house. You say she never came in.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I said no one saw her. I’ve made every inquiry. It’s quite possible she came in without being seen. But I’m sure she’s not here now. I’ve been everywhere myself.”
“Well, what do you suppose has become of her?”
“She may have gone out again,” said the butler.
“Also without being seen!” Tony cried.
“Just so, sir,” the butler agreed calmly. “There’s no certainty she’d be seen coming in or going out.”
“I’ll make sure if she’s in now anyway,” Gunn frowned. “I’m going to search the house. You’ll come with me, my lad.” He turned to Tony. “Mr. Wisberry, you be walking round outside, and if anyone tries to make off, just hold ’em up and call for me.” He marched the butler off. “I want to go everywhere and see everyone, understand? I don’t like the looks of things. We’ll begin with her room.”
“Very good, sir. I have already been there,” said the butler. “It will take a considerable time to go all over the house.”
“It will. And we aren’t going to miss anything,” Gunn answered grimly.
But he did. As was natural, he missed the one thing which could have shown him where May had gone. He passed through the archway of the murder with no more than a careful glance at its emptiness. The long search found no trace of her anywhere. He made nothing by questioning of the servants but confirmation of the butler—no one had seen her.
All spoke of her simply enough and with decent surprise, except the maid. Her yellow face confessed pleasure. “I’ve seen nothing of her.” She tossed her head. “I suppose she’s made off. Don’t wonder she wants to get away if she can.”
“Why?” said Gunn sharply.
“Suit her much better, I should say,” she laughed.
“Ah. That’s your idea. All right.” Under Gunn’s hard stare she lost her assurance.
He kept till the last the two of whom he hoped most. Gladys was in her secretary’s room, not at work but smoking in an easy chair with her feet on another. “What’s the great idea?” She put back her head and smiled and crossed her displayed legs.
