Death of an Author, page 5
“It’s an attractive story,” murmured Warner. “I’m quite anxious to meet Miss Clarke. She sounds an original.”
Bond grunted. “She’s sharp enough,” he said. “I don’t know whether you will catch her out or not. I can’t. Well, so much for Mrs. Fife. We can’t find her anywhere, and nobody’s volunteered a single scrap of useful information. The woman was there at Temple Grove every day until last Saturday, and she was seen walking down Temple Place towards Heath Street on Saturday evening. After that, nothing.”
“So much for the vanished personnel,—we’ll deal with Miss Clarke later,” said Warner serenely. “Now tell me about the house. It sounds rather a nice house,—just the sort of thing I’ve wanted for a long time.”
Bond only looked irritable in reply to this sally; his chief weakness was a dislike of being laughed at, and he was not at his best over the case of Vivian Lestrange, because he felt that he was being made a fool of, and yet was unable to prove it.
“Temple Grove is a detached, two storey, non-basement house built in the ’eighties,” he replied in his most official voice. “Here are plans which I have made of both floors. The study has been polished so well that we found no finger-prints on any of the furniture, nor yet on the door plates, or door handles, or windows. The floor appears to have been first scrubbed and then polished, and no one had walked across it since the polishing was done unless they wore clean list slippers which would not leave a mark. There is a large number of books in the room, but most of them appear to have been bought second-hand,—many from Foyle’s and some from Hatchard’s, and the finger-prints on them are many and various. The desk contained a quantity of manuscript and typescript, bills (all receipted), reference books and pamphlets, and the usual collection of pens and pencils. On the typescript and manuscript, the only finger-prints are Miss Clarke’s.”
“Yes,” murmured Warner. “The problematical author wore gloves,—a thoughtful precaution that.”
“Very,” returned Bond dryly. “Anyhow, we found nothing in that room to prove that a bearded man named Lestrange had ever lived in it. There was, as I said, quantities of manuscript. The handwriting,—here is a specimen—is in a queer crabbed style.”
He handed a paper to Warner who studied it for a moment.
“Left handed?” he queried.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Bond. “The experts told us that, and Miss Clarke ratified their decision by telling us that her employer always wrote with his left hand. This”—handing another slip of paper—“is a specimen of Miss Clarke’s own writing, left-handed and right-handed.”
Warner’s lips twitched a little as he studied the fresh exhibits. The one showed a very charming flowing writing, admirably legible, with each letter well formed and a consistent slope which made it pleasant to read. Very pretty writing, thought Warner, denoting character, with a sense of detail and picturesqueness, but essentially a woman’s hand. The other sheet showed a round childish scrawl, in which an effort had been made to achieve the copy-book characters of early youth. The lines were uneven and sloped up and down in a manner that looked inebriated. “I can’t write with my left hand,” had scrawled Miss Clarke. “This scrawl is not an affectation but a genuine disability. I am trying, but I can’t do any better than this.”
Warner laughed a little. “If she were really pulling our legs she would be enjoying herself quite a lot,” he observed. “Her normal handwriting indicates a sense of detail, and if you are right in your suspicions, she has foreseen most contingencies. What do the experts make of this?”
“Nothing at all,” said Bond disgustedly, “but there’s nothing in that. They say that there isn’t a character in common between the Lestrange writing and Eleanor Clarke’s, but commonsense tells you that anybody can teach themselves to write with their left hand, and anybody could produce an idiotic scrawl like that in the manner in which that one was produced. She wrote about one letter a minute and pretended that she couldn’t control a pen with her left hand at all. Now watch…”
Producing a pencil and paper, Bond wrote his name and address with his left hand, carefully and painstakingly. He then wrote the same words with his right hand, and finally wrote them again with his left in an uncertain babyish scrawl resembling Eleanor Clarke’s effort.
“I taught myself to write with my left hand a couple of years ago, when I had broken my right wrist,” he said. “No expert could say that there was anything in common between my right-hand and left-hand writing, neither could they say that that baby’s first effort had anything in common with the others. That’s as plain as daylight.”
“Quite,” agreed Warner cheerfully. “You’ve proved to your own satisfaction that so far as handwriting goes, Miss Clarke could have produced the manuscript you found at Temple Grove. Also there was no proof of Mr. Lestrange’s existence in the study. What about the bedroom. Swept and garnished?”
“Quite,” said Bond, in Warner’s manner, and the Chief Inspector grinned.
“Don’t get embittered over it,” he said mildly. “Personally, I’m prepared to enjoy working on this case. The young woman has wits, it seems.”
“The bedroom contained all that it should, and nothing that it shouldn’t,” said Bond. “A man’s kit all complete; suits pretty well worn, but recently dry cleaned; pants, vests, collars and all the rest, nicely laundered. Clean bedclothes not yet slept in, clean towels, too. No tailor’s marks in anything, but the suits were all made by different firms,—two of them were bought ready made, and there’s one that was probably bought in America. Any second-hand clothes agency like Peter Dean’s in the Edgware Road could have supplied the lot. Similarly with shoes; they’re all size nine and reasonably well worn.”
“Do the suits, underclothes, collars and shoes seem consistent,—as though one man might have worn the lot?” enquired Warner, and Bond nodded.
“Oh, yes. If my suspicions are anywhere near the truth, I give the young woman full marks for attention to detail. There’s nothing to bowl her out among those clothes, and I can tell you I’ve been through them pretty carefully. We’ve got Baines to try them on,—he’s a fellow of five foot eleven, weighs eleven stone and is rather sparely built. The things fitted him all right, and the shoes as well. Nothing doing there.”
“Now let me have your theory in detail,” said Warner. “I can see your point,—that Vivian Lestrange and Eleanor Clarke are identical.”
Bond leaned back in his chair. “I think she’s abnormal,” he said. “I believe she wrote those Lestrange books, and at first enjoyed being taken for a man, and was careful to conceal her identity. Then the fun began to pall, and she looked around for some other means of acquiring notoriety. It is quite reasonable psychology,” he protested, as though Warner were arguing with him. “Psychologists will tell you that the notoriety complex is by no means unusual; it’s just an aberration of an often original brain. The Clarke girl took the house (I’ll tell you about that later), having got the housekeeper in, to be her accomplice, and laid the foundations of this double-life story, intending to exploit it for her own amusement later on. She taught herself to write with her left hand, opened a banking account as Vivian Lestrange and gradually got her evidence together. She bought the man’s kit at a second-hand stores, and then, when she was ready, came and told her story to us and had the pleasure of watching us investigate.
“After all, I couldn’t very well help myself,” concluded Bond, his voice telling of the exasperation in his mind. “That study window was open, and there was a hole like a bullet hole through the glass. It might have been a crime,—it still may be…”
“Indeed it may,” said Warner, and this time he did not smile. “You have made out a perfectly sensible case, Bond, and I appreciate your reasoning. I haven’t had any contact with the case yet, but I’ll give you my opinion for what it’s worth. I don’t believe those books by Vivian Lestrange were written by a woman, and it’ll take a lot to make me change that opinion. Further, I can’t imagine Vivian Lestrange seeking notoriety or advertisement; he’s definitely not the type. His books are their own advertisement, the mind that created them was not a mind which appeals to the sensation monger. It’s obvious that there’s something odd about that household at Temple Grove. It’s furtive, and I’m prepared to believe that something queer lies behind the whole story.”
Warner smiled suddenly at the sceptical face across the table.
“We’re both of us biased at the outset,” he said, “and that’s all wrong, but perhaps your bias and mine will correct each other’s. Now I want you to go on and tell me all you’ve found out about the individual who leased Temple Grove,—House agents, bankers and all that.”
Bond nodded. “Temple Grove was leased in 1925, from the owners, by a man named Rogerson,” he said. “He took it on a ten years’ agreement. In 1931 he had to go abroad, and wanted to let the place—semi-furnished—in a hurry. The agents who negotiated it—Blacks, of Baker Street—tell me that they were called on by Mrs. Fife who had instructions to view Temple Grove for her master, Mr. Lestrange, the latter being an invalid. They soon heard from Lestrange that the place was just what he wanted, and he asked for a year’s lease, rent payable in advance, with an option at the end of the year, saying he might take over the remainder of the lease and buy the furniture at a valuation if the place suited him. He gave his bankers as reference.
“Since Rogerson was in a hurry to get things settled, he jumped at the offer, pocketed the year’s rent and went abroad without even seeing his tenant. At the end of the year Lestrange took over the remainder of the lease, bought the furniture, and everybody was satisfied,—but no one ever saw him in person.
“As for Lestrange’s bankers, he wrote them in 1930,—after The Charterhouse Case was published, saying he wished to open a current account, and giving his publisher’s name. Once again the plea of invalidism enabled him to avoid a personal visit, and he has paid in his publisher’s cheques ever since, maintaining a steady balance, and behaving admirably from the banker’s point of view. He was in the habit of drawing out fairly large sums occasionally and was known to have had dealings with a firm of brokers named Rank, in Lombard Street.
“Last Saturday Mrs. Fife cashed (by arrangement) a cheque for £400, leaving only £50 in Lestrange’s current account and nothing in deposit. At his request the money was paid in £1 notes. Needless to say there’s no sign of it anywhere in the house.”
“The notes were in sequence, I suppose?” asked Warner and Bond nodded. “The bank gave us the numbers, and they’re being watched. So far nothing doing.”
“Enquired at the Passport Office?” asked Warner, and Bond nodded.
“Yes. No Vivian Lestrange. Ten Thomas Brownes. None of them our man.”
“You haven’t let much slip,” said Warner.
“I’ve done everything that I could think of,” replied Bond, “and yet I’m no further forward than I was when that young woman walked into my office last week and told me her little story about her missing employer.”
“By the way, you haven’t told me what Langston’s have got to say about it all,” said Warner, and Bond shrugged his shoulders.
“They are about as helpful as everybody else,” he said. “The two principals, Marriott and Bailley are oldish men; pleasant enough fellows in a bookish way and very competent at their own business, no doubt. They’re simply out of their depths in this business, and say quite frankly that they don’t know what to believe. When Lestrange’s first manuscript was sent to them, they jumped at it, scenting a winner. They accepted it at once, and offered him a very decent contract involving an option on his next two books. They’re a good firm and they treat their writers well. Of course they assumed Vivian Lestrange was a man, and all the correspondence was carried out on that assumption. Then last year Miss Eleanor Clarke goes and calls on them as cool as brass, and introduces herself as Vivian Lestrange,—”
“And they swallowed it?” put in Warner incredulously.
“They swallowed it all right. Vivian is a woman’s name as well as a man’s. She is an unusual person certainly, and can talk with a cool assurance that’s very convincing. Anyway Langston’s took her for granted. Now she says she’s not Vivian Lestrange, and only played the part at her employer’s wish. The publishers are pretty sick over it anyway. Nobody likes being fooled, and whatever happens they’ve been fooled handsomely. Marriott says ‘You’ve got to find Vivian Lestrange for us, he’s too valuable to lose.’ It’s the devil and all,” concluded Bond despondently.
“It’s got the merit of freshness, so far,” said Warner. “I’m tired to death of confidence men and defaulting solicitors and homicidal maniacs; all this is a change from the trivial round and common task, and if it doesn’t prove to be one of the most interesting cases we’ve ever handled, then I’m a Chinaman. Now tell me about your bête noire, the pseudo authoress with the winning manner.”
Bond snorted. “You’d better have a talk with her; perhaps you’ll like her better than I do. Here’s her history.
“Born in 1900 in a farmhouse in the parish of Stanway, Gloucestershire. Her mother was named Elizabeth Clarke and the child was born out of wedlock. In 1902 the mother took her baby with her to Australia where they joined the father on a homestead near Ballarat. In 1910 the father died and the mother and daughter lived in Ballarat until early in 1914. They then returned to Europe—the mother saying that she had come into a legacy,—and they lived in Switzerland until 1920. Then they returned to England and took part of a house in the Finchley Road, near the old Eyre Arms Tavern. The house was demolished a few years ago when Eyre Court was built. In 1925 the mother died, and the daughter found herself very badly off. She trained as a Secretary at the Grosvenor Bureau and got odd office jobs until 1930, when according to her own account, Vivian Lestrange employed her. She lives in a small service flat in that new block in Finchley Road. Now the odd part of her story is this. There’s no one to corroborate most of it. When Mrs. Clarke and her daughter first came to live in England they had no friends except an elderly solicitor named Franks, who managed their affairs for them. He died in 1929, so he’s no help to us. Apparently the mother and daughter were great friends and companions and they didn’t bother about other people’s company. Later the mother became invalidish and the girl gave all her time to looking after her. It wasn’t until the mother’s death that Eleanor Clarke learned that she was illegitimate, and that her mother’s income died with her. Naturally, during the girl’s secretarial training she made various friends, but she’s one of those odd independent women who don’t cotton on to their own sex. According to her own account, she hadn’t any intimate friends, she’s ‘a pelican in the wilderness’ to use her own expression. The more I consider her, the more I think she’s likely to have invented the whole yarn,” concluded Bond. “She’s just one of those queer secretive women who might make a bid for notoriety. Lots of brains and no conscience.”
“It’s a queer story, but it’s not illogical if you assume certain premises,” said Warner thoughtfully. “Arguing that Vivian Lestrange is the man she describes—a man with a morbid desire for secrecy—this Eleanor Clarke is just the sort of woman who would have suited him as a secretary. She had no family, and wasn’t of a gregarious disposition. The circumstances of her life might well have bred in her a habit of secretiveness, and the two queer lonely creatures may have found one another very satisfactory. I’m prepared to accept all that unless we find any discrepancies in the story. There’s another point that occurs to me. You’d better find out for certain that Eleanor Clarke’s father really died.”
Bond’s jaw dropped, and he stared at the other with incredulous eyes.
“That’s a bit far-fetched,” he protested, and then fell into a muse. “Funny business, all of it,” he commented. “She says the father’s name was John Clarke, and that he was killed by a horse which threw him and rolled on him. That’s over twenty years ago, and Australia’s developed a bit since then. However, I’ll have it looked into.”
“You see, Vivian Lestrange knew Australia pretty well,—or he wrote as if he did,” said Warner. “You never know. The story may fit together in a way we hadn’t foreseen.”
“It’s also worth while remembering that Eleanor Clarke knew Australia, and could have written about it from first hand knowledge,” said Bond.
Warner nodded. “I grant you that,” he said. “Don’t think I’m minimising your theory. You’ve formulated a reasonable judgment in a scientific way, and nothing you have found in your investigation up till now invalidates your original theory. Taking Eleanor Clarke as a woman with unusual literary ability, she could have done all that you have suggested. First, she wrote The Charterhouse Case: then, when it was published, and had achieved a striking success, she laid her plans for this double personality business. She taught herself to write with her left hand, and enlisted Mrs. Fife as her accomplice. Having opened the banking account with the publisher’s reference to cover her tracks, she took the lease of Temple Grove and invented Mr. Thomas Browne. Meanwhile, she herself lived in a separate establishment near by, going to Temple Grove every day in the guise of the secretary. It’s not impossible, but if it’s true, the woman must be quite abnormal. The whole thing is so elaborate and has gone on for so long. If she has done what you suggest there must be some other motive behind it all.”
