Bodies from the Library 2, page 26
part #2 of Bodies from the Library Series
‘Louise took the letters to the police, and asked for protection—which she got. No more letters arrived, and there was no further untoward incident. She married Munro, a rich man, and shortly afterwards he was killed in a flying accident. Apparently brother Andrew had vanished into limbo—until, that is to say’—with an expressive gesture—‘tonight.’
Hadow stopped to refill his glass, and looked at them quizzically.
‘Well, it’s been a long story,’ he said. ‘But it seems to me that if you’re looking for a motive, there it is, ready-made. Your problem now is to find out who, or what, is Andrew Forrest; and to that there just isn’t any clue. He might be MacAdam, or Neame, or Nathan, or Moore—’
‘Or, of course, yourself,’ said Fen in an oddly colourless voice.
Wyndham stirred himself. ‘There’s one more thing, sir. You mentioned that Louise Benest—or Louise Munro, as I prefer to call her—had some kind of psychological kink. What was that?’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot.’ Hadow smiled. ‘She suffered from genuine, bona fide, certifiable claustrophobia … What do you make of that?’
13
Hadow was conducted back to the drawing-room by P.C. Scott.
‘Heap on more wood, the wind is chill,’ Fen carolled gently. ‘But let it whistle as it will, we’ll keep our Christmas merry still … Well, Inspector?’
‘Well, sir: is that our motive?’
Fen nodded. ‘I think so. Oh yes, I think so.’
‘I’ve got to agree. But I scarcely see how the attempt to kill Miss Davenant comes into it—unless in some way she knows who the murderer is.’
‘Very unlikely,’ said Fen, and added provokingly: ‘It’s all perfectly natural, Inspector. It all fits.’
‘It doesn’t fit to me,’ said Wyndham staunchly. ‘I suppose now we shall have to go delving into the past history of all these five men … By the way, would Hadow have given us such a generous resumé of the case if he’d been Andrew Forrest?’
‘We were bound to find out pretty soon about Louise Munro’s connection with the Forrest case—in fact, as soon as I heard her maiden name I remembered the gist of the business. Besides, it was known that Hadow had come here specifically to talk to Louise Munro about it. That being so, he couldn’t very well pretend ignorance.’
‘Was his account correct?’
‘Oh, yes, I think so.’
‘But anyway’—Wyndham reverted to the previous subject—‘I don’t see how I can hold all of those five on suspicion while we rummage into their pasts.’ He stared blankly before him for a moment, and then said: ‘Lord, sir, I’m stuck. Advise me what to do.’
‘Just detain the one who’s guilty. You’ve got plenty of evidence for that. Once you have him in your hands, you’ve got plenty of time to get him identified, trace his movements, and so forth.’
Wyndham sighed. ‘If one only knew which …’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Gervase Fen blandly. ‘I was tolerably certain after that first interview with Noel and Janice, and everything since then has gone to confirm my suspicions.’
Wyndham stared at him. ‘You’re joking, sir.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Fen testily. ‘I’m incapable of jokes at three o’clock in the morning.’
‘Who do you mean, then?’
Fen told him.
‘Well, I’m damned,’ Wyndham commented unemotionally. ‘I shouldn’t have imagined … But why do you think so?’
Fen made certain explanations. ‘Of course,’ he concluded, ‘it’s slightly psychological. But still …’
‘Psychological my foot!’ Wyndham exclaimed vehemently. ‘It’s plain, simple and obvious, and I can’t think how I was so stupid as not to see it. Oh, we’ll have that gentleman locked up in less than no time.’
‘I think we might try Patricia Davenant’s typewriter first,’ Fen suggested. ‘‘Also, there’s a question I want to ask MacAdam … Let’s get it all over and done with, and then we can go home. Have you got the letter? Good.’
They left the study and crossed the hall to the drawing-room. A dispirited little group was sitting round the fire.
‘Hello,’ said Fen. ‘You all look very wan … MacAdam, do you let people know, when you invite them to your parties, what other guests are going to be there?’
MacAdam stood up to answer. His plump face was drawn and tired, and his hair more dishevelled than ever. ‘Yes, always,’ he said shortly. ‘Any objections?’
‘None,’ said Fen mildly.
MacAdam was very near anger. ‘Inspector,’ he snapped, ‘is it really necessary for us to sit here all night?’
‘In just five minutes, sir,’ said Wyndham mildly, ‘you’ll all be able to go to bed. I shall be back shortly … By the way, where are Mr Carter and Miss Mond?’
P.C. Scott came up, red in the face. ‘I’m afraid I’m responsible, sir. I allowed them to go into the library. They were very persistent, and I thought …’ He stammered himself into silence.
Wyndham glanced at Fen, who said: ‘They may as well make love while they can enjoy it. Not that it’s all that enjoyable, anyway,’ he added gloomily. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
Patricia Davenant’s room was all white—curtains, carpets, and rugs. The bed, the wardrobe and the dressing-table were of highly polished Indian rosewood, and the light came from frosted globes sunk in the ceiling. Patricia’s clothes and belongings were scattered untidily about. A door on the right, which Fen investigated, led into a private bathroom. Fen pointed this out to Wyndham, who nodded.
‘That would provide the opportunity,’ he said. ‘But to make sure we can ask about it.’
They found the typewriter, which was a portable one, and Fen screwed a piece of blank paper into it.
‘How does it go?’ he asked. ‘Ah, yes … “I am tired of blackmail. You may expect a visit from me soon”.’
He tapped away inexpertly for some moments. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I’ve hurt my finger on the shift-lock.’
Wyndham compared the two sheets of paper. ‘Yes,’ he announced, ‘I think the letter was obviously typed on this machine. You can see, for one thing, that the m’s out of alignment. But I’ll get an expert to deal with it, for the purposes of the trial.’
Fen straightened himself, stretched, and yawned. ‘So that’s that,’ he remarked. ‘Oh, my dear paws, how sleepy I feel … You’ll search his belongings for the dagger, of course. And I should think there may be some prints taken from it, all duly and correctly attested—though of course a surface like that will keep prints for years, if it’s not mucked about.’
‘I’m very grateful to you, sir,’ said Wyndham hesitatingly. ‘If you hadn’t pointed out that one simple thing to me, he might have been able to get clear of the country.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Fen. ‘Besides, I’m grateful to you, too. This business got me away from a children’s party which descends on my house like a black cloud every Christmas Eve. And if there’s one thing more horrible than violent death, it’s the sight and sound of a large number of the young simultaneously enjoying themselves … Well, I suppose you’d better collect your man.’
‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ Wyndham murmured. ‘From almost every point of view, it’ll be a pleasure.’
14
Actually it was Janice who had persuaded P.C. Scott to let them go into the library. Noel was too tired to be anxious for anything but bed. There was a faint glow in the middle of the heap of white ashes in the fireplace, and Noel put a log on top of it; it burned feebly for about a minute, and then went out. They huddled over it seated together on a small sofa.
‘There,’ said Janice. ‘This is better, isn’t it?’
‘You seem to have no sense of cold whatever,’ Noel answered ungraciously. ‘You’re full of disgusting animal vitality.’
‘Are you really interested in Assyriology? How funny. Tell me how the Assyrians made love.’
‘They made love in exactly the same way that everybody else makes love. And the only thing I’m interested in at present is my health.’
‘Shall I sit on your knee?’
‘Oh the whole, no. I wonder when we’re going to be able to get to bed.’
‘Not until the parson has blessed us with bell and book, Noel.’
‘I have a bad cold.’
‘Don’t be so fussy, darling. Have you ever been in love?’
‘Never.’
‘Not with Patricia?’
‘Not with anyone.’
‘You may kiss me if you wish.’
‘I don’t wish.’
‘On the whole that’s just as well,’ said Janice judicially. ‘Because you’re not very competent at making love.’
‘Oh really?’ said Noel, nettled.
‘For example, if you’d never met me until this moment, how would you begin making love to me?’
‘No, Janice, I refuse to be caught that way.’
‘I’m not trying to catch you, idiot. Tell me what you’d do, and I’ll tell you whether it’s good technique or not.’
‘Well, I suppose I should say something like: “You’re really very beautiful …”’
‘Yes, that’s just the point, you see.’
‘What’s just the point, in God’s name?’
‘It’s purely imbecile to trot out all that mildewed stuff.’
‘One must say something first. A sort of warning. Like the red flag they put out before guns are going to go off.’
‘No. It’s quite superfluous.’
‘I can’t help that. It’s a habit.’
‘Very well. Go on.’
‘Then I should say something on the lines of: “Your eyes are an enchanting blue.”’
‘They’re brown.’
‘I wasn’t talking about your eyes. I was talking about the eyes of some hypothetical woman I’ve never met before.’
‘My mother’s eyes are brown, too. It runs in the family. Something to do with heredity.’
‘Heredity. There’s that limerick about …’
‘I know it. Will you put your arm round me?’
‘If you insist. But it’s very uncomfortable for the man.’
‘It’s very uncomfortable for the woman, too.’
‘Why do you allow it, then?’
‘I always thought men liked doing it. One must throw them an occasional crumb. I think I’ll sit on your knee after all,’ said Janice, doing so. ‘There. Isn’t that nice?’
‘It helps to keep me warm,’ Noel admitted grudgingly.
‘Darling, why don’t you like me?’
‘Janice, you’re an intolerable little flirt. You should be spanked.’
‘You may spank me if you like, but not too hard.’
‘Don’t you realise that no man has any use for a woman who runs after him?’
‘Oh, no?’ said Janice softly.
Noel took her up in his arms and deposited her firmly and not particularly gently in a chair.
‘Understand this,’ he said, ‘once and for all: I have not the slightest intention of marrying you or anyone else. Now, is that perfectly clear?’
‘Yes, Noel,’ said Janice meekly.
15
After a week’s honeymoon in Scotland, Noel and Janice returned south to act as witnesses at the trial for murder of Andrew Forrest. They stopped for a night in Oxford, putting up at the ‘Mace and Sceptre’, and after dinner went to see Fen at his rooms in St Christopher’s. They found him biting a pencil and trying to write a detective novel; he was obviously relieved at having an excuse for neglecting it.
‘Well, well,’ he greeted them. ‘All congratulations. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get to the wedding. Have you had a good honeymoon?’
‘It’s been very satisfactory, thank you,’ said Janice demurely. Fen bustled about finding them drinks.
‘You must tell us what’s been happening,’ said Noel, when they were at last settled. ‘We’ve lost touch with everything.’
‘His identity’s been proved,’ Fen answered. ‘Which is most of the battle. And Crispin is proposing to write the case up. I suppose I shall have to get in touch with him about it—poor old chap, he gets terribly muddled …’
‘I still don’t understand how you knew,’ said Janice.
‘Ah,’ said Fen complacently. ‘Well, I shall now explain; and don’t try to stop me, because it’s a great and ancient tradition which must not be broken.
‘Of course, the lynch-pin of the whole case lay in the words which Louise Munro spoke just before she died. I’ve no doubt you remember them—“Patricia … in danger … help her”. And a little later: “Mustn’t be destroyed … I’ll tell you … who …”
‘From the first, those words puzzled me, and I was careful to ask if you thought Louise was sane when she spoke them.
‘MacAdam asked her the name of her attacker. Why on earth, then, didn’t she immediately give it? Why, instead, did she trot out this stuff about Patricia being in danger? Because if Patricia was in danger, surely she could best be helped by Louise’s revealing the identity of the criminal.
‘Well, there seemed to me to be three possible solutions to this problem:
‘(i) The person endangering Patricia was not the same person who had attacked Louise. I thought, on the whole, that that wasn’t very likely, but it couldn’t be ruled out, and I kept it in mind.
‘(ii) It was Louise herself who endangered Patricia, and now she was repenting it. That again postulated two criminals in the party.
‘(iii) The remark was addressed to Richard Neame, who, as we know, was infatuated with Patricia, and would be certain, on hearing she was in danger, to go to her assistance. Even if he were disinclined for some reason to do so, someone, in view of Louise’s urgency, would have to go, and public opinion would unanimously expect that someone to be Richard Neame.
‘It was this last hypothesis which gave me most to think about. At the time, naturally, I’d no idea whether it was true or not, but I went on considering it, while still keeping an eye open for anything which might confirm either of the other two explanations.
‘The interesting thing about it, to me, was that I couldn’t for the moment see why Louise should want to send Richard Neame away at all. If it was he who had attacked her, there was no clear reason why she shouldn’t denounce him instantly, and in his presence; after all, there were three other men there who might be considered competent to handle him. I seemed to be up against a blank wall.
‘And then two things happened: I heard that Louise’s maiden name was Benest; and a blackmail letter was discovered in her room.
‘Immediately I remembered the main outlines of the Forrest case—the curious episode of the missing dagger. In the first place that gave me the motive, which so far had been missing: brother Andrew was taking his revenge for the execution of Edward Forrest—the knife slashes in themselves were evidence of definite hatred, and not of a crime committed, say, for the sake of money. And in the second place, Hadow, when he was narrating the Forrest case for the benefit of Wyndham and myself, let out one staggering, all-important fact.
‘Louise Munro suffered from claustrophobia; she could not endure to be shut up.
‘Now, cast your minds back to the Forrest case. Brother Andrew, and the missing dagger, weren’t the only oddities in it. There was in addition one psychological inconsistency which couldn’t be ignored. Charles Benest was a steady, unimaginative, reliable young man. Is it conceivable that such a person, even to protect his sister, would rush up behind a policeman and stab at him with what was practically a toy dagger? Of course not.
‘When he admitted to doing that, Charles certainly wasn’t shielding Edward or Andrew Forrest; obviously he was shielding Louise, who suffered from an affliction of such a nature that imprisonment would have driven her mad. Charles loved his sister so well that he was prepared to take the blame for what she had done, and so went to prison for fourteen years; and she, though she was devoted to him, dared not admit her guilt.
‘One could guess fairly accurately what actually happened (and incidentally, Charles Benest has confirmed it since). It was Louise who picked up the dagger in the outer office. Then, you remember, Louise and Charles left the building, though they remained down below, hiding when the night-watchman went in. Then Louise went round to the courtyard—alone, it seems, while Charles waited in the alley—and witnessed the finding of the revolver and the murder itself. Charles heard the shot. What, in the circumstances, would he do? Run away? Hardly; he wasn’t that kind of man. He would—and he did—go up to the office. And Louise, running round from the courtyard to tell him what had happened, saw him go—and was in time, too, to see the policeman who shortly afterwards followed him. Plainly she was terrified in case her beloved Charles should seem to be involved in the murder. So she attacked the policeman. As you know, she was a much more hysterical character than her brother.
‘No doubt she immediately threw aside the dagger, as Charles asserted that he did; and no doubt they were both very astonished when it wasn’t found. It wasn’t found, of course, because the “belated wayfarer” whom the constable saw had witnessed the entire business, and made off with it. And who could that belated wayfarer have been but brother Andrew?
‘It’s not easy at first sight to see why he took the dagger. But one’s got to remember, I think, that he was—and will be, until he’s hanged—a professional criminal. He saw the incident; he knew that the constable would not be able to identify the girl who attacked him; and consequently it was probable that the only evidence against her would be the dagger, with her prints on it, which she had so carelessly thrown away, and which would constitute, in his possession, a most agreeable weapon of blackmail. So he took it. He must have been considerably surprised when Charles confessed to the attack, but fortunately the value of the dagger was not thereby depreciated; he could still use it to blackmail Louise.
Then Edward Forrest was tried, and Louise’s evidence was instrumental in hanging him. For the moment Andrew Forrest forgot about blackmail; he wanted revenge. He wrote Louise threatening letters, and on the day of Edward Forrest’s execution he tried to kill her. She applied for police protection, and since he was cautious, and could afford to wait, he did nothing more for the moment. Time passed; Louise married a rich man; and it occurred to Andrew that before she was killed—and he still intended, with all his heart and soul, to kill her—she might as well be made, by his threatening to produce the dagger, to contribute to his private exchequer.’
